#its all about the subtle tenderness with these two

[r3starttt]

GUITAR

PAIRING: Ellie Williams x reader

SUMMARY: Where you fall for your bandmate.

CW: requested months ago, sorry for that. Fluff. Modern AU.

AN: thanks to @topimpabunny for helping me write this <3

TAGLIST: @twopeoplee @greysontheidiot @sapphic-ovaries @bilsvlt @tlouloser @marsworlddd @1-800-fantasy @prwttiestbunny @thesevi0lentdelights @lvlymicha @stickycherritart @abbys-muscles @lott6i @usuck @thalchmy @lovelyy-moonlight

As the tour neared its final, with only two cities left, the days felt heavier, not just with the physical but the mental exhaustion. There was about a week remaining—seven days of awkwardly dozing off on Ellie's shoulder during long drives between hotels, ot sharing late-night cigarettes while the rest of the band devoured greasy slices of pizza in the back of the bus.

Sometimes, Ellie would order the strangest dishes at fancy restaurants, pushing plates towards you with a raised brow and that silly smile on her face, silently daring you to try whatever odd creation sat before you because she never liked whatever she ordered.

It was the same routine you've got used to at home, just expensive and with a subtle shift you couldn’t quite pinpoint.

Your new album had become the album. You heard it everywhere—on the radio, in the restaurants you dined at, in the stores you wandered through. People recognized you more frequently now, and though the rush of success was thrilling, it came with suffocating attention.

The band had begun to earn a proper, equitable pay for the first time, unlike a few months ago when you were the highest-paid simply for being the voice, the face of the project.

Now, after endless rehearsals and countless hours spent side by side, the bond between all of you had deepened. It was impossible to go anywhere alone—someone from the band was always by your side. And truthfully, you preferred it that way. It felt like the early days, when the band was just an idea, and you were all strangers awkwardly navigating each other's space. Back then, you barely knew the teens who would later become family, waiting for the bassist to count you in, while now, they waited for your lead, their laughter contagious because you were the one making them laugh.

Yet, the fame you’d found felt strangely coincidental, as if it had happened by accident rather than design. It was your first proper album, and you wanted it to be special, so, each member had contributed a song, a break from your usual routine of writing everything yourself to later check with the band and other people to make it work properly and making something personal yet sellable.

Ellie had written one of them, of course—Ellie Williams, the girl who went viral a few months before the album dropped, the one who captivated the crowd with a stage presence that to you and everyone else in the band, seemed so unlike the quiet and shy girl who lingered offstage.

Her lyrics were tender, delicate, yet deeply abstract, they spoke about love in a way that couldn’t be easily directed at just anyone. You’d helped her shape them, fine-tuning the words until they fit with the band’s sound. There was a familiarity to her devotion, an intimacy that felt strangely personal.

The fans, naturally, ran wild with it. They created stories based on the stolen glances on stage and pictures a very intense fan took from late-night cigarette breaks, interpreting the alone moment as something more. A love story in the making.

But how could they not? After years of being side by side, didn’t you know Ellie better than anyone? She could read you, read all of you, with a glance. But the public, craving romance, chose to believe in something more.

You weren't the only one, the public would ship everyone in the band, and it was fun, so no one ever spoke about it.

And so, the rumors grew. What had once been innocent interactions turned into something else, something heavier. Still, you leaned into it, playing along with the joke. Sitting next to her during interviews, exchanging glances on stage, especially during her song. It became part of the act, a little game between you, Ellie, and the crowd.

By the end of the tour, it wasn’t even intentional anymore. It was just... your thing.

Before the show began, the backstage buzzed with the familiar hum of excitement, the echo of the crowd’s screams blending with the playlist the band had curated for the waiting fans. Your favorite song was blasting now, the melody spilling through the walls and bouncing off the concrete floors. The audience was singing along, their voices loud and passionate, filling the venue with a pulse you could feel deep in your chest.

You hummed the lyrics under your breath, half-focused as you scrolled through your phone, scanning social media for comments about your last performance in Seattle two days ago.

Around you, the controlled chaos of pre-show prep unfolded. A makeup artist dabbed eyeliner onto someone’s face in the corner, while another fluffed the drummer’s hair with quick, expert hands.

Next to you, Ellie fidgeted in one of those creaky rolling chairs, her knee brushing yours for what felt like the tenth time. She couldn't sit still, her fingers tapping out an erratic rhythm on the vanity as someone dampened her hair, her leg bouncing like she had energy to burn and no place to put it.

For a while, the two of you sat in an easy silence, the kind that only comes after years of knowing someone so well, words become unnecessary. But then, Ellie’s black, crooked nails crept into your view, tapping on your screen just enough to block it from your eyes. You sighed, shutting off your phone and tossing it into the mess of clothes, makeup, and half-eaten snacks scattered across the vanity—Ellie’s snacks, mostly.

"You good?" she asked, her tone teasing, but there was a nervous edge to it, her lips bitten raw from anxious chewing.

You gave her a sideways glance, rolling your eyes as you tugged at the collar of your shirt. "Are you?" you quipped, but your tone had more bite.

Ellie responded with a playful slap to your knee, her brows pulling into a frown, a silent question—Did I do something wrong?

"Fumbling the opening riff for the last three shows" you raised an eyebrow, your tone revealing exactly what you thought. A question and a statement in one.

As she does, her laugh brushed it off. With loud steps she pushed herself off the vanity, her converse dragging slightly on the floor as she scooted closer to you. The old chair creaked beneath her, and you could feel her knee against yours again, a quiet reminder of the space you shared. "That’s ‘cause I know you’ll cover for me," your eyes met in that playful glint, unmistakable. "It’s our thing, isn’t it?"

You didn’t have to ask what she meant. The way you two moved in sync on stage—the fleeting looks, the almost accidental touches that made the crowd lose their minds—it was all part of the unspoken act, the rhythm that made them believe there was something more than the love for music.

"Oh, so that’s what they’re here for?" you teased, leaning back slightly but keeping your gaze steady on hers. "To watch me save your ass every night?"

Ellie’s grin widened, her eyes narrowing with that familiar, quiet confidence. "Nah," she said, her voice dipping low, "they’re here for that look you give me right after I hit the wrong note."

It was the way she said it, the softness behind the teasing, that made your heart stutter for a moment. You were used to Ellie’s banter, the way she could disarm you with a smile or a well-placed quip, but this felt heavier somehow. The rumors, the touches that lingered just a second too long, the unspoken words hidden in the corners of her playful eyes—it all started to feel like something more. And for a brief second, you wondered if she felt it too.

"You keep talking like that," you murmured, your voice quieter now, "and people are gonna think we’re actually playing into it."

Ellie’s smirk softened, her gaze lingering on yours for a beat longer than usual. She didn’t respond, at least not with words, but her fingers casually reached out, grabbing a handful of sour gummies from the vanity, "Maybe we are," her tone almost too casual, lighter.

Just then, the familiar roar of a specific song boomed from outside— It was almost time. The crowd was waiting, growing louder with every passing second. Your pulse quickened, matching the beat of the music, and you could feel Ellie’s energy shift beside you.

It mirrored on how her chair came back to its original place, her way to give you both a moment to breathe until she stood, her movements slower than usual, and for the first time, there was a hint of hesitation in her voice, "C’mon." You nodded, counting to three in your head before standing up.

And then came the familiar rhythm of the night. The opening notes of the first song reverberated through the stage, and you forced yourself to move, pacing from one end to the other, your body pulling itself through the heat of the lights and the overwhelming roar of the crowd. Eventually you found solace in the other members. You caught their glances, subtle nods exchanged in the chaos, when the lights grew too bright or the sound too heavy.

But by the time the second song kicked in, something shifted. The rhythm found you, or you found it, and suddenly, everything clicked into place. Your voice carried through the venue, the echoes of the crowd’s chants blending with your own, and soon enough, the moment arrived where you could pause, breathe, and thank them—your people, your fans—for being here, for their endless support.

Then came the moment they loved the most. The part that had become a signature of every performance. Your hand slid gently beneath Ellie’s chin, lifting her face toward yours, your nails pressing just enough to leave the faintest marks on the edges of her lips. The mic hovered between your mouths, both of you singing the chorus in unison, voices blending in a way that felt intimate, almost too intimate for the stage.

And when the chorus gave way to her solo, you stepped back, your gaze locked on her with a look that was no longer just a performance.

It wasn’t fake—the feelings that surfaced as you watched her there, guitar in hand, fingers moving effortlessly across the strings. You still remembered when she’d first started playing, the way her fingertips had been rough, bandaged from the hours of practice. How you’d kept a stash of bandaids in your school bag, handing them to her with a teasing smile when she groaned in frustration at missing an easy chord. And sometimes, you swore she’d mess up on purpose, just to see you laugh. She’d helped you find your own voice, inviting you over to her place to practice together, pushing you to hit notes you didn’t think you could reach.

Now, standing on stage, so much time had passed, and yet, the memories felt as close as ever. You could still see that shy girl who had walked up to you after your first rehearsal with the band, gifting you a pack of mints and a bottle of nail polish the day after your birthday. She’d missed it, having barely known you then. "Good for your voice," she’d said, quoting something from Google about the mints. The nail polish? "I like your nails. Thought this color might look cool. Maybe you could do mine next time."

It was more than just an act, more than just something for the crowd to swoon over. It was the nostalgia of seeing how far you’d both come, from awkward first meetings to now, standing side by side under the blinding lights of the stage. And not just Ellie, but the whole band. These people who had let you in, who had become family. Every show was a reminder of that—of the gratitude that swelled in your chest, for being part of something so much bigger than yourself. For being allowed to belong.

-

“Thanks, I really mean it.” Backstage enveloped you in a familiar haze, a blend of sweat and excitement hanging in the humid air, even with the doors flung wide open. You held a beer in one hand, the cool glass resting on your knee, while the other leg stretched out under the small coffee table, cluttered with half-eaten pizza and discarded snack wrappers.

“Imagine if we’d given up on those quiet girls—our band would’ve flopped,” Jesse piped up.

He had been tough on you both at first, “If you never open up, it’s never going to work,” he’d remind you in every rehearsal until he finally broke down your walls.

Ellie rolled her eyes at him, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “Imagine if we’d given up on you, dude. Stop bothering.” With a gentle shove, she sent him reeling slightly, causing him to spill his drink across his shirt.

“She’s right. You were an ass to us,” you chimed in, matching Ellie’s playful energy, your gaze meeting Jesse’s, who wore a mock hurt expression. “You’re so meant to be,” he shot back, laughter bubbling from his chest.

“Shit, actually—” you began, setting your drink aside. “They’re saying our songs are related, like the lyrics give off similar vibes and stuff-” But he quickly interrupted, familiar with the comments online. “So, are you two gonna kiss already, or…?” Ellie laughed shyly, a flush creeping up her cheeks, the thrill of the moment mixing with the awkwardness of the conversation. "Fuck off"

“I was actually thinking we should,” you teased, leaning into the moment, watching Ellie’s eyes widen with exaggerated shock. Her expression morphed into one of mock disappointment as she found herself trapped between whatever this was against her. “Bro—” she spoke, her voice muffled by a mouthful of pizza, “if you want me that bad, just say so.”

Laughter erupted around you, filling the small backstage area with warmth and that sense of belonging you dearly loved.

-

With the tour finally over, everyone was back home. After years of relentless rehearsals, sleepless nights, and grueling performances on any stage that would have you, the band had made it. The fame brought more than recognition—it had granted each of you the chance to finally own your own apartments, a small but significant milestone. But none of you had expected just how exhausting coming home would feel.

Tonight was no different than the old routine you were just starting to forget—at least until you’d called Ellie.

You hadn’t expected her to pick up, let alone offer to come over. But she did, and now she was on her way. For the first time in what felt like forever, Ellie had volunteered to help without any ulterior motive. Maybe it was boredom. Or maybe, though she'd never admit it, she missed you.

Ellie had been trying to keep herself busy since the tour ended. She’d spent a night at Joel’s house, picking up her cat—who, to her mild surprise, was slimmer than when she left her. Joel had apparently decided Ellie’s feeding instructions weren’t trustworthy and had followed some Google advice instead. He’d kept her up late, asking about the tour, her health, and, not-so-subtly, about you. Ellie brushed it off with a laugh, insisting, “It’s part of the contract and stuff.”

The quiet of his place, the chirping crickets, and not having to deal with dishes or city noise had been comforting.

Back home, though, the boredom set in. She’d spent hours in bed with her cat, alternating between snacking on an embarrassing amount of sweets and scrolling aimlessly through social media.

When you called, she jumped at the chance to escape. Crowds had never been her thing, and the fame made going out even harder now. So, she headed to your place.

Meanwhile, you’d been keeping yourself busy too, sorting through the mess of your apartment while trying to maintain some semblance of a routine—vocal exercises, and, of course, scrolling through fan edits and comments online.

You missed the rush of the tour: the exhaustion, the adrenaline, the late-night parties with the band. But mostly, you missed Ellie.

She’d always been the one you were closest to, the one who felt like home no matter where you were. Watching videos of her onstage, reading comments from fans who adored her just as much as you did—it warmed your heart. There was something so Ellie about it all, a mix of quiet charm and undeniable presence that you couldn’t help but love.

Your phone buzzed, pulling you from your thoughts. She was here

Minutes later, Ellie stepped into your apartment, cat carried in hand. You barely gave her a chance to close the door before your focus shifted to the cat.

“Did you seriously bring her?” you asked, raising an eyebrow but already reaching to scoop the feline into your arms.

“What? You call her your baby but don’t want to see her?” Ellie teased, extending her arms to take the cat back. You ignored her, cuddling the purring creature like a newborn.

“She is my baby,” you said matter-of-factly. “Is she skinnier?”

Ellie shrugged, following you into the mess of your living room before plopping down on your bed like it was her own. “Joel fed her like Google told him to. Said she was too fat.”

You chuckled, leaning against the doorframe as Ellie kicked off her shoes. “He’s not wrong.”

Ellie rolled her eyes, unlacing her dirty Converse while the cat curled against your chest. “So,” she asked, her voice playful, “did you miss me?”

You looked at her, her familiar scent lingering in the room. “Yup. Can’t live without you, Ellie,” you replied, deadpan but sincere enough to make her pause mid-motion.

“Dude,” she muttered, shooting you a look before tossing her shoes across the room with a loud thump.

You laughed, setting the cat down and joining her on the bed. “I mean it, though,” you said, groaning as you stretched out beside her. “I miss the partying, the chaos… I’m too bored here.”

“Yeah,” Ellie agreed, leaning back on her elbows, her gaze meeting yours. “But it’s kinda nice, isn’t it? Having some time to do nothing for once?”

You tilted your head, watching her for a moment. She had a point, but it was hard to appreciate the quiet when part of you just wanted to be back onstage with her by your side.

The silence crept in slowly until you chose what felt like the right words.

“I just think we should go back soon." Ellie sighed, tipping her head back. “We deserve a longer break, to just... I don’t know, be normal for a second?”

You turned to look at her, your expression tightening. “Normal... Sure just, being on stage," you paused, simply staring st her. "It feels... right.”

She frowned, rolling her eyes. “Oh, so this doesn’t feel right? Me, here, with you?”You quickly huffed. Sitting up “That’s not what I meant."

Ellie seemed clearly bothered by it, but when wasn't she overreacting about life itself?

“It’s just... I miss it. It’s like it’s the only time we—” you stopped yourself, suddenly feeling exposed.

Ellie’s eyes flicked to yours, something unreadable in them. “The only time we what?”

You swallowed, looking into your lap before staring back. “The only time we get to have those moments.”

Ellie shook her head, running a hand through her hair. “Well, shit. Sorry for wanting to spend time with you outside of that.”

You blinked at her, not surprised but... conflicted. "Why is it such a bad thing that I want to go back?” She just groaned, flopping back against the pillows. “When did I say it was?”

“You’re insinuating that I’m crazy for wanting it.”

“I’m not saying that."

There was a silence again, this time louder than before, the type to ring loudly in your ears. It was only interrupted by the sudden purring of the cat settling on your lap.

“I’m saying we deserve a break, and that includes you.” Ellie spoke again, her tone quieter than usual. “I know that” you cleared your throat, playing with the soft of the fur.

Ellie let out a heavy sigh, sitting up and dragging her hands down her face, fingers lingering at her jaw as if grounding herself. “You’re making me feel bad,” she murmured, her voice quieter, but still laced with frustration. “For just—wanting to spend time with you.”

The weight of everything—of missing her, of wanting more, of not knowing how to say it—pressed down on you, suffocating. You pushed a hand through the cat's fur, letting out a dry, humorless laugh. “Els, the whole reason I wanna go back on tour is to see you more.”

Ellie blinked, her brows pulling together in that sheepish frustrated look so characteristic of her. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

You scoffed, shaking your head as you stared down at your hands. “Because I was fucking- i dont know, it's awkward,” you admitted, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “And you’re not helping—playing into the whole us thing—”

Ellie’s jaw tightened, her hands curling against the blanket before she slowly released them.

Yet, she used her stubborn for good and just leaned in, brushing your lips with her chapped ones.

She looked at you then, really looked at you, and for a long moment, the room felt too small, too still.

[talonabraxas]

Wood Snake Talon Abraxas

2025: Year of the Wood Snake Yīn Wood The Heavenly Stems developed from the ritual calendar used by the ruling elites of the Shang Dynasty (16th–11th centuries BCE) and is based on the movement of the five visible planets.

In the Heavenly Stems cycle, 乙 yǐ is the second year of the 10-year cycle and signifies yīn wood. It represents the early growth of the seedling. Having broken through the soil, it is small, tender and vulnerable. However, as opposed to its yáng counterpart, this form of wood is flexible. It is the blade of grass whose strength comes from what keeps it in the soil — its roots. It draws strength from what cannot be seen, hidden below the soil’s surface. We may look at that blade of grass as soft and weak because all we see is something small, continually bending to the wind and being stomped on by feet and hooves. But it remains because its outward-yielding nature is firmly rooted in its internal nature.

The wood phase in the Heavenly Stems represents the planet Jupiter. Thus, Jupiter’s movements in the sky are particularly important during the two wood years. The key thing about any wood year is to pay attention to what Jupiter is doing, especially against the backdrop of your own chart. Pay attention to the houses it transits and any aspects with points in your birth chart, and note those times of year and how the wood energy will influence your world.

We start this year off with its continuing movement through Gemini, signifying new developments in education, transportation and media. This transit has seen the need for fact-checking in the age of AI and deepfakes. The disruptive outer planets are indeed influencing Jupiter’s time in this sign this time around by the sudden, quick and expansive spread of this technology. There is also a curious combination of energies involving Jupiter in the latter part of the year, but more on that below. Snake: Yīn Fire

The other part of the equation is the Earthly Branch sign of 巳 sì, most commonly known as the serpent. The animal zodiac in Chinese astrology was introduced by Buddhist scholars around the 5th century CE. This version has become popular (especially in the West). Initially, the Earthly Branches was an almanac used by farmers to track the movement of the seasons; thus, there are 12 phases.

The sign of 巳 sì (snake) signifies introspection, subtle power, and transformative growth. It embodies a quiet yet potent energy capable of illuminating hidden paths and fostering deep emotional and spiritual understanding. Its strategic, resourceful nature makes it excellent for long-term growth, but must guard against volatility or over-sensitivity. In practice, 巳 sì inspires creativity, patience, and inner resilience, bringing light and warmth in a deliberate, steady way. 2025: Snake Leaving A Hole

In this sense, yīn wood’s influence on fire can continue to be seen in Jupiter’s influence in two instances.

In August, Jupiter in Cancer trines with Black Moon Lilith in Scorpio (the point where the Moon is furthest from Earth). This harmonious alignment blends Jupiter’s emotional wisdom and optimism with Lilith’s fierce, transformative power. This integration of light and shadow suggests a time of deep healing, emotional authenticity, and reclaiming inner strength. By nurturing vulnerability, embracing transformation, and setting empowered boundaries, individuals can experience profound emotional freedom and connection. This will be a good time to engage in shadow work, honour your desires, set boundaries and nurture your inner world.

Later in November, Jupiter and Lilith combine with Saturn in Pisces to form a grand trine. This alignment in water signs suggests an influential period of emotional growth, healing, and empowerment. It blends Jupiter’s optimism and expansion of emotional wisdom, Lilith’s transformative power in confronting and integrating the shadow self, and Saturn’s discipline and stability in grounding emotional and spiritual progress.

Together, they create an opportunity to:

· heal past wounds and reclaim emotional and personal power

· cultivate emotional resilience, boundaries, and maturity

· channel intuition, compassion, and authenticity into meaningful transformation

· manifest goals or dreams by integrating emotional insight with grounded, practical action

This alignment encourages a harmonious flow of deep healing, empowerment, and spiritual evolution, offering profound opportunities to transform your relationship with yourself, others, and your emotional truth.

But the deep transformative energies don’t stop there. A day after the September Equinox, a partial solar eclipse occurring alongside a Grand Trine involving the Sun (and Moon) in Libra (29°), Uranus in Gemini (1°), and Pluto in Aquarius (1°). This energy lasts for a few days and also includes a ‘Kite’ formation, where Neptune (0° Aries) and Saturn (28° Pisces) are in a semisextile aspect to Uranus and Pluto. The combination of these factors suggests a period of profound awakening and progress on both personal and collective levels. The key themes of this powerful time will be:

· Transformation Through Harmony: A balance between radical change and stability

· Awakening and Breakthroughs: Innovations in thought, technology, and communication

· Collective Progress: Focus on group efforts, equality, and humanitarian ideals

· Equilibrium Amidst Change: Aligning with the flow of transformation while maintaining balance

· Empowered Dialogue: Using communication to drive positive, meaningful change

While this eclipse will close the 2025 eclipse season, it is important to understand that an eclipse works like portals or activators to influence a particular transit or alignment. While occurring late in the year, the manifestation of the yīn wood snake energy will begin to impact us moving forward into the future. The seedling doesn’t stop growing during this phase — it is simply the beginning of the growth, maturation, ripening, and decay cycle.

The Hidden Elements

The snake also carries the hidden presence of other yáng elements: fire, earth, and metal. These add layers of strength, resilience, and decisiveness to 巳 sì’s otherwise yīn-oriented nature. These three elements are represented by Mars, Saturn, and Venus, respectively.

In late May, Saturn begins its two-and-a-half-year transit of Aries. While it will retrograde into Pisces at the start of September, it will resume its journey in Aries on Lunar New Year’s Day of 2026 (the yáng fire horse). Saturn (corresponding with the earth phase in ancient Chinese systems) in the fire sign denotes the importance of taking personal responsibility and owning your actions.

At the start of March, Venus (corresponding with the Chinese element metal) begins a six-week retrograde dance between Aries and Pisces, which signifies a period of reassessment in relationships, values, and self-worth. It will challenge us to consider impulsive actions, deepen our emotional clarity, and foster meaningful alignment with authentic desires. This sets up what emerges later in the year.

Because the ancient Chinese five-phase school only considered the planets seen by the naked eye (Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn), the outer planets we now know and utilise in astrology correspond to combined elemental energies. For example, Uranus can be associated with aspects of metal and wood; Neptune can correspond to aspects of the water and wood phases; and Pluto can be seen as the combination of water and metal. Pluto in Aquarius will define this generation, which started in 2024.

Neptune enters Aries for 14 years on 30 March. Historically, Neptune in Aries has coincided with periods of radical spiritual and ideological change. We saw this in the 1860s when causes like abolitionism drove the American Civil War and visionary advances exploded, like the first printing press and the opening of the New York Stock Exchange. It also should be seen as an ‘autocrat alert’. Given the swings towards authoritarian-leaning parties and leaders around the world, this should not come as a surprise.

After disrupting the security of our home and private lives over the past few years in Taurus, Uranus begins its seven-year sojourn in Gemini in July. This will disrupt Geminian industries, such as telecommunications, data security, transportation, education and the media.

In the middle of the year, Saturn joins Neptune in Aries (24 May–1 September). This transit focuses on discipline, responsibility, and structured action within themes of personal leadership, identity, and pioneering new paths. Challenges arise when the impulsive Aries energy clashes with Saturn’s demand for patience and commitment. Success requires strategic, methodical courage. This period will ask you to own your actions and not hide behind excuses for them. Be bold in how you do things.

[stylesispunk]

'Hands in the hair of somebody named Marcus'

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

next part

summary: the cursed blood of Geta and Caracalla runs through your veins sealing your fate. However, the General Acacius is willing to fight for you.

w.c: 5k>

warnings: angst, violence, power imbalance,and fluff.

a/n: I had this one in my drafts but after watching gladiator ii twice. I had to finish it and write about my beloved General Acacius because he deserves it. I hope you like it. This may have a part ii depending on its performance. PLEASE DON'T BE MEAN. Reblogs and comments are always. appreciated 💌

| dividers by @/saradika-graphics |

Inhale.

Exhale.

Breathe in, breath out.

There was it, the rattle breathing inside Marcus Acacius lungs. The way life has turned out for him felt like cuts all over his skin.

Sometimes he felt he could even breath from how bloody his hands were. How dirty his name felt to his own honor. How salty his tears felt down his cheeks every night. Every time he closed his eyes at night, the screams pierced through his ears.

Mothers mourning their children.

Men mourning their wives.

Families destroyed.

All because of him.

All because he must have served those two spoiled kids so called emperors of Rome.

And he still couldn't wrap his mind around the idea of you, someone so pure and kind was cursed to share the same blood as them.

Every time he came back to the city. He witnessed on first hand, how badly you were treated by them.  The laughs, the humiliation, the segregation, and how your voice had been silenced just for you to be unwillingly part of a legacy that felt like your back being split in two.

Marcus was aware of the adoration people felt for you, how your kindness had reached to every single person in the empire. People loved you, but you were nothing more than a puppet under their fingers.

And he felt pity for you.

He could see the way your eyes seemed lost in the arena, in the way your hands trembled where Geta or Caracalla looked at you with disgust when you didn't approve of the madness they had arisen under their control.

You were the opposite of them.

You were Kind.

Kind as no one had been on here for so many years. You shared the same dream of Marcus Aurelio.

An empire for the world and a refuge for those in need.

and Marcus looked at you with tenderness in his heart from afar.

Most of the time you didn't acknowledge him. He knew you weren't really fond of him or the idea of him leading armies to claim cities under the glory of Rome.

For you, he was just a general repeating the same cycle of madness.

And you didn't acknowledge him until Geta slapped you on front of him for not showing your gratitude towards him after his returning from battle.

The sting lingered on your cheek after his slap, not from the force but from the humiliation of it. The room fell silent, the tension arose like flames to the fire. Geta and Caracalla, with their arrogant disdain, seemed to punish your perceived disobedience.

But Marcus? His expression shifted, subtle, yet profound. His sharp gaze, so often unreadable, burned with an intensity that wasn’t anger but something close to defiance. He stepped forward, his towering presence demanding the attention of everyone in the room.

“Enough,” Marcus said, his voice calm and gentle, the command laced with quiet fury. The word carried weight, a warning not to be ignored. Your brothers exchanged a glance, clearly displeased but unwilling to challenge the general directly. They turned and left, leaving muttered curses in the air.

The room fell silent once again, and you found yourself standing alone with General Acacius. Your hand hovering your cheek, the skin still warm from Geta’s punishment. You didn’t look up at first, embarrassed not just by the slap but by the realization that Marcus had witnessed it. You had worked so hard to ignore him, to keep him at a distance, but now, there was no avoiding him.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he said softly, his voice a startling contrast to the authority he had wielded moments ago.

You finally raised your eyes to meet his, expecting pity but finding something else entirely different, something softer. “It doesn’t matter,” you murmured, attempting to dismiss it, but he shook his head.

“It does,” Marcus said, taking a step closer. “You shouldn’t have to endure this, least of all from them. They’re your blood”

His words hung in the air, and for the first time, you saw him not as the general who commanded armies in your brothers’ name but as a man standing apart from their cruelty. He wasn’t like them, not entirely.

And perhaps, you thought, he never had been.

Your gaze lingered on Marcus for a moment longer, his eyes searching yours as if waiting for you to say something—anything. But you couldn’t. Your throat tightened, and you turned away, moving to the window to avoid the weight of his attention.

“I don’t need your protection,” you said, though the words came out softer than you intended. “You’ve done enough by speaking against them. They will get under your skin for it.”

Marcus hesitated, his heavy footsteps echoing as he approached you. “You shouldn’t have to thank me for doing what’s right.”

His words made your chest ache. When was the last time anyone had done what was “right” for you? You stared out at the gardens beyond the window, their beauty feeling distant, unreachable. Your brothers had never cared about right or wrong, only power.

“I don’t understand you,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “You fight for them. You serve them. And yet…”

“And yet I see who they truly are,” Marcus interrupted gently. “I serve Rome, not their cruelty. There’s a difference.”

You turned to face him, his nearness almost startling. For the first time, his presence didn’t feel overwhelming. Instead, it felt… grounding. Safe. He stood tall, but his expression was open, waiting for you to respond.

“They’ll hate you for standing up for me,” you said, your tone cautious. “They don’t forgive things like that.”

“Let them hate me,” Marcus replied without hesitation. “I won’t stand by and let them treat you as they do.”

The conviction in his voice sent a shiver through you. You wanted to argue, to remind him that opposing your brothers would bring nothing but trouble, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you found yourself studying him. His broad shoulders, the sharp lines of his face, and the way his eyes softened when they rested on you.

“I don’t need anyone fighting my battles,” you said, though even you weren’t sure if you believed it. “I’ve survived this long on my own.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” he replied, stepping closer, his voice low but steady. “You deserve better than survival.”

Your breath hitched, the weight of his words pressing against you. Before you could respond, Marcus straightened, his demeanor shifting as if sensing he had said too much. He nodded once, a gesture of respect, before stepping back.

“I should leave you to rest,” he said. “You’ve been through enough today”

Your breath caught at the sound of his voice, so steady and sincere, the words lingering in the air like a balm to your frayed nerves. You wanted to reach out, to say something and stop him, but you hesitated, unsure of what held you back.

Marcus took another step away, his broad shoulders tense, as though leaving you was harder for him than he let on. His words, though respectful, carried a tone of finality that made your heart twist.

“I’ll see you soon,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost reluctant. He bowed slightly, taking your hand in his, and kissing it as his dark eyes met yours, “My lady.”

As if his words had worked as a kind of manifesto, the “soon” came no long after.

There you were in the gardens, barefoot, with your wild hair looking at the moon shining over the town you had been forced to call it home.

Marcus could see from your posture to your void eyes when you were there in the middle of your brothers, faking enthusiasm, while inside your bones you hate with passion this torturous show.

You didn't wish to be cruel to the world but kind.

You didn't wish to see blood coming out from innocent men who had fallen prey under the hands of the cruelty of the roman empire.

And you were exhausted of seeing and hearing the cheering of people celebrating death as a spectacle.

You didn't want this to be your life but just a nightmare you were going to wake from too soon.

And now, as Marcus could see the moon reflecting on your face. He was able to see through the golden jewelry and the soft material of your dress, he could see a soul pleading to the moon to set her free.

Something must have alerted you. You turned around facing him hiding under his cloak.

"General Acacius?" You whispered, closing your eyes a bit to take his form under the soft light of the moon.

"My lady" he replied softly, with respect to his tone.

“What are you doing here?” you breathed, your voice trembled under his gaze.

He hesitated for mere seconds, his gaze intense as it locked onto yours. “I could ask you the same, my lady,” he replied, a trace of sweetness in his tone. “It seems even those closest to the emperors need to escape from time to time.”

A silence fell between you, charged with a tension that both thrilled and unsettled you. The few stolen glances you’d shared over the past days had spoken volumes, but you had never dared to hope his heart could be beating as fast as yours in your presence.

You turned around again, your back to him. "I love coming here to look at the moon. " You spoke, breaking the silence "This seems to be the only place my brothers haven't tainted yet."

"How they don't know about this place?"

"My father sent this place to be built for his only daughter." You replied, and Marcus could notice how the corners of your lips graced with a smirk, even from behind. "A place for her to be a girl."

"What do you mean?"

"You know, General. Women seem to be useless for having a voice, less for ruling an Empire. Everything I can do is stay here and feel like I own something." You hold your voice for a minute, “I’m just a statue waiting to crumble.”

Marcus didn't reply to your words and if it wasn't for the sound of his steps getting closer you would have thought he left.

You could see his outline from the corner of your eyes, the way his face had been marked by cruel events you despise. A red mark on his cheek, a few scars on his neck and for brown eyes that contrasted from his hard exterior, shinning under the same moon as yours.

"How did you find this place, General?" You asked, bow fully looking at him. You were wondering how your brothers never knew about this place but him had been the first man to find it, just after his return.

He took a brief look at you from the corners of his eyes. "I would say that something brought me here," he paused for a moment, "but it seems like it was you, my lady."

You had to hold your breath for a moment. You didn't expect such words from Marcus. He was the beloved general of Rome. But to your eyes he was still a man who had built his honor from cruelty or that was what you thought.

"I don't believe so." You replied, despite the rapid beating of your heart, you didn't want to be fooled by a man with soft brown eyes and a heart that seems to be kind. "I do not desire a man to follow me, not less one who is the puppet of the cruelty of all this cold nonsense."

"My lady…"

"Please, you may go now." you said, turning your gaze back to the moon.

Marcus didn’t leave immediately. Instead, he lingered in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the faint torchlight flickering in the hall. His hand rested on the edge of the door, his knuckles tight and pale as if he were restraining himself from saying something he would later regret.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the crackling of the embers in the hearth. The tension between you felt almost unbearable, a quiet battle waged in silence.

“I know what you think of me,” he finally said, his voice softer now, like the hush of a secret shared in the dark. “You see a man of blood and iron, one who serves an empire that devours cities for the Glory of Rome.” He exhaled slowly, almost as if gathering the strength to continue. “You’re not wrong to think that. There are nights when I wonder if all of this is worth it, if I am worth anything beyond my sword.”

His admission struck something deep within you, though you kept your face turned toward the moon. You refused to let him see the small crack forming in your carefully constructed armor.

“Then why stay?” you asked quietly, your voice carrying an edge of challenge. “Why continue to serve a cause you doubt?”

“I stay because I must,” Marcus said without hesitation. “It is all I have known, and it is all that has been asked of me. But you…” His voice faltered, and you felt the weight of his gaze, though you didn’t dare meet it. “You are different. You are everything this empire is not, kind, unyielding. Someone like you should be the one ruling Rome, the princess.”

You chuckled at the statement “My brothers would send me to death before I’ll have the chance to sit on that throne.”

Your fingers tightened around the fabric of your dress. His words shouldn’t have this effect on you, yet they lingered, stirring something unfamiliar.

“And that is why you should go,” you said, more firmly now. “You’re talking nonsense”

Marcus took a step closer, his steps echoing faintly against the cobblestones “Perhaps I do not belong here,” he said, his tone unwavering, “but that does not mean I will walk away so easily and let this empire fall under your brother’s madness.”

You turned to him then, unable to ignore the quiet determination in his voice. His eyes, those soft brown eyes that had once seemed so dangerous, now held a sincerity you hadn’t expected. For the first time, you saw not a general, but a man, a man who carried the weight of his choices and the burden of his doubts.

“You think you can change my mind?” you asked, your tone sharp despite the unease stirring in your chest.

“No,” Marcus admitted, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But I hope, one day, I can show you what I am talking about.”

Before you could reply, he bowed his head slightly, as a gesture of respect rather than submission, and turned to leave.

As the door closed behind him, you stood in the quiet of the garden, your heart beating fast while his words played over in your head.

The arena buzzed with the deafening roar of the crowd, their excitement spilling into the air as dust kicked up from the floor below. You sat stiffly behind Geta and Caracalla, their laughter and sharp whispers grating against your ears. This was how it always was, trapped in their own world, watching their cruelty unfold.

Today, the games were bloodier than usual, the violence more drawn out, as if they relished every clash of blades and every cry of pain. You tried to ignore the chaos, your gaze drifting to the far horizon, where freedom felt like a distant dream in the blue sky.

But then, a movement to your right drew your attention. You turned your head just slightly, your breath catching when you saw Marcus approaching. His expression was calm, unreadable, though his eyes softened ever so slightly when they met yours. Without a word, he settled into the seat next to you.

“General,” you greeted, your voice low.

“My lady,” he replied, his tone equally soft, though there was a subtle warmth in it.

For a while, neither of your spoke. The sounds of the crowd and the clash of weapons filled the silence between you, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable one.

“They love this,” Marcus finally said, his voice barely audible over the noise.

You didn’t reply, too focused on fidgeting with the material of your dress, your fingers twisting the fabric in small, anxious movements. The tension in your shoulders was noticeable, your gaze fixed on the arena below, though it was clear your mind was far from the bloodshed.

Marcus noticed. He always noticed. After a moment of hesitation, his hand moved, gentle, placing it over yours. His touch was warm, steady, and it stopped the restless motion of your fingers.

Startled, you glanced at him, your breath catching as you saw the softness in his expression. There was no judgment, no pity, only quiet reassurance. For a moment, you forgot where you were, the chaos of the arena fading into the background.

But the moment didn’t last.

“Ah, what’s this?” Geta’s voice cut through the din, sharp and mocking.

You flinched, quickly pulling your hand away as Geta turned in his seat, his eyes narrowing as he looked between you and Marcus. His lips curled into a sly grin, the kind that sent a chill down your spine.

“Well, well,” he drawled, leaning closer as if sharing a secret. “Our dear sister has caught the attention of the great general. How… intriguing.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his gaze unwavering as he stared ahead.

Geta leaned back in his seat, his grin widening as an idea seemed to spark in his mind. He turned to Caracalla, nudging him with an elbow. “Brother, I think we haven’t been too generous with our sister, have we?”

Caracalla raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? What do you suggest we could do for her?”

Geta’s grin turned wicked, his eyes gleaming with malice. “A little incentive for the games. Let the gods decide her fate.”

Your blood ran cold as you realized what he was suggesting. “Geta, don’t—”

He ignored you, standing abruptly and raising his arms to address the crowd.

“Citizens of Rome!” Geta’s voice boomed over the noise, silencing the arena. “Today, we have a special reward for our brave gladiators. A prize worthy of their strength and valor.”

Caracalla caught on quickly, his laughter echoing through the stands. “Indeed, a prize unlike any other,” he added, his voice dripping with amusement.

You shot to your feet, panic rising in your chest. “Geta, stop this!”

He turned to you, his smile cruel. “Sit down, sister. This is for the glory of Rome.”

You didn’t move, but your voice faltered, your protests drowned out by the cheers of the crowd as Geta announced his decree.

“The victor of this fight,” he declared, “shall win not only their freedom but also the hand of our beloved sister.”

The crowd erupted in applause and cheers, their excitement deafening.

Beside you, Marcus remained seated, his expression unreadable. But you could see the storm brewing in his eyes, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he processed what had just happened.

And for the first time, you saw something in him that you hadn’t before, a quiet, burning fury, one that made you wonder just how far he would go to defy your brothers.

"They offered me as a price." You whispered to Marcus who was offering his arm for you to hold, as you tried to keep your composure.

You felt humiliated.

You felt that men owned you and despised the feeling.

Marcus didn’t respond right away. His arm remained steady, extended for you to hold, a silent offer of support. His face, though unreadable, betrayed hints of a restrained anger—anger that wasn’t directed at you, but at the cruelty of your brothers, the twisted spectacle they had made of your dignity.

“They did,” he finally murmured, his voice low but firm, so only you could hear. “And they will answer for it.”

You hesitated, your hand trembling slightly before resting on his arm. The gesture was subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but between the two of you, it felt like a silent pact. Marcus guided you to sit back down, his movements deliberate, as if shielding you from the prying eyes of the crowd.

“Hold your head high,” he said quietly, leaning just close enough for his words to reach you. “You are not a prize. You are a queen in all but name.”

His words, though softly spoken, struck a chord deep within you. They carried a weight that steadied the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm you—humiliation, anger, and a raw, aching vulnerability you despised feeling. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to sit straighter, your gaze fixed on the arena even as your chest burned with resentment.

The fight began, the clash of swords and the roar of the crowd filling the air. The gladiators fought with a ferocity that was almost unbearable to watch, knowing that your fate hung in the balance of their blades. You despised every second of it, despised the men in the arena who saw you as a reward to be claimed, despised the crowd who cheered for your subjugation, and most of all, despised your brothers for orchestrating this humiliation.

And yet, as the fight dragged on, your attention kept flickering to Marcus. He hadn’t moved, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on the arena with an intensity that made your heart race. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, fingers tightening with every blow exchanged below.

“They cannot do this,” you whispered, your voice trembling with barely contained anger. “They cannot decide my life like this.”

“They can try,” Marcus replied, his tone like steel. “But they will not succeed.”

His words were cryptic, but there was something in his voice, a quiet, unshakable resolve that made you glance at him. For a moment, you wondered if he already had a plan, if his mind was racing with strategies to undo the cruelty your brothers had unleashed.

The fight ended abruptly, the crowd roaring as the victor emerged, bloodied but triumphant. Your stomach churned as the man was announced, his grin wide as he looked up to the podium where you sat. You felt Marcus tense beside you, his hand gripping his sword so tightly you feared it might snap.

“Don’t,” you whispered urgently, sensing the storm about to break within him. “Please, Marcus.”

But he didn’t respond, his gaze locked on the victor below. And for the first time, you wondered just how far Marcus would go, not just to defy your brothers, but to protect you from their cruelty.

The victor's triumphant roar echoed through the arena, and the crowd erupted into wild cheers. You couldn’t bear to look at the man below, his eyes alight with the promise of his prize—you. Your stomach churned with revulsion, and your breathing quickened, panic clawing at your chest.

“Come,” Marcus said quietly, his voice cutting through the noise. His hand found yours again, firm but not forceful, and this time, you didn’t hesitate to take it. The heat of his palm against yours grounded you, gave you a tether to hold onto as you stood on unsteady legs.

You didn’t wait for your brothers’ gloating remarks or the smug expressions on their faces. Without a word, you let Marcus guide you away, his presence shielding you from the leering eyes of the crowd. The noise of the arena began to fade as you descended the steps, replaced by the rapid beating of your heart.

The corridors beneath the stands were dimly lit, the cool air a welcome reprieve from the suffocating heat of the arena. You kept your gaze forward, refusing to look back, refusing to give your brothers or the victor the satisfaction of seeing your fear. But inside, you were trembling.

“Marcus,” you finally whispered, your voice breaking. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere they can’t touch you,” he replied, his tone low and steady. His hand tightened around yours, a silent vow that he wouldn’t let you face this alone.

The two of you emerged into the open courtyard behind the arena, the setting sun casting long shadows across the stone walls. The sounds of the crowd were distant now, muffled by the heavy doors that closed behind you. You stopped walking, pulling your hand from his and turning to face him.

“They’ll come for me,” you said, your voice laced with frustration and fear. “They won’t let this stand. Geta and Caracalla—”

“They’ll have to go through me first,” Marcus interrupted, his tone sharp, his brown eyes fierce. “And I promise you, my lady, they won’t succeed.”

You stared at him, his words sinking in. He looked every bit the general now, strong, resolute, and unyielding. And yet, there was something else in his gaze, something softer that made your chest tighten. He wasn’t just protecting you out of duty or honor. There was something personal in the way he looked at you, in the way he stood so close, as though shielding you from the world.

"I can fight in the arena" he said, "for you."

You stared blankly at him, shocked at your core.

"What would you win from that? Do you want to own me like those men?" You asked.

"I do not wish to own you, my lady. You're not property. You're a free woman, and If I win, I'll become your husband and you would never have to endure those humiliations ever again."

"Just because I would be yours." You whispered, still broken at the thought of not being enough.

"You would be my wife, not my property." He clarified, "I will live and fight to keep your honor just as you deserve"

You looked away, heart pounding, his words washing over you like laurels over your skin. A part of you longed to believe him, to let his offer pull you from the grip of your family’s ambitions. But fear clung tightly, rooted in years of being nothing more than a pawn in your brothers' power games.

"General…" you murmured, voice wavering. "If you fight for me, you put yourself in danger. And if you fall, my life will only become darker, lonelier. I don’t want your blood on my hands."

He stepped closer, his eyes steady, fierce. "I would rather risk everything than stand by while you suffer. You deserve a life where you choose, where you're loved, not used."

Your throat tightened, emotions swelling. "But if you fight and lose, you’d be at their mercy. They’d make you a symbol. A warning to anyone else who dares to defy them."

He lifted your hand, pressing it to his heart. "Then let them try," he said, his voice unyielding. "For you, my lady, I would face even the wrath of the empire."

His touch was gentle, but his resolve was unbreakable. In that moment, you realized he wasn’t just a man willing to fight for you, he was someone who saw you as more than a title, more than a sister to emperors. He saw you, truly.

“Why?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Why would you risk this for me?”

For a moment, he hesitated, the stoic mask slipping just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the man beneath. “Because you deserve more than to be treated as a pawn in their games,” he said finally. “And because I…” He stopped himself, shaking his head as if the words were too much to say aloud. “You don’t deserve this.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight with emotion.

"Acacius… if you truly wish to do this," you whispered, your fingers trembling in his, "then I will stand by your side, come what may."

He smiled, a rare softness breaking through his stoic exterior. "Then we’ll face them together, my lady. And if they stand in our way…" His eyes darkened, a spark of defiance glinting within them. "They’ll learn that love is a force they cannot control"

"Do you believe you could come close to loving me?" You asked, heart pounding.

His reply didn’t come from words. Instead, he squeezed your hand over his heart.

His words lingered in the air, hanging between you like the delicate balance of a fragile moment. You searched his face, his steady eyes holding yours as if daring you to see the sincerity in them. For all his strength, for all his might as a general, Marcus stood before you as something else entirely. A man laying his heart bare.

Your breath hitched as his hand moved from yours to gently cradle your cheek, his touch warm and careful, as if he feared you might pull away. You didn’t. You couldn’t. Instead, you leaned into his palm, your heart pounding so loudly you thought he must hear it.

“May I?” he murmured, his voice soft and hesitant, as though you were something precious, he was afraid to break.

You nodded, unable to speak, your eyes fluttering closed as he leaned in. His lips brushed against yours, tentative and light, testing the waters of your comfort. It was not the kiss of a conqueror or a man accustomed to taking what he wanted. It was the kiss of someone who had been waiting, who had held back his own desires out of respect for you.

The first touch was fleeting, but when he felt you relax into him, he deepened the kiss, his other hand settling on your waist to anchor you against him. The world around you faded. The distant noise of the Coliseum, the threat of your brothers, even the weight of your own fear. All that remained was the warmth of his lips, the steady beat of his heart beneath your other hand.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet that followed. “Loving you,” he whispered again, his voice thick with emotion, “would be the easiest battle I’ve ever fought.”

[incognit0slut]

Stress Relief

You convince your husband to take out his anger on you when he comes home very tense.

Warnings: (18+ MDNI) dom!spencer, sub!reader, oral (f), reader in handcuffs so light bondage?, choking, unprotected penetrative sex, multiple orgasms, aftercare and domestic bliss because he’s still our beloved spencer

Words: 5k for 5k milestone celebration! TYSM ILY💘💘

A/n: I combined two requests asking for him to get all angry/frustrated because an unsub had a particular thing for winding him up (from anon 1) so he needs some kind of smutty release (from anon 2). You know who you are.

You could tell something was off. 

A sense of unease settled in the pit of your stomach as the front door creaked open, and instead of the usual lively greeting from your husband, you were met with silence. It was as though he was physically there and yet you could sense his absence in the air. 

"Spence?" You called out, stepping out of the kitchen. When there was no response, you tried again. "Baby, are you okay?"

Your feet guided you down the hallway where you found him standing by the door with his back facing you. Even from behind, you could sense the foul mood he was in. His shoulders seemed more tense than usual, his hair slightly disheveled, and there was an edge to his movements as he closed the door with a loud thud.

"Babe?"

His response was brief, his gaze flickering towards you before quickly darting away, almost as if he were intentionally avoiding your eyes.

"Hey."

"Hey?" you echoed. "That's all I'm getting?"

When his eyes met yours again, you could practically feel the tension radiating from him. It was clear that he was angry, his usual calm demeanor seemed to be replaced by a subtle but palpable edge. There was a tightness in his jaw, a clenched fist by his side, and his usually warm gaze now held a hint of sharpness.

Only one thought crossed your mind whenever he came home like this.

"Bad day at work?"

He slowly nodded.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head.

"Do you want a hug?"

He hesitated momentarily, his brows furrowing slightly as if debating whether to accept your offer. Then, without a word, he closed the distance between you. His arms enveloped you, pulling you close as he buried his head in the crook of your neck. Your hand instinctively found its way to his hair, fingers gently running through the soft strands.

"Oh, honey, you're so tense," you noted as your other hand trailed along his shoulder. "Is there anything I can help with? A massage? A nice warm bath maybe?"

You felt him shake his head against you, but you persisted, wanting to offer him comfort in any way you could. When your hand smoothed down his back, his hold on you tightened. When your fingers brushed the nape of his neck, you felt his warm breath caress your skin.

Then it happened—soft lips brushed against the spot under your ear, tentative at first, before growing more urgent. It wasn't the tender, affectionate kisses you were used to, but a different kind of intimacy that felt almost desperate. His lips nibbled and sucked gently at your skin and it became clear to you what he wanted.

"You want another kind of release, baby? Is that what you want?"

His lips momentarily paused against your neck, his arms loosening their grip around you before he rested his hands on your hips. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?" 

"Because—” he stopped, his grip on your body tightening. “Because I don't feel like myself right now."

You grabbed him by the shoulders, pushing him away just enough to see his face. "What makes you say that?"

Spencer held your gaze. How could he explain to you that he was on the verge of acting out his frustration? That he was so close to losing control? 

He knew how difficult he could be when anger took hold of him. In his younger days, he wouldn't hesitate to fire off sassy remarks and snarky comments, letting his emotions dictate his behavior. However, as he matured, he learned better to hide those emotions behind a composed facade.

But tonight felt different. Despite his best attempts to maintain his control, he could feel his anger slipping away, and it was unfair to burden you with it. Especially when you were offering yourself to him, so sweet and so pretty, when he knew love wasn't exactly what he could offer you right now. 

So he decided to release you, his grip loosening as he stepped back.

"Forget it," he muttered under his breath before turning towards your shared bedroom. Your brow furrowed as he walked away, leaving you standing there with your mouth slightly agape, bewildered by his sudden withdrawal.

"Spencer Reid," you called after him, your voice laced with a hint of irritation as you followed him. "I wasn't done talking to you."

He paused, his hand halfway to his tie before he loosened it with a sharp tug. You leaned against the bedroom doorway, crossing your arms as you continued to study him. His lack of response only fueled your growing annoyance, but you knew better than to escalate the situation into a fight.

Taking a deep breath to calm yourself, you spoke up, your voice steady but tinged with frustration. "Honey, I can't help you if you're acting this way."

"What makes you think I need help?"

"The way you're wrestling with your tie gives it away," you replied, your words laced with a hint of sarcasm.

He shot you a pointed look, clearly unimpressed by your remark. "I don't need your help."

Your frown deepened. "Seriously? You're just going to shut me out like this?"

"I'm not shutting you out," he countered, moving around the room. "I just need some space."

"Well you're doing a pretty damn good job of it," you shot back, your patience wearing thin as you pushed yourself off the doorway. His jaw clenched, but he remained silent, his actions focused on undoing the button on his wrist now. You scoffed at his lack of response again.

"Oh, so now you're giving me the silent treatment?" When it seemed evident he was trying to ignore you, you pressed on. "Fine, keep your silence, let me do the talking."

His eyes flickered momentarily at you before he turned around, undoing the button of his shirt. You watched him quietly as he continued to avoid your gaze. 

"Spencer," you began, your voice softer now. "I know your job can be hard, and I know you're going through a lot right now, but shutting me out won't make it any easier."

“I've already told you, I'm not trying to shut you out."

"Then what are you doing?" you pressed. "I tried offering you help when you didn't want to talk about it. And the one thing I can help you with, the one thing I'm sure will help you relax, you refused." 

You let out a frustrated sigh, hating how much your voice wavered now.

"Spence... you—you didn't even want to have sex with me."

His shoulders stiffened at your words, finally turning to face you. "You think I don't want to have sex with you?"

You swallowed hard, feeling a knot form in your throat. "I don't know what to think anymore," you admitted. "You're giving me the cold shoulder, it’s hard not to take it personally."

The room seemed to close in around you, suffocating in its silence. Then, you watched as he began to walk towards you. One step. Two steps. Until his presence loomed over you, casting a shadow that suddenly made you feel small and vulnerable.

"I'm refusing to have sex with you right now not because I don't want to," he said, his voice dangerously low. "I'm refusing because I'm trying to protect you."

You frowned, confusion furrowing your brow. "Protect me from what?"

There was a moment of silence before he replied, “From myself."

You felt a knot tightening in your stomach, goosebumps forming on your skin as you struggled to comprehend what he was trying to say.

“I… I don't understand."

"I don't want to risk it. I'm afraid that if we... if we cross that line, I might hurt you."

"Spencer," you whispered in disbelief, as if his words were the most absurd thing you'd ever heard. "You would never hurt me."

He shook his head. "You wouldn't be so sure if you knew half of the thought in my head right now."

You faltered for a moment, taken aback by his words. Then your gaze involuntarily flickered down his body, tracing the lines of his open shirt and the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Your breath caught in your throat as your gaze moved lower, taking in the way his pants hung low on his hips, and the trail of soft hair leading downwards.

You swallowed hard.

"Tell me then," you challenged, your voice trembling slightly as you met his gaze again. "Tell me how you'd hurt me."

He studied you, assessing, calculating. "You won't like it," he warned.

"And what if I do?"

His eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of surprise flashing across his features. "You don't know what you're asking for."

"I know what I want."

He regarded you for a long moment, weighing your words carefully. Finally, he stepped closer, his breath warm against your skin as he whispered, "You really want to know what I'd like to do to you?"

You held his gaze. "Yes," you replied. "Tell me."

His lips curved into a faint, almost rueful smile. With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached out and traced a finger along the curve of your jaw. "I want to use you," he murmured. "I want to feel you, to taste you. I want to make you scream."

You could feel the heat traveling through your body, a heady mixture of desire and anticipation flooding your senses. You reached out, fingers trembling as they brushed against his chest, feeling the heat radiating from his skin.

"I want to control you," he continued, his gaze darkening. "I want to tie you up leave you bruises, mark your skin. I want you helpless, begging for mercy."

He tilted your chin up, his eyes locking with yours.

"I want to see how far you'll go for me."

Your breath caught in your throat as you drank in his words, and you couldn't deny the heat spreading between your legs. "And what if I want that too?"

A tense silence settled between you. Then slowly, almost as if testing the waters, he wrapped his fingers around your throat, simply holding you there. "You don't mean that."

"Try me," you dared, holding his gaze. "Put your hand between my thighs and see just how much I mean it."

His grip around your throat tightened ever so slightly while his other hand hovered at the waistband of your cotton pants. You felt a jolt of anticipation as he slipped his hand inside, your breath hitching as the pad of his calloused fingers dipped inside your panties.

A soft hum of approval escaped his lips when the slickness of your arousal coated his skin.

"Would you look at that? Barely even touched you and you're already this wet?" A low gasp fell between your lips as he found your clit. "You really want this, don't you?"

You could only manage a whimper in response, your breath coming in ragged gasps. 

"Tell me," he insisted, his breath hot against your skin. "Do you want me to stop?"

Your heart pounded in your chest as you struggled to find your voice. "No," you finally managed to gasp.

With deliberate slowness, he trailed his fingertips lower, teasingly circling your entrance. He started with gentle strokes, keeping his fingers only on the outer side as you tried to bite back a moan that threatened to slip out.

“You dirty girl,” he muttered, and you feel yourself getting wetter as his finger continued to touch you teasingly. Then slowly, the grip on your throat loosened before his hand moved to cup your cheek.

“I need you to be sure," he whispered, "Because once we cross that line, there's no going back."

Your eyelids dropped lower as you chewed on your bottom lip, feeling the weight of his desire hanging in the air. It was a heady mix of uncertainty and anticipation, but one thing was clear—you wanted him.

You wanted him to use your body.

“Use me however you like,” you confessed. "I-I’m all yours.”

His lips were on yours in an instant. There was no mercy in his kiss, only raw desire and urgency. He kissed you as if he needed to breathe in your air, his lips moving desperately against yours, his tongue seeking entrance to taste you.

His hand then left your pants to cradle your face, holding you gently yet firmly as he explored every inch of your mouth, leaving you breathless and wanting more. Finally, he pulled away, his chest rising and falling heavily as he caught his breath. 

He looked down at you, his gaze intense, and saw the dazed expression in your eyes. Your touch, taste, and scent clouded his vision as you trembled in his arms, the soft sounds of your labored breath sang in his ears.

Mine, mine, mine.

"Now listen to me," he said, his voice low and commanding. "I'm going to leave you for a while, and when I come back, I expect to see you lying on the bed naked with your legs spread apart."

You swallowed hard, eyes slightly going wide. You felt his hand gripping your jaw.

"Do I make myself clear?"

You quickly nodded. "Y-Yes."

His grip tightened momentarily before he released you, his gaze piercing as he held your eyes for a moment longer. Then, without another word, he turned and left the room. 

With trembling hands, you began to undress, each piece of clothing dropping to the floor until you stood bare before the bed. The cool air prickled against your skin as you slowly climbed onto the bed.

You brought your feet onto the bed before spreading your knees apart. It felt weird, you had never felt so exposed and vulnerable, yet you couldn't deny the arousal pooling between your thighs. And then you heard him, his footsteps gradually coming closer and your heart pounded in your chest as you gripped onto the bed sheets.

His tall frame filled the doorway as he took in the sight before him, his eyes lingering between your legs. He watched your chest rise and fall, watched the way your legs fell apart even more as if you were offering yourself to him. Without a word, he approached the bed and stripped off his shirt. 

Before you could catch your breath, he stood over the bed beside you. "Put your arms above your head."

You hesitated for a moment, feeling the weight of his gaze, but then slowly, almost instinctively, you complied, raising your arms above your head as instructed. You watched as he reached behind his back, and your heart raced as you glimpsed the glint of metal in his hand.

He didn't say a word as he reached for your wrists, securing them above your head with the cold metal of the handcuff, restraining you to the bed. The click of the cuffs echoed in the room before he stepped back, his eyes fixed on you with a predatory gleam as if he was admiring his handiwork.

Your pulse quickened as you lay there, exposed and at his mercy and you couldn't help but squirm under his gaze. He moved closer, his fingers trailing lightly along your skin, and you shivered, both from the chill of the metal and the warmth of his touch.

"You look so pretty like this," he murmured. "So helpless, yet so willing."

Your eyes followed his movement as his fingers moved to unbutton his pants. Then he was completely naked, and even though you had seen him like this countless times, the sight of his cock never failed to make your cunt clench in anticipation. He was thick and hard, with veins pulsing along its length and droplets of wetness glistening at the tip.

The bed sank under his weight as he positioned himself between your legs. You gasped when he leaned forward, the underside of his cock teasingly brushing against your wet folds as his lips met your collarbone. You bit down on your bottom lip as he kissed lower, stopping at your left breast, where he suckled on the supple skin just above your nipple.

His mouth latched onto your skin after taking a moment to try and keep himself from rushing into things. But he was a simple man. His lips worked precisely and diligently, and you watched as he left marks on your breasts, his teeth gently sinking into your flesh here and there, his warm saliva coating the faint markings.

The kisses left on your sensitive skin resulted in you whining for more. Spencer felt a rush of satisfaction like no other, his touches growing more urgent with each sound that escaped your lips. His tongue glided over your plump breasts, teasing and tantalizing, until finally, his mouth enveloped your nipple.

You squealed, squirming underneath him, and he smiled against your skin, his lips forming a knowing smirk as he continued to suck while his thumb flicked the nipple he wasn't focusing on. There was no doubt you would be left with bruises tomorrow morning.

Your eyes drifted downward just as he looked up, his gaze meeting yours, and you couldn't help but whine when the tip of his tongue circled your nipple teasingly. You reached out, craving the sensation of your fingers in his hair, only to feel the metal of the handcuffs digging into your skin.

"It's torture, isn't it? Not being able to do anything," he taunted with a laugh, shifting his attention to your other nipple. "But I guess that's the fun part.”

You whimpered as he softly bit your sensitive bud, and your back arched off the bed in response. He leaned back, admiring the marks he'd left on your skin.

"God, look at you," he murmured as his gaze lingered on your flushed skin, the swell of your breasts rising and falling with each breath. "I could do this all night."

Slowly, he lowered himself back down, his lips tracing a path from your chest down to your stomach. You squirmed, anticipation coiling tightly in your belly as his warm breath ghosted lower. His hair tickled your legs, and he took the opportunity to turn his head slightly to the side, immediately pressing a hot open-mouthed kiss against your inner thigh. 

You gasped as he sucked your skin into his mouth, teeth grazing over the flesh as if he was intent on marking every inch of your body. His lips continued to trail along your thighs but never quite reaching the place you craved him the most.

For someone with pent-up emotions, his movements were agonizingly slow. It was frustrating, the way he toyed with you, drawing out the anticipation until you couldn't bear it any longer.

"Please," you whimpered, the chains rattling softly against the headboard as you continued to squirm beneath him.

He paused, his hot breath fanning over your skin as he looked up at you. "Please what?" 

"Pl-Please touch me."

He kissed over your mound as he hooked an arm under your leg. His other hand reached for the heat radiating between your thighs before two of his fingers brushed along your outer lips, dragging your arousal along your skin. "Like this?"

You groaned as he kept on teasing you, stroking you with featherlight touches. “More," you pleaded desperately, almost pathetically. "Please."

His fingers stretched your folds, his gaze fixed on the glistening wetness, on the way your cunt clenched around nothing. "You're so pretty, you know that?"

"Spence..." you breathed out, feeling his breath achingly close to your heat.

He didn't respond with words. Instead, he lowered his head, his breath hot against your flesh. The minute his tongue touched you, you were already a writhing, whimpering mess. Your head began spinning, nerves and pleasure swooping into one big fuzzy mess in your mind as his tongue teased up and down your slit. 

"Oh my god," you whined the moment his mouth circled your clit before sucking on it, sending waves of pleasure along your body. And then, just as you thought you couldn't take it anymore, you felt his finger at your entrance, and without warning, he pushed in his digit, sending your head tilting back with a desperate gasp falling from your lips.

His groan reverberated against your skin as your walls clenched around him. He pushed his finger deeper, curling it inside of you as his tongue lapped at your dripping folds. With each movement, he pressed his face even further into you, relishing the sensation of your wetness coating his jaw.

Your eyes drifted downwards at the same time he looked up, locking gazes with him, and you let out the most filthy cry of pleasure. He held your gaze as his tongue quickened its pace, sucking your clit even harder as he added another finger inside you. 

Your mouth gaped open as you felt the delicious stretch, and you couldn't help but buck your hips towards his face. Spencer always had a fixation on pleasuring you, but not like this—it was never like this. He seemed desperate, almost possessive, as if he couldn't get enough of your taste.

He continued his relentless assault, his fingers pumping inside you with a steady rhythm while his tongue worked tirelessly on your swollen clit. The squelching sound of his fingers thrusting in and out of your dripping walla was so lewd that it made his cock stir against the bed.

You could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter within you, the heat spreading like wildfire through your veins. Before you knew it, your climax hit you hard, without warning, without mercy, and you were gasping his name over and over.

You shivered and trembled beneath him, tossing your head back even farther, squeezing your walls around his fingers and your legs around his head.  But he didn't stop or even slow down. Instead, he pulled his fingers out of you, only to push your thighs apart even when your legs were shaking uncontrollably.

"Stop moving," he ordered as he leaned in, tasting you all over again. He didn't care that you were a complete mess, that you were still reeling in from your climax, that you were trying to move back away from him. All he cared about was giving you the best pleasure imaginable, and he was intent on seeing it through.

"Spence—” you gasped when his nose brushed your clit. “I-I can't—"

He gently held your fragile body in place to prevent you from running away from his mouth. "Hold still and give me another one." 

How could you not relent when he treated you like this, so considerate yet so rough? You groaned, your eyes meeting the ceiling as you felt his mouth continue its relentless assault on your cunt. The sensation was overwhelming, yet despite your protests, you couldn't deny the building pressure.

Your muscles tensed. Your breathing hitched. You gasped for air. And just as the waves of pleasure threatened to consume you once more, you surrendered, letting out a pathetic cry as your body convulsed with the force of your climax.

His tongue lingered over your sensitive skin, savoring the taste of your release, before he finally withdrew, allowing you a moment to catch your breath. He then lifted his head, your juices glistening on his lips as he watched your heaving chest.

Spencer had never been so thankful for his eidetic memory. He took in the sight of your hands, bound above your head, the rise and fall of your chest as you panted, the tousled strands of hair framing your face. His gaze lingered on the way your legs willingly parted for him, your skin flushed and pussy swollen, all because of him.

It was a sight he wanted to etch into his memory forever.

You bit your bottom lip as his gaze lingered on you, feeling your body flush under his scrutiny. Then, as if something within him shifted, he reached for you, urging your body to turn until you were facing sideways, the chains rattling softly as you moved.

He settled behind you, and your heart quickened as you felt him grab your leg, lifting it in the air. With one hand gripping your thigh firmly, he positioned himself between your legs, his hard cock pressing against your slick folds. 

You could feel the warmth of his body pressed against your back, his breath ghosting over your neck as he leaned in closer. With a deep, guttural moan, he eased himself into you, every inch of him sliding effortlessly into your wetness. You couldn't help but arch your back in response to the sensation of being filled so completely.

"Fuck," he murmured, the curse slipping past his lips in a breathy whisper. It sounded foreign coming from him and yet it only encouraged you more. You pushed your hips back into him, meeting his slow, deliberate thrusts.

"Needed this so much," he confessed, his breath coming out in ragged pants against the nape of your neck. "You have no idea how much I've wanted you like this for so long."

Your head fell back onto his chest, completely enveloped in him—the scent of his skin, the warmth of his touch, the rhythmic movement of his cock thrusting inside you.

"Thought it was wrong of me to take control of you," he muttered, his breath hot against your ear. "But you're enjoying this as much, aren't you?"

You whimpered, unable to form words as the pleasure consumed you and you felt him picking up his pace. The room was filled with lewd noises of your wetness along with the sound of skin slapping against skin.

"You like being helpless like this? You like it when I fuck you while being cuffed to the bed?"

Your breath hitched at his words. His hand left your thigh, but only momentarily. The crack of sound pierced the air, followed by a surge of sensation coursing up your leg. The realization hit you like a bolt of lightning—he spanked you. 

And you liked it.

"Answer. Me," he demanded, each word punctuated by the rhythm of his thrusts.

"Yes," you managed to gasp out. "I-I love being helpless."

He let out a sound of pleasure as he released your thigh, only to tease your clit with his fingers. You gasped, your head thrown back as he applied just the right amount of pressure, sending waves of pleasure through your body. You felt the intensity building, the familiar coil tightening in your stomach as he continued to pump into you, his fingers moving fast against your clit.

You tried to speak and warn him about your upcoming orgasm but you couldn't even think properly. The squelch of his cock driving into you roughly rang in your ears and with a sharp inhale, you felt the tension within you reach its peak. Your muscles tensed, your breath caught in your throat, and then, with an explosive release, you cried out his name.

He groaned as he felt you pulsating around him, your walls gripping him tightly. He continued to move within you, riding out your orgasm as his thrusts grew harder, more urgent until he couldn't hold back any longer.

"I need to see you," he breathed as he pulled out of you. Then he flipped you onto your back, guiding one of your legs over his shoulder as he settled between your thighs once more. The change in position brought you closer, the heat of your bodies mingling as you met his gaze.

Without a word, he pushed himself back into you, the slick heat of your cunt enveloping him. You watched him through half-lidded eyes, feeling your body growing sticky, every inch of you glistening with sweat, but his gaze remained fixated on you, unwavering and intense.

"So pretty," he murmured, his hand finding your face and cupping your cheek, absorbing your features in the dim lighting of the room. "My beautiful wife."

You whimpered as he dragged his hand down your skin, thumb brushing over your lips as he felt your hot breath on his fingertip. He watched your eyes switch between widening and fluttering half shut while he began pumping into you.

Spencer couldn't keep his eyes off of you as you took his cock eagerly, your breasts bouncing each time he thrust forward, your mouth hanging open with your tongue slipping out of your mouth. A whine followed through as his hand moved down to your neck, practically holding you in place as his hips collided against your own.

He gave a slight pressure around your throat, and your head began to loll against the mattress, chin pointed in the air in pleasure. The squeezing sensation was now beginning to take over your body, spreading from across your cheeks, to your ears, and up to your eyes, tears pooling right at the corner. The feeling even reached your stomach, tightening and coiling with the signal of your impending orgasm.

Was this your fourth orgasm? Your fifth? You couldn't keep track; all you knew was the overwhelming sensation prickling your skin. The bed below you felt as if it was on fire. The metal digging around your wrist burned with absolute pleasure.

His thrusts grew more intense, each movement raw and unrestrained, as if he was pouring all his pent-up emotions into you. He seemed to lose himself in the moment, his grip on your neck firm but not painful, but it was enough to make you gasp, your body trembling with pleasure, eyes rolling at the back of your head.

You were instantly gone.

A filthy cry fell between your lips as another orgasm crashed over you, more intense than the last. At some point you were gasping for air, feeling your body going limp but he didn’t stop. His hips had a mind of their own. You could feel them beginning to move like they were possessed, with no regard for your pleasure, and in a way, no regard for his. 

“Oh god—fuck!” You cried, arching your back as much in this position.

He groaned and leaned in, his arms pressing against the bed on either side of you as he pushed your leg up to your shoulder. He tried to kiss you, but the force of his movements made it hard. Instead, his lips hovered just above yours, both of you breathing heavily and moaning into each other's mouths.

Eyelids drooped a bit too low as your mouth went completely ajar, exhaling weakly. It didn’t take long for another wave of pleasure to rush through your body. You convulsed beneath him, thighs quivering violently as you tried to angle your body away from him, the pleasure almost unbearable now.

Through the haze of your orgasm, you caught a glimpse of him throwing back his head with his eyes screwed shut. Then he finally groaned—his movements slowing, breath sputtering from his lungs as he exploded, pumping once, twice, three times all before coming to a halt, cock twitching inside you.

You watched the sweat bead down his forehead as you both worked silently to relax your bodies, pulses pounding in ruthless rhythm. With a deep, contented sigh he finally slid himself out of you before going through his discarded pants on the floor. 

After a moment, he returned to you and unlocked the handcuff from your wrist, the sound of the lock clicking echoing in the room. The chains fell onto the bed with a soft thud as he gently took hold of your hands.

“Are you okay?"

You nodded, offering him a reassuring smile. "I'm okay."

He pressed a tender kiss to both of your wrists, his lips lingering over your pulse for a moment. "I didn't hurt you, did I?" he asked anxiously, his eyes raking over your body. "Was I too rough? Did I—""

"Spencer, relax," you whispered, you took his hand in yours. "I'm good. I promise."

"You sure?" he asked, his face still tight with concern.

"Yes, more than good. Just come cuddle with me?"

He hesitated, his eyes scanning over your body for a few seconds longer. After he seemed satisfied you really were okay, he lowered onto the bed beside you and you drew his head to your chest. Your fingers gently played with his hair, watching as he slowly relaxed into you, throwing one of his arms across your stomach. 

"Thank you," he whispered. "I... I think I needed that."

Your attention shifted to his face, happy to see his expression finally somewhat peaceful as he lay just above your breasts. His eyes were closed, the tension you'd noticed on his face when he'd arrived entirely gone now.

Gently running your fingers through his hair, you whispered, "Of course, baby. Anytime you need me, I'm here."

His lips curved into a small, contented smile as he nestled closer to you. "I love you."

A surge of warmth filled your chest at his words. "I love you too," you whispered back. "But are you okay? Do you want to talk about what happened at work?"

You felt him shift as he shook his head. "Maybe later. I just want to hold you right now."

You gently kissed the crown of his head before pulling him closer. Spencer sighed happily as he snuggled closer to you, listening to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against your chest. He then reached over your breasts, his thumb trailing over the marks he had left on your skin. 

"I didn't realize you enjoyed that so much."

You shrugged the shoulder beside his head. "It's hard not to. I mean, I think I've always liked it when you're in control, and that doesn't only apply to sex."

He leaned back to look at you. "Really?"

You nodded, a small smile playing on your lips. "Yeah. Remember the first time we started dating and someone broke into my apartment?"

"How could I forget?" he replied, a frown tugging at his brows as he recalled the memory. “That was one of the scariest moments in my life.”

"Right. You thought some serial killer was targeting me when it was just a random robbery. But the way you handled the situation..." you continued, your voice softening. "When you took charge and made sure I was safe, I realized how much I trusted you. And I remember thinking, 'Damn, my boyfriend's pretty cool.'"

His frown melted away, replaced by a warm smile at your words. "You thought I was cool?" 

You chuckled, nodding as you met his gaze. "You're cool, smart, and hot at the same time," you teased. "What I'm trying to say is, I like it when you're in control because I like to depend on you. You make me feel safe and cared for."

His expression softened even further, a tender warmth filling his eyes. "I like it when you depend on me too," he confessed softly. With a gentle tug, he sat up, bringing you along. "Come on then, let me care for you now."

You looked up at him. "Yeah? What do you have in mind?"

"I think we both need that nice warm bath."

You smiled, already feeling the tension in your muscles ease at the thought of a soothing bath with him. "Will you wash my hair too?"

He pushed a strand of hair off your face, his heart swelling with affection at the look in your eyes. How could he resist when you looked at him like he hung up the moon for you? 

"Of course," he replied without hesitation. "I'll do whatever you want me to do."

[theorist-fox]

Promise rings

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3.

Filthy. That's it. If you want some more humiliation kink I highly, highly, highly, highly recommend this by @/the-californicationist

Part 1 >> Part 2 >> Part 3 >> Part 4

18+

Word count: 5.2k

Summary: Simon fingers you in the rec room and you give him a promise ring. Or two—depending on how many fingers he's used.

CW: smut (fingering, finger sucking, squirting), humiliation kink, semi-public, Simon is a little mean but you love it so it's fine, dub con if you squint and mention of safeword

Masterlist 🦊 | Series Masterlist 🦊

“Don’ wan’ anyone to hear ya now, do we?” 

He hushes you, mouth to your ear. His hand is shackled to your hips by the waistband of your sweatpants, two thick fingers already slick and buried to the knuckle.

Simon holds you tightly in place, hand curled at the base of your throat as an empty threat he won’t fulfill unless you kindly ask. He has you tucked between his legs, aptly spread to accommodate your body in between, as he slowly pumps his fingers into your cunt. Your knees are conveniently hooked on each of his thighs, and they’re already trembling even if he’s just begun.

Sweat collects on your back, dampening your shirt and by extension his own too. You feel his heart rabbit in his ribcage, thrumming against your spine. Thick arms glue your back to his chest—just in case you want to make a run for it. 

As if, right?

Earlier that night, he’d caught you out of your room much past midnight, trying to sneak a cuppa in the common area. Told you something along the lines of how he should have you cleaning the toilets because you’re breaking curfew, and you bit back with a hefty dose of sarcasm about how that’s not your favorite punishment he’s ever given you.

And so, he’d grabbed you by the waist and dropped back on the couch with an arm still coiled around it. 

You’re ashamed to say it only took two fingers circling your entrance and his tongue licking wanton stripes down your neck to make you embarrassingly wet. Balaclava lifted to his nose, he’d murmured unholy things to your ear, like how he’d want to drill in your head that you can’t go and break base rules, how he can’t keep covering for you, how he’d love to teach you a lesson by splitting you in half on his cock until you can only part your lips to apologize for giving him a headache.

But alas, the location isn’t sex friendly. 

However, the notion hasn't stopped Simon from adopting a more subtle approach that would lead to a similar conclusion. Like swirling the tips of his fingers around the fluttering hole of your cunt. Or biting softly at the shell of your ear, while keeping you nice and still with a hand on your collarbones.

Doesn’t stop him now, as he curls the pads of his fingers until they press where the velvet of your walls gets rougher to the touch. 

You abandon your head back onto his shoulder, heavy puffs leave your mouth in tandem with the skilled work of his hand, one that knows every nook and cranny of you. Glossy lips start nibbling at his neck and you relish how his throat bobs each time your teeth sink a little deeper. His growing stubble scratches the tender skin of your mouth, but it’s more than fine because you like how it stings.

“Little more, please?” You breathe.

But it’s then that he stops beckoning his fingers, leaving your walls to clamp around them as they fall still. You protest by biting the tendons of his neck a bit harder, suppressing a groan into it.

“Maybe it went over your head,” he drawls, tugging the balaclava down his chin before returning his hand at the base of your throat. “But this is a punishment, love.”

He cruelly leaves your hole to desperately flutter around nothing, but ultimately uses those same fingers to wet the rest of your sex. Keeping quiet becomes less of an option when he starts rubbing idle circles on your clit. He’s neglected it all this time, making it swell with blood and causing its sensitivity to peak. 

You shudder when he first brushes over it. 

As if out of habit, you search for his lips, sure to add a nice make-out session to pair with his fingers. But your mouth only meets fabric, and you frown.

“Don’t be a bastard, Riley.”

He hums, turning away to press a kiss to your cheek through the balaclava. “Only way I know.”

You pout. “Just one.”

“Behave.”

With a sigh, you relent. There’s no use in begging for something he won’t give you. You’ve learned to recognize what you can get from Simon, and what will be out of reach for the time being. If he’s decided he doesn’t want to kiss you, you will not get a kiss. 

But it doesn’t mean that you can’t be a little petty about it. 

You tug at his mask with your teeth, catching his lower lip too, and sharply bite into it.

In response, Simon slaps your pussy. A wet thwack echoes in the silent rec room. It sends tingles up your spine, and you hiss and gasp against his lips. Your nerves are currently haywire, and they cannot discern whether that rush was due to pain or pleasure.

You pull back only to pout, but it's obvious to both of you that there is no animosity in your eyes. In fact, Simon’s gaze falls to your lips with lust embedded in his pupils, and he takes that slightly jutting lower lip of yours as a little plea for him to give you what you need. Which is why he brushes his wet fingertips to your clit again, and again, until he can feel you soften in his grasp with a sequence of breathy, surrendering sighs. Only then, when you feel like molten wax in his hands, he switches to more rewarding, steady circles.

His focus leaves your lips only to take in your eyes. They’re diligently trained on him, because you know he likes to look you dead in the eye when he’s making you tremble to the bone. Eye contact is the only means he uses to communicate with you in the fog that is your relationship.

He’s more absorbed than you are, your eyes getting glassier by the minute. You want to keep it up, to hold your own against his stare that defies you to crack him open and peel the layers and understand. But you and him both know that is the last straw for you. He’s made you sensitive and supple and dull. Your head rolls back against his shoulder, and you push back, once again, the discovery of Simon Riley.

You breathe softly against his neck, trying to give yourself some containment due to the location you’re in. Nails dig in his forearms until they mark pink crescents over his tattoos, hoping that releasing tension through touch would help you keep your mouth shut.

Simon knows you still have something up your sleeve to use against him, because his weakness is to have you yearning for him as much as he does you—to have you pleading for his words, his touch, his presence, like he internally does each time you walk into his same space. 

You’ve never had a problem begging. When you’re confident enough about your person, pride doesn’t even get involved—they’re just words, and if he likes them, then so be it.

As long as he makes you come until your head spins.

“Please, Simon.” You whimper, putting up that act he knows all too well. As if he’d believe you’re truly submitting to him—but it’s fine, to be honest.

He's never wanted you to bend for him. Simon likes that fire that singes your pupils when you’re on active duty, or when you fuck him. He wouldn’t dream of snuffing it out, not when he’s more than aware that it makes him glow, too.

“Bit louder.” He rasps against your ear.

And you oblige, going as far as to wet your lips and bat your pretty lashes at him. Minx.

“Please? I’ll suck your cock after.”

Simon huffs. “Sellin’ it alrigh’.”

He loves to feel the stiffness of your clit under the pads of his fingers, how the more he skims them over it, the harder it gets—as if he’s flipping a switch. Which he sort of is, isn’t he? You’ve turned from the snarky little minx that could make him crack a smile or two, into this soft clay molding under the warmth of his touch.

“Wanna cum,” you sigh sweetly against his skin, sucking tenderly at the exposed flesh on his neck. “Please, Simon, let’s go to my room.”

He tuts at you, slowing down with his hand only to get you annoyed.

“We’re gonna stay ‘ere,” he murmurs, softly shaking his head so that the fabric of the balaclava scratches your skin. 

Then, out of the blue, you feel fingers dig into your jaw and pulling your mouth away from his neck. He forces your eyes forward, where the door of the rec room opens to the dark hallway. 

“You’re gonna cum on my hand, yeah? Soak it nicely.” He rasps against your ear, “An’ you’re gonna be quiet ‘bout it.”

Your cunt flutters.

“Need you sharp. Tha' clear?” He says, commanding as ever. “Answer, Sergeant.”

It almost makes you unravel then and there. Your eyes roll back and your hips buck against his hand. But you still have bits of reason floating around that mush he’s turned your brain into. 

He leaves the grip around your jaw and returns his hand at the base of your throat, thumb and middle finger gently pressing at its sides. Your head lolls back onto his shoulder with blissful abandon.  

“Cameras,” you mumble, sounding a little stupid and definitely on the verge of surrender. “There’re cameras.”

His response comes swiftly. “Not pointin’ at the sofa.”

Your chest stutters. He feels it under the weight of his palm. Your soft moans quiet down, too. A telltale sign of your beautiful brain whirring its cogs again. How he loves it, more than your body. Outwitting his every move. A true opponent—or ally, if only he’d allow you a little closer.

“You planned this, haven’t you?” You whisper cleverly, face still hidden in the crook of his neck and chest still heaving under his hand. Still affected by him, and yet your voice sounds steady and smooth.

And you’re so right. He knows this place by heart and could walk around it blindfolded. When he saw you in your grey sweatpants and an old white t-shirt, fumbling lazily with the electric kettle, blood had rushed so quickly to his cock he thought he could have fainted.

There is something about you invested in this almost boring, domestic light that always strikes him breathless. When the outline of the pillow fabric is imprinted in your cheek. When your hair is tousled by the bedsheets.

You look good in uniform too, all safely cradled in Kevlar and padded in neoprene. But it’s when you look drowsy and soft that sends him spiraling.

With the calculating mind of the pathological control freak he is, he’d retraced the position of the cameras in his head, and promptly decided to have you then and there.

The silence following your question must not be as subtle as he thinks. In seconds, you go from pliantly soft, into a squirming mess trying to escape him. Simon manages to hold you still only because he overpowers you in strength.

“What is it, mh?” You hiss, pushing at his forearm. “Been following me, L.T.?”

He hadn’t. Truly, he’d just stumbled upon you. It wouldn’t be too odd—he’s a sleepless ghost, after all, oftentimes found wandering around base at ungodly hours. The fact that he’d found you in his usual haunting grounds had been mere luck—true, blessed luck.

“You are-”

“Shut up.”

“-Fucking obsessed, and you-”

“Don’t.”

“-can’t even admit it.“

“Sergeant.”

“Coward.”

He plunges those two fingers back inside, punching a gasp out of you, and he gives no time for your hole to readjust to the stretch. Simply, he starts dragging against the front of your walls with a voracity that could be mistaken for hate, if you didn’t know him better.

You stiffen suddenly, arching your back off his chest. Teeth catch your bottom lip in an almost bloodthirsty grip—as much as you want to scream at him, you don’t want to get caught either.

He rams relentlessly into you until you're melting once again. His mouth is painfully pressed against your ear, and if the balaclava wasn't in the way, he would be lapping at whatever piece of flesh he could land on.

“Y’re a clever little thing, uh?” He groans huskily. “Always got the fuckin’ answer ready.”

You laugh under your breath, perhaps because you’re getting exactly what you want, or perhaps because you’ve been reading him more keenly than he thought and you've finally uncovered some new information that has been shrouded in darkness up until now.

He doesn’t care, and he gives in to you.

“Oh, you love it, you bastard,” you bite back breathlessly, which only makes his cock twitch in the tight space of his briefs.

“Smug little cunt.” He breathes in your ear, but you swear there isn’t an ounce of hostility in it.

You turn your head to meet his eyes. The playful smile on your fucked out face is straight out of his dreams—he's seen it so many times and yet it never ceases to amaze him. Nor does the way your hair bounces off your face in recoil from the frantic work of his hand. Or how your cheeks turn ruddy for him. Or how your lashes cast heavy shadows down your face.

“You love this smug little cunt, too.” You breathe, smugly.

Just proving his words, really.

“Don’t get cocky,” he hums in your ear. “Might gonna have to prove ya wrong, then.”

The heel of his hand rolls against your puffy clit in tandem with his fingers, because he wants you to come undone impossibly quick now that you’ve caught him red-handed.

It’s enough to make you forget you’re having a battle of wits with him. Your eyes roll back again, and your head falls limply onto his shoulder.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you wheeze, and he takes that as a sign to not stride away from the pace he’s taken.

His hand at the base of your neck tightens slightly, causing your breathy moans to lodge in your throat. Your cunt clenches right then, and your lips tug in a smile—because you love it, and he knows.

His contorted little mess. His cunning fox, strutting around the base with so much confidence in her gait, looking seemingly untamable. But when you're in his clutches, you're nothing but his pet, the one who enjoys having her leash tugged a little more firmly than socially acceptable.

“S-Simon.” Yes. Yes. C’mon, sweetheart. C’mon. “Simon – oh God –“

You’re being too loud. He doesn’t care if he gets caught with his pants down. He dares someone to confront him about it. Simon doesn’t revel in fickle things like dignity, not after life has done its goddamn worst to strip him of it.

But you? Hell, not you. He cherishes your privacy, in spite of how this whole predicament might make it look otherwise. On top of that, he selfishly likes to think he’s the only one with the delightful honor to see you so flushed and breathless, moaning his name like it’s the only one you know.

“Told ya to stay quiet.” And he stuffs two fingers in your mouth.

You groan and suck them back to your throat, until his pads graze the soft palate at the back. You gag around them, and he almost comes in his pants, wishing it was his cock instead. 

“Bite, don’t shout.” 

And you do. You bite the flesh around the base of his fingers, while his other ones are bringing you closer to the edge. An edge you’ve touched plenty of times with him, but one you’d rather not reach in such a public spot.

Granted, it’s night. It would be a fateful event for someone to walk by—rare, if not unique.

But still.

“Simon,” you moan, voice muffled around his fingers. “Fuck’s sake, no’ ‘ere.”

He chuckles, because he knows.

And you confirm it, by getting all agitated in his arms, eyes wide open staring at the ceiling. Your hand curls around the wrist of his offending hand, still ramming deep into your sex.

“Simon, stop –” You croak, slightly pulling back to speak. “M’gonna cum—stop.”

He doesn’t. That’s not the safe word, is it? Say it, and he’ll stop stock still in less than a heartbeat. 

But you won't, right, sweet thing? No, you won’t. Because it feels too good, doesn’t it? 

“Red?” He rumbles, voice low and measured to give you the impression that he still has some semblance of control left.

You cry around his fingers until your brows touch. Tears prickle the corners of your eyes, and maybe, he thinks, you like this. The thought of getting caught. The thought of someone seeing you come for him, shaking and bucking your hips like you’re a fucking cat in heat.

His fingers don’t relent, because that tiny word still hasn’t left your lips.

“Red?” He insists, as he feels your cunt clench impossibly tight each time he speaks. “Answer.”

But you don’t. Instead, you shake your head with a sob, and Simon would bet his fucking right hand that it’s out of pleasure more than anything else.

He chuckles, low and deep. “Dirty fuckin’ slag.”

He’d recognize that fucked out look anywhere. As if you’re struggling to breathe, eyes unfocused and glassy, lustrous lips puckered right above the knuckle. He regrets refusing your kiss, because he's sure they’d look even more delectable after he’s bitten them to bits.

“You like this, uh?” He rasps against your ear. “Wan’ an audience all for ya, yeah? Wan’ the team to pop in to see you like this?”

You shake your head, muffling a cry around his fingers. 

He tuts at you. “Don’t lie to me, love.”

You squirm and moan, sniffling with your nose as tears travel down your temples and into your hairline. You nod, then, because you’re a good sergeant and you follow orders as dutifully as you hand them out—every time.

"Wan' em all to 'ave a wank as you cum 'round my fingers, don't you?" He croons, even if the thought of someone seeing you like this has his blood boiling.

Drool gathers at the corners of your mouth as you buck your hips to intensify the work of his hand. And you nod vigorously, once again, with your eyes rolled back. Heavy puffs leave your nostrils, shallow and quick.

Simon hums a groan deep from his chest. He loves to see you break, loves to see you crack so easily. Doesn’t care if your mouth is quieted by his fingers, because your cunt is so wet it’s making sounds of its own that are enough for his greedy, insatiable ears.

His forearm starts cramping but he'll be damned if he stops, keeping his ring and middle finger inside as he presses them to the front wall of your vagina, while rhythmically dragging them in and out in a dance he knows will make you shatter.

And then you tense, corded neck tilted back. A long, agonizing moan escapes your stuffed mouth, and your walls signal your orgasm before your lips do. You ripple around his fingers, initially making movements hard, if not impossible. He easily overcomes that obstacle and keeps fucking you raw with the help of your come collecting on his palm. You’re so wet he barely has to try.

He looks at your profile on his shoulder. At the fucked out look in your eyes, misty and unfocused. Keenly listens to the moans you're trying to contain, as they turn into wheezing mewls. Feels the vice grip your pulsating cunt has on his fingers, the indents left by your teeth on his other hand.

Fuck it, you're gorgeous.

You come back down from the high with a wet gasp choked by his knuckles. Your nose is stuffy and it’s probably a little hard to breathe—but he’s merciful and takes out his fingers. 

Or, at least, tries. 

Your head lunges forward before he’s fully pulled them out. You gag when the tips touch the back of your throat again.  

Simon’s eyes widen but he doesn’t waste a second.

He resumes the pace that has already made you come, watching with rapt attention how your face doesn’t even look like yours anymore. There’s spit on your lips, and tears down your eyes. He’s already seen you wrecked, folded in half on his bedsheets. But there’s something even more unhinged about having you panting in the common area of a high security military base. It feeds him a great deal of power—you’re doing this for him, you’re putting yourself on the line because of him. 

That, of course, requires a reward. 

“Look at you,” he croaks. “Gimme one more, yeah? One more.”

Your legs squirm and you kick your heels against the sofa in sudden overstimulation, the hold of your hands on his arm turns into a death grip that paints your knuckles white and his flesh red. You could be skinning him alive, and he wouldn’t stop the onslaught on your pussy. 

He can hear you heaving, sees your pebbled nipples brush against the soft cotton of your t-shirt. Your teeth are sinking into his flesh, and he will most likely be sporting bruised bite marks on his fingers for a few days. He rolls his wrist to cause fluctuations in the pressure on your swollen clit and against your walls. Your hips swing together with his hand. He knows where to touch, you know how to guide him—it’s an intimate dance, and it belongs to you two only.

Simon scratches his cheek against your temple to collect the tears that are falling into your hairline.

He flattens the heel of his hand against your clit, which is once again a stiff kink of nerves—he’s shocked by how far he can push you before he wrings you dry. 

Your eyes touch his own, but you’re not even looking. Still unsated, still greedy for more—you love this, don’t you? Too much on your shoulders: responsibilities, a haunting past and an uncertain future. This job gives you very few rewards for the effort you put into it. That’s why you love it, when he brushes away every fear and uncertainty with a simple roll of his hand. 

He starts beckoning his fingers inside of you, teasing and pressing against that one overstimulated spot that has already made you come. The squelching noises coming from your pussy are enough to make his cock leak as he keeps pressing and sliding against your ass.

“Leakin’ like a fuckin’ faucet.” He rasps against your ear.

You moan around his fingers, and it vibrates through his bones. Your eyes are hooded, lushes clumped with tears, and your body is completely abandoned and at his mercy. You trust him to ruin you in the best ways, and he can only comply.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he whispers in your ear. “Could cum just by lookin’ at ya.”

Feeding you this knowledge seems enough to tip you over the edge again.

He wishes he’d taken this to another room like you asked before, because you slip into a second orgasm with a choked “Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck!” muffled by his digits that will haunt him forever.

A rushing flood invades his palm, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning at the sight. You come spraying liquid, tense and quivering in his arms. The soft grey marl of your sweats first darkens with tiny speckles, and then it blends into a larger spot covering the crotch of your pants.

Breath is caught in your throat, and if he wasn't witnessing the strength of your orgasm firsthand, he'd be dead worried by the look on your face. Pinched and overwhelmed.

"There it is." He murmurs, low and gravelly, "Fuck, tha's a sight. Fuckin' lovely."

He leaves your hole to flutter emptily only to skim the pruny pads of his fingers on your clit to prolong your orgasm, watching mesmerized how your squirt keeps staining the fabric.

It’s impossibly hot and it makes something in his head tick at the sight, almost like a needle puncturing his brain. His cock twitches helplessly as he unconsciously keeps rubbing the swollen head against your plump rear, before an unexpected warmth floods through him and invades each one of his nerves. 

He tastes blood on his tongue for how hard he’s been biting his cheek. 

Fuck.

A ragged breath around his fingers tells him you’ve returned to yourself. You soften against him like a doll prettily placed on his lap. 

"Breathe," he says softly, watching keenly as you come back to your senses. "Slow n' steady, love. Deep breaths. Tha's it."

His fingers slow, guiding you down to earth. Your eyes are hooded, glossy and now apparently sated, blood collected in the apples of your cheeks. You’re looking at him too, now gently suckling on his fingers to keep quiet, nostrils flaring to breathe as he's instructing you.

You’re so beautiful he forgets he has to be a bastard around you, or you’ll come and try to steal the heart you unknowingly already own.

Simon takes his fingers out of your mouth, not without smearing the spit they collected all over your lips first. You pant and smile. And apparently, you don't care that he's wearing the mask, because you lean in and kiss where his lips would be. Just a peck. He can’t fathom giving you more, not now. Not when his head is so confused, thoughts and feelings twisted in an imprecise knot. He simply kisses you back, silently cursing the fabric separating your skin from his, but ultimately doing nothing about it. Then, he helps you stand. 

“Go on, now.” He murmurs, patting your thigh. “S’after curfew.”

You're looking a little out of it. Simon can't help but feel a brief moment of guilt for leaving you to fend for yourself, when your legs look like they're made of jelly and your head still swims in ecstasy.

You wobble to the table, flattening your hands on the faux wood to regain your balance. Head bowed and still panting, your hair falls to frame your face and hides it from his sight. You feel dizzy, blinking your eyes to center yourself. The pleasure ebbs away slowly, languid, like molten lava leaving the crater of a volcano, dripping down your quivering legs scorching hot, until it puddles at your feet.

Differently, Simon doesn’t move from the sofa. A hand comes to adjust his crotch, and he lifts his hips to get into a more comfortable angle. He stays like that, legs spread as the ghost of you still sits in between them. His thumb grazes the fabric of the sweatpants he uses as loungewear, and he looks at you. Bent at the waist, wet, messy and panting—his name is written over you with a big, fat indelible marker. 

You’re his, his, his. No matter what you say, or what he says—you’re his.

Simon’s eyes are dark and heavy with lust and a tinge of anger, and you can feel them like lasers drawing your profile as if he’s carving it into marble. Whichever thought about him was about to bloom, however, is smothered to cinders when you spot the huge wet patch between your thighs.

Your eyes widen and you turn, if possible, even more flushed. Your head snaps upward and to him in a flash. Your eyes are burning, and Simon can’t help but think he’d love for you to scorch him to the bone.

“Y-You fuckin’ bastard.” You point an accusing finger in his direction, walking awkwardly as the sodden cotton of your knickers sticks uncomfortably to your pussy.

“Go on, I said.” He murmurs in his usual, jaded way. “S’late, you’re gonna get caught.”

You’re infuriated. Incensed. He wants to fuck you all over, flatten your tits to that same table, and ram into you while you shower him with curses and come.

“How am I s’posed to walk around like I’ve pissed myself!”

You’re whisper yelling. Smoke is billowing out of your ears. Your eyes turn crimson and you’re growing horns and a pointy tail.

You look beautiful.

But he simply rolls his neck and keeps his big hand draped over his groin. 

“With your legs, love.”

And you stomp to him until you’re standing once again between his thighs.

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”

Simon throws back his head onto the top of the couch and looks at you through hooded eyes, pupils blown into a black hole that sucks the light of his brown irises.

“Can’t kill a ghost.”

"Oh, shut your gob with that shit.” You spit with vitriol. 

“Not so smug now, uh?”

You suck in a sharp breath.

“You-you fuckin’ wanker.” You hiss, but the embarrassed stutter makes you look like a puffed up cat more than a viper. “I fuckin’ hate you.”

“Bet you do.”

“I’m a respected sergeant, I can’t go ‘round like I’ve piss-”

“That all?”

You glower at him. If he didn’t know you like the back of his hand, he would cower. Shame for you that he does, and the irate flame in your eyes only makes his hunger grow because he knows how voracious you are when you’re furious. 

“Told ya t’was a punishment, didn’t I?” He deadpans, “Jog on, now.”

Once again, you splutter. It would be such an entertaining sight, one he’d relentlessly tease you for, if he was in the mood. But he isn't, and in fact, he needs you to leave as soon as humanly possible.

You clench your fists, probably ready to strike him right in his mug. Totally deserved it, he’d let you get him straight on the nose. 

But then you huff and strike you don’t, stomping your foot on the floor like an angry child. Cleverly, you decide to put your hands to better use and tug down the hem of your oversized t-shirt instead—trying to cover, as best as you can, the wet patch on the crotch of your pants.

Scowling, you threaten him with a sizzling “I’m gonna make you pay for it, Riley.”

You turn around, marching away with ire in each one of your steps as if the soles of your feet could melt the linoleum of the floors by sheer, angry heat.

“Sure you will.” He murmurs to himself, knowing fully well he’s started a battle he’ll gladly let you win. 

Simon waits for the noise of your steps to disappear before he sinks into the couch with a defeated sigh. Tugging off the balaclava, he runs a sloppy hand across his face. He can still smell you on his fingers and something in his stomach knots.

Wearily, his eyes travel down his torso until they meet the hand covering the crotch of his sweatpants. With his thumb, he traces the purple indents left by your teeth at base of each finger. Tomorrow, he’ll wear them proudly. A weird promise ring, sure. But yours, nonetheless.

He lifts his hand slowly and scowls.

An incriminating stain stares back at him. Untouched, softening cock sensitive to the barest of movements he makes. 

Looks like you’ll meet again tomorrow in the laundry room, first thing in the morning.

[tzyunaes]

HOLD ME , CONSOLE ME ⟡ CLINGY S/O

𝖲𝖴𝖢𝖢I𝖭𝖢𝖳 ‎ ✷ ‎  𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗀𝗈 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄.

[ 형선 ] 𓈒𓈒 bf!엔하이픈 ˖ 𝑓em!r g. fluff established relationship ──── EPHEMER𝒾S ( 74O ) cw. skinship && kissing.

jennifer says .. really mid and only hyung line cause i kinda ran out of ideas ://

LEE HEESEUNG──────the sun shone in its innate manner, basking a tranquil atmosphere. your head resting on your dear lover’s chest like it wasn't an annoying monday morning instead of a pleasant lazy sunday morning with your boyfriend.

he chuckled slightly when he saw you groaning by the realization and pulled you close, his arms curled around your waist, his eyes as observant as ever, “is my baby pouting?” he teased, not to mention how it only made your pout grow bigger.

“no. can you not go to work today please can you just stay here with me”, you murmured under your breath, drawing circles on his chest subconsciously and that's when he catches himself smiling faintly like a fool in love.

“you want me to stay here with you, doll? how about i give you two hundred and twenty two kisses and get out early from work tonight?” he whispered, already planting kisses all-over your face.

maybe to the point where he will achieve kissing your pouts away and exchanging into giggles.

PARK JONGSEONG──────you stare at your boyfriend from the couch as he got ready for office with a subtle pout on your face. he looked behind to face you as he fixed his tie for the last time, holding back the faint smile cause he didn't even need you to say it out aloud and already could tell what you were up to.

walking close to you, he cups your face with adoration in his eyes, “what, princess? don't want me to go to work?” he states rather than asking, noticing the frown on your face.

“no...why would i—” he cuts you off midway by leaning down and pressing a chaste kiss on your lips. “you know i would oblige if you just said the word, doll. anything it takes to wipe that pout off your pretty face.”

you looked away from him, a pink ray visible on your cheeks, “stop you're too cheesy.” you retort, sighing when you realized that he was being serious.

“you don't have to skip, baby. just bring me boba and—” “cuddles. and as many kisses as you want, baby.”

SIM JAEYUN──────your sigh fell warm on jake’s chest, he patted your hair in a tender and devoted manner when you nuzzled closer to him. he loved it when you were more affectionate than usual cause it gave him chances to express more of his clingy side. who could blame him, you were too adorable.

“why do you need to go to work...” you mumbled under your breath and he smiled, “i know right. that's exactly what im saying like fuck you mean i have to leave for work instead of cuddling my pretty wifey all day!” he murmured, his body pressed against yours. you giggled, his arms around your waist grew tighter.

“stop—” your words are interrupted by him planting dozens of kisses over your face. trailing down to your throat, he buried his face on the crook of your neck.

“okay i made my decision. i’m not going anywhere today,” he muttered between kisses and the seriousness in his voice would never let you second that.

PARK SUNGHOON──────sunghoon stared at you as you climbed on his lap facing him with amusement prepped on his face but his arms reached out to be wrapped around your waist. you stared at his eyes for a moment as if it was a staring competition before leaning in and prepping a peck on his cheeks.

a chuckle left his mouth when he finally understood what you were trying to do and pulled you closer for another kiss.

“trying to distract me from the fact that i have to go soon, baby? you know you don't have to try, right? i get distracted by you even when you're breathing, princess,” he says as he leaves a trail of kisses down your neck, your cheeks soon turned into a shade of pink by his teasing.

“that's not true, hoon. you're so wrong.” he just chuckled without another word and continued leaving kisses, although he was ready to leave for work.

with the last peck on your forehead, he got up, not forgetting to whisper, “don’t worry, angel, i'm gonna get out early for you.”

[eatommo]

Father Figure [j.m.]

Summary: A shower and DBF Joel "pussy drunk" miller, no plot here. No outbreak/preoutbreak

A/N: Can be read as a stand alone but is a true sequel to Kisses of Fire. Heavily inspired by @absurdthirst and @wardenparker 's Marcus Moreno soulmates fic that I devoured in an all-nighter. Not beta'd all mistakes are my own

c.w: age gap, dub-con due to alcohol, showering together, pet names, oral sex (both recieving), pinv, creampie, food play (he drinks champagne off her pussy), overstimulation, service dom vibes, daddy kink and attached daddy issues, probably missed some lmk!

It wasn't fair. Joel had magic hands when it came to woodworking and tiling, hell you've even seen him work magic at a claw machine, but how was he better at washing your hair?  Every ounce of tension fell out of your muscles, and the cool water washes away the sweat and sticky traces from your thighs.  You keen into his fingertips, leaning back into the warmth of his body and letting yours rest against the plain of his chest.

He hums, and you feel the vibration of it echo in your own content noises, eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy,  “Sweet little thing.” You blush, feeling a little shy, which should be ridiculous, but you feel as if he's doting on you, every bit of his attention is working out every knot of tension in your body that you didn't even know existed.  

He steps forward, urging your head back under the water as he washes the soap away with tender touches.  The smell of his soap in your hair is almost overwhelming, and you still feel the ache of being filled by him, by all accounts your brain should be returning to its rightful place right now but all you can think about is how skillfully and hungrily he consumed you.  

You felt dizzy, and the lingering traces of the alcohol were burning off. “I think I could go for another glass.”  You look at his eyes in earnest, hoping to see some sort of reflection of how your heart is swelling in your chest.  

“Already ahead of you baby, I put it and two glasses in the freezer for when you're finished.”  His words are warm, and comforting, as if sensing what you're craving from him.  

You crack a smile, standing on your toes to kiss the hollow of his throat and to your surprise, there's a strangled sound that comes from beneath your fingertips.  It's a groan.  Halting your movements, you stay there, hovering, and watch as he swallows harshly.  

Tauntingly you let the tip of your tongue trace up the column of his throat and he turns to iron in your grasp, “Mr. Miller.” you tsk, the shift in power bolstering each small syllable, “A weakness.” You run the flat of your teeth against his skin, and you feel a shutter rumble through his body in a subtle confirmation.

He tries to play it off, a small rumble of laughter as he runs conditioner through your hair with his fingertips, combing it through the ends of your hair. His cock is half hard just from feeling your mouth on his throat as it rests against your belly, water passing between the two of you as you finish up the dance of sharing his modest shower space. 

Your body should be tired, and admittedly your legs are weaker with each step but you couldn't be more aware of each passing lingering touch as his hands soothingly run up your back coaxing your body to follow and obey. 

By far the most beautiful thing in the room is Joel.  His chest is flush and glistening with droplets of water that fall from his clean, tousled hair and runs down his work-sculpted chest.  

He catches you staring and tilts your chin up to look into his deep brown eyes, “Like what you see baby?” he's being smart with you, and yet you can't find the words to form a retort.  His hand grips your jaw firmly, and he leans down for a kiss. 

His mouth is warm, his tongue languidly swiping across your teeth bringing an embarrassingly loud moan out of you as you enjoy the taste of him and the skimming brush of his thumb on your pulse that all but turns your bones to jelly.  You forget that he even asked you a question until he breaks the kiss with a laugh that sends a shiver down your spine.  “And to think I’m not even done with you yet.”  

He lets his hand move to the back of your head and buries his fingers in your hair and gives a gentle testing tug, you do your best to hold his gaze as he peers into your eyes, you let out a confirmational hum.  With a single glance, he communicates what you’ve wanted since he took his pants off, and he holds your head steady as you sink to your knees.  The tile is warm from the wash of the water, and he shields you from the shower head as you admire his massive semi-hard cock.

You rest your hands on your thighs, resisting the urge to start touching yourself as you kitten lick over a vein that catches your attention, you see the steady throb build as he gets harder beneath your tongue.  You suck the head of his cock into your mouth, sucking lightly as it pulsates against your tongue and his hand tightens in your hair.  You suck more of him into your mouth, swirling around the head and swallowing around him, eager to please and be good for him.  

“That's my girl.” he coos, bringing his other hand to your cheek, caressing it gently but urging you to take more of him all the same.  God, you’re half convinced the man could talk you to an orgasm, his praise wraps around your body like a vise, luring you into a headspace you’ve only experienced tonight.

He jerks his hips, pitching them forward and deeper until he’s nudging the back of your throat.  Tears prick at your eyes, as your jaw begins to ache with the stretch, you find your hands drifting closer to the insistent twinge of your clit begging for his attention again.  The hair at the base of his cock is sparse but it tickles your nose as you reach your breaking point, coughing and sputtering around him.  You use the flat of your tongue to massage the underside of him while he fucks into your mouth.

He grunts as he keeps thrusting a few more times, you taste the salt of his precome on your tongue and he slides out and you gasp for air and swallow the excessive amount of drool pooled in your mouth.  The strings of spit connecting the two of you might just be one of the hottest things you've ever seen. He gives you a lopsided grin, swiping a thumb over your chin, “Messy, messy little girl.”  His voice is deep, hoarse with need and debauchery.  

The shower is off and he pulls you to your feet, wrapping you in a plush towel that's warmed from the steam-filled room.  He places a soft kiss on your forehead and you hum contentedly, recovering from the lack of oxygen and the dizzying weight of his cock in your mouth.  You lean against the cool counter of the sink, running his brush through your hair in an attempt to keep from staring at him, but he settles behind you and slides his cock against your ass as he pins you to the counter.

You can vaguely make out the shape of his body behind yours in the fogged surface of the mirror, mixing together with the beauty of a mosaic painting. He is standing tall as his dark hair falls to tickle your ear as he kisses along the curve of your shoulder.  His mouth is delicate, but the edge of the counter digs into your flesh, you're finding yourself hoping it bruises, as he continues to press his skin to yours.  

He lets a rough palm run from your belly between your breasts and uses it to tilt your head back, kissing the sensitive skin on your throat with a gravelly contemplative hum at your back.  “Go sit, I'll bring up something to drink, hungry?” 

His hand is heavy and calloused, sitting on your throat, the gesture is dominant, and you feel so small and so pliant under his grasp. But the warmth and tenderness between your legs doesn't argue, and your lips are still swollen from the stretch of him in your mouth. You feel a deep satisfaction, heavy like the possessive yet caring touch of his hand guiding your mouth along his shaft.  

“No,” You try and sound confident, but your voice is hoarse and you're beaming at him with a fucked stupid grin on your face, and it comes out a simple squeak.  

Joel smiles down at you softly, running his thumb along your jaw.  The adoration is plain on your face, unmistakable.  You’ve seen him with this look hundreds of times but there’s something about the moment and the intimacy of this, the low-revving engine of your lust that’s almost as palpable as the steam on the mirror.  

He never fails to make you feel special.  His mouth finds your forehead for a lingering but gentle kiss, a promise to return.  He leaves the room tying a towel around his waist, and you let your eyes linger on the flexing cords of muscles in his back as he shuts the door behind him.  

Doing your best to collect yourself, you run your hands through your hair and take a deep breath, using his surprisingly plush towel to tousle your hair as dry as you can manage, before draping it around yourself and securing it above your breast.  

His room is much cooler, but the heat beneath your skin is unstoppable and your body is still as alive as it was with his cock down your throat.  The bed is disheveled, you find a place among the scattered pillows and prop yourself upright, pulling a book off of his nightstand to skim over the description on the back.  

Soon you hear his footsteps on the stairs, he knocks gently on the door before nudging it open carrying two champagne flutes. He settles in next to you, and you saddle up next to him, pressing your hip to his, the urge to be close to him almost overwhelming.  

You take a sip, letting the sweet bubbly liquid settle in your mouth for a moment, washing away the salt of his skin.  You nuzzle your head on his shoulder in affection, feeling both spent and keen on finding out what's next. 

 His hair slicked back makes his deep brown puppy dog eyes even more dreamy as he beams down at you before taking a sip from the glass.  You stare at his hands and the delicate way the veins and tendons flex to hold onto the stem of the glass, swallowing around the lump in your throat.  

“Something I can give ya?” He notices, because of course he does.  You shift, throwing your legs over his lap, and taking another swig from your glass, determined to finish before you give in to your incessant need to be filled by him again.  

You hum, faking being contemplative, “I’m not sure, what else might you offer?”  Playing coy has worked before, but something in his eyes seems hungry, and it stirs something like fear in your belly.  

He holds your gaze, taking a long tauntingly slow sip even letting his tongue sneak out to tease the rim of the glass, “You have no idea baby.”

Instantly you're flooded with flashes of what he could possibly be alluding to, you imagine yourself pinned beneath him, straddling his face, even on your knees for him again.  You've never felt so incredibly giddy over a teasing phrase.  Hoping that there is a promise in his words, and that every little passing ache of potential is just a preview of what's to come. 

He sees it plain as day on your face, eyes glazing over and the curves of an insidious smile twisting your mouth into a lopsided grin.  He wishes he could read your mind, but he settles for running his hand across your abdomen, trailing over the sensitive and admittedly ticklish flesh just to feel you squirm beneath him.  

You take a sip from you glass in an attempt to still your voice before you speak, shifting your hips below his warm touch.  You know what you want, and he is just as privy to your needs, “Use your words, darling.” Another sip, and he presses his lips to the shell of your ear,  “Be sweet for me baby tell Daddy what you want.” 

“Your mouth, please Joel.”  you rush, too aware of your body’s reaction to his touch.  He pulls the towel free of your chest, and takes a nipple between two fingers and tugs until it's tight and you feel a hint of pained arousal. You whine correcting yourself, “Please, daddy.” 

He lets out a small groan, the sound enough to make your clit throb for his attention.  “Good girl.”  He moves between your legs fluidly, the final sip of alcohol stirring in the bottom of the glass as he settles, pulling your hips to the edge of the bed and settling on his knees.  He takes the towel you were wearing, gesturing for you to lift your hips as he arranges the towel beneath you.  

You let your head fall back against the sheets, expecting the warmth of his mouth.  Instead, you feel the ice-cold bubbles of his last champagne sip dribbling gently over your pussy, jumping at the cool sensation and the juxtaposition of his flat tongue swiping up the length of your sex.  He moans against you as the taste envelops his thoughts and he loses himself in the sweet taste of you.  He drags his tongue over your entrance, and swirls over your clit in long, practiced movements.  Every second that passed your body was tensing, building to yet another climax in such a short amount of time your legs start to shake.  

You almost miss the chuckle that escapes him, as he sucks harshly on your clit and your vision starts to ebb white, but he stops just a second short. “Did I make your little legs quiver?” You can’t find it in you to pick up your head off the bed.  

He laughs.

The sound is deep, and throaty, and you can feel it reverberate in your bones as he crawls over you, his face wet from his efforts. He wipes his chin on the back of his hand, his eyes bright and playful.

The slide of his thick cock is tantalizing, your brain is telling you to stop but the throb of him against you and the warmth of his breath against your neck is encouraging you to take him. To be his good little girl. 

His hips stutter as he buries himself inside you, your body giving a small jump when he bottoms out without warning. He groans loudly, pressing his forehead into the crook of your neck.

"Such a good little thing.." His words are slurred slightly, his mind drunk on lust and alcohol. He's so hard and thick and you can barely breathe. Your nails claw into the flesh of his shoulders, pulling him closer to you, wanting to feel the weight of him on top of you both overwhelming and comforting at the same time. 

Your eyes flutter shut, his praise and his cock lulling your brain into a blissful fog. Your cunt grips his shaft and he lets out a low hiss.

Joel moans, burying his face into your hair, his breath coming in short pants.  His thrusts are slow and deliberate, dragging the thick head of his cock across every inch of your walls.  He stays like that, pushing and pulling in and out of you. He fucks you with abandon, his pace quickening as he chases his own pleasure.

Your mind is fuzzy and your eyes are unfocused. You don't know if it's the alcohol, or the fact that Joel's cock is currently splitting you open, or maybe it's the fact that you just don't give a fuck anymore, but everything just seems so right.

It's as if he knows exactly what you're thinking.  "You feel so fucking good."  His fingers grip the sheets and the muscles in his forearms ripple as he fucks you.  

“Make yourself cum,” His thrusts are frantic, and his pace is practically begging you to comply.  Scrunching your face in concentration, a few little overstimulated whimpers earn you more words of encouragement.  “Cum all over me darlin.” 

It's the most you can do to hold on as the coil inside of you tightens impossibly. The friction of him sliding inside of you is too much and not enough all at the same time.  

He finds your chin and pinches it roughly, directing you to look into his eyes as he orders you to touch yourself. You do as you're told fingers snaking in between your bodies to find your swollen and abused clit.  He grins as he sees your eyes roll back in your head and you come with a shout, his name on your lips.

Joel’s body starts to shake as his words evolve into primal grunts and groans.  Your pussy is spent and the sweet smell of your release hangs in the air as he uses your limp body for his pleasure.  

He calls to you as he cums, praising your body and plunging as deep as he possibly can as his cock pulses and empties inside of you. The room spinning and your ears ringing, his body sags on top of yours, his forehead pressed to yours as you place an exhausted kiss to the small patch of skin in his beard you’ve always been fascinated with. 

You lay together catching your breath, your body slowly starting to feel the soreness between your legs and the dull throb of multiple orgasms that leaves your body feeling weightless and heavy at the same time. 

[santacoppelia]

Aziraphale's voice - Michael Sheen's voice

I know we all have talked a lot about Michael Sheen's ability to manage microexpressions with his face, but this post is to mark another really interesting character crafting decision: his voice.

I believe that, If you are a hearing person and you watch Good Omens in its original language, identifying Aziraphale's pitch, tone and timbre is really easy. That's because it is slightly higher and more of a dulcet tone than the usual Michael Sheen voice (which usually is more deep and lower).

However, there are three times when Aziraphale uses the "Michael Sheen voice" in season 2 (I'm not sold on having heard it during season 1). All of them are on point for the character and I love the acting choice, so I came here to share:

I have already seen this one discussed, so it goes first: the "Azirapalala- Aziraphale" moment, when correcting Furfur in the e04 minisode. It is made even funnier because we have already seen him being so happily flamboyant... And his voice going lower with the annoyance of correcting his name is precious.

When he vows to protect Gabriel, during the final defense of the bookshop, in e06. “You came to me, I said I would protect you And I will”. His voice shifts as he makes that last point clear, and suddenly his Sheen voice becomes the sign of his commitment to keep his word. He doesn't use that voice when menacing the demons; he goes with a more "Aziraphale tone", while having his face do the "fierce" work.

My personal favorite: during e01, when Crowley comes back after their fight, trying to keep his cool, and Aziraphale is so not having it. He uses his natural register when he says he wants "a proper apology, actually". And he practically keeps that tone until the apology is finished.

@susanwhynow noticed (and I had absolutely MISSED) that when he answers the "Smitten. I believe." he is using his Michael voice. I was fooled by the "You're being silly!" being delivered in a tender, usual Aziraphale manner... But yeah, one of the best lines of these two being sweet is in "Michael tone". Do with this what you want :D

That is quite an acting choice! When a character is built around choices that separate them so clearly from the person who performs them, deciding to use the "natural" repertoire is really meant to make an impact. It is a really subtle voice work, but goes a long way to convey the seriousness of those moments for Aziraphale.

And I brought this here just to present my respects to Michael Sheen for those choices!!

[merbear25]

Glad to see requests are open again 😃

May I please request headcanons for Sanji, Mihawk, and Shanks reacting to their girlfriend being afraid to express herself sexually due to being judged and shamed by previous exes?

Heyy! I was sick today but felt a smidge better to write. Thank you for sending in a request. I hope you like it 💜💜

CW: SFW, mentions of shame, fem!reader in mind, fluff, established relationship, headcanons

Helping you feel comfortable in your own skin (Sanji, Mihawk, Shanks)

Sanji

He had always been the type to lift those closest to him up. Knowing that you were dealing with these issues…well, it was heartbreaking to say the least.

He cursed those who’d put these insecurities in your head but never did so in front of you, because he thought it would be better not to remind you of your time with them.

All he wanted to do was shower you with the warmth and affection that you deserved.

There wasn’t anything you had to say, everything was understood from just a look. Whatever it was that you needed, he gave it to you without a second thought.

Baby steps were more than okay with him, since the ultimate goal was breaking down those pesky barriers.

Nights when you fell asleep holding each other, just talking about anything that popped into your heads were among his favorites.

Never pushy, he wanted you to decide when you felt comfortable moving to different stages. Each step in your relationship was met with enthusiasm, after all he was crazy about you. However, it was normal to take two steps forward and one step back, to which his patience never ran dry.

Mihawk

He could never understand how someone like you ended up with scum like them. Holding you closely, he made sure you felt every ounce of emotion harbored in his otherwise stoic demeanor.

Though he was not the type to freely express himself emotionally, that did not mean he didn’t feel just as deeply as everyone else.

When you poured your heart out to him, he’d simply listen. Adding only subtle nods and soft touches of reassurance when necessary.

There was no denying how attractive he found you, but with that being said, he knew how to exercise his patience.

Having you feel comfortable and confident would give him more satisfaction than any sexual encounter you’d have together.

His touches were warm but wouldn’t cross any of your personal boundaries. They didn’t linger for too long, even though sometimes you wish they did.

Silent with his words but loud with action, he let you know exactly what he was thinking with a simple caress of your hand.

Shanks

A tender look was all he gave when you shared your insecurities with him. 

There were so many thoughts swimming in his head, ones which were polarizing: wanting to give you everything that you felt like you might have lost and wanting to curse those who took that confidence from you.

He was soft with you, letting you feel every ounce of love and adoration that you’d missed out on with your past relationships.

The compliments he gave you were never-ending. Even if you might roll your eyes from his cheesy flattery, each one stuck with you.

He was very vocal about how gorgeous he found you, hoping that some of his words would sink in and overcome at least one of those insecure thoughts of yours.

He was physically affectionate but didn’t test your limits. The respect he had towards you was worth more than selfishly putting his needs above yours.

That puppy-like love he had for you worked its charm, eventually giving you an added confidence boost when being with him.

[capquinn]

Hey I love your Dad!Quinn writings so much! They’re so cute and fluffy! Maybe you can do one about mom’s bump popping up one morning and Quinn is like mesmerized, realizes that a baby is coming and his life is going to change. But he’s so happy. Only if you want to write this. Have fun in NYC!

The hoodie slipped from his hands, forgotten, as Quinn froze in the doorway, caught in the quiet spell of the moment. His breath stilled, his gaze fixed on you — on the reflection of you in the mirror, framed by the soft morning light that filtered through the curtains. You were standing there, one hand resting on the curve of your belly, your fingers brushing over it in a way that was both casual and deliberate.

But it wasn’t the same curve he’d kissed goodnight the evening before. This was new, different.

His eyes traced the line of your profile, lingering on the now unmistakable swell of your stomach. It wasn’t just a gentle hint anymore, not the subtle softness he’d grown accustomed to seeing. It was undeniable, defined. A bump.

His bump. His baby.

Quinn’s arms hung at his sides, his hoodie now pooled in the chair behind him as his brain worked to catch up with his eyes. For a long beat, he just stared, unmoving, as the weight of it hit him all at once. His chest tightened, his heart thrumming in a rhythm he couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t panic, not fear, but bigger — something that was overwhelming in its tenderness. Awe, maybe. Or reverence. A sense of this is real that felt too massive for his chest to hold.

He tilted his head slightly, as if looking from a different angle might somehow soften the impact, but it didn’t. If anything, it deepened it.

His gaze dropped to your hand, the way your palm smoothed over the firm swell like it was second nature now. He hadn’t realised how much he’d been holding his breath until he let it out, slow and shaky, his hands flexing at his sides. There was no mistaking it anymore — this was real. Tangible. The tiny life that had been nothing but whispers and plans and grainy black-and-white ultrasound images was suddenly here, making its presence known.

You glanced up in the mirror, your eyes catching his reflection, and Quinn’s heart twisted. You looked at him like you always did — a soft affection that grounded him — but now there was something else. Something unspoken, something shared. Something that said, can you believe this?

He stepped closer without even realising, the movement automatic, like gravity was pulling him to you. His hand reached out instinctively, tentative at first, brushing against the curve of your belly before settling there fully. His palm was warm, steady, fingers spreading slightly as if to take it all in. The bump was firm, more defined than he’d expected, and the simple touch made everything feel sharper, clearer.

“This is new,” he murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion, almost as if speaking louder might shatter the fragile intimacy of the moment.

“It wasn’t like this yesterday,” you replied softly, your voice carrying the same quiet awe that was written all over your face.

“No,” he agreed, his thumb sweeping in a slow arc along the edge of your belly. “It wasn’t.”

For the first time, it wasn’t just an abstract thought in the back of his mind. It wasn’t just appointments or plans or future names whispered in the dark. It was right here, under his hand. The tiny, growing life you’d made together, tucked safely between the two of you.

His gaze flicked back up to yours, his eyes soft and bright with something unspoken. Pride, maybe, and then his lips curved into a faint, almost shy smile.

“That’s… really our baby,” he said, the words tumbling out like a confession, as though saying them aloud might help him fully believe it.

“Really our baby,” you echoed, and the way you said it, so soft but so certain, nearly unraveled him.

Quinn’s thumb brushed over your skin again, slower this time, more deliberate, as if tethering himself in the moment. He didn’t let go, didn’t even think about moving. His fingers flexed gently against you, holding on as though the world might tip if he didn’t anchor himself to this — to you.

He exhaled quietly, his voice dropping even lower as his gaze flicked back to your bump.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it,” he murmurs. “To you. To seeing you like this.” His voice caught slightly, and his eyes softened even further as they roamed the swell of your stomach, his hands cradling it like it was the most precious thing in the world.

He couldn’t take his eyes off you — off the way your body had changed, the way it was carrying something that was a part of both of you. It hit him all at once, an overwhelming wave of awe that nearly stole his breath. The guys had joked about this, their faces lighting up in a way that always seemed a little exaggerated when they said there was nothing more attractive than seeing your partner pregnant with your child. He’d brushed it off at the time, but standing here now, he finally understood. You were stunning, and it wasn’t just how you looked — it was what it meant. What you were doing.

He kept those thoughts to himself, too raw and vulnerable to say aloud, but they lingered, stirring in the quiet space between you.

“You’re just so beautiful,” he said instead, the words escaping before he could stop them. He didn’t need to elaborate — everything he felt was in the way he looked at you, his eyes soft, his expression completely open.

The sincerity in his words made your throat tighten, a warmth rising in your chest that had nothing to do with hormones. He saw it immediately — the way your eyes glossed just slightly, your lips pressing together as if to hold back an overflow of emotion. You stared down at the curve of your belly, your hand resting over his, grounding yourself in the moment.

Quinn’s heart clenched at the sight. He hadn’t meant to make you cry, but the way your reaction softened your entire expression made his chest ache in the best way. His fingers flexed gently against your stomach again, his thumb brushing over your skin in a slow, steady rhythm, his way of silently telling you that he was right here.

Your lips parted slightly, like you wanted to say something but weren’t quite ready, and he stayed quiet, giving you the space to find the words.

“It doesn’t feel real, does it?” you whispered finally, your voice carrying a quiet awe that made his breath catch.

He paused for just a moment, watching the way your gaze lingered on your belly, before answering.

“It’s real,” he said, almost to himself, as if to convince the last part of him that still couldn’t quite believe it. His fingers pressed a little more firmly, cradling the swell of your stomach with the same care he might handle something sacred. “It’s us. Right here.”

He could see the ripple of emotion in your expression, the way your chest rose in a deep, steadying breath. The way your hand tightened over his for just a second, like you needed him to hold you in the moment.

When your eyes finally met his, the look you gave him stopped him in his tracks. It was full of wonder, gratitude, and a love so profound it stole the breath from his lungs. For a moment, he couldn’t find the words, couldn’t do anything but hope that you saw everything reflected back in his gaze: the wonder, the love, the quiet, unshakable resolve that whatever came next, he’d be there — every step, every breath. For you. For the tiny life between you. For all of it.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

requests are open - let’s daydream!

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

do you fancy a quickie? word count: 2,5k cw: shameless smut, viktor is a tease (everybody act surprised), no use of y/n, reader is reffered to as spouse. what else? ah yes. semi-public sex.

art cr: @arcanescribbles. saw her viktor in formal wear and instanly knew i had to write something mentioning it. *standard 'english is not my first language please don't be mean to me' bullshit*

It felt immaculate. The languid wince of bright eyes, the smirk you were wearing — chiselled just perfectly precisely for a moment like this, as if you were an inborn heartthrob rejecting unfortunate suitors left and right — a natural, if you will. 

“I appreciate the compliment,” you started from a far, making sure — patently by total accident — to casually snake a dextrous hand up your chest, resting it right above your cleavage — just where that fool’s eyes were devouring you. “But I am simply not interested. I’m married.”

You’re savoring the drop of his face when he notices the ring. You just wiped a grin off a man’s face with class — surely, that must’ve felt spectacular, and you rejoiced when he hummed — suddenly all clumsy and simply pitiful — and, with a rather impolite mumble of a sharp ‘excuse me’, walked away, leaving you all proud and unapproachable. Yeah, that’s right. Don’t ask me for a hand in a dance, gentlemen — because someone has already put a ring on it. 

You got back to chugging on your champagne, lips tightly closed around the rim of that ridiculously fancy glass, although it matched the ridiculously fancy gown you were impressing the so-called select society with tonight. And it actually worked (or so it seems),  since you managed to strike the fancy of the mentioned earlier tipsy sir, who were now pouting his lips like an offended child, turning his subtle drunkenness into a full-blown intoxication; squinting, and ranting, and swallowing yet another drink as he kept whining about your flawless rejection to a bunch of sympathetic peers. 

But you couldn’t care less — not when you were just minutes away from leaving this bougie ballroom behind, with all its curious glances and endless mingling; so many faces, when you only wanted to stare into the sharpness of one — with two moles piercing the pale canvas of skin and cheekbones hollow enough to stroke a soft finger over the lines of them, demanding a kiss. You sigh — almost dreamily in the way your head wearily leans its weight onto the back of your palm. So cliché, but who are they to blame you? Not when your husband is such a sight, and certainly not when your husband is such a sound — raspy, low, and, frankly – simply hot, and you giggle at the thought, sinking two front teeth into the pad of your thumb. 

You barely understand a word when Viktor tells the inquisitive Upsiders about the Hexclaw glove, yet still absorb each moment of his speech with tender thoroughness, because listening to him talk — about anything, really — is a privilege, one you cherished dearly and with genuine care. You were an admirer, watching him — all intelligent and so pensive, in that suit, with that raw passion in the depth of copper eyes, on that stage. And comprehension is not necessary — not when you see how talking about his inventions lights him up; so bright, that he could easily outshine the golden boy. In your loving eyes, at the very least. 

He notices when you join the round of enthusiastic applause, quietly thanking his audience for the attention — pensive and polite, so uniquely pretty in his demureness. It feels like showing him off, and that grin stretches even further across your face when he goes down the stage to walk up in your direction. 

You’re not subtle with that kiss. Pulling on his tie, shamelessly pushing your tongue into his mouth, knowing that they stare, and when Viktor — all wide-eyed and smitten — reciprocates, humming into the heat of your lips, you’re gone. He’s breathless when it’s over, arches a thick eyebrow in a curious manner, sinking your proud expression in. 

“What was that for?” he chuckles, feeling the damage done to his bottom lip with your teeth. 

“Can’t I kiss my husband simply because I felt like it?” you purr in response, greedily eyeing him. 

He laughs. You stroke a hand over the rise of his chest, and he clutches his cane — the pretty one for special occasions, with elegant carving and gilding. 

A thin arm wrapped around your waist coaxes you to jump off the stool, allowing him to steal an embrace. Can’t resist Viktor in a suit. In his other attire too, of course, but god does he look spectacular all dressed up. It’s almost like he was made for all the blazers, vests, and ironed shirts — an inborn gentleman, sickeningly handsome.  

His gaze travels down, to the oh so taunting cut of the silky dress: a peek of garter holding the elegant stocking, and you notice just how he relentlessly fails not to drool over you too shamelessly.

“How was my, er, speech?” he asks, practically forcing himself to rip those eyes off your hip. “I suppose it went rather well — very laconically, if I do say so myself. However, I’m afraid that Jayce is much more natural when it comes to keeping the audience entertained.”

“I was too busy listening to you to pay much attention to the golden boy,” you confess, straightening his vest for him — another excuse to touch him, but Viktor decides to touch you instead.

“That is rather disrespectful,” he scoffs, gently capturing your wrist into the warmth of his hand, and before you can react — presses a chaste kiss to the back of your palm. Damn him and his gentlemanly tricks. 

“Perhaps,” you shrug, giggling when his breath tickles your knuckles. “But you did amazing. Truly.”

“I am flattered,” he acknowledges, letting go of your wrist. His touch lingers there — warm and domestic, a wordless way of returning the courtesy. “I hope that my brief absence didn’t bore you too much?”

“Not in the slightest,” you assured him with a wry smile, and he met your words with another inquisitive hum. “Some very persistent gentleman kept trying to convince me that I need an interlocutor.”

“Is that so?” the inventor asked, evidently amused by your revelation. “And just how did that go for him, may I ask?”

“He was heartbroken to hear that I was married, you see,” you sigh, and your lips protrude into a pout — one of fake, rather comical sympathy.

“What a pity,” Viktor retorted, blessing your ears with that low, raspy laugh of his. “I hope the news didn’t crush him.” 

“Ah, don’t even bother. You hope they did.”

“What an accusation,” he exclaims, and your hands ache to strangle him with that pretty tie. “Though not an entirely unreasonable one, I must admit.”

“My point exactly,” you bite back, and your arms rush to be wrapped around the bastard's neck, chest pressed flush to his, heartbeats mingling into a mess of thuds. 

Sinewy fingers don’t hesitate to slip into the cut of your dress. They also don’t falter to cautiously crawl into the band of your stocking, almost forcing you to whimper his name into the crook of his neck — an indirect plea to proceed in private. 

“Such a mouthy thing,” Viktor whispers, and you’re done with him, almost ready to demand he bends you over in front of those very Topsiders. “Just what shall I do with you, hm?” 

He’s hard against your thigh, even a hint of friction has him jolting, hissing a quiet curse into your mouth when he occupies it with a kiss again — one too lewd to be appropriate for public eyes. 

“You should steal me away,” you suggest, staring into the madness of heavy eyes piercing yours. “For some fresh air, of course.”

“Fresh air?” he mocks, shaking his head in fake disapproval. “Is that the only reason? Not that I’m reluctant to be alone with you — quite the opposite, actually. I simply doubt that it’s the real, eh… purpose of the encounter you’re suggesting.”

Fuck’s sake. He’s utterly incorrigible. Thanks Janna you love this man. 

You sigh, struggling to suppress the urge to slap him. 

“Do you fancy a quickie?” you finally surrender, knowing damn well that out-smartassing Viktor is simply impossible. Besides — the way his lips stretch into a thin handsome line feels greater than any meaningless pleasure a well-aimed smart comment could ever bring.

It feels even better when his mouth hovers above your ear, purring a sweet, “I most certainly do.”

***

You squeak when he presses you against the cool bathroom wall, and a cautious hand cradles the back of your head, preventing it from repeating the dreary fate of his cane, which had just hit the floor with a loud thud. You, on the other hand — no pun intended, of course — are not that careful with your limbs, fingers already tangled into his hair, messing up its unusually neat style. He’s kissing you with desperation: rush didn’t leave him any time for hesitation, but you’ll gladly take him like this — all frantic, cock an aching swell inside his finest dress pants. 

“Darling,” he keens, licking at the fresh proof of his lust after you, as if trying to soothe the pain from his teeth needling into the softness of your neck. 

“Yes?” you breathe out, thoughts a mush of smutty images, but the limited privacy of this bathroom is not enough for a full-course debauchery. They call it a quickie for a reason. 

His hand slips under your gown, shamelessly kneading the plumpness of ass, ready to free you of the lace underwear. 

“No,” you pull away, shaking your head with a sharp inhale. “We don’t have time for this.” Your outfit is too impractical to allow him the pleasure of undressing you even partially, even though you’d love to let him have his way with you.

“But, beloved, isn’t that what we’re here for?” he protests, but you shut him up with another kiss, and, while he suffocates against your mouth, smoothly turn him around, firmly capturing between the wall and your softly pushed between his legs knee.

“I had other plans,” you reply, kissing down his jugular — some brief foreplay before abruptly sinking down.

“Oh,” he lets out a shaky laugh, leaning that bright head against the wall, but his eyes never leave yours — they attentively follow your every motion, carnal need thickly seeping out of them. “You’ll get on your knees for me? In that dress? My, I might’ve done something good in my past life.” 

“Will you please shut up?” you snarl, fighting with the buttons of his pants, and he nods, figuratively zipping his mouth with one dextrous move of a hand, informing you that his lips are sealed. Viktor knows better than to talk back to a person who’s about to suck him off. Teeth are a rather dangerous weapon.

He tenses up when you tease the head of his cock — slightly swollen flesh a pretty shade of pink, so sensitive that it twitches against the warmth of your fingers when you wrap them around the hilt.

He goes quiet, but not purely for the sake of not getting caught. He watches you in fascination: mouth forms a silent ‘ah’ the second you dip your tongue into the slit, and precum coats its tip, all sticky and bitterish. You both know he won’t last long — your next ministration proves it, relentlessly riding him of his wits. 

You kiss at his shaft with tenderness, to the point when it becomes barely palpable, so he squirms, demanding the resumption, and you can’t help but smile against the velvety skin of his tip. Pearly liquid clings to your bottom lip, forming a translucent trail — a mixture of him mingled with your saliva; just enough lubrication to slip lower, licking at the sensitive frenulum. Viktor lets out an illegible sound — you recognise a keen of your name in it, and it earns him one languid stroke — just the tiniest mercy. 

“Don’t you just love to torture me?” he sighs, looking down — all vulnerable and pretty, weak knees threatening to start trembling any second. 

“I’m only using your weapons against you,” a sweet reproach rolls of the very tongue you’re tormenting him with, and he swallows the most delicious whimper when you swirl it around the tip — once, twice, but thrice is what finally has him slapping a palm over his open mouth to muffle a dirty moan. 

He abstains from grabbing a handful of your hair, reluctant to ruin its whimsical style — because at least one of the spouses has to be an actually considerate lover. His long legs are struggling to keep in place, relentlessly spreading apart with each bob of your head — but he’s leaned against the wall securely enough not to fall. 

You swallow around him in a rather messy rhythm, but it still manages to reduce Viktor to a mush of babbles and incoherent praises. You have him by the balls — quite literally, because your free from squeezing his width hand is cruel enough to knead them, dragging more throaty sounds of pleasure out the thrusting into your mouth man. 

You’re fucking him with skill, painfully aware of just what goes through his head in this exact moment: that orgasm will be intense enough to hurt, making him wish you’d rather proceeded with those teasing licks and fleeting kisses. His hips jerk when you suppress the gag, taking him whole, not a single inch left without your thorough attention. Even the hand shoving those moans back into his lungs doesn’t stop him from letting out the most embarrassingly high-pitched keen — it breaks free when he coats your tongue in warm spurts of thick cum. You stick it out, allowing him a pornographic view of exactly what he’d just done to you, and he almost sobs, completely forgetting about his initial intentions of keeping quiet. 

“Gods a-above,” he stutters, suffocating like he’s the one whose mouth was just frantically fucked, wiping his release off your lips with his trembling thumb — a gesture of gratitude, tender in comparison to the curses he was panting just seconds ago. 

The air is thick with the smell of sex, raunchy enough for anyone who decides to walk into this bathroom to meticulously define what the two of you had just committed in it. Even getting off your knees and tucking him back into his pants wouldn’t help your condition — the pure way Viktor looks at you right now makes it all appallingly obvious. One doesn’t need to become a witness of the intercourse itself to confidently state “They’ve just fucked, Your Honor.” It’s written on both of your faces, on the mess of his hair, and, of course — on the burning under the thin material of stockings redness of your knees. 

You accept his touch, swallowing the remnants of his climax still covering your tired tongue, and he sighs, engraving the sight into his mind — probably to get off to the thought of it someday. But you decide not to tease him about it. You’re not that evil after all. 

You’ve never stormed out of the bathroom so fast before, all trembling limbs and nasty giggles —  the afterglow of your shared secret, dirty enough to banish Viktor from the Academy. 

He’ll recall it later, most definitely next Progress Day, when you’ll wrap those impatient arms around his neck, whispering a famous “Do you fancy a quickie?” into his ear again. 

Except for this time, your outfit will be easily removable. 

[leeluvsyoongi]

Kiss Me Purple and Blue hcs — { jazz artist! taehyung x fem! reader }

Synopsis: Sfw & Nsfw headcanons about 30s jazz! artist taehyung who gives the impression that his job is far more valuable than you.

࣪˖ ִ𐙚 | warning(s)— smoking, rough sex, fingering, somewhat-toxic dynamic, abandonment, tooth-rotting fluff, potential impregnation.

all nsfw is under the divider and is marked.

⋆.˚ | author's note: Initially, I was going to make this a series of hurt no comfort headcannons (if ya’ll like this I might make a part two just for that) but I got too soft, so now we have a happy ending. (i stayed up till 4 writing this because my writer’s block decided to vanish and my capability to put words together randomly came back. 🫶🏾

࣪˖ ִ𐙚 | word count: 4.5k

✧˖° Freak- lana del ray

SFW

jazz artist! taehyung who's world is drenched in late-night symphonies, dimly lit bars, and a haze of forgotten dreams. His honeyed eyes lay low, as sun-kissed porcelain fingers glide between the keys of his saxophone, pouring his essence into every rich note.

jazz artist! taehyung eyes are heavy-lidded with weights you would never understand. A thousand silent words were sealed inside his soul. Offstage, your bright smile and praise do little to amuse him, your presence once a steamed mug of tea on a chill winter's eve grows bitter and oversweetened, just as everything he treaded near.

jazz artist! taehyung tilts his head just enough to summon shadows along the sharp planes of his face. A slow deliberate blink of his sepia hues sent shivers down your spine, prickling silver thorns over your skin. "You were saying?" He hums in a slow baritone, polishing the gilded edges of the instrument, touching it with more reverence than he had ever offered you.

You submit a small smile, rubbing a palm over your skin. "I was wondering if you had time, tonight," A slow lump dissolves down your throat. "Would you like to come over for dinner, I-I bought a new radio..." Your eyes hesitantly flicker up to his own, the mere act intimidating you.

jazz artist! taehyung shrugs, before tucking away the precious instrument, and lifting the heavy black case effortlessly. His gaze was languid, almost lazy, beckoning you into a world where you weren't quite sure you'd survive, "Lead the way." You tenderly smile, your heart rate easing at the unanticipated lack of rejection. "I made your favorite pasta..." Your fingers thread in nervous knots, and your bottom lip catches beneath your teeth.

jazz artist! taehyung thumb grazes the plush flesh of your bottom lip, gently yielding, "You'll hurt yourself that way," A small smile curves at his lips, before disappearing. "Pasta sounds good." His hand gently lowers to your own, curling around your wrist, a calloused thumb gently tracing the subtle ridge of veins on your inner wrist; memorizing the faint sinuous lines.

jazz artist! taehyung notices the way your eyes widen, taken aback by his intimate touches. He knows he hadn't touched or pleasured you in over a month, hardly writing you the tender heartfelt letters you had yearned for. He knew how terribly you missed the perfect sweeps of his cursive script, dancing along the folded edges of the parchments you had collected over the months of your relationship.

He knew he didn't deserve you, yet he selfishly held on, afraid of another man giving you what he failed to offer time and time again.

jazz artist! taehyung Wanted to love you like you deserved, he wished he could deliver more than he had. He hated you for being so accepting of how little he had to give, of holding onto every small worthless sentiment as though it had meant heaven and all its glories to you.

He wanted you to yell and confront him, to tell him you had grown fed up with his love for music outweighing the love he had for you.

jazz artist! taehyung his eyes flicker down to your own, his thoughts scattered by the soft quell of your voice, "TeTe...we're here..." Your hand gives his own a small squeeze, before unlocking the door of your home. You had been so happy about covering the mortgage of your childhood home after your parents had passed, making you the owner of the house. He slid off his shoes, setting down his prized saxophone. He was all too familiar with the warm brown carpeted floors and comfortable waft of vanilla. Your hands tenderly unbutton his tailored coat, skimming over the silver buttons before hanging the expensive fabric over the rack. "Thank you," He traces your silhouette, his palms pressed firm to the soft curves of your waist, the pronounced slope of his nose pressed against the warmth of your neck. "Taehyung...we should eat," You pull away, setting a distance between the two of you.

He knew deep down you were deeply hurt, yet you still held onto him.

jazz artist! taehyung nods, before tucking his fingers into his dark vest, withdrawing a small box of matches, and another of Montecristo. His low-hooded gaze drags up to your own, after igniting a flame at the butt of his cigar. "Anything for you darling," He flicks a finger over the stick, tapping down the tobacco roll.

jazz artist! taehyung Knows you're holding onto the frayed ends of the relationship you had honed for months. You always sent him letters despite his lack of response, you called him on the telephone every night before bed and always attended every performance he had.

You were the perfect girlfriend he did not deserve.

jazz artist! taehyung who sat across from you, his long fingers curling around the stem of his wine glass, though he hadn’t taken a sip in minutes. The low-hanging light of the dining table caught on the edge of his jawline, sharp and distant like the rest of him. His eyes lift to you, before dropping back to the tablecloth, tracing invisible lines over the linen, "I missed you." Your voice cut through the uncomfortable silence. He watched your fingers gracefully cut through a boiled carrot, before lifting the fork to your lips. "Yeah?" He hums, lifting his cigar from the ashtray she had arranged for him and inhaling the thick smoke. "Yeah...I did." He notices the small quiver in your voice, before hearing the small tink of cutlery set against porcalaine.

jazz artist! taehyung releases a slow sigh, before running a hand through his parted brown hair. "Yeah, I missed you too baby," His voice smooth and unconsolidated. "D-Did you really?" His eyes screwed shut, he hated the small tremor between your words, the tangible doubt. He didn't want to see the way your bottom lip trembled or the way your eyes pleadingly sought his own.

"I did, I've just been busy..." He rests his forehead against his palms, and you notice the stressed curve of his shoulders.

He didn't even touch his plate, the pasta you spent hours perfecting just for him.

jazz artist! taehyung lifts his head, before burning out the cigar. He notices the way your eyes flicker between the untouched plate and his frame, before taking a few bites just to subdue that miserable look in your eyes. "This is really good," He murmurs, before downing the food with a heavy swing of wine. He prays to whatever watchful god that you smile, that eyes brighten just a little more, that the dullness he cast upon you drifts.

jazz artist! taehyung watches the way you silently nod your head, before lifting your half-eaten plate and empty wine glass and disappearing to the kitchen. He releases a heavy sigh, before scuffing down the rest of the meal and carrying the remaining cutlery to the kitchen.

jazz artist! taehyung spots your hunched frame resting over your arms. His heart aches at the muffled sobs that escape your lips. He hates himself even more for every pained quiver of your shoulders. Your soft cries reminded him of everything he couldn't fix, of every single-handed attempt you made at fixing the shattered porcelain fragments of your relationship. "Baby..." His hand cautiously drifted over your shoulder, before slowly making contact. He couldn't bear every slight tremor that raked over your frame. He exhaled a shaky breath, his fingers sliding down to the curve of your neck, offering the only kind of touch he knew how to give—soft, uncertain, like an incomplete song.

jazz artist! taehyung feels your red-rimmed scleras scalding through him, he can feel the shift of your weight as you reach for a tissue to blow your nose. "I'm sorry...I-I did everything I could..I really did Tae." Your voice is hardly a whisper, as you shift your weight against your feet.

jazz artist! taehyung bends down to your level, he's on his knees before you, his hands firm against your arms, watching your downward gaze seep with unushered tears. It wasn’t the kind of action he usually took, wasn’t the comfort he had been taught to offer. "[_____], look at me sweetheart." His fingers gently swept your hair away from your face, his thumbs tenderly brushing away every slow tear. His stomach sunk under the prospect of the many nights you cried alone in the vast empty cavern of your home with no comfort. The thought sickened him.

jazz artist! taehyung feels something small and vulnerable stir beneath the layers of indifference he had worn for so long. His touch soothes every hurt that spills from your beautiful eyes. "Shhh, I'm here baby, I'm right here," His voice thick with a tenderness he wasn’t sure how to handle. "I know you've been trying so hard, so hard," He begins, unbeknownst to what his sentence would trail on. "You've been so good to me Jagiya," There it is, that word he had reserved only for you. "I'm a terrible person for leaving you alone for so long, for always doing the bare minimum and letting you do all the hard work in our relationship," He instinctively pulled you close, his arms wrapping around your frame.

jazz artist! taehyung felt your face buried into his shoulder, your sobs muffled against his shirt, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to feel the weight of your sorrow. His palm gently patted your back, rubbing soothing circles to ease the tension that built a home in your bones.

NSFW

jazz artist! taehyung will gently cups your face between his palms, before slotting his lips against your own, the electricity between you both surges, and before either of you can think about it too long, the distance is gone. He can feel the way your fingers tug at the fabric of his overcoat, nimble fingers unbuttoning the material between breathless open-mouthed kisses. "Tae..." Your voice is a haze, between the frantic shuffle of cloth. He's drunken on the hitch of your voice when his heart-shaped lips press deliberate kisses down your throat. His roughened fingers slide down the straps of your dress as if he’s reclaiming something lost. You know the weight of his silence—months of distance have made it heavier, shattered with the jagged breath of desire he can’t seem to tame.

jazz artist! taehyung moves with impatience, pulling at the fabric of your dress as though it’s been a barrier too long. He doesn’t speak; he doesn't need to. There’s nothing gentle about the way he touches you—no softness or hesitation—only the kind of urgency that comes from months of absence, of waiting for something to break between you. His lips press against your skin, each kiss a mark of both frustration and longing, almost as if the tenderness of what’s been lost would be swallowed up by the ferocity of this moment.

jazz artist! taehyung lifts your body, your back bracing against the tiled wall. You feel the contrast in his touch: the hardness of his hands, the feverish press of his chest bare against your own, and yet, buried beneath it all, a faint tremor. A soft break in his detached exterior, "Taehyung..." You begin, fisting your fingers into his soft tresses. The heat of his mouth against your sternum produces a desperate whimper from you. Taehyung's eyes are half-lowered, lips curving in the ghost of a smirk at the sound he pulled from you. "Hm?"

His body moves with the kind of desperation that has built up over months of emotional distance. “Tell me, baby what is it?” He muses, the low timber of his words ghost over the soft flesh of your breast before his lips press against the supple skin. “Tell me what you need angel,” His hand delicately cups the curve of the other mound, soulful whiskey eyes locking you in place. The other had secured firmly beneath the curve of your ass keeping you in place. “Oh–” Your eyes widen at the audacious skim of his thumb over your nipple, drawing feather-light traces over the erect skin.

His sultry gaze takes in the slow rise and fall of your chest, feeling your heart thrash beneath his lips.”You’re my girl,” His voice is low, his eyes holding a weight that pressed down against your ribcage, threatening to snap the brittle bones. “Understand?” You swallow thickly, nodding at the command. “Only I can touch you like this,” 

His lips trace a blazing trail down the slope of your breast, the straight line of his nose pressed against the plush flesh with an agonizing kiss. “I’m so sorry baby,” The low velvet of his voice tremors ever so slightly, “For everything.” His lips skim up your chest, pressing against your neck,“I swear, I’m gonna spend every day,” The soft curve of his lips graze the skin behind your ear, the warmth of his palm gently squeezing your breast, “Loving you so good.” 

And who are you to reject the tender promises he repeated time and time again like a broken record? To reject the deliberate bliss he finally granted you after months of abandonment.

jazz artist! taehyung sinks your frame into the soft material of your mattress; leaving both your clothes a puddle of cloth at the foot of the bed. His hands smooth down the curves of your silhouette. Once again, you’re at his mercy, at the mercy of his empty promises and the touches you craved from the man who tore parts of you and left you hollow. 

I hate you. You think, watching the deep hue of his irises swim beneath the yellow lamp at your bedside table. Admiring the god-like symmetry of his features, and the delicate furrow of his brows when his nose gently bumps against your own. His soft breath caresses your skin, “I love you,” He exhales, his hands gently raised to your cheek, and you’re lost once again in the small smile that lifts his face, and the rosy hue of his bled cheeks. 

You don’t. You fight back the words, replacing them with a small smile. I hate you Kim Taehyung. You want to sputter the blatant lies in his face, watch his tender boxy smile turn forlorn, watch the warmth of his irises grow distant and detached as they had always been when you felt your cheeks warm at his presence when butterflies spun restlessly in your gut. Instead, you smile, your nose brushing against his own, as your thumb greets the mole beneath his left eye. “I love you too,” You whisper.

jazz artist! taehyung feels the hesitation of your words, senses the unforetold words caught in your throat, and watches you swallow them down and replace the syllables with a smile. He can taste the bitter lack of trust when he kisses your lips and can feel the fear of abandonment on your tongue. He swallows it down, tasting the sweetness of your mouth, intoxicating himself with your untold secrets. He wanted you to talk to him, to bend and break him with the weight of grief you’ve been keeping to yourself for all these months because of him. The thought of your sweet smile and all the small things you remembered about him being ripped away was terrifying.

 You were the only person who truly loved him

jazz artist! taehyung touches the soft dips of your hip, taking in every inch of you. Every scar you complained about, every childhood scab. He memorized them all and kissed every one of them like constellations in the night. He leaned forward, his mouth brushing against your own. You felt the warmth of his throat spilling into your own, your lips feverishly trailed down his neck, the broad span of his chest, tasting the sweet pulse of his beating heart, and the alkaline sheen that coated his honeyed skin. “I need you TeTe,” The familiar nickname rests on your tongue, your fingers teasing the dips and curves of his abdomen. He released a ragged breath, one held for too long. Your fingers continued their path, tracing every chiseled line, down to the the fine line of hair. You felt the tremor in his gut, every heave of his breath. Your hands dared to skim over the swelling curve of his length, expelling a breathy groan from his lips. His quick hands wrap around the plush of your thighs, drawing them apart.

jazz artist! taehyung your own breath tremored when his hand slid down your navel; between your legs. “Taehyung–” Your voice faltered in a sigh, feeling beads of arousal spill from your weeping cunt. A slight chuckle escapes him, before a pair dipped low gathered the wetness, and massaged the warmth over your throbbing nub, the gesture lessure and sensual. You knew the feeling outmatched your own fingers on the desperate nights you failed to reach anything near pleasure, the fruitless attempts of your fingers curled deep inside of you whispering his name like an unkempt prayer, only to fall on your back hopless and humiliated. 

jazz artist! taehyung

wraps the digits around his lips, humming at the taste, his tongue lathers over them, before slowly releasing. He watches your face, carefully memorizing the soft crease of your brows as you bite down on your lip, the quiver of your gut, and the breathy sigh when his fingers slip in with ease. The drunken haze of your eyes, as your lips part in shallow pants. He’s amused by the way your walls flutter around his fingers, every clench eliciting a soft moan.

 “I know it’s been so long, I’m sorry,” He whispers, his words failing to coat the slight amusement of watching your needy hole suck in his digits. Too blissed out to acknowledge the croon of his voice, and too relived at the stretch of his tanned slender fingers. He slowly works you open, skillful fingers curling and bending as though adjusting the keys of his instrument, drawing breathless melodies from your lips. You squirm and gasp, as he holds you in place, his hand flattening over your midsection as his fingers scissor your hole.

“M-m’ g-gonna—” Your voice is urgent, hands fitting the pillow beneath your head. “I know.” His eyes pin you in place, his fingers carefully pumping in and out of you before picking up his pace. “T-Tae-hyung!” His name hurls past your lips, as you burrow your face into the soft cotton. Your knees trembling with the force of your impending release. It’s almost shameful how every thrust of his fingers draws out a wet squelch; the sounds melding with his heavy breathing and your own. 

jazz artist! taehyung  presses a kiss to your knee when you finally release coating his fingers in your pleasure. “Better?” A small smile tugs at his lips, before brushing his strands away from his sight. “Hm..” You nod, your joints sore from being spread open for so long. His thumbs gently kneed at the sore muscles of your inner thighs and lower pelvis. He presses another kiss to your knee, before carefully resting them over his shoulders; adjusting his body over your own. Your eyes flicker down between your bodies, watching the way his hand smoothed over himself, gathering a hoarse moan from the base of his throat. His eyelids fell shut, and the soft flesh of his lip caught between his teeth. You moaned from the mere sight alone, before sighing at the spurt of warmth that dripped over your sensitive flesh. A hand holds your leg in place, the other slowly guiding the flushed head of his cock into your entrance. 

jazz artist! taehyung  feels the tension in your joints melt away once he’s fully pressed. His lips find your own in a daze, crushing his mouth against your own, before setting a pace. He swallows every desperate cry, groaning at the way your fingers dig into his biceps, this only spurs him on. His hips curve into your own, ignorant to the sobs that begin to rip from your throat, drinking in every plea to slow down his pace. His grip on your leg grows firmer, fucking himself into you at a restless pace. He’s lost far beneath the fabric of tender affection and vows. Every snap of his hips punctuates the deep-rooted frustration, balled up deep inside of him. His hand rests over the headboard; before lowering your other leg against the curve of his lip. You’re sobbing, broken cries heaving through your chest, “T-Tae–” Your voice breaks off in a wail.

His breathing is ragged against your neck, bruising your cervix with every push, “You can take it,” He grits, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thigh. You shake your head with half a consciousness, choking on your drool, “C-Cant–” Your hand weakly pushes at his chest, whining in frustration, “T-Tae it hurts,” You know deep you don’t want it to stop, the saccharine burn of pain and pleasure numbing your senses. “Fuck, I know baby just hold on a little more,” He mumbles, burrowing the shared aches of your fraying relationship deep inside of you, “Fuck, fuck—” He groans against the damp skin of your neck, pumping deep inside of you. Your cry out, as he wrings out a second orgasm from your fucked out cunt. 

jazz artist! taehyung realizes the weight of his actions after the haze clears his mind. He acknowledges the possibility of impregnating you hangs looms over your heads. He lays breathless by your side, before gathering you in his arms. “Hey,” His lips press against your temple, rubbing your back in tender circles. Your eyes flicker up to his own before your entire frame grows tense realizing what the two of you had done. The panic in your eyes is palatable, he can sense the endless possibilities trampling through your mind.

“[____], I can hear you thinking,” He cups your cheeks, pressing his forehead to your own. “Stop, okay.” You shake your head, pushing away from him. “What the fuck did we just do?” You sit up, your head falling against your palms. Taehyung sits up, confusion drawn on his face, “What do you mean? We made love.” He chuckles dryly, and his smile drops when he realizes how upset you are. “No Taehyung, you fucked me, and now you’re going to gather your things and walk out the door like you always do,” You pointed an accusing finger at him, gathering the sheets over your frame protectively. You watch as his brows furrow in hurt, “No…no–I’m not [_____],” His voice falls to a whisper, “God no,” He runs a stressed hand through his hair, exhaling. “I wouldn’t okay?”

jazz artist! taehyung feels his heart crack at every accusation you throw at him. “I love you,”  He swallows thickly, assuring you, “I love you, okay?” His hand reaches out to touch you, to gently usher you back into his embrace. You roughly slap his hand away, rejecting every offer of comfort. “And if I find out I’m pregnant? What the hell are you gonna do? You’re going to leave and never show your face again,” You seeth, your eyes sharp. He’s taken aback when you finally confront him when you spill every bit of resentment tucked in the depth of your soul. You have every right to think he would, to assume he would walk out the door and never show his face. “I’m not,” He doesn’t hesitate to deny your claims, to shut down every possibility you throw at his face.

His voice is calm, his eyes brimming with ingenuity. “I won’t, not ever. I swear on my life.” He moves closer, gently lowering his hands to your shoulders, turning you to face him, “I promise Jagiya,” His eyes flicker over your face, wide with anxiety. He watches your shoulders slump in defeat, as you finally give in, “I’m serious Taehyung,” Your breath, wavering with the threat of unushered tears. “So am I,” He exhales, pulling you close against his chest, before whispering sweet nothings against your hair, “I deserve every little thing you said, I know I do, and I’m glad you let it out of your chest,” His hand rubs over your arm, slanting your face to his own before kissing away your tears. “I’m so sorry baby,” His lips press against your nose, to your forehead, and down to your mouth. “I love you too,” You respond to his prior confession, wrapping your arms around his neck, “And I forgive you Tae,” You murmer the words burrowing your face into the warmth of his chest. “Thank you,” He sighs, pressing a chaste kiss to your hairline before unraveling his limbs from you.

jazz artist! taehyung returns with a washcloth and a small bucket of warm water. He takes his time cleaning up the space between your legs, his fingers brushing over the bruises on your thighs, before cleaning himself up and returning to the warmth of your embrace. “I was too rough, are you okay?” He whispers. “I’m okay,” You whisper, pressing a kiss against his chest. He’s contempt just being with you like this; months of unsolved tensions subdued. For the first time in weeks, he was able to ease his mind. Not even the possibility of a child could draw him away, because deep down, Taehyung knew he would do anything and everything to keep you close.

The prospect of you with anyone else, or suffering alone made him nauseous, “Are you asleep?” He whispers, drawing soft shapes over your back, “Kind of,” You whisper, “Why?” He presses his chin against your head, securing his arms tighter around your waist, “I don’t know, I just…” He sighs, shaking his head, “A baby is kind of cute, don’t you think?” A smile creeps over his lip at your scoff, “I’m praying hard that I don’t get pregnant, I don’t think I’m ready,” Taehyung hums, “You’ll be a great mom though,” His hand gently caresses the curve of your ass, his thumb brushing over your hip. “I guess.” You sleepily murmer, snuggling yourself further into the warmth of his skin. “Do you wanna mess around with the new radio tomorrow?” Your fingers gently comb through his brown strands, your eyes darting up to his own, “I think I’d much rather mess around with you,” A small smile curls at his lips, before breaking into a pained laugh at the smack you delivered to his chest. “Fuck, sorry.”

[another-lost-mc]

a/n: this is for a friend that celebrated a birthday this week. I hope it was a good one! 🎉

when it's mc's birthday | the demon brothers

2.6k words | nsfw | gn!reader | fluff and non-explicit smut

cw: my fav bias is showing again. mostly soft!demons. car sex; levi's tail gets its own warning; bathing together and bath tub sex; dream magic and implied dream sex.

Lucifer plans your birthday with the utmost care. He booked a reservation at your favourite restaurant so that he can treat you to an intimate dinner. He remembered the various items you've pointed out to him in the past while browsing through the Devildom's shopping district. He went back and bought every single one of them, and they're already wrapped and tucked away in the back of his closet for later.

After he walks you home from the restaurant, there's a bottle of Demonus on ice waiting in his room. You share a toast while he watches you open your gifts. You kiss his cheek, eyes shimmery and warm with so much affection, and he can't resist the urge to kiss you properly. A soft, booze-sweetened kiss leads to another kiss, and another, and another after that. He strips your clothes off slowly, like he's unwrapping a gift of his own. He memorizes the sight of your body stretched languidly against his dark sheets. He almost feels selfish for a moment because he wants you so desperately, but the lust simmering in your gaze makes his heart race. He knows how much you want him too, and he's powerless to deny you.

The first time he makes love to you, it's heat and frenzied passion, the build-up of coy anticipation that finally boiled over. He reaches for you throughout the night between quiet conversation and short naps. Each time he pulls your body close to his again, his lips whisper tender confessions against the delicate shell of your ear while he worships your body with his over and over again.

Mammon isn't very subtle. In the days leading up to your birthday, he asks random questions about things you might like or activities you're interested in. He wants to get a head start and beat his brothers to the punch. His fake nonchalance isn't convincing, but it's still endearing how much he truly cares. Who else should celebrate your birthday if not him? He's your first, and he's not going to let anyone else spoil you more than he does.

He tries to budget his money and curb his spending so he can afford whatever it is you ask for. If that fails, he takes on some less-than-prestigious part-time gigs for extra cash. You could ask him for the world and he'd find a way to scrimp and save and scavenge and steal if he has to so he can give you whatever you want. He doesn’t realize (or doesn't believe) that his company is what makes your birthday really special.

He dresses up nice and polishes his car to a high-shine to match your own stunning smile and natural radiance. It doesn’t matter what you wear because when he tells you how gorgeous you are, he’s so sincere. You outshine all the riches and jewels he used to dream about—now he dreams of you instead.

He takes you on a date that's sweet and light-hearted. He holds your hand and stares at you across the table with a dopey grin on his face when he thinks you're not looking. Once you're alone in his car, that boyish giddiness fades into something greedy and confident. You meet him halfway when he leans over to give you a kiss. When kissing isn't enough for either of you, you push the seat back so he can climb over and settle between your legs. He takes you apart in the cramped front seat of his car until your voice is hoarse and you push him away from sensitivity. The car smells musky with sweat and cum and he doesn't care that you made a bit of a mess on the seat. He palms himself on the drive home, and by the time you get to his room, he's eager to do it all over again in the comfort of his bed.

Levi isn't sure what to do for your birthday, but you offer to plan a little outing for the two of you. All he has to do is keep you company, right? He braces himself with a mantra he repeats over and over in his head: do it for them, do it for them, do it and LIKE IT because you love them. It ends up being a lot more fun than he expects: a lunch date at one of the cafes you both like followed by a movie you’ve been excited to see. You don’t make fun of his sweaty palm when you hold hands in line to buy movie tickets and overpriced snacks at the concession bar. There's a cute plushie on display where they sell collectible merch. He buys that for you too and shoves it into your arms before you can protest.

He relaxes when you take your seats and the theatre lighting dims as the movie starts. You lean against his shoulder and he's glad you can't see how pink his cheeks are. Partway through the film, he decides he likes the movie, but not as much as he enjoys your warm fingers laced with his.

He jolts suddenly when you pull your hand away and slide your fingers onto his denim-clad thigh instead. Your fingers squeeze with the tiniest bit of pressure and he nearly gasps at the unexpected wave of lust that washes over him. He glances at you in confusion—you're still focused on the screen, but he can see the little smile curling the edge of your mouth. He squirms a little and pretends not to notice your fingers drawing lazy circle-eights across his jeans, inching higher up his leg when he doesn’t stop you. And you're right, he's not going to stop you. You run a fingertip over the growing bulge hardening against the zipper of his jeans, just as you feel his tail slide onto your lap and tease the sensitive skin between your legs.

Satan decides to take a different approach when he sees how overwhelmed you are by his brothers' plans for your birthday. Sometimes simple is best and what could be more relaxing or romantic than your favourite home-cooked meal? He fusses in the kitchen until everything is cooked exactly to your liking, and the dish he serves you looks as good as it smells. His room is tidied enough so that a small table fits—he doesn’t want the others bothering you if he serves you in the dining room. There are dozens of candles that cast you both in an ethereal glow while you eat together. His room might not offer the rich ambience of Ristorante Six or the electric atmosphere of The Fall, but nothing outshines the romance he creates here, just for you.

Once dinner is finished and he tidies up the mess, he pulls you to your feet and wraps his arms around you in a slow dance. It's more like swaying back and forth together as a classical record plays quietly in the background. Candlelight flickers playfully along the walls of his room, and your face is painted by a mirage of shadow and flame. He eagerly traces those shapes on your skin with his tongue after he lays you on his bed, and by the time you're shaking and falling apart in his arms, you'll know how much he loves you.

Your birthday is another chance for Asmo to spoil you. Throughout the afternoon, he leads you to each of his favourite boutiques in the Devildom's shopping district. He holds up dozens of clothes against your body and admires how the colours bring out your eyes or compliment your complexion or how luxurious the fabrics are. He pretends that he didn't pick all these out to show you (and buy them for you) in advance.

When he finally takes you to Majolish, his greatest gift is revealing that he personally designed this outfit specially for you. It fits flawlessly and even you think you look amazing. It’s obvious that he poured his love and passion into creating this for you when no one else ever has before. It’s almost overwhelming, the way his smile radiates warmth when he looks at you. His eyes burn with all the ravenous love he feels for you. He loses control of himself and kisses you, pressing you against the changing room wall and sliding his thigh between yours. He doesn't want to stop, but he doesn’t have the time or space to touch you properly here. When he pulls his leg out from between yours, he misses the searing heat of your body against his. Perhaps it’s for the best that he take you home first—he would hate to get stains on your new outfit so soon.

(He originally planned on taking you to The Fall but he changed his mind. He’s not in the mood to share you with anyone else tonight.)

When he takes you home, he leads you straight to his private bathroom and urges you to get undressed while he gets everything ready. He draws a warm bath and the steamy air clings to you both like a second skin. You feel self-conscious about being naked even though he stands before you, waist-deep in the bathwater and just as naked as you are. He takes your hand and pulls you gently into the water with him. He supports your weight when you lean against his chest and his hands start to wander over your body. His fingers leave a soapy trail up and down your spine. He cradles your neck and leans forward, capturing your lips in another kiss because he can't possibly wait anymore.

The kiss reignites both your desperate desires to touch and be touched. He walks you back towards the edge of the tub. When your back touches the cool marble stone, he reaches behind your thighs and lifts you onto the edge; he swallows your half-hearted protest with his lips moving greedily against yours. His mouth moves away from yours, ghosting along the curve of your jaw and down your neck while his fingers gently pry your legs apart. He bends his head low once you’re spread open for him, hot and trembling and all his. His eyes glow bright when you tangle your fingers in his hair, and it’s the last thing you see before he dips his head between your legs.

It's not surprising that Beel plans to take you out for dinner on your birthday. It's a tricky proposition because it's easy for him to lose control of his hunger when he goes out to eat. He doesn't want his sin to ruin your birthday dinner, so he eats a meal's worth of food beforehand. Having a partially-full stomach means he's not going to be completely distracted by hunger—he wants to focus on you.

He likes taking you to nice restaurants and your birthday is no exception. You put on a new outfit he’s never seen you wear before, but it looks so good on you that he's drooling from the corner of his mouth before you even leave the house. The restaurant is cozy and everything on the menu sounds delicious. Your nose bunches up adorably when you can't decide what to order, and Beel suggests ordering one of everything. He laughs deep in his belly when you glance at him skeptically over the brim of your menu. His eyes are bright with mischief even though you know he's dead-serious. He simply grins at you from across the table and reminds you that he won't let the food wouldn’t go to waste.

It doesn't take long for your food to arrive. Beel enjoys watching you eat while you make little sounds of contentment between bites. He offers you food from his own plate to try. When your plate is empty, he worries you might still be hungry; he's only satisfied when you promise that you're close to bursting and completely full. He leads you out of the restaurant by the hand, and his other hand carries a bag full of leftovers to share with you tomorrow.

When he walks you home, he doesn't want to seem needy or presumptuous even though he's reluctant to end the night so soon. He pauses outside your door and kisses you softly, whispering happy birthday against your lips that still taste sweet from your dessert earlier. He can’t resist swiping his tongue across the seam of your mouth for one more taste, and the kiss deepens when you part your lips for him. You only break the kiss just long enough to open your door and pull him inside your room before slamming the door shut again. Your hands tug impatiently at his waist, and he shivers at the metallic clink of his belt buckle coming undone. He can sense hunger rising inside you again, and when he pushes you gently onto the mattress and covers your body with his own, he realizes your appetite is as insatiable as his own.

Belphie doesn't mind if the others want to take the initiative and plan your birthday party. He prefers it that way, actually. When his brothers ask for his input, he recommends something casual at the house, nothing too fancy. He wants you to be happy and relaxed and spoiled where you can be comfortable.

He sneaks into town to buy you a gift before the party, of course—something you mentioned to him in passing once that was too expensive for you to justify buying at the time. He and Beel wrap the presents they bought you in their room. Belphie's present looks insignificant compared to the large pile of gifts stacked near your birthday cake. He's not worried, especially when your eyes light up when you open it. You're just as appreciative of his small gift as you are of the others you receive. He knows you so well.

(You keep the contents of his card to yourself: a reminder that he has something special to give you later.)

Sometimes when he takes you to the attic for bed, he falls back against the mattress and waits impatiently for you to crawl on top of him. There's no hint of his lazy smugness tonight though. His hands are gentle but efficient when he strips your clothes away first before taking off his own. He follows you down onto the bed and smothers your body with his. The soft mattress cushions you when he grinds against you, and it squeaks from the force of his thrusts when he rocks inside you too. Your skin is littered with the little marks he sucks and nibbles into your skin. He cleans you with a warm, damp cloth after because your thighs and belly are covered in a sticky mess of you and him. He takes care of you with so much tenderness. You’re already snoring lightly by the time he's finished, and he cuddles against you with a yawn.

Shortly after you fall asleep, you dream of him. It’s a shared illusion between you conjured with the sleepy brand of magic he commands. You writhe against him in your sleep as the embers of lust continue to burn deep inside you. When the dream ends, you both wake up and instinctively reach for each other as the remnants of the dream fades away. He kisses you breathless despite your stale morning breath. You whimper against his mouth and he rolls over until you're underneath him again. After indulging in a night of dreamy, lustful sins, you're both still desperately eager for more.

read more: obey me masterlist

[honeyciub]

I've never felt more like someone was trying to insult my intelligence than when I found out that the relationship between Jayce and Viktor was supposed to be entirely platonic and brotherly. Believe what you want, if kisses and sex are the only markers of romantic love for you, that’s okej but we simply have nothing to talk about here.

What bothers me is how often Jayce's relationship with Mel is portrayed as being in opposition to his bond with Viktor. It seems like these two significant relationships in Jayce's life can’t coexist in a healthy way. Yet, in theory, they shouldn’t conflict at all, as they represent two entirely different types of connections.

And the whole idea of “brotherly love” just doesn’t make sense. We see how Jayce behaves in such a relationship with Caitlyn—he teases her, acts silly, and annoys her while she’s working. Meanwhile, with Viktor, he’s gentler, more caring, and looks at him with tenderness. For some reason, Jayce just treats Viktor with more affection than his other friends.

He literally dies with and for Viktor. He doesn’t even need to think twice when given a choice. And it’s not like he has nothing to return to. The truth is, Jayce doesn’t really seem to want to live without Viktor.

As for Viktor, he outright admits that there’s no one else like Jayce in his life—someone who can show him that he’s not defective and doesn’t need to strive for some twisted idea of perfection. Out of all the opinions across all worlds, only his partner's matters to him. All it takes is for Jayce to openly say he admires him, and Viktor blindly trusts him. Years of torment over his disability pale in comparison to a single statement of validation from the guy who literally killed him recently.

...

And then we find out that they were basically meant to be like brothers. Was that whole setup about them being connected in every dimension and that they need each other to be happy just for this? To me, it’s absurd that two people essentially commit suicide together, it’s heavily implied that they’re soulmates, and they don’t want to live without each other, but because they don’t kiss, it all boils down to them just being “best buddies.”

Calling their relationship platonic feels like an oversimplification. Arcane is a series full of subtle signals, both in the context of its characters and their relationships. Even so, the idea that Viktor and Jayce might be more than just friends is viewed as overinterpretation by the main writer. This seems odd, especially since others working on the show don't share this opinion, and neither does most of the fandom.

[writerfromshikahr]

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Kisses and Boat Rides - Lucanis X Rook Fanfic

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The gondola glided through Treviso’s quiet canals, far from the city's bustle. The waterways were bathed in warm light, the reflections flickering across the rippling water. Lucanis sat across from her, the gondolier tactfully silent as he steered them into the more secluded routes.

Rook ran her hand along the boat’s edge, her fingers trailing close to the water. She glanced at Lucanis, her expression a mix of curiosity and wariness.

"You don’t strike me as the sort of man to indulge in long boat rides, Lucanis. Should I be worried?"

"Worried? Only if you hate quiet evenings with good company."

Rook arched a brow, leaning back with her arms crossed. The subtle sway of the gondola made her movements relaxed, though her eyes remain sharp.

"So, what’s this about then? Plotting to take out a member of House de Riva to piss off Viago?" she smiled sweetly.

"If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t have arranged this, too much effort," he smirked in reply. "No, I thought you might enjoy this…being with me, alone."

Rook blinked at his tone, her teasing faltering. She glanced around the canal, the peaceful glow of lanterns and the distant hum of the city creating a rare moment of calm. For once, she had no clever retort.

They approached a small alcove, tucked under a canopy of flowering vines. The gondolier halted the boat gently, giving them the illusion of being the only two people in the world.

Lucanis reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, carefully wrapped bundle, "I saw this in the market earlier. Thought of you."

Rook’s brows furrowed in confusion as she carefully unwrapped it. Nestled inside was a delicate pin in the shape of a curled-up cat, its silver surface catching the faint light. She took in it's beauty, her fingers brushing over the tiny, intricate details—right down to the little paws and the flick of the tail.

"You… noticed." she said with a soft smile, looking up to meet his gaze.

"I’ve seen the way you stop to pat every stray cat in Treviso. Or Minrathous. Or anywhere. Hard not to notice, seeing as though I'm the one waiting for you."

"It’s perfect. Thank you." Rook huffed a quiet laugh, her thumb still running over the pin.

Lucanis hesitated for a brief moment, as if weighing the pros and cons of what he was about to do, his expression unreadable. Then, with a fluid motion, he shifted forward, resting his arms on his knees and closing the gap between them. Rook's breath caught as he reached out, his hand brushing lightly against hers. The gondola swayed gently, and the faint sounds of water filled the silence between them. He leaned in, giving her time to pull away, but she didn’t. When his lips met hers, the kiss was soft, deliberate, and impossibly tender.

"Tell me to stop," he said softly, though his voice carried no intention of retreating, his hand at the back of her neck pulling her even closer into their new found intimacy. Rook hungrily returned his kiss, giving him all the permission he needed.

The world around them seemed to still, the quiet lapping of water fading beneath their heartbeats. When they finally parted, neither moved far, their foreheads resting against each other as their breath mingled in the warm night air.

"You’re dangerous, Rook, this could end badly" he warned, but there was no bite in his statement.

Rook tilted her head, "Didn’t you once tell me you always know what you’re doing?"

The warmth in her voice broke through his defenses, and Lucanis couldn’t help the low chuckle that escaped him, "So you were listening," he replied, voice laced with a dry humor, leaning back on his seat.

"Sometimes I do, especially when it's coming from a dashing rogue who has a penchant for coffee and many other desirable skill sets."

"Desirable skill sets? You haven't seen many of those….."

"Yet…" she cut him off with a smile.

Lucanis raised a single eyebrow at her teasing tone, "I'll keep that in mind and when another occasion arises for me to show off my "talents", I'll make sure were not on a boat, maybe somewhere more comfortable, private, to explore how capable I can be."

Rook looked down at the dark water, hoping the shadows would hide the flush on her cheeks. He had a way of saying absolutely nothing one moment to saying all the right things the next. It was perplexing, frustrating, and deliciously romantic, all wrapped up in one.

The gondolier, sensing the change in the atmosphere, resumed steering them slowly through the canal. Rook stared down at the pin in her hand, she glanced back up at Lucanis, who was watching her with a quiet intensity.

"You really are full of surprises," she said softly.

Lucanis’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles, one that seemed reserved only for her. "Not surprises. I'm just finally noticing what matters."

The gondola continued its quiet journey and two Crows from different Houses had made a contract of their own that evening—one forged not with coin and daggers, but in stolen kisses and unspoken promises.

[sandsorghum]

Clouds & Curtains

husband!Nanami x wife!reader

wc. 1.3k

summary. Perhaps Nanami's approach to...rousing you in the mornings has changed over the years.

tags. Established relationship, Domestic bliss | Romance | Smut | Body (& Soul)Worship | Mentions of Nanami wanting to be a father

a/n: Super soft, super indulgent piece. Have your cake and eat it nanami girlies. Sometimes i just need to write him a love letter ok

Prologue

Back when you'd just begun to be intimate with each other, Nanami tended to be a little embarrassed about his subconscious (but hardly subtle) desires for you. He would rather suffer his internal, infernal dilemma than disrupt your rest. But he couldn't quite control his urges, squirming between decency and depravity, not when you'd rub up against him, so innocuous and merciless.

It was a hard habit to shake; how Nanami felt he ought to earn your every quiver against him, every whimper, however much he yearned to feel you tremble at his moans at any given moment. It was codified in him, there was a time and a place and patterns to follow, before he could permit himself the pursuit of your shared pleasures.

Of course, you'd unveil him in the evenings, the privilege of your touch stripping bare the prerogatives of his flesh. You unraveled him, his reticence, his reasoning, his very capacity for speech, by braiding your breath and fingers with his, in the friction-begetting-friction tangle of your lips and limbs together.

Yet he still thinks of these mornings, that find the two of you entwined, as an undeserved luxury. So Nanami would do his best instead to focus on your face, how sweet your peaceful expression was. It would be wicked of him not to cherish this, he'd chastise himself for wanting more, for wanting to drown in your adoring gaze, for wanting to return it with his own hungry one, body and spirit beggared by the night, by the hours not spent beheld by you.

Nanami assumed the beauty and tenderness of your countenance would quell, or could sate his appetites, would tame the primal stirrings in his belly. But nothing could be further from the truth, in fact they had the opposite, compounding effect; a lump in his throat would rise, and his desperation would thicken till he could only helplessly rut his hips against you.

And then your eyelids would flutter open, and in the crease of your knowing smile, all his definitions, his distinctions, all that distance between need and greed would collapse with a single kiss.

Years later, and your husband is so absolutely shameless about his...early head starts to the day. He pulls you into him, snug against the cleft of your ass cheeks, content to let your scent and radiance seep through the thin fabric and warm him in a way the sun, in its reluctance behind the clouds and curtains, can never hope to.

He stares at the petulance drooping off the petals of your lips, rose bud coiled tight before daybreak can coax it to unfurl for strobes of gold. Nanami is a patient man, too patient you've often thought, yet you feel his phantom touch, a tender sweep of your mouth, a zephyr whispering in the wings, billowing brocade and swelling muslin, ghost pulling you through the gauze of sleep.

You shift against Nanami to hear him sigh your name, soft and distant, thick with slumber and affection and it's this which rouses you more, not merely his growing rigidity pressed to the curves of you. Although, it helps, feeling every inch of his hunger like this, in a slow swirl and pinch at your waist, the gentlest rocking as your breasts are cradled in his palms, familiar persuasion pebbling your areola. You know he dreams of them swollen with milk, that all your memories of his teeth are girded by the desire for them to be suckled by the most innocent of mouths, baring only gums and tiny wails. Your nubs stiffen and a small smile stretches across your face at the thought that with his wish to grow a family fulfilled, he might find also a small regret, of his monopoly of your mounds contested by another, to whom he owes the genesis of your body's generosity, that sweet fullness dribbling, stolen, into your husband's mouth, enticing in its envy.

This prospect of hypocrisy is to be savoured for another day, far down the road. This morning brings neither hesitation nor urgency, all syrupy light and his maple gaze, the languor of his limbs splayed around you to be treasured just as much as the gradual grind of his cock. There's a certain smugness in its slowness, as with the self-assuredness of his thumb circling a bare sliver of your skin.

A familiar motion that stirs a memory, fuchsia-tinted for the both of you. You remember your then boyfriend stammering and scarlet-tipped, matched to the rosy tips of his ears, excuses lost in the shuffle of sheets and stutter of hips.

"I-it's just-just the t-temp-ah-temperatuur," he'd slurred, the excuse as thin and transparent as the sticky film he laved across your throat, dangerously growing gossamer and feebler with every twitch and each strong buck against your body.

"Mmhmm," you'd hum, carnal ache turning you conciliatory. Such complacency. You had been the one to smirk back then, canines gleaming coy, as you offered ruin in the guise of reprieve.

"Want me to warm you up, darling?" Hands already reaching for him, mind already marveling before your fingers could be reacquainted with their hubris, his girth.

"P-please, anythin-nghing" he'd panted, all wide-eyed desperation to be devoured, sweet thing.

You'd been such a fool.

To not know not greed was a two-way street, this ravenous osmosis, this vicious ouroborous.

You think perhaps, in fact, you got the worse end of the deal, trembling against your spouse now, thighs clamped together.

"My dear," Nanami hums, a teasing timbre dripping honey as he sinks his fingers in, "always so ready for me."

You squirm, eyes screwed shut and fisting the sheets, trying to grasp the pale image of the boy who'd once writhed and blushed beneath you, a spectre all but vanquished. You miss him, sometimes.

You arch your back into Nanami, the way you know he's addicted to, just to hear him groan your name, ragged with the dregs of self-restraint or slumber, you're not sure which, but it's a close enough echo to send pleasure juddering through you, the recollection churning hot in your gut, of when he was wrapped around your finger, instead of your cunt around his.

"Sweetheart."

The tenderness of his tone pries your lids open. He doesn't have to ask, doesn't have to say anything but he does, because he knows you are too stubborn to ask for what you need to hear.

"My love."

He claims your gasp, in the crush and curl of his mouth, in the crook of his fingers.

"My girl."

Another smattering of kisses, chasing the flutters of your belly down, down, down to your creases weeping nectar. He licks a whine from you, pitching high into the air, his husky moan vibrating within you.

"My wife."

You feel the hot gust of Nanami's breath over your clit, as he pauses.

"My wife."

There's a reverence as he repeats himself, pathetic attempts to vanquish his disbelief, wonder glistening in his gold-flecked irises, staring at you in awe, searching for proof this isn't some frenzied fever dream of his.Of course, he finds it in your own unwavering eyes.

You've been such a fool.

There, in the locked gaze your shared history glimmers, that shy boy paralyzed by his worship of you, prostrate as the man before your parted legs now, offering his soul, his past, his future.

You reach for him, and he surges upwards. The collision is wave returning and rising from oceans, over and over, is starburst, is incandescence, is the fission of atoms never, ever meant to be split.

It burns away all notions of him as your acolyte or priest, any concept of deity and devotee.

"My life," he breathes into you, and you feel the throb in your ribs, the furnace of his lungs.

"My life," you repeat to your husband.

Adam. Prometheus. Kento.

This morning and many after, he lavishes you with irreverence, a ravishing of irrelevance; his goddess, his woman, his joy -all that matters is that you are his and he is yours; Together, you forge a paradise that exists for as long as the melding of your souls persist, boundless as horizons and sure as sunrises.

@houseofsolisoccasum