#like it doesn’t feel. right. it doesn’t make sense. i was supposed to make things better. but i feel like i’ve left all worse than i met it

[m3l0nfl0at]

pack it up - t. kuroo

kuroo tetsurou x gn! reader ; FLUFF SO MUCH FLUFF, reader has doubts (who doesn’t honestly), domestic kuroo x reader, kenma teases you and kuroo for being simps, nerdy and simp kuroo (yummy, my fav), oh and timeskip!kuroo, 3.3k words

summary ; this is a mini fic based off of my fic here, just say yes but this can be read as a stand alone! You and Kuroo decide to take your relationship to the next level, are you ready for that change though? (aka moving in with kuroo)

melon’s recommended melody: moving out - kacey musgraves

Packing was always dreadful, it didn’t feel like long ago you were taking all this stuff out of the box and now you’re here putting it all back in a box. Even though Kenma told Kuroo to not steal his roommate, here you are moving into Kuroo’s apartment. Kenma keeps passing by your room watching you pack because each time he passes by, you’re focusing on something different. “You know Kuroo’s expecting you to be ready in three days, right? If you keep going at this rate, you’ll be done in, say, three years.” Kenma slowly walks away before you could even respond to him. Oh, how you were going to miss his sweet remarks. Truth be told, you loved living with Kenma, he was always neat, kept to himself, and you got used to hearing the video games he played during the night, even going so far as to call it “white noise”. Nevertheless, when Kuroo asked you last month if you wanted to move in, you felt ready to take your relationship to the next step. Kuroo would spend the night at your place occasionally. Nevertheless, you were more likely to spend the night at his due to not wanting to be affectionate in front of your roommate. If old habits die hard, then why were you here getting anxious at the thought of living with your boyfriend?

Living with Kenma, you got used to your daily routine in this apartment, you knew this apartment like the back of your hand, and you got used to seeing Kenma everyday but now that’s all going to change? You suppose that’s why it’s taking you forever to pack, you slightly fear everything changing too quickly. On one hand you’re excited to move in with your boyfriend, seeing Kuroo everyday? Yes please! On the other hand, you’re going to be seeing Kuroo everyday. What if he gets tired of you, what if he gets mad at your habits, or what if you guys realize living with each other that you guys aren’t meant for a relationship? Hearing Kenma walk by again, only to see you zoned out looking at a box labeled mementos. Kenma sensed something was wrong but thought if he kept walking by, maybe you would realize what little time you had and get to packing. However, by his fifth time walking by, he knew you were overthinking. Due to you being too quiet for your own good, that was his thing after all. “Tell me.”, you look up to see Kenma leaning on the door frame. “There’s nothing to tell, Ken. Just overwhelmed with how much crap I have to pack up.”, Kenma’s face relaxes as he glares at you. “Don’t make me call your boyfriend, so he can come give you a sappy talk.” You look back slowly at the mention of Kuroo not wanting him to see you in this state. “You know what? Maybe you do need your boyfriend to come snap you out of whatever daze you’re in. Who knows, maybe he’ll help you pack faster.”

You chuckle, knowing that Kenma secretly pokes fun at you guys for the way you both act so sweetly towards each other. “Would you make fun of me if I said to call Kuroo right now?” Kenma rolls his eyes, walking away. “I’ll call him.”, Kenma would never admit this out loud but he secretly loves seeing the way Kuroo folds for you. If Kenma wasn’t above publicly teasing he would so make fun of him for being absolutely whipped for you. Kenma left you alone with your sad empty mementos box, lifting up a picture frame that contained a picture with you and Kenma from when you first moved in. A part of your heart breaks, you reassure yourself that Kenma will always be here in this apartment. You hope he knows that a part of you will always be here too. If it weren’t for him, you and Kuroo would’ve never been together. You owe a lot to Kenma, from kickstarting your career to introducing you to your future boyfriend. Plus, you work under Bouncing Ball corp so you’ll still see him every other day. Kenma comes back and sees you look at the picture of you two, “You work for me you know? Plus you’re dating my best friend, I'm not dead or anything.”. Laughing you look up at him, “Can’t you let me be sentimental! I got used to your quirks, your 3 A.M. gaming, and your obnoxious best friend. I’m just going to miss seeing you as much as we are used to, that’s all.”

“We both know you just hate change but if it helps I’m going to miss you too. The apartment does look a little glum as you’re packing away all your stuff. I guess I actually have to decorate now.”, he groans thinking about how he’s going to decorate the apartment to fill your space. “Maybe now you can use my room to make that theater you always wanted?” Kenma nods, glad that you weren’t completely gone yet. Placing the picture frame in the box, you hear the door open. Quickly getting up to be met with Kuroo at the front door holding takeout, “There’s my beautiful partner, hi baby.”, you take the bags from his hands before he pulls you in for a hug placing a quick kiss on your cheek. Kenma comes behind you stealing the bags from you, gagging at the shared exchange. Kuroo laughs, “Well hello to you too, Kenma.”. You and Kuroo start heading to the table as Kuroo pulls out a chair for you to sit in.

The night goes on, as you all end up talking about your day and how the following days were going to look for the three of you amidst the chaos that was moving out. “Sweetheart, have you almost finished packing? I wanna know how much stuff you have so I can book the moving truck.”, you freeze. “About that…”, Kenma cuts you off, “All she has packed is a picture frame.”. You look over at Kenma, bewildered that he ratted you out. Kuroo laughs at how cute you look but is also shocked that you’ve packed so little in a week. “Let’s go baby, I’ll help you pack your things.” Kuroo gets up finished with his plate and grabs yours to place them both in the sink. Following him to your room you start to feel anxiety creep in, shaking your head to get rid of the thoughts. Kuroo walks in to see boxes all labeled and set up, yet lacking all the items inside. “Well, you would win the contest for boxing baby but not so much for packing.”. You place your head in your hands, “I know, this is so embarrassing. In my defense, every time I start to pack I get distracted and start doing something else.”. Kuroo grabs your hands off your face, placing them back on your lap, “Well now I’m here to help you, no need to be embarrassed sweetheart.”.

Kuroo grabs your box labeled clothes heading to the closet to start neatly folding the items in your closet. “Baby, do you want me to put this away in a specific way? Or should I just try to stuff everything in the box? Bunny?” Kuroo peeks his head out of the closet. Seeing you entranced on another picture frame, “Sweetheart, at this point I’ll pack the mementos.”. Kuroo went to grab the frame before he saw a picture of you as a toddler, now yanking it out of your hand. “Baby! Are you joking? You are so adorable! Oh my god this has to be hung up in the living room so I can see your cute little face before I leave for work!” You roll your eyes at Kuroo’s behavior, “Kenma should just pack the mementos because you would definitely not be faster than I am.” You get up to hug him from behind, “Tetsu, can I be honest with you?” Kuroo is still looking at the picture of you as he hums in approval. “I’m nervous.”, Kuroo finally places the picture in the box before turning to fully face you. Kuroo pulls you into a hug, kissing the top of your head. “Breathe baby, your brain needs oxygen.” laughing along with him for being such a dork. “You know it’s okay to be nervous right? You’re going through a big change, be more lenient with yourself, yeah?”

Kuroo pulls back from you, “All I know is right now, my heart is pumping like crazy thinking about you living with me.” You laugh as he places your hand on his heart feeling the said thumping. Kuroo brought the positives into your life that you needed, made you feel safe, and most importantly stood by you even if you surrounded yourself in negative thoughts. “I’ll wake up to your breathtaking face every morning, come home to your heartstopping smile, and go to sleep with you in my arms. What more could I ask for? We’ll get through this together. I mean it’s not like I’ve ever lived with anyone before, especially with someone as gorgeous as you.”, you punch Kuroo’s shoulder rolling your eyes . Kenma coughs interrupting Kuroo’s speech before it went off the rails, “So I take it you're still not packed? You are both hopeless, move over.” Kenma starts placing all your mementos away in seconds, you look over at Kuroo mouthing I told you so. “I brought Kuroo to help you pack and now I’m here to hold Kuroo accountable. You both are going to get nothing done at your apartment, if all you do is give each other heart eyes all day.”, you and Kuroo blush profusely knowing that you’ve both been caught.

With Kenma helping you pack everything went smoothly, Kuroo left for the night leaving you and Kenma alone for the next two days. “Well, we got mostly everything. I just need to take down the last of my posters. I don't want them to bend out of shape in the boxes. Then we can start loading everything into the truck.”, you stopped when you suddenly heard a shuffle behind you. Turning around to be met with Kenma looking around and touching the empty walls glumly, “It’s going to be hard to find something to replace your space. That something is going to fall short in everything compared to you.”, you get closer to Kenma before nudging his shoulder softly. “I’ll miss you too Ken. Thank you for everything, I could never repay you for the amount of kindness you showed me.”, breaking away it felt bittersweet. The walls were suddenly white with no more picture frames or traces of you anywhere, you’re actually moving out. “You ready to start packing up the truck?” Kuroo's bedhead fills the doorway as Kenma gives you one last smile pushing you towards Kuroo. You take up his offer, getting to work by lifting your boxes that is until Kuroo stops you. “Oh, sweetheart, I’ll take that one. Don’t want to bump into each other again, do we? Can’t have you falling for me a second time.”. You brush off his comment but you're strangling him as soon as you get to your new apartment.

All the coming and going back and forth had you exhausted, wanting nothing more than to start unpacking everything. You go to Kuroo’s room making a mental list of everything you need to buy from furniture to home products. Kuroo says goodbye to Kenma, a few seconds later you hear his footsteps approach you from down the hallway. He walks up from behind, embracing you, “You ready to start unpacking baby? Ken said he gave you the next couple of days off so you can settle in.”. You nod, wanting nothing more than to make this apartment your new home, “Yeah, I was thinking we could go to a furniture shop and also to the groceries! You know just so I can get some of my favorite products-”. “No need to worry bunny, I restocked your products you left here. I also got you a dresser for your side of the closet, even separated my side from yours. However, if you still want we can go to the groceries and Ikea just in case I missed something.” You turn around amazed he did all of that for you, “Are you serious Kuroo? You thought that far ahead?”. He nods excitedly, dragging you to the closet as you see his side of the closet filled with clothes. In addition, you see the newly setup dresser for you on your side. Then he drags you to the bathroom looking at the shower rack filled with all your regular products and a space in the toothbrush holder for you. Spinning around to crush him in a hug. He knows that change wasn’t always easy for you but if he could do anything extra to make it easier, he would do it again a thousand times. “I love you so much Tetsu.”, Kuroo grins into the crook of your neck feeling his palms getting sweaty due to being so close to you.

“Well, this is our home now. I want you to feel the same way I do when I’m with you, safe and welcomed.”, you pull back pecking him on the lips. “You’re getting too good at reading me, it's starting to freak me out Tetsu. Don’t tell me you even bought me my own loofah?” Kuroo bashfully opens the shower curtain to show you the new loofah standing next to his. You laugh suddenly feeling at ease, having to ask Kenma later if he had any part in this. Kuroo was right, this is your home, you didn’t want to be anywhere but with him. “Well casanova, help me unpack will ya?” Kuroo scrunches his nose at the new nickname you call him. “Nope, try again baby.”, you think hard trying to think of a nickname that’ll smoothly roll off the tongue. “Ok what about handsome, my love, darling, superstar, my loverboy, captain-”, Kuroo places a hand over your mouth quickly. His face is so red, it almost replicates a tomato, “Yes to all but I fear that if you kept going I was going to have a heart attack. Plus, we still have to unpack and I don’t think I can hold myself back for much longer if you keep calling me sweet names.”

After an eventful day of unpacking, you and Kuroo spent the rest of the day cuddling at ease which is something you usually do every night. Yet both of you felt so giddy laying down tonight, you don’t have to wake up in the morning and immediately leave for your train. Instead you’ll wake up, look over to the love of your life and start your new daily routine with him doing the most domestic things together. You fell asleep knowing this was a new chapter in your life and as scary as that was, you know wouldn’t want to share this experience with anyone else. Kuroo wraps his hand around your waist, sighing, feeling at peace with everything around him. He had nothing to worry about, no worries like if you made it home safely or if some creep on the train bothered you, you were right here safe in his arms. You both wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here, encapsulated in each other's warmth.

Feeling the sun slowly creeping up you turn around to face Kuroo, “No, don’t move, I need five more minutes.”. Giggling as you still move, wanting to see his face like you did the day you realized you liked him. “Isn’t this a sight to see? You know what, I don't need five more minutes, your face is my energizer. I can’t believe I get to wake up to you everyday, I must’ve solved some huge problem in my past life to be blessed with you.”, you hide your face in his chest from all the compliments he paid you this early in the morning. Kuroo kisses the top of your head before you feel the rumble of his laugh traveling through his chest. “Want to go make breakfast with me bunny? I bought some groceries to make pancakes. Yeah?”, you nod your head as you head to the bathroom to do your routine. Kuroo walks behind you, by reflex you hand him a spa headband so he can wash his face. He takes the black cat ear headband looking at it confused, your eyes widen standing straight up. “Sorry! I would always wash my face with Kenma so it’s by reflex.” Kuroo kisses your cheek following you while putting on the headband, “Okay, show me what you do baby. Maybe if I do everything correctly I’ll look as flawless as you do everyday.”

You take your time explaining to Kuroo your skincare and how to apply everything in which he obediently follows, taking note of what products you like for later. Then you both brush your teeth, making sure to go through everything diligently. However, when you looked at Kuroo you noticed his hair was sort of deflated. Due to him not being able to sleep between two pillows like he usually does. You start combing through his soft locks, seeing how he deflates under your touch. “You ready to go make some breakfast, my love?” Kuroo flushed under your touch and the use of his new nickname, nodding not wanting to wait a second. You grab his hand leading him to the kitchen, Kuroo smiles. Glad that you’re familiar enough with his apartment layout to lead him through it. “Ok handsome, let’s go make some pancakes.”

Kuroo guides you through his kitchen showing you where the spices were, how he dedicated a whole shelf in his pantry for you, and where he puts his utensils. Feeling confident enough you head to the pantry finding the pancake mix and hand it to him, while he grabs it but not forgetting to place a kiss on your hand. Wrapping your arms around his waist, feeling the muscles on his back move as he softly whisks the pancake batter, finding solace in this moment. “You still tired bunny? You can go lay down I’ll wake you when everything’s done.”, you shake your head. “No I’m not tired, just really comfortable right now with you. Being here, I feel welcomed by everything that you are. Waking up I see you, the living room has traces of your style, like it just feels like you everywhere I go.” Kuroo softly chuckles, “That’s good though right?” he feels you nod your hair ticking his back.

Letting go of Kuroo, you leave him to cook the pancakes while you prepare fruit and set the table. Kuroo pulls out your chair letting you sit down as he serves you a plate of pancakes shaped like a heart. You smile as he sits down grabbing your hand, caressing it, lifting his mug. “Here’s to our first full day of living together, I know there will be many more to go, I love you bunny.”, you smile clinking your mugs together. You send a picture to Kenma of Kuroo eating his pancakes surrounded by the array of fruit you cut up for the both of you. Making sure to get the heart shaped pancakes Kuroo made for you in the shot as well. Only to immediately get a reply back, “You both make me sick. Enjoy the new apartment lovebirds! (¬⤙¬ )”.

divider credit to @/vase-of-lilies, @/bunnysrph, and @/thecutestgrotto

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ melon's marginalia: writing this had me giggling so bad also just say yes now has a time line so please look forward to the masterlist! p.p.s i am accepting request for just say yes! kuroo short stories so hit up my inbox and i’ll try to get those done! i’m doing everything in a timeline order so pls be patient just know i see them! <3

@m3l0nfl0at on tumblr. All Rights Reserved. Do not steal, copy, or translate any of my works.

[only-1-a]

Imagining this within the first week of Charles and Edwin knowing each other. Charles has helped Edwin catch up on a BIT of what’s happened in the last 70 years, but Edwin can tell that Charles’ knowledge and strengths are not in history (finding out there was an even worse world war right after The Great War was certainly horrific though). So Edwin decides his best bet is to look in the public archives. Charles is sitting in the room with him absolutely bored out of his skull when he comments “Wow, you weren’t joking about not being great at people, were you?”

To which Edwin’s patience runs out, and he snidely responds, “Evidently not. If my researching the events of the last seventy years is so off-putting to you, then you can leave.”

Edwin was expecting some kind of token protest, but instead Charles just hops up, and says, “Cheers mate. See you.” Then LEAVES. Just like that. Edwin would like to be offended, but he supposes he did tell Charles to go. He just thought there would have been more to it than that? It almost feels…anticlimactic. At least he and Charles barely knew each other. Better to cut their losses now than get attached. Even as he thinks it he can’t help but feel maybe he was already growing attached.

So he spends the whole day digging through the archive and he learns so much about the past half century. It’s amazing and daunting just how much as changed. No wonder Charles hadn’t been able to go over even a fraction of it. It’s like the world is a completely different place.

He’s engrossed in his research when a head pops in through the door, and violently startles him with a cheerful, “Hey mate!” Edwin doesn’t have a heartbeat, but if he did it would be running a mile a minute from that fright. Charles is just grinning as he walks through the door. “I have to say, that’s my favourite part of being dead so far. I can just walk through walls.” Charles continues to chat happily, completely oblivious to Edwin’s shock.

Eventually Edwin gains enough of his senses back to interrupt Charles and say, “You came back.”

Charles just cocks his head, but he’s still smiling. “Yeah bruv. You’ve been here ALL DAY. The sun’s started going down. I know we don’t need to eat or sleep, but I figure you should take a break. Plus all the people playing football at the park left, so I got bored.”

Edwin doesn’t quite know what to say to that. He’s still working on the fact Charles came back. Charles hadn’t planned on leaving in any permanent way. He just went to do his own thing while Edwin did his. Yet instead of anything intelligent coming out of his mouth, he says “Football?”

“Oh c’mon! I know you had football even a thousand years ago. Yeah, I went to play with some other guys at the park across the street.”

Edwin snorts at that, and isn’t that a strange and wonderful feeling, laughing after all this time. He doesn’t even know if he did it often before he went to Hell, but here Charles has been making him laugh on and off for the week they’ve known each other. “Yes, we had football. You’ll have to explain how you managed to play a team sport without being seen by either team. You are right though. If it’s getting dark out, they’ll be turning the lights out in here soon. We might as well leave for the day.”

“Cheers. Mostly it involved messing with the ball so it went the wrong way when they kicked it. Oh! I kicked one over a fence. Do you think we can go grab it? How about your day? Learn anything exciting?”

Edwin leads them out, and now in a much better mood he shares something he thinks Charles will enjoy. “As a matter of fact, there was quite a lot about how music evolved, and styles from the Americas really took off since the 20s.”

[jamespotterismydaddy]

Lord Husband (Chapter 13)

A/N: i'm sorry yall, i feel like my posting is getting slower and slower. I know this a short one too but i've been so stressed with uni

WORD COUNT: 862 words

Series masterlist

Both Safia and Rose are waiting for you when you get back from your supper.

“Gods, i’m nearly ready for bed. I’m so tired.” You groan as you walk into the room but both of the girls can see clearly that you walk as if you’re much lighter than you have been for the past few weeks.

“Yes, princess. Your ride was very long today. You entirely skipped lunch.” Safia muses, fetching yours and her own needlework. She hands you yours before sitting on a settee across from the armchair you rest on.

“I suppose I did.” You murmur as you make yourself comfortable, not yet looking at the needlework.

“Your meal with Lord Stark seemed to perk you up.” Rose comments and Safia shoots her a pointed look for her impertinence. She always was the more bold one of the two. 

“I look happier because he said we should have my brothers over for a visit, not because I shared a meal with him.” You say sharply.

“That is wonderful news, princess!” Safia states politely but her joy is clearly genuine as well. She’s loved nothing more than playing with little Aegon and Viserys since her brother died.

“Yes, very wonderful.” Rose adds. It isn’t that she is unhappy with the news, she just senses that it isn’t the only reason you’ve come back to your chambers with such a smile on your face.

Rose is higher born than Safia and you can tell in these moments. She is much less frightened to speak her mind than the lowborn girl is even if she is only the daughter of a second born son whose house is nothing close to prominent. You’ve always liked that about her; Rose doesn’t let her station define her and that’s one of the reasons she’s your closest friend.

“You have other thoughts on your mind, Rose. Speak them.”

“I wouldn’t want to overstep, princess.” She replies. The girl may be bold but she isn’t stupid. She knows how easy it is to hit a nerve when speaking of your relationship, or lack thereof, with Cregan.

“You’ve never had that problem before.” You point out and Safia smiles at the comment, looking back down at her needlepoint right away.

“I just sensed that you were getting along better with your husband. It pleases me to see you smile once in a while. It used to grace your face so often back in Dragonstone, and even in Kingslanding. Now, it seems as though you haven’t smiled for weeks.” it's a sad notion but you aren’t regretful of your coldness.

“I am the last woman in this world to sit down and take the hand they’ve been given by an unfair dealer.” You muse. The anger all feels justified, thinking of yourself as an avenging angel. “If I am compliant in my own misery then every other woman will follow suit... They’ll have no choice. I’m the second most powerful woman in the world and I had no choice.” You say solemnly.

“Change is coming, princess.” Safia starts. “It is just… slow.”

“Look at your mother. Westeros had not seen a queen rule in her own right before her.” Rose says.

“At this rate, our children won’t even see a fair world.” You reply.

“But the later generations will benefit.” Safia says optimistically. “Prince Jacaerys will see that it is continued.”

“Yes… Jacaerys.” You murmur bitterly. “Is it so wrong that I want to benefit from it? More could be done.”

The girls ignore the slight against your mother and Rose speaks again, “It could take… unfathomable amounts of violence to accomplish such a thing.”

“Who cares for the lives of men who are unfaithful to their ruler?”

“And those men’s children, wives, families, are innocent but if you kill the head of their house, they would never forget it. They might not directly call for vengeance but most would resent a radical ruler. People of status rarely care for radicality. It diminishes their power.”

“Death would extinguish it.” You murmur. The girls know you aren’t truly serious but such laxness in reference to violence discomforts them. “Jacaerys will continue our mother’s progressions but that doesn’t make him any less of a man. He can’t truly understand.”

“I am sure Lady Baela will be of aid to him in that.” Safia adds thoughtfully.

But it could’ve been you aiding him. Though, the people would never chant your name the way they chant his.

“She will make a good queen one day.”

“Perhaps one day your brother will take you on as an advisor.” Rose suggests. She sees how badly you want control.

“If I’m not too busy tending to Stark’s children.” You scoff.

“They will be your children too, princess. I am sure you will love them as any mother loves their child.” Safia says kindly.

You ponder on her words for a moment, wondering if a mothers love if truly unconditional. Is there something inherent in childbirth that will make you fall in love with the babe that tears itself from your womb?

You’re not sure if you’ll ever love the children Cregan puts in your belly.

“Perhaps.” 

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[gilverrwrites]

A kiss for the caged bird

Tim Drake/Reader, 4.6K

AN: Please don't think too hard into any of the science-y crap I wrote, I was pulling it all out of my butt. Anyway, this was supposed to be a quick 500-1000 thing to clear up my writer’s block and here we are. Bon appetit my loves, I hope you enjoy ♥︎ Warnings: Dub-con (purely by the nature of sex pollen) | voyeurism | swearing | dirty talk | mean-ish Tim | minor slut-shaming ♥︎

His normally tender blue eyes are completely saturated with a dense shade of green. From the whites, to his pupils, they almost seem to be glowing. They've also been watching you like a hawk with a heated intensity that puts your hairs on edge from behind the glass of his cell since you’d entered the cave.

“It's just a shame the one person who could probably crack this in no time is the one person who can't help us right now.” Dick laments as he adjusts his bootstraps. “But I have complete faith that Oracle has got this.”

“Me too.” You agree as you stare at the projected screen, all of Barbara’s research thus far. Most of it made little sense to you but it all seemed technical enough, like she was on the right track.

“Right, so she's gonna keep working on that, Spoiler and Orphan are following the Narrows lead while Red Hood and I check out the Reservoir.” The words breeze through your head, you know you should be paying more attention but you're only half listening. Tim has taken his shirt off and is leaning against the cell door. His toned body gleaning under a layer of perspiration, as his venomous green eyes stay locked onto your frame, in all of its dragged-out-of-bed-at-2 AM-after-a-looonnnnngggggg-day-patrol glory. Seemingly noticing your distraction, Nightwing steps into your line of sight as he continues to relay the plan. “You just have to make sure he doesn't hurt himself or do anything stupid until we figure this out.”

“I know, I got it.” Dick doesn’t seem convinced, frowning as his eyes dart between you and Tim. Ignoring his doubts, you settle into the chair at the centre of the console, clicking away until you pull up the live feed from inside Tims's 6x8 prison. You can understand Dicks caution, the undeniable chemistry you and Tim shared had been evident to everyone for a long time, impeached only by your mutual reluctance to date on the job. If Bruce were here, he’d never allow for this, but Dick is doing the best he can with the resources available. Regardless, all doubts aside, you won’t allow your feelings to cause problems, not when lives hang in the balance. “Just go.”

“You’re sure?” He tries to place a reassuring arm on your shoulder but you both jump at the sudden sound of Tim’s fist needlessly hitting the wall. He’d need superstrength to break out of that thing, you're not concerned. Maybe a little more roused by the lack of restraint than you’d like to admit, but no less confident in your ability to babysit than you had been moments ago.

“Certain.” You wave off Dick when he turns back to you, lips still pursed. “Go. Who knows what that crap is doing to him, the sooner you find Ivy, the better.”

He knows it, probably better than you do.

“Buzz if you need anything.” At once you're relieved by his departure, and concerned for his safety, for everyone’s safety.

“Be safe.” You bid, watching as he straddles the Wingcycle.

“Be safe.” He echoes and without another word he's gone, leaving you alone to care for your caged Red Robin.

For a long time, you stare at the empty space Dick left behind, all too aware of Tim and the way his hot-blooded stare makes your skin burn but eventually you have to face him. Can’t monitor him without looking at him after all.

In an attempt to ease the mood, you offer him a smile. Apparently, it does nothing to reassure him or ease his tensions. He simply continues to glower at you. When that doesn’t work you play up your preceding frown, playfully pouting the way you would when you’re teasing his mid-mission stresses, but that fails too. Finally, you curve your left hand in a half heart shape, a common greeting between the two of you from rooftop to rooftop and for a moment you think it might work. He pulls the hand he has pressed to the glass back for a moment, but all he does is clench his fingers back and forth a few times before letting it fall to his side.

At a loss you spin around to the computer, tapping your fingertips on the desk as you consider Barbara’s research once more. The chances of becoming a forensic palynologist within a few hours with nothing but google and whatever research Bruce has backed up in the archives is slim, but it saves twiddling your thumbs, so you start by looking up any chemicals identified by the forensic scanner that you’re not familiar with.

It’s hard to sit still, knowing your every move is being scrutinised but by far the worst part is the silence. Tim and you are muted to each other unless you’re pressing the comms link located on the keypad by the cell door. The only sounds you can make out are the far away screeches of real-life bats located further into the cavern, and the drip, drip, dripping of the wet walls. It’s downright eerie when you’re practically alone, so when Oracle buzzes in about an hour later you jump to answer it, eager to hear another human, and anxious to find out if she has any updates.

“How’s he holding up?” She asks, and you’re glad she can’t see your worried expression. Tim hasn’t moved since Dick left. Except for when you’d crossed the bullpen to look for a fresh pen after the one you’d been using ran out of ink. You exclude that last part from your update, however.

“Okay, just tell him to hang tight, I'm getting closer.” You can tell she’s trying to sound more hopeful than she actually is, and your suspicions are confirmed when she begins to ramble about her findings. She often uses the team as a sounding board when she’s trying to wrap her head around something. “The pollen he inhaled is decreasing his plasma levels and increasing his testosterone.”

“If he’d touched the plant like she’d wanted him too it would re-level those hormones, presumably she was relying on him needing that to keep him under her control.”

“Right.” You’ll pat yourself on the back for impressing her at a more appropriate time. “And if that were it, we could just pump a bunch of oxytocins into him and voilà! But something else is messing with his nociceptors. Not to mention this stuff is packed with things I’ve never even heard of. Have you heard of horny goat weed?”

“Yeah, epi-me-di-um.” You sound the word out from your notes. “Only since tonight.”

“Where do people get these names from?” Babs groans, you can hear her tapping away at her keyboard. “I’m close though, I know it.”

“I believe in you.” She ‘awhs’ at your encouragement.

“Until I’ve got this, there is one thing he can try.” She trails off at the end. Her hesitation strikes you as odd. Surely whatever it is, it can’t be that bad. “If he’s really suffering… ejaculating might help ease any pain if only temporarily. Masturbatory only, obviously, this stuff can and will spread like hot gossip at one of Bruce’s galas.”

“Ah, okay.” You understand her aversion now, looking over at Tim as you consider how you’re going to tell him that. “I will pass the information along.”

The line goes quiet, Babs clearly sensing your discomfort, but however you’re feeling, Tim is likely feeling one thousand times worse.

Habitually, you tell each other good luck and be safe before hanging up, promising to get back to each other ASAP should anything change.

As you pass by the glass of his cubicle to reach the control panel on the other side Tim follows, falling into stride with you like a mirror image. When you stop, he stops, pressing his forearm to the glass and leaning his weight against it as he awaits your next move. Tilting closer when your fingers graze the comms button. Up close you can see that actually his irises are still blue, they’re just almost non-existent, drowned out by his green sclera’s and the sheer size of his impossibly blown-out pupils. 

Bzzt. The mic crackles as you activate it.

“Hi.” You test the waters, but when he doesn’t respond you press on. “Are you in pain?”

He silently gazes at you for so long that you start to think he’s never going to answer you. Dumbly, you tap your finger on the plane to try and coax him out of his head, instantly feeling bad as you remember all those signs in zoos ‘PLEASE DON’T TAP THE GLASS, IT MAY CAUSE STRESS OR HARM TO THE ANIMALS’.

Tim must feel the same, like a caged beast, because the seething in his response startles you. 

“No.” He taunts mockingly, mouth still twisted into a tight snarl. “I feel fantastic.”

At least his sharp humour is unaffected.

“Oracle said… that…” You can’t help allowing your eyes to trail down his body, shamelessly locking onto the subject matter, due to the distance and the darkness of his tights you’d hadn’t noticed until now that he’s rock hard, the length of his erection straining against the close-fitting fabric. Your face burns at the realisation, at your obliviousness. Of course he was, that’s what aphrodisiacs do. But mostly you're ashamed of how much you enjoy looking at it.  

“Wh-” Tim's voice makes you jump. Embarrassed, you inadvertently take your hand off the switch. An uninfected Tim would have rolled his eyes at that, would have laughed at you good-naturedly, but this Tim just tilts his head like he’s cracking his neck, eye still on you. It’s like he physically can’t look at anything else, can’t stop drinking in every inch and crevice of you, cuts and moles and all. When you push down the button again, he repeats himself impatiently. Bzzt. “What did Oracle say?”

You take a deep breath, staring at the wall behind his head to help you concentrate, determined to get the words out no matter how awkward you feel saying it. “She said that masturbating, specifically ejaculating, won’t fix things, but it should… alleviate some of your discomfort, for a while.”

It’s his turn to drum his fingers on the glass, jaw growing tight as he seems to mull on what you’ve just told him. You chance a glance back down to his crotch just long enough to see him palm his hard-on through his pants. You’re unable to keep from imagining what he looks like down there or how he might go about pleasuring himself. Feeling bad for having such depraved thoughts about him while he’s suffering and vulnerable, you remind yourself not to gawk at him.

“No, I’m not doing that.” He states sternly.

“It might help.” Your objection comes purely from a place of concern.

“What would help me is if you’d fuck off.” His response is like a slap in the face, hitting you out of nowhere. You’re only trying to help, had your wondering eyes really prompted this level of ire?

“Wh- “

“It’s bad enough that I can’t control my body and that I’m stuck in here unable to do anything worth doing, but I have to watch you fucking slutting around in those f-.” Shocked by his sudden outburst, you instinctively pull your hand back. You know he’s just trying to let off his frustrations, but it still stings a little. Feeling bad for silencing his partly warranted rant, you tune back in, unable to keep yourself from flinching and jumpily flailing your hands around every time he gets under your skin. Bzzt. “Should be making an antidote or tracking down Ivy but instead all I can think about is bending you over that-”

Bzzt. “-out there trying to help me and I wanted to punch him for touching you like some macho i-” For the first time since you’d started supervising him, Tim finally looks away from you. Throwing his head back and tugging on his own hair as he tries to compose himself. It doesn’t work. You hadn’t thought it possible but when he finally comes back to you, his face is flooded with even more ferocity, like he wants to eat you alive. Bzzt.“-elp me, if you want to help me then fuck me yourself or get out of my sight!”

There's no way you’ll let him get away with talking to you like this, but now is not the time. Swallowing your pride and clenching your fists, you leave him be, hurrying back to the desk, cursing him under your breath as you pull your feet up into the chair and turn your back to him in order to try and make yourself as small as possible. You hate to admit it, but if it weren’t for the risk of infection, his parting words might have worked. Fuck. The thought of opening that door and letting him bend you over whatever he’d had in mind makes your blood rush. 

To distract from the thought of Tim’s cock being buried tight in your walls, or how hot he’d look, panting and red faced beneath you as you fucked yourself on his length, you return to your research, glancing at the live feed to Tim’s cell every few minutes purely to confirm that he’s still alive. 

You consider changing into something more conservative, this might be the one and only time you could consider slut-shaming somewhat okay, but to do that he'll be forced to look at you, so ultimately you elect not to.

Filthy thoughts continue to plague your imagination as you try to work, and the knowledge that Tim is thinking them too, only makes it worse. You’re so tired and tense and horny that after a while it becomes difficult to focus. You’re pressing your palms into your eyes when you hear a ping; A message from Spoiler to say that The Narrows was a bust, they’re moving on to another location. Another ping from Red Hood reporting a similar issue with their own intel. One more from Oracle to say that she’s pinpointed 90% of the formula and should be able to start reverse engineering soon. 

You chime in to state that Tim is holding up. The computer pings once more, a private message from Oracle asking if it helped. You’re part way through typing that he refused when you glance at the video feed, Tim still has his back to the camera, his body pointed toward you the same way he had been all night. You freeze as you notice his bare ass.

His hose are around his knees, back bent in a hunched position, one arm jerking rapidly to and throw as he presumably strokes his cock. Without thinking you turn to face him, and he brazenly stares back at you. Once your suspicions are confirmed, you rapidly swing back. 

He’s working on it. You amend. Unsure what to do from there you needlessly stare at the jagged ceiling, restlessly pulling at your fingers as you try to calm and distract yourself from the fact that Tim is currently playing with himself, and using whatever 2-inches of your skin he can see to fuel his fire. Brain and libido at odds, you force yourself not to look at the spectacle he’s putting on.

He’ll be mortified when he’s cured, don’t make it worse, you think. Yet ultimately you crack, too intrigued not to sneak another peek and once you give in to the temptation it becomes impossible to stop.

You could watch him like that all day. Watch the fierce look of concentration on his face, the bulge in his cheek where he’s biting his tongue. Watch the pink crown of his cock, and the way his balls tighten with each brutal thrust of his fist. Watch the way every lean muscle in his body tenses and twitches as waves of pleasure roll though his body. The way his green veins grow more pronounced as he chases his climax? Wait. That can’t be good. 

Had they been green this whole time and you just hadn’t noticed? You've only seen one thing like this before. Venom. Could that be the missing 10%?

As though you hadn’t just been ogling him, you cover your eyes as you approach. This time he doesn’t follow you, legs firmly planted on the ground, but when you glimpse through the cracks in your fingers his head is turned to watch you still and you hastily snap your digits closed again before you speak to him.

Bzzt. “Tim, your veins are turning green.”

At the sound of your voice his knees buckle, your hand falls away to watch as his weakened muscles cause him to fall forward. His weight rests precariously against the glass as he hangs between standing and kneeling.

“Tim. Y- “

“I know.” The aggressiveness in which he snaps at you makes your skin run cold, but he follows it with the most pained, puppy dog eyes that you immediately forgive him. As if you have ever been able to hold anything against him for a substantial period of time.

“It hurts.” His teeth are gritted as he explains. “Hurts when I stop.”

You’ve no idea what to say. You wonder if there’s a painkiller on earth that could help him right now but he speaks again before you can suggest it.

“Help me.” He sounds so solemn, despite the fact that he hasn’t once stopped stroking his dick, closely staring at every curve of your body.

“We’re trying.” Your words barely seem to register with him. “It won’t be much longer.”

“No. Help me.” The repeated instruction does nothing to clarify what else he could mean until he continues. “Your voice sounds so sexy, fuck. Talk to me.”

Oh. “And say what?”

“God, fuck. Do I have to spell it out for you? Anything!” He barks, simultaneously carnal and irritable. Each word out of his mouth is more breathless and desperate than the last.  “Fucking anything. Tell me you want me, that you want me to fuck you. Come on, please do this for me.”

“Okay, okay.” You can do this. “I do want you. I want to fuck- I want you to fuck me so bad, Tim.”

Despite it being true, you feel lame, clumsily parroting him, but Tims full bodied reaction spurs you on. He takes the final plunge, dropping onto his knees, leaning back on his haunches and practically presenting his engorged shaft to you. From here you can see how his skin is tinted several shades of pink and red. His blush seems to stem from his chest, running along his neck and shoulders, highlighting his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. You’ve never seen a prettier sight. It’s so enchanting, it almost diverts from his unnerving blood vessels.

“You’re so beautiful.” You purr, finding more confidence with every quiet huff and moan that spills from his lips. “I wish I could do this for you. I want to make you feel so good, I’d let you fuck me anywhere.”

He nods rapidly at you, encouraging you to continue while bucking his hips forward.

“I know your cock would fit just right in my mouth and feel so good, would make me gag until you came down my throat.” You open your mouth and stick your tongue out to show him, feeling silly until he replies.

“Fuck. Yeah. You’d look good sucking on my cock.”

“Yeah!” You agree, just the sight of him is enough to make your heartbeat race. But the thought of taking him in your mouth, slobbering all over his cock and watching him enjoy every second of it makes you rub your thighs together. You want so badly to get yourself off too but the little voice of conscience in the back of your brain is telling you not to, that it would be taking advantage. “Or you could bend me over, rip off my clothes and fuck me. I’d love to feel you pounding into my tight pussy.”

“Oh, pleasepleaseplease.” The words are slurred as he sinks his teeth hard into his tongue.

“You don’t have to beg, Timmy.” He hangs on your every word as you vocalise the thoughts and fantasies you’ve only ever indulge in when you’re alone at night. “You can have whatever you want. Fuck me however you want, you can fill me up over and over. We’ll make sure everyone knows who my pussy belongs to. Would you like that?”

“Yes.” The confirmation is instant, no-nonsense. Followed by him closing his eyes and slamming his spare hand against the window to steady himself. 

“Mine…” When he opens his eyes again, they unsurprisingly immediately lock onto you once more, zeroing in on your throbbing centre as he tells you. “Let me see it.”

“What?” The saliva in your mouth turns dry in an instant. Despite Tim baring all to you the thought of getting your whole pussy out in the Batcave scares you. In a strangely invigorating way.

“Need to cum and I fucking can’t.” Tim explains weakly, punching the wall again, this time with less vigour. “Show me your cunt.”

The c-word sounds so strange on Tims lips, so filthy. He’s frantic. You’re no closer to understanding how to cure him, and apparently your presence has only made things worse but maybe this is how you help him.

Hurriedly, you scurry over to the Batcomputer, Tim asserting his discontent by hammering his open palm on the wall repeatedly until you return moments later with the desk chair.

You waste little time shimmying out of your sleep shorts before you lose your bravado. Falling back into the chair, you adjust the height until your now exposed pussy is level with Tims eyeline. His demeanour changes in an instant, lips morphing into the first semblance of a smile he’d given you all night as he shifts closer.

Emboldened by his enthusiasm you spread your legs wide, resting your feet on the glass and using your fingers to spread apart your folds for him to get a real look. You’re not sure how he’ll feel about the shameful amount of moisture you’ve produced later, but for now his mouth very visibly waters. You don’t think he’s blinked since you sat down.

Uncurbed, you brush your finger over your sensitive clit, toes curling in response. You’d love to say you did it to put on a show for Tim, to help him find relief but in actuality it’s entirely self-serving. Unable to resist touching yourself at the sight of him on his knees for you, mercilessly fisting his cock in frenzied, rhymeless strokes. Regardless of your motivation, Tim seems to appreciate it.

Strands of his dark hair fall into his face as he leans forward, partly hiding his glassy eyes and reddened cheeks, but he quickly whips them back once more ensuring he maintains an uninhibited view of your fingers as they rapidly paw at your sex. Angling yourself so that Tim can see every minute detail, every roll of your hips as you lower your hand and sink two fingers into yourself. All the while you keep massaging your sensitive bud, Tim’s name a prayer on your lips as you watch him, watching you, fevered and hungry. 

It comes as a surprise when your orgasm hits first, walls convulsing and spasming as you objectify yourself for Tim, acting like his personal pornstar. It’s a shame he can’t hear the wetness of your hole or the strangled, lewd gasps and moans that escape your throat as your body trembles from the intensity of your climax.

The slick of your release leaks from your sex, trickling between your legs, down the chair, and onto the metal floor. Like a man starved, Tim slams his face into the glass, finally closing his eyes and lapping at the pane with a flattened tongue.

Whatever vision he’s conjuring works, his lids twitch, eyes darting open to watch your panting frame. He looks sacrilegious, full body blushed and sweating. His face softens, mouth slack and drooling as rope after rope of cum spills from his reddened tip and hits the pane.

You’re only able to enjoy the sight of him coming apart for a moment before you notice that the viscous fluid is unsettlingly coloured. Not milky white as it should be, but a strange, luminous green colour.

Tim slumps downward once he’s spent, and you watch the rapid rise and fall of his chest while he comes down from his high. Your heart aching as you wonder whether his pain has been even slightly alleviated. The fact that the swelling of his veins seems to have subsided bodes well. Eventually he comes too, enough to also notice the puddle of green excrement between his legs and it’s your turn to all but lunch yourself at him. You shout falls on deaf ears until your kick’s echoes into his cell. His hand freezes and he watches, still hunched as you stumble to the control panel on unsteady legs.

“Don’t touch it.” Tim nods sheepishly in agreement. It probably won’t hurt him, having come from inside him, but better safe than sorry. “I’m gonna grab you some gloves and slides to take samples with.”

Before he can concur, you’re gone, inelegantly hiking your bottoms back on as you go. You feel bad, jumping straight back into business without so much of a ‘how was that for you?’ but these are strange circumstances, and whatever freaky substance he just shot out of his balls might be the missing puzzle piece in treating him.

Eventually, once you’d collected everything you’ll need and updated the Team, you do ask, holding the mic down with your elbow as you pull on a pair of rubber gloves, waiting to take the samples from him. “How do you feel?”

“Hot, and sore.” He tells you. He’s pulled his trousers back up, but you can still see the outline of his half-hard penis. “It’s still in me, I can feel it, but it doesn’t hurt as much. I can think. Which is something.”

“I’m glad it helped. Hopefully we’ll get you back to normal before it gets bad again.” He offers you a smile then. A genuine, none-hedonic one that makes you feel fuzzy. You’ve missed that smile.

“Yeah, hopefully.” He places the slides, tools, and used gloves in the containment slot and closes his side of the two-way mechanism. You offer him a half heart which he returns before you start sorting and bagging everything.

You’re about to turn your back when he taps gently on the glass, gesturing for you to open the comms line again and you oblige with your elbow once more.

“Listen, I’m really sorry for being an ass earlier. You didn’t deserve what I said to you.”

You can tell he’s stressing about it from the gloomy look in his blue-green eyes and the way he tugs at his waistband. Normally he fidgets with his gloves or his collar, but needs must an’ all. You’d give anything to be able to hug him right now.

“Don’t worry, I know you didn’t really mean it.” Admittedly it had shaken you, for all of five minutes, but you’ve never been able to stay mad at Tim, even at his worst, and you’ve seen him do far worse. “You weren’t really mad at me, right? Just the situation?”

“Yeah. Mostly myself but that doesn’t make it okay.” He’s still fiddling, still looking at you mournfully. It means a lot that it bothers him so much, but you need that to stop. You need him to be normal for like half an hour so you can get some work done without worrying. And you need to get the work done so you can make up for your own misdeeds.

“No really, it’s fine I don’t care.” You stress, hoping if you chide him a little it will absolve him of his guilt. “Just don’t do it again.”

“I’ll try not to.” He promises. You can tell by the way he works his jaw back and forth that he’s working up to say something else, something that has his ears and cheeks turning pink. That or the absolved symptoms are coming back already. “And thank you. For the other stuff.”

“Oh good, I was worried you might regret that part.” You hadn’t realised how badly you needed to hear him say that until it happened. It’d kill you and whatever situationship you have going on if he’d considered your actions exploitative.

“No! Not at all. I mean, I always kind of hoped that one day we might end up…” He vaguely gestures into the air which doesn’t help his point, but you understand what he’s getting at and nod, urging him to continue. “You know? But I never would have imagined it happening like this.”

“I know what you mean. I always figured something might…” You’re floundering. This is not the time or place for this conversation, you’re completely unprepared and as badly as this conversation needs to be had, you really don’t have time. “I mean, I wouldn’t wish what’s happening on anyone, but if it had to happen, I’m glad it was you. Because you’re the only person I would have done that for.”  

You can’t imagine having done that for Dick, or Barbara, or God forbid Bruce. Just thinking about it makes your stomach churn.

“Good.” He seems more relieved now than he had when he’d cum. “I’d hate it if you’d done that with anyone else.”

If this were a movie or an action-romance novel, this is the part where you’d kiss, you think. But it’s not, and every second the two of you spend stammering about your feelings and making go-go eyes at each other is a second that could be spent on finding an antidote.

“We’ll talk, later.” You promise.

“I’d like that.” Tim replies before you pull away from the keypad. In a moment of whimsy, you blow your hot breath against the glass until it’s steamed up before pressing your puckered lips on it. No sound escapes the barrier between you, but you can see Tim laughing, his cheeks still palpably pink. He returns the gesture just moments before the Batcomputer begins to buzz.

Hi friend! I just wanted to let you know that I'm glad you exist. ♥︎

[thewickedjazzy]

Artificial Paradise ➵MDNI ˎˊ˗

➵Pairing: fyodor x afab! reader.

➵Summary: fyodor helps you with your studies, but things start to get a bit heated between you two.

➵Tags and word count: 1.8k nsfw, minors dni, fluff, smut, soft dom! fyodor, teasing, explicit language, rough sex, gentle aftercare, light biting, praise, mutual desire.

➵A/N: @charkvc 's request, sorry pookie, i accidentally deleted the ask by mistake (｡･-･), but hyg, thank you for the sweet request i'm always down for fedya's big brain.

you sigh in frustration, rubbing your temples as you stare at the dense pages in front of you. how on earth are you supposed to write an entire analysis on hamlet in just one day? the play feels like trying to run a marathon in quicksand, and hamlet’s constant overanalyzing seems to stretch endlessly.

you notice your lover's presence in the room immediately, feeling his slender fingers gently resting on your shoulders. his touch is ever so gentle, soothing even as he begins to knead the tension away.

“fedya, how am i supposed to finish this?” you murmur, glancing back at the daunting stack of papers scattered across the desk.

his lips curve into a soft smirk that you can feel more than see. “you’re overthinking it, my love. hamlet is just like you—burdened by choices, unsure of the right path.” his fingers press into a knot in your shoulder, and you exhale in relief, the stress momentarily forgotten.

“you’re making it sound too easy,” you sigh.

he hums, lowering his lips closer to your ear, his warm breath brushing against your delicate skin. “let’s start with the basics. what does hamlet fear the most?”

“death?” you answer, almost instinctively.

“not quite.” he gently holds your arms from both sides, rubbing them softly. “it’s not death itself he fears… it’s the uncertainty. the unknown.”

you pause, your mind working to decipher his words while he continues to massage you, each touch making your skin tingle.

“he fears what comes after?” you murmur, leaning your head back to look up at him. he looks ethereal in his black half-sleeved turtleneck, his hair tied back in a low, messy ponytail, with a few strands softly framing his face and one resting between his eyebrows. his amethyst eyes, half-lidded, gaze tenderly over you.

he chuckles lightly, his soft tune ringing in your ears. “exactly. now, let’s use that. how does it relate to his indecision? and how does shakespeare weave that into the soliloquy you’re struggling with?”

“well, uh..” you mumble, feeling your mind finally beginning to understand the coded texts, “he’s caught between acting and inaction because… he doesn’t know what’s worse—suffering or the unknown suffering that may follow.”

fyodor smiles softly. “excellent my dear. now, why don’t we dig a little deeper into that?”

his hands move along yours as he leans slightly from behind, hovering over your seated form. slender fingers gently take hold of the pen between your fingers, while his other hand rests on your left shoulder. he guides the pen smoothly, highlighting a few key lines.

“let’s explore how this fear of the unknown impacts his decisions,” he says, “look at how shakespeare contrasts hamlet’s contemplation with his actions. the more hamlet fears the future, the more paralyzed he becomes. we see this tension play out in the soliloquy.”

you nod, trying to follow up with him as he writes 'action' and 'inaction' in a beautiful cursive handwriting. the connection between his fear and his hesitation starts to become clearer, and the analysis begins to take shape.

but as you work, you can't help but find yourself distracted by how close he is. the way his body leans against yours and how his expensive cologne filling your senses. you gaze at him, admiring how effortlessly beautiful he looks. his features seem almost ethereal, and you can’t help but think how perfect a kiss would feel right now, completely forgetting the assignment.

“you’re distracted,” he says suddenly, glancing up and catching your admiring gaze. “focus on the text, my love. we need to get this done before 7 pm tomorrow.”

you try to shake it off, your attention returning to the marked passages, but it’s futile. the way the soft candlelight flickers against his skin, the delicate curve of his lips, the slow rhythm of his breath—it’s too much. your heart flutters every time his fingers brush against yours, guiding the pen, and the assignment feels like a distant memory.

he notices that you’re still not responding to his questions, and his smirk returns, teasing yet knowing. “you’re still distracted,” he murmurs, his voice lower this time, more intimate. his eyes, a deep shade of amethyst, meet yours as he pauses his explanation, leaning in just a fraction closer.

you swallow, pulse quickening, your gaze drifting to his lips. screw the assignment, you think, as the temptation becomes unbearable.

“fedya...” you whisper, the sound barely escaping your lips as your hand moves instinctively to his cheek, pulling him gently toward you.

he doesn’t resist. in fact, his smirk widens, as if he knew all along that this moment was inevitable. his hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you in as his lips press against yours—soft, warm, intoxicating.

the pen slips from your fingers, forgotten, as your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him even closer. his other hand finds your waist, gripping you firmly. the world feels like it’s spinning, and all you can think is that you never want it to stop.

your hands clutch at his shirt, pulling him closer as if you’re trying to fuse your bodies together. the taste of his lips against yours makes your mind fuzzy. the soft brush of his tongue occasionally meeting yours in a sloppy slow kiss. you feel his fingers tightening around your waist, his other hand cupping your cheek, completely getting devoured by him.

the candlelight flickers casting erratic shadows on the walls, mirroring the rare intimate moment. your focus narrows to the sensation of him—his warmth, his taste, the way he clutches you as if you’re the only anchor in a storm.

he pulls back just slightly, his lips brushing yours as he pants softly, orbs completely dilated with lust. “milaya,” he murmurs, “this isn’t helping with your assignment.”

you laugh breathlessly, “i think… i think we’ve found a new way to procrastinate,”

he grins, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “well, at least you’re not distracted by the texts anymore.”

he smirks before gently closes the gap between you, cupping both sides of your face as he press his lips against yours again.

with ease, he lifts you and places you on your desk, the papers crumpling beneath you and pens tumbling to the floor. the fact that he rarely gets aroused like this only heightens your arousal.

you both share a series of hot, open-mouthed kisses, tongues exploring and breaths mingling in a heated exchange.

he slips his hands under your shirt, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it over your head tossing it aside. he leans down, kissing a trail down to your breasts, humming in delight as he inhales your sweet scent—flowers mixed with a hint of fruity lotion—oh how he adores the way you smell.

his soft, wet kisses continue down your skin as he expertly unclipped your bra with on hand, while the other holds you closer to him, the warmth of your body presses against the cotton fabric of his turtleneck shirt.

you press your hips against his moving in tight circles that elicit deep groans from both of you.

his hand that was holding you tight slides down to tug at your pants, and you eagerly help him get it off of you.

“this needs to come off,” you say with a half-chuckle, gesturing toward his turtleneck.

“giving orders now, milaya?” he replies, a teasing smile on his lips as he lifts the shirt over his head, revealing his pale, perfectly soft sculpted body. unable to resist, you lean in, kissing and licking along his chest and neck, your warm breaths brushing against his skin. soft mewls escape his lips as you explore every inch of him.

taking his time, he slowly removes the rest of your clothes, revealing your bare skin to him. soon, both of you are completely naked, your bodies molded together as you share another heated kiss. the warmth of your skin against his makes him harder every passing second that he thinks he might just cum from just being this close to you.

you feel his hands glide teasingly over your drooling cunt before he chuckles and pulls away slightly. "oh my love, look at you— hardly need my preparation"

before you can utter a word, he swiftly lifts you by your ass, sliding you along the desk and sending the remaining papers cascading to the floor. at this point, you hardly notice. he carries you to your shared bed beside the desk and sits down, pulling you to straddle his lap.

"my lovely darling, are you going to take your pleasure and ride me?" he murmurs against your lips and you whine softly humming in response.

his slender fingers guide your hips to grind against him as soft mewls escape your lips burying your face into the prominent crook of his neck.

you lift your hips to guide his tip into your slick entrance. even though he slips in easily, your walls stretch around him, yearning for the fullness you haven't felt in nearly two months.

sweet sweet soft moans escapes his lips, as your legs tremble trying to hold yourself up, only to sink down more on his cock. he spreads your ass cheeks with both hands helping you slide down on him easier.

you pull your head away from his neck, only to see the blissful sight before you—his eyebrows furrowed, eyes tightly shut, and jaw slack. as you quicken your pace, your moans blend with his soft mewls, and you both glisten with sweat while you bounce up and down on him.

"ngh- moya lyubov, let me hear your sweet voice," he murmurs, "ah- I missed you so much, milaya," his soft moans—oh those lovely soft moans, how he mumbles in his native tongue when he's too spent.

he starts thrusting up into you as you bury your face again but now into his chest, moaning against his skin feeling his cock twitch and pulsate before a sharp groan leaves his mouth.

his thrusts quicken, each one leaving you breathless for a moment before the next one knocks the air from your lungs again, your body rendered completely paralyzed by the picked up pace, his tip brushes against your g-spot repeatedly, sending waves of pleasure through your entire body.

then you feel the familiar heat coiling in the pit of your stomach, your ears growing muffled by the sound of your heartbeat. "fed-yyaa i- i'm coming aahh-"

you can’t help but grind against him, striving to keep pace, feeling him twitch inside you before he shoots thick streams filling you completely, throwing his head back with a deep moan. "bozhe! chert voz'mi da da" (translation: jesus! fuck yes yes)

he collapses back against the sheets, trying to catch his breath. you slide off him and join him, stretching your arms before resting your chin on his chest.

“you look so hot with your hair in a ponytail like that,” you say, biting your lower lip to stifle a teasing giggle.

“ah, it has grown a little indeed... I’m thinking about trimming it down a bit.”

you lightly hit his hand, exclaiming, “don’t you dare!!!”

he giggles, pulling you closer to place gentle kisses on your hairline. “anything for you, milaya.”

[occasionallycjshipping]

“[You would go here.]”

“(What?)”

Mind wraps his fingers around Heart’s wrist, grip close-to-breaking, and tows him along to a spot in the dirt. “[Here, near the flowers, olin mi. This is where I would put your grave.]”

“(olin mi?)” Heart asks. Why would Mind say that? Why would Mind let him hear it? His grip is so tight it’ll leave bruises. Heart’s wings flutter at the thought. Marked…

Mind ignores him and, in one swift movement Heart doesn’t process, pushes him into the dirt. He watches Mind get to his knees, slowly, carefully lowering himself to his level. Then he lays himself out, and his arms encompass Heart. Cuddling. Not almost cuddling, or like cuddling. Mind’s close enough to sew them together, completely entwining their limbs. “[I think we would be laid out like this. Together.]”

“(I thought you said my grave.)”

“[What’s yours is mine. Soul’s wrong about a lot of things but he’s right about that.]” Mind’s hand presses down on his heart. Hard. “[I suppose you would always kill me first, so I couldn’t bury you. It’s a shame. I would like to feel your dead body around mine.]”

Heart, against his better judgement, fans his wings out to properly lay with Mind. “(You would?)” Mind, draping himself around his dead body. Heart swallows. He doesn’t know if he dislikes it.

“[Yes, Dove. Of course I would. I would need to feel it.]”

“(And you’ve thought about it?)” Perhaps it makes sense, with Mind’s fixations, for Mind to think about their deaths. But not together. “(After I die. Touching me.)”

“[It’s not the same when I can feel your heart. It’s not the same when you’re alive.]” Mind’s other hand drifts from his side to his face, taking a hold of it. Staring at him. What is he seeing? “[I’ll need to touch you. I’ll die without you. But I need to know how the image looks.]” Why is Mind so assured of this? Heart can’t begin to guess why he thinks like this. About him. “[It’s not the same as this, even if…]”

His sentence hangs there as he hums, edging closer, as if he’s trying to soak up Heart’s - alive - warmth as much as possible.

“[Well, nothing compares to the real thing, does it? I need to know what it is. For our bodies to be wrapped around each other in death. Corpse to corpse. I need to feel you when you’re cold.]”

Mind seems like he’s done. The silence is odd. Awkward for him, but probably not for Mind, who arranges himself around Heart like they sleep in the same bed every night.

“[The array isn’t complete,]” he says, and then places his lips on Heart’s forehead. He shifts only to speak. His curls fall onto Heart’s face. “[It would be like that. Like…]”

Mind’s lips are warm.

Heart thinks about what Mind is insisting is so important. The image of them just like this. Except - corpse to corpse.

“(Like lovers.)”

Mind’s breath passes over his face. He tells him: “[Like lovers.]”

[animationismycomfort]

I feel like clumsy smurfs personality in every iteration is kinda bad

[mishtershpock]

.

[binders-and-beanies]

When people are like “omg how have you been on T so long how have you had top surgery it’s not fair” ,,, bc I am older and started the processes rly early,,,, like that feels so mean and I wish a quick accessible transition for everyone who wants it I just dunno why I’m supposed to feel guilty for like how the passage of time works or that I was on T sooner than ppl who didn’t realize they were trans at the time,,, and like it took me significantly Longer to access these things than the average transition stories I hear. It’s just that I Started Trying earlier. Also like if people are constantly gonna call me an old man and claim to be excited about trans elders you can’t be like mad that someone has been on T more than a couple years

[itsahotsecondafter]

.

[hoshigray]

Hiiii, I have a request- could you do like jealous or after arguement smex- you can pick any sort of of storyline or any jjk character. (prefferbly a character like sukuna or toji because i feel like they'd be kind mean about it)

Tyy

𝐚. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: oof, i think after an argument, sex w/kuna would go crazyyy (esp true form! like yikes)

⊹ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: true form! Sukuna x fem! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - size difference - fingering (f! receiving) - impact play (spanking + pussy slaps) - clitoral play (grinds, swipes, and pinches) - biting - pinching - degradation (bitch, whore) - monster-fucking (he got 2 dicks) - double penetration; anal and vaginal - backshots/doggy position - pet names ([little]dove, my wife, pet, woman) - multiple orgasms - mention of drool/spit and blood.

⊹ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.3k

You dare avoid him? The King of Curses? Did the screws in your brain finally come loose, and now you’ve gone mad?

Ryōmen Sukuna rarely lets things slide. He is considered the top dog of the cursed Jujutsu world – he doesn’t find himself bowing down to things because things are supposed to bow to him. Anything and everything doesn’t go unnoticed under his gaze, as that’s the order of things that are supposed to happen.

And this philosophy doesn’t stop with you — his little dove.

Being engaged to a human spouse already raises flags of inconsistency. It isn’t rare for you and Sukuna to argue; the workers of the fortress where you reside can attest to this. The love is there, but Sukuna expects you to understand your standing in this marriage. You may be what he always keeps by his side. However, even you shouldn’t overstep him so carelessly.

Nonetheless, your humanness continues to poke him; your resilience is a thorn to your giant husband’s side. The more disagreements you clash with him, the bolder you’ve become in your standing, which makes the cursed man proud, albeit prefers it wasn’t directed towards him. 

And now, after he puts his thunderous foot down and shuts you up with your bickering, you decide to be courageous enough to turn your back on him? Him? Your betrothed? He couldn’t believe what he saw; your expression molded to neutrality before you turned on your heel and headed somewhere away from him. And then you don’t respond when he calls out to you — the absolute nerve.

Oh, you knew Sukuna wasn’t the one to be daring with, especially when you think you can get the last laugh. So, it would be best if he corrected your foolishness. 

“—Dahhh! Su’kunaa, stop! Let go—Ohhh!”

“Shut your mouth. Think you’re in any position to order me now, huh?”

He has you pinned to the tatami flooring, his upper hand on your head to keep your cheek printed on the mat despite your cries. The upper right hand has a good hold on your waist while his lower right hand grips your ankle to keep your legs spread. And with the lower left, he uses it to tease and toy with your chasm. The mouth of his chasm laps around your labia to lick the fluids that coat your slit while his middle and ring fingers grind on your sore clitoris.

This is your punishment: your husband reprimanding you as he gesticulates around your body. You can cry and holler all you want, squirm out of his hold when knowing your efforts are futile. He doesn’t care because he knows that he will make this point to you no matter what.

The tongue of his palm easily swallows your essence, pushing the muscle into your cunt to fuck you. You nearly choke on spit, sensing the considerable muscle swirl around your insides and graze your walls. “Mmph! Oh, fuck—Nnnm! Sukuna, no! I just came seconds ag—Oooh!”

“Do I care?” He raises his sole pink brow, four red eyes scanning your figure, writhing because of his touch. “You will cum however many times I say, my wife.” He draws out the last words to your ear, enjoying how small you appear under his massive shape. 

He lives for your shrieks, your pitch going higher and higher with every flick of his tongue. Swiping your clit makes it harder to maintain balance, your resolve slipping through your fingers with every push and pull of the abnormal tongue.

“Hahhh, ahhhshit, shiiiit,” your eyebrows scrunch together, nails purchasing on the tatami mat beneath you, which you’re sure your scratches would cause damage. Again, not that your jerk of a spouse would care; he is probably getting a kick out of you losing your poise because of him. “Ooh, ‘Kunaa, y’re going too fast…Nnnn !”

“Oh? Does the dove think I’m going too fast?” Sukuna licks the helix of your ear tantalizingly slow, and you gasp when he bites it while the mouth of his palm sloppily kisses the entrance of your vagina. “You wish to cum again, woman?”

You nod hurriedly, his chuckle rumbling to the core of your heart. The hand on your waist comes up to smack your ass, denting the skin by piercing his fingertips. You howl in pain, “Yesss, I wanna cum again!” 

“Hmph, no,” he removes his hand from your throbbing folds before slapping it; the abrupt action erupts a choked sob. Screams fly out at the pinch of his fingers on your delicate bud; the pain from your chasm stings, making your head pound. “You’re not some whore who gets to cum when they want; you’re mine, and cumming without my permission will get you into predicaments worse than this. Are we clear, pet?”

You had no choice in the matter, propping your ass up and your face down, forcing you to take his two cocks with both of your holes. 

“Aiishhh, oh Lord, Shhlow down! I’m t’oo full…!” 

“Mmnn, khheh, I bet you are, grippin’ on my cocks like a real bitch in heat…”

His lower hands keep hold of your hips, keeping you glued to his pelvis as he pistons his fat dicks into your ass and vagina. The tip brushes on your inner walls, and you mewl at every push as the girth stretches your caves. His upper hands keep you held down to the floor, submitting you to his robust stature that easily swallows your small frame.

Your face is still on the floor, drool trickling down your lips as ineligible babbles seep out. “Nnmahh, ahhaa…!” God, he puts so much strength on your poor body; the inability to move or move away from him keeps you immovable for him. 

Sukuna’s pace is unforgiving, propelling himself into your leaky wetness with no remorse. The fact that he has you come two times already doesn’t concern him; if anything, it aids him in pushing to and fro from your tight cunt. He bites his lip from how your rear contracts around him—so snug for his dual limbs as if you’d milk him dry.

“Fsshoo, ohhmy Go—Daah!” A hand finds its way to the left wrist on your shoulder. “Ohh, ‘Kunaa!”

Your wails are broken when he bends down; the added weight is so lethal that you might end up being pressed and being one with the tatami mat. “Hmm? What is it, woman?”

“—Ahhck! Fuuuhuck, pleaseee, can I pwease cu–Uhhmm?!”

You make him snicker, pulling back his rhythm to implement slow yet harsh ruts to your openings while throwing a slap to your asscheek. “Why should I let you?” 

A tear rolls down your hot cheek. “Pleasee, forg’ve me! I shouldn’t have…turned my back on you...”

Crimson eyes narrow while observing the way your ass quakes from his powerful pounds. Sukuna then comes to your shoulder to bite on your shoulder, and of course, you yelp bitterly. The sight of his canines drawing blood from his mark dials his excitement. “Say it properly, pet,” he purrs as he licks the wound on your shoulder.

“Mmmm! Suk’naa, my Lord…”

“Hmm?” He cups and squeezes your cheeks with his upper left for access to kiss your neck, and the lower left snakes down to play with your clit again. You gasp from the sensation of the tongue of his stomach licking your back, the colossal muscle having you arch like a cat.

Rubs on your pearl have you squeaking for him and eyes rolling upward— all desperate and aching for your release that you could break any moment. “Forgive me for stepping out of line...Hooooh, I wanna cum on yer cocks,” you admit while swaying your hips. “Please allow me to cum.”

“Depends,” you gulp at his quick answer. “This will be your only kind warning for this; if you dare do it again, don’t ever think of asking me.” Sukuna licks your cheek before he chews on the flesh, your breath halting at the graze of his fangs. “Understand?”

Your brave side takes over to turn to him meekly, watery eyes meeting his fierce red ones – a good move on your part. “Yess, my husband…”

And he sneers. “There you go, little dove.”

© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2024 – reblogs and comments are appreciated wholeheartedly ☆ header edit done by me + dividers by @/benkeibear.

[strawbebyjam]

back 2 missing it 👍🏼

[arr-jim-lad]

a lot of people still have trouble spotting AI art and i just want to give some quick tips on how i usually quickly recognize it

often it's the smoothness of the image that sets off my initial alarms, a distinct lack of minor textures you'd expect from real things.

sometimes the texture doesn't match what it was supposed to represent, and often things look oddly soft and rubbery. the light doesn't bounce off it quite right and it feels over-rendered.

i've seen weird random blurring on many AI works as well

The longer you look, the more you realize that it's lopsided in several places, positions and distances of objects make no sense.

A closer inspection usually makes you notice the smudged details, which i think is what truly gives it away - AI mimics real patterns, but doesn't always nail them.

More complex small objects get smudged and blended together, and complex patterns look more like an oil spill rather than anything designed with clear vision and intent.

If there are any letters, they never look real or readable

I've seen people AI generate ""historical"" objects and paintings and post them with a fake caption, claiming that they are real

Be wary, because we live in a very uncertain age when it comes to information. Learn to spot AI-generated images, reverse image search and fact-check when something seems off.

In this case it's just a fake camera, but this technology can, will, and already is used in much more malicious ways.

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now? | 7

in which spencer reid and inexperienced!fem reader sleep together for the first time

series masterlist

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: loss of virginity, oral f/m receiving, so much praise, pain during sex, unprotected sex, cr**mp**, bit of overstim, soft dom spence, if u don't like that freak shit (love and intimacy) this is not for u, spencer is a nerd, they're both nerds actually and that factors in heavily, you may get more from this part by FIRST reading how they met in this bonus chapter a/n: thank you all for being patient, ilysm, this was the most laborious thing i've ever done for no reason and also this part changed so many times and is not what i expected it to be so pls go in with tempered expectations and keep in mind that this story is more about the characters and their specific relationship dynamic than just being porn. i truly have no idea how you guys will react to this but i sincerely hope you love it and them like i do<3 also it's twice as long as the other parts so feedback would be very very appreciated! again i love u all and enjoy the penultimate part!

Spencer’s lips are on yours, and you weren’t expecting it—hell, you weren’t expecting him to be in your apartment. After all, he’d wished you goodnight and walked out only a moment ago.

“Spencer—wh—” 

But he’s insistent with his lips, kissing you bruisingly over and over like there’s nectar on your tongue and he’s parched for you. Still, he has enough decency to not completely ignore you, exhaling a quick excuse over your flushed lips. 

“I missed you.”

This time, though, you dodge his hungry kiss. Part of you thinks, as he watches you, eyes alight and breathing heavily, that he sort of likes your playing hard to get. It’s not something you do very often, admittedly. 

“We’ve been apart for like, maybe a minute.”

“I didn’t even make it to the parking lot.”

Your face heats.  

“Well you can’t just—you can’t just walk in like that! And I thought you said we weren’t supposed to mix fighting with pleasure.”

“Then start locking your door. And I thought you said we weren’t fighting.”

You roll your eyes in response, though your heart is still pittering in your chest. 

At least his hands move to your arms, stroking up and down relatively chastely—although he has this way of making everything seem intimate. Especially when paired with those amber eyes of his—glowing like a candlelight beacon in the window guiding you home. He speaks in low, appeasing tones and darts his tongue over his lips. 

“I originally said it’s a bad idea for couples to sleep together after an argument. But you know—makeup sex is ubiquitous across culture and time because it works. Anger and arousal trigger a lot of the same hormones, specifically norepinephrine which is involved in feelings of longing and—”

“Spencer.”

“You know what else?” He mutters in a way that feels dangerous. “It tends to feel better than regular sex.”

That earns a shaky exhale from you. Whether from irritation or arousal is anyone’s guess—probably a combination of both. 

“So you came back to fuck me?”

It’s probably evident to Spencer from your choice of language that this already isn’t going exactly as he’d planned. He doesn’t answer right away—just regards you, gaze bouncing between your two eyes like he’s trying to calculate your level of anger. 

���Is that what we’re calling it now?”

You push him away and move to walk down the hall. 

“Maybe your window of opportunity has passed.”

A warm hand wraps around your wrist in the dark of the hallway and he pulls you back until you’re falling against something tall and warm and lean. The smell of polished amber and sandalwood overwhelms your senses. 

“What’s wrong, angel? What happened in the minute I was gone to change your mind?” His voice is scratchy like a favorite record. It’s the voice he could hold you captive with. The one you have a very difficult time saying no to. 

“I don’t know,” you mutter, unintentionally leaning back against him. “What happened to change yours?”

His response comes pressed against your ear, half-lost in your hair. 

“You’re upset that I changed my mind. I thought you wanted this, honey.”

“I do,” you admit, letting your head fall back against his shoulder and bringing his arm to wrap around you. “And if you hadn’t walked out earlier I would’ve done it. But… I’m tired of us doing everything on your timeline. You just… you expect me to be amenable to what you want, constantly.” His nose and lips press into your shoulder. 

“What do you mean?”

“Like… I’ve been begging you to sleep with me for I don’t even know how long. And you keep changing your mind, and I feel like you’re being really confusing about it. Obviously you don’t have to sleep with me, you never did, but I just feel kind of… jerked around. And you did it again tonight.”

A beat of silence. 

“I understand your frustration,” he appeases, securing both his arms around you. You cling weakly to his wrist, to his warmth, like he’s a tether in a storm. “Would you prefer to wait until you initiate it?”

“No. Yes! I don’t know,” you huff, disentangling yourself from his arms and continuing toward your bedroom. “Now I’m annoyed at you again.”

He follows you right through the door. 

“Just tell me what to do! I don’t want to be annoying.”

“I can’t. I’m being unreasonable.” You flick on your adjoining bathroom light and examine yourself in the mirror. Yeesh. The eye makeup situation is abysmal after all the crying that has taken place over the course of the evening. 

“So choose to be reasonable and tell me what you want from me. I’ll give it to you.”

You frown at your reflection, pushing your hair back and rubbing at some excess mascara. 

“No, you’re not understanding me. I’m not choosing to be unreasonable. My thought process regarding the situation is inherently unreasonable and there’s nothing I can do about it because it’s just the way I feel.”

“The feeling being that I’ve been too domineering over how our sexual relationship has unfolded?”

Spencer watches you in the bathroom mirror, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed as you tip some makeup remover onto a reusable cotton pad. You try not to check him out as you nod, but it’s impossible—with his sleeves rolled up to show defined forearms cradled in capable hands, and his hair all messy. 

When he pushes off the wall you freeze, unsure of his next move—until he’s gently spinning you around and taking the bottle and cloth from your hands. 

“Maybe it would help,” he begins, soft as he focuses on the new task, carefully bringing the round to your right eye so he can remove the bleeding mascara. You allow your eyes to flutter shut. “If I remind you why I’ve been so hesitant.”

“Because you hate giving me joy.”

He laughs, nothing more than one huff from his nose. 

“You’re spoiled and we both know it.”

Point taken, as he gently wipes your makeup away for you. Your silence is his cue to continue. 

“Everything I said about worrying that you would regret choosing me is true. It was especially true when I thought you felt lukewarm toward me. And all of that confusing stuff I said in the phone is true too—having sex for the first time is incredibly intimate and weird and sometimes scary. If you’re not 100% sure about your partner, or if you think your feelings are unrequited, it’s hard to be completely comfortable in such a vulnerable situation and your likelihood of getting hurt or having regrets skyrockets. I know that from experience. I wanted better for you than what I got. Still, I know it was wrong to project my feelings about the significance of sex onto you. In that regard, you’re right. I was being domineering, and I guess… I guess to an extent I’m still deflecting. I shouldn’t be trying to pretend like it’s about you when in reality I mostly just didn’t want to get hurt again. I didn’t want to go through that again, and that’s okay, but I shouldn’t have made you feel like it was something you could have changed.”

You try to process that. 

“Go through what?” You whisper hoarsely. Something about having him at such close range while he takes such care with you feels whisper-y. 

“Sleeping with someone who didn’t love me back.”

Your reply is small. 

“Oh. Right.”

How could anyone not love him back?

Spencer’s reply is simple and kind, without a hint of, obviously you dumb bitch—which is pretty much what you’re thinking to yourself. 

“Does that make sense, lovely? Do you understand why I wanted to wait?”

He lets you ponder for a while in comfortable-enough silence as he finishes removing your eye makeup with a characteristically gentle hand. When you open your eyes, he looks genuinely content, screwing the lid back on the bottle as if he’s got an eternity to wait for your answer. 

“Yeah. That part makes sense. But why did you seem so… I don’t know, like, wishy-washy about it?”

Spencer’s eyes dart up to meet yours, brows slightly raised. Then a small laugh bubbles up from somewhere inside him. 

“Because I’m obsessed with you. I thought about you like that constantly. I still do.”

Your breath catches at the casual admission. 

“Oh.”

Spencer hums, setting the bottle down before tenderly thumbing away some excess mascara that he must have missed from under your eye. 

“You didn’t think it was easy for me, did you?”

“Well… kind of,” you admit, tracking his eyes until they meet yours. 

“Not sleeping with you has been among the hardest things I’ve ever done. Especially when you started begging me. That first time, when I picked you up from Penelope’s and you asked me why we hadn’t had sex yet…”

He trails off, still rubbing at your cheek as he loses himself in thought. 

Eventually, you grow impatient, prompting, “what?”

“It’s not a nice thought.”

“Well, you have to tell me now,” you insist. 

He half smiles, thumb straying to your lips. 

“It was just… you had no idea what you were talking about, and you were ready to throw a tantrum in my living room until I gave you what you thought you wanted. Part of me was imagining bending you over the couch right then, since you thought you were so ready.”

It feels like someone has snipped the pulley that keeps your stomach in place. 

“Spencer,” you splutter, convinced your cheek is tangibly heating under his touch as your head reels at the revelation that he could have such a deeply dirty and mildly sinister mind. 

“I told you it wasn’t nice.”

You swallow. 

“Is that… is that still what you want?”

His brows flicker again and he tucks hair behind your ear. 

“To bend you over my couch? No.”

Your face warms even more and you turn to leave the bathroom, sick of his teasing. 

“Okay, goodni—”

“Hold on.” Spencer catches you by your waist and pulls you back into him for the second time tonight. A dangerous smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “I know what you meant. And no, I don’t want to bend you over my couch.” He laughs, slipping a hand under your shirt to rub your back. “You know what I want. I’m more interested in learning what you want.”

“I want…” Your eyes dance between his, and your heart flutters against the confines of your chest as you realize what you’ve wanted for so long is finally yours for the taking. “I want to stop talking about it.”

His expression neutralizes and you know it’s probably intentional to stop whatever feelings you assume him to be having color your decision. 

“Oh?”

“I just think we’ve talked about it enough.”

Before he can say another word, or ask you another question, you kiss him with such passion there’s no way he can doubt how much you want this. 

Only a moment passes before he allows himself to lean into it, cupping your face between reverent hands and taking control of the pace of the kiss, slowing it down until you can hardly breathe. Your little noise of want has him quickening the process, pressing against you until you’re walking backward out of the bathroom. It’s like the first crack in a dam. After that, everything becomes inevitable. 

Your knees hit the back of the bed and you sit down hard on the mattress, smiling up at him. You skim the front of his thighs with your palms as he smooths your hair.

Spencer groans, leaning down and kissing you til you’re on your back. 

“Don’t make that face.”

An affronted huff from you breaks the kiss up and he pulls back to study your expression. 

“What do you mean don’t make that face? I was just smiling at you.”

“I know you were. And you have such a pretty smile it makes me feel guilty about… defiling you.”

Your brows flicker up and your mouth drops open with an affronted scoff.

“Watch yourself. I’ll defile you.”

“You already have,” he admits with a half-laugh as he kisses you again. “My mind was never this dirty before we met.”

“Hm. Tell me you like my smile.”

He pauses and then chuckles dryly against your mouth. 

“I love your smile. You’re gorgeous. Any more demands?”

Pleased, you shake your head and pull him closer, wrapping your legs around his waist. 

“Not currently.”

“Really?” he murmurs, trailing kisses over your cheek and down your jaw, “I’d do just about anything you asked me right now. You don’t want to take advantage of that?”

The sensation of his lips just below your ear threatens all rational thought in your brain, but you manage a reply with only a slight delay and a hint of a waver coloring your tone. 

“I shouldn’t have to demand things. You should just know to do them.”

His kisses drag lower, warm and unhurried and you’re trying not to let your hyper-sensitivity from going a week completely untouched show—but you doubt he misses the way your breath catches, or the barely audible squeaks, or the arch of your back or the tightening grip on his shirt. 

“Well, for future reference—” he nips at a sensitive spot and you gasp quietly, even as you tilt your head to offer him more access. More room to bite, if he so chooses. “—I happen to enjoy it when you make demands of me. Especially when those demands entail letting me call you pretty.”

“I’ve never not let you call me pretty before,” you huff. It’s a touchy subject, and Spencer can probably sense your hackles rising, but he has you right where he wants you and so he pushes anyway. 

“No. But you never believe me. We’ve had this conversation. You always act like I’m walking you to the gallows when I compliment you.” 

It’s hard to make a defense when he’s leaning his weight onto one arm so he can unbutton your jeans, when he’s looking down at you with sparkling onyx and scorched-earth eyes like you’re something to be consumed. But not violently, no—ardently. Like fruit heavy on the vine. Like you’re a religious rite to the devout and deluded. A sacrament.

But it’s not a blind passion. Spencer knows you; every inch of you and every loose thread on your soul begging to be pulled. He knows you and he still wants you like this. To be perfectly honest, you’d never thought you’d feel comfortable handing yourself over to someone like this—vulnerable and all your layers of armor shed. Never in your life would you have thought you could trust a person so implicitly that you’d hand them a knife and show them exactly where to press, that you’d say, I know once you open me and you see me you’ll not want to change a thing.

You adore him. Cosmically. Enormously. In every dimension. He’s lodged so deep in your heart you have no choice but to love him eternally. 

It’s deep in the midst of all these very profound revelations that you realize Spencer has stalled with your zipper undone. His hand has strayed to your hip, to sweetly push your shirt up and trace love letters into warmed and downy skin with his thumb. 

“I just wish you could see yourself how I see you,” he says softly, the weight of the truth a strain on his vocal cords. 

Sometimes, he is so kind it’s like a punch to your stomach. You’ve never been quite as kind as him. And nobody’s ever been as kind to you as he is. You’ve done nothing to deserve his kindness, but you know he needs a place for it, and you’re here with open arms. 

He studies you a moment longer, swallowing as his eyes trail over your face and lower. You want to reach out and brush strands of caramel hair out of his face, but he seems to be thinking so hard you’re hesitant to distract him. 

“I’ve never told you this, because I know you’d just shoot it down, but… you are genuinely the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met in my life.”

Something twinges in the depths of your stomach—the darker shades who live there and exist solely to whisper not enough not enough not enough to you every minute of every day. 

But they’re simply not a match for the softness you find when you do reach out for his hair, or the way he looks at you. Spencer loosely wraps his fingers around your wrist—not a cuff, but an affectionate hold. 

“Do you believe me?”

There’s so much earnest hope in his voice it almost jars you. He so badly wants you to understand how feels about you—he’s been trying to tell you for months and all you know how to do is refute his praise and insist on your worthlessness. 

Ever since Spencer, you don’t see the faces on magazine covers or in superhero movies, no matter how mathematically flawless they are. Nobody gets close to being as beautiful as he is in your eyes. He’s in an entirely different echelon, and despite how you feel about yourself, you have to accept that he might feel the same about you. 

“I do,” you say, equally soft, and 100% honest. You believe that he believes it, and that’s enough. It’s all that matters. 

The shallow knit of his brow loosens. His lips ease into a suggestion of a smile. But it’s most visible in his eyes—the way smoldering coals reignite, melting the amber glass of his irises until they’re molten. 

The way he kisses you then, you’d think you’d lassoed the moon and pulled it down from the sky for him. But apparently all it takes to make him incandescently, contagiously happy, is to accept a compliment.

There’s a renewed sense of urgency on his breath as he kisses you deeply and quick enough your heart is racing. It only goes faster when he remembers his previous task and begins tugging your jeans down, but he doesn’t even bother to pull them past your knees before his hand is creeping up your thigh. Goosebumps race each other across your body as you try to remember what it feels like—what he feels like. But you can’t, even as his thumb fans over your inner thigh and pushes it open, gently encouraging you to give him more access to you. 

“You’re not wasting any time,” you breathe against him while he traces the edge of your underwear.

“Do you want me to slow down?”

Judging by the way the tips of his fingers only barely shy away from the fabric, he really wants the answer to be no. But you know in his searching gaze that he’d never push you. 

“No, it’s fine. As long as we… don’t go this fast the whole time.”

“We won’t.” The hasty words are of lower priority than the next kiss he plants to your swollen lips. “We won’t. I just missed you so much.”

“Yeah?” You giggle airily as he drags his fingers over your clit through the material, trying to ignore the way it makes your head spin. 

“Yes. Yeah.”

You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him like this, so… desperate for you, as he drops his lips to your neck and presses barely-there kisses everywhere he knows you’re sensitive. Just the feeling of his breath against your skin has you shivering. His hand between your legs only brushes your most nerve-dense spot, but a few touches in and you’re already wound up, like if Spencer doesn’t give you more soon you’ll burst. And not in the good way. 

When he finally commits to actually kissing your neck, you squeak, warmth emanating from that spot just below your jaw all the way to your toes. The frantic energy of earlier is slowly melting away, and he loses focus with his hand, as it begins straying wider, stroking your hip, your inner thigh, your stomach. It’s like your nerve endings are on overdrive, delivering twice as much feedback to your brain as they normally would. Each touch feels like he’s conducting electricity over your body, like you’re a plasma ball. He’d probably like that analogy—you, a core of alternating voltage, and him, the conductor, tracing a path and giving all those electrons an easy release. If you weren’t so distracted, you’d tell Spencer you found a way to work Nikola Tesla into your mutual sex life, and he’d probably propose on the spot. 

But that electricity is building fast—even more so when he drags his lips down just above your collarbone. Your breath hitches, simultaneously trying to crane your neck to give him more room, and curl into him so as to escape the stimulation. Finally he pulls away, and losing the softness of his mouth while the air feels so cold against the places he’d kissed almost hurts. 

“You’re a mess,” he chuckles affectionately, raising his hand to brush hair away from your face before stroking the heated high point of your cheek. “What am I going to do with you?”

It’s teasing, but so low and gentle and honeyed it swirls your stomach. 

“Whatever you want,” you admit quietly. It’s a shy confession more than it is a salacious flirtation because he already has you. And you want nothing more than for him to act on that in any way he so pleases. Whatever he does, it will be careful, and kind, and because he loves you. You know that no matter how he takes you apart—he’ll put you back together again. 

“I don’t know if I can. You’re all jumpy.”

God, he has the prettiest smile—even when it’s twisted with sarcasm and a thin veneer of guilt, like he knows he shouldn’t be teasing and just can’t help himself. 

“I’m not,” you defend, face heating further. “I’m not nervous. I don’t know what it is.”

That sticky sweet tone is back, pooling in his eyes and dripping all over you like nectar as he languidly looks you over. 

“I didn’t say you were nervous. Just a little bit jumpy.”

It’s not accusatory—he’s simply stating a fact. Easy, gentle, designed to soothe. 

You shrug helplessly and chew on your lip, unsure of how he wants you to respond. It’s definitely true that excited as you are, you’re slightly on edge. You feel taut as a string on a guitar, tense and waiting to be yanked at any second. 

His expression is serene, and his thoughts inscrutable as he continues lavishing you with his eyes, down to where he’s lying over you and back up. His lips part, but he doesn’t speak for a moment as he formulates his words. 

“Can we try something? There’s this tantric exercise that might help you relax.”

Your brows draw earnestly and you nod up at him, not requiring any convincing even though you have no idea what he’s talking about. 

Spencer directs you to sit up, and you do—kicking your jeans all the way off so you can sit criss-cross with your hands braced on your ankles. 

He’s next to you on the bed, at a slight angle, one of your knees in his lap. You blink at him. 

“Now what?”

“Now you give me one of your hands,” he says, tone tinted with a hint of an amused smile, as if your impatience is funny to him. Of course it probably is. 

Frowning only a little, you unlock your left arm and hold it out for him, watching curiously as he takes your one hand between his and flips it palm-up. 

“Did you know,” Spencer begins, voice low and confidential, “that the fingertips are the second most sensitive part of the human body?”

“What’s the first?”

“Lips,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on your hand where he’s brushing the tips of your fingers light enough it almost tickles. “They’re both incredibly important for keeping you alive, which is why they’re one and two. But you’ll be particularly sensitive anywhere you’re vulnerable.” His words are trailing off as he brushes his thumb over your palm and to the delicate skin of your wrist. “Like here.”

His knuckles skim up your forearm, to the crook of your elbow. 

“And especially here.”

You’re fascinated as he traces back down the length of your arm and over your inner-wrist, feather light. Then up once more, with the blunted edges of his nails, and your breath catches. You’ve never noticed how sensitive such an innocuous part of your body could be, but it has your stomach flipping—more so when he looses a breathy laugh. “You know, some people are actually able to reach orgasm just by light stimulation to this area.”

Your response is just as airy—you don’t recognize your voice when it comes out like that, hanging in the pitch black between you. 

“Really?” 

An affirmative hum from him, as he lifts your hand and places an intentional kiss over your pulse at the bend of your wrist. Your chest aches and heat is pooling in your stomach as his gently trails them up the delicate skin of your arm. Maybe you should be embarrassed by the reaction you’re having—after all, it’s just your arm. But he treats every part of you like it warrants love and attention and intimacy. Even the parts you typically ignore. Certainly parts you never considered to be sexually or romantically relevant. It’s dizzying. It’s like magic. 

“Arms up,” Spencer finally directs, just as sweetly as he’s doing everything else, and helps you tug your shirt over your head. Every brush of fabric, every seam against your skin registers more than it normally would. Everything is heightened, and despite your state of undress you’re still warm. “Your neck is really sensitive, too. It’s the most commonly acknowledged erogenous zone.”

Erogenous zone. Of course this all comes back to biology. 

“Tilt your head for me, honey.”

Utterly entranced and useless to not abide by him, you do so. Spencer brushes your hair over your shoulder, and if the slip of it down your back weren’t enough, the graze of his fingertips against the nape of your neck has you shivering. 

The warmth of him at your throat feels completely brand new, despite having already had his lips there only minutes before. But now they ghost over your skin with a kind of novelty, and your own lips part in silent pleasure, head lolling to allow him greater access.

“Lie back.”

Without hesitation (but perhaps a bit sluggishly in your stupor) you obey, sliding down until you’re propped up only by pillows once more. Spencer takes his place propped above you once more, thighs slotted with yours as he quickly picks up where he left off. 

The sweet kisses are perfect and feel so much better than you’d ever thought to notice before—but at the same time your core aches and there’s that pressure building again that’s starting to get to you. 

“Spencer,” you try, and it comes out hoarse but you don’t care at all. “More.”

“You want me to leave marks?” 

And the offer is so tempting you’ll wait a few more minutes to ask for what you really need, nodding semi-frantically and ‘mhm’-ing desperately. 

As he gently latches onto a spot that will require concealer later but feels fantastic for now, one of his hands slips down your side, just barely letting his nails skim, and your back actually arches. It’s a shocking amount of stimulation for being nowhere near any sexual hotspots. That tiny caught breath dissolves as his fingers continue down just as lightly over your hip and thigh. Your muscles tense as you chase and run away from the feeling. It’s ridiculous.

There’s no point in trying to keep your eyes open now—they grow heavy and you let them fall shut as he sucks another love bite to your throat. 

“Feels good, doesn’t it? It’s kind of weird.” He says, voicing your thoughts as he eventually decides the mark will be sufficiently dark. 

“Yeah,” you agree, lacking all eloquence as he caresses every sensitive place you didn’t know you had and your hips writhe minutely in a little desperate dance of your own creation. 

“Most people aren’t aware of the potential of the erogenous zones that aren’t actual sex organs. They don’t pay attention to them. You know what else is an interesting function of erotic stimulation to areas that aren’t directly involved in reproduction?”

“Hm,” you hum as his hand skims to your back. You lean into it and he promptly undoes your bra with a single hand—a skill you’re not even sure you have. 

“It releases not quite as much oxytocin as an orgasm but more than sexual pleasure alone. So you’re less tense before sex than you usually would be, and you’re primed to build more trust and feel more connected with your partner during.”

God, he’s a nerd. And it’s so, so hot. 

You roll over on your back again and look up at him through half-lidded eyes. The corner of his mouth flickers as he takes in your expression, before trailing downward, following the path his fingertips make over your skin as they tug the straps over your shoulders. Trying to stop him, to be shy, would be a pointless venture. He’s seen you like this and you want him to see you again. 

A shaky exhale of his own brings a little smile to your face as he pulls your bra away and observes the newly bared skin with a hunger that you can feel. 

“I missed you,” he murmurs, eyes cast pointedly down and thumb brushing over the side of your right breast. 

“You mentioned.”

“I’m not allowed to say it again?” He teases, leaning down to kiss you soft. Your lips curve against his. 

“You can say it as many times as you want.”

Spencer hums, finally thumbing over your breast’s sensitive peak. It sends a chill down your back and seeing as you’re already worked up to the point of near insanity, the pleasure from such a simple touch is much stronger than it would be otherwise. 

“Good. Because I missed you a lot.”

After that, he doesn’t waste much time—only toying with your flesh for another minute as he kisses you before his hand is skimming down your abdomen and dipping below the waistband of your underwear. 

“Please,” you whisper, tilting your hips toward him when he doesn’t move to touch you anymore. 

“Please what?”

“Spencer, don’t.”

He smiles at this, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth as his hand travels lower. Fingers slip between wet folds and he begins making the lightest of circles over your clit. 

“You’ve probably been waiting long enough, huh? I should be nicer.”

Your answer is a breathy almost-whine as you seek more friction against his hand. 

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, pressing down harder. The sensation sends sparks down to your toes and you attempt to clamp your legs shut around his wrist. “These need to stay open,” Spencer chuckles, “or else I can’t help you.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” The words are a sweet sing-song against your cheek as he kisses you there, before hooking his fingers into the fabric of your underwear and pulling down. You try to help wiggle out of them as best you can, gasping when he tosses them away and immediately returns his hand between your legs. He dips his head down, tongue lathing over your breast, and teases you with the tip of one finger circling around your entrance. 

“I need—”

“Shh. Let me worry about it.”

With that, he’s dipping his ring and middle fingers just barely inside of you to the first knuckle, then back out, before pushing a bit deeper, and repeating the cycle until they’re as far as they’ll go. When he slowly starts fucking you with them, still mouthing sweetly at your breast, you’re ready to melt. 

The room is quiet except for your breathy mewls, the lewd, wet sound of his fingers inside of you, and the blood rushing in your ears. Soon your breast pops from between his lips and he finds somewhere else to leave his mark. Spencer is turning you into a work of art, with his fingers, with his mouth. You don’t mind at all. You’d let him sign his name, if he could—but you doubt he’d let you get his name tattooed. 

Soon you stop fighting the perpetual tug of your lids down and let them flutter shut, loosing a freer moan as he brushes over that sweet spot inside you. Even when he’d told you how to find it over the phone, it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t like this—maddening enough to have your hips twisting again and that hot bed of coals in your tummy sparking. 

“Spencer,” you warn, leg twitching as he stokes the fire beyond the point where you can passively enjoy it. Either he’s got to slow down or he’s got to let you burn all the way up. You practically jump when you feel his tongue flick over your clit—you hadn’t even been aware of his shifting positions. Maybe you’re more out of it than you’d previously thought. Your eyes shoot open and he does it again. “Oh, fuck.”

The words are simple, quiet, and apparently that’s not enough. Before you can even process the sensation of the tip of his tongue on you he’s latching onto your clit, suckling in a way that has your vision momentarily going out. You cry out and kick involuntarily, hips jumping up, but he captures your leg and presses you down into the mattress so no matter how much you squirm and squeak you can’t get away. 

“Fuckfuckfuck, Spencer I wa—ah—sn’t ready—oh my god.”

He remembers his fingers deep inside you and begins rutting them and you hiss, inhaling sharply through your teeth before letting it all out in a tremulous moan. The orgasm is building up so quickly it almost feels like an attack on your poor body as you try to process it all to no avail. Every sound you make is a vulnerable mess of pleasure and pain, a clear fear of surrendering to something inevitable. Of course, it doesn’t really hurt at all. As usual, he’s blindsided you. Found you unprepared. You rake your fingers through Spencer’s hair, continuing on with your shaky moans that sound half-worried. 

“Oh, please.” Really, you’re just pleading to be put out of your misery. It’s in moments like this, as the black is creeping in around the edges of your vision and your thoughts become threads in the tangle of an existence knotting in on itself with no discernible end or beginning in your mind until everything is completely abstract, that you’re reminded why the French refer to orgasm as the little death.  

Your fingers lace tight enough in the wilds of his hair to pull, and he groans against you, and those vibrations are your undoing. You succumb to the dark momentarily but he continues a loving assault of gentle kisses to your clit—careful enough so as to be inoffensive even after the euphoria abates and you’re hypersensitive, still relishing soft strands of hair between your knuckles. 

You’re breathing hard as you blink your vision back, looking down at him as he looks up at you from his place between your legs and rubs the top of your thigh.

“I wasn’t ready,” you pant, lips flashing into a tired smile that doesn’t hold a candle to his own livelier one. 

“Took it like a champ.”

If you weren’t already so warm his sarcastic comment would inspire more heat in the apples of your cheeks. 

“Dr. Spencer Reid using sports idioms?” You smile as he climbs back up your body. 

“It’s unreasonably sexy that you said idiom and not simile.” He kisses you, grin mirroring yours, and you don’t complain about the slick still on his lips. “And look at that. Not afraid to kiss me when I taste like you anymore.”

“I remember what you said,” you whisper, eyes bouncing between his, glowing amber pools in the low light. The words echo in your head from the first time he’d gone down on you and you’d been hesitant to taste yourself. 

One day, I’ll make you come just like that again, and then I’m going to fuck you, and you’re really going to want me to kiss you then, angel.

“So do I,” he points out needlessly. “Eerily prophetic, hm?”

“I think you just like going down on me,” you laugh. 

Without the light on, his smile is just as brilliant as usual.  

“You might be right about that.”

Another interlude of quiet begins, but you don’t mind it. Taking this slow, as desperate as you’ve been for it, feels nice. Easy. Waves of burning need ebb and flow, but for now, it feels nice to be bathed in his candlelight gaze, know you’re loved, and nothing else. 

“What next?” You whisper after a long moment, lifting your hand to trace the line of his jaw. He leans into it slightly, lips brushing your palm. 

“That’s up to you, angel. What’s going to make you feel most comfortable?” 

Your bottom lip rolls between your teeth as you think and he tracks the movement, corner of his mouth twitching fondly. 

“It might help if you weren’t fully clothed.”

“I think we could probably do something about that.”

He pecks the tip of your nose playfully and then he’s pushing off the bed. Your brow wrinkles as you follow suit only partially, sitting up with your legs folded under you and pulling the sheets over your body to combat the chill and the vulnerability of being completely naked. 

“Oh, my god. You had your shoes on that whole time?”

“I got distracted,” Spencer defends, almost tripping over himself in his hurry to slip the loafers off. 

You clutch the sheet to your chest, watching the adorable way he pushes his hair out of his face as he rushes. He’s so clearly excited—it shows in the flush of his cheek and his even worse than usual coordination. 

“But on my bed?”

“I’m sorry,” he says without seeming very apologetic, leaning down to catch your chin between his thumb and forefinger and pressing his lips to yours. “I’ll pay to have your comforter dry cleaned. I’ll buy you a new one. I don’t care.”

“How chivalrous.”

“I am,” he insists against your lips, shaped by what is surely a boyish smirk. 

Unsurprisingly, you get lost in the kiss, dropping the sheet to hang onto his shoulders. Spencer takes advantage of the once-more revealed skin, rubbing your thigh with slow passes in a way that has you all lit up again already. It doesn’t help that his tie is skimming right over the recess between your folded thighs as he leans over your seated form, kissing you deeper as the moments pass. 

“You’re distracting me now,” you scold, but your voice is quiet and smiley as your noses brush. 

“Do you want to help me with my clothes?”

You nod, heart hatching like a cocoon and already slipping a finger into the knot of his tie so you can tug perhaps not gently enough. He chuckles, bracing himself with his fists on either side of your lap as you pull and yank until the fabric comes loose and you slip it from around his neck, flinging it blindly for dramatic effect. Then he slowly draws back to his full height, until you’re about eye-level with his chest. His gaze fixes on you, feverish and intent as he finds the buckle of his belt without looking. The slide of leather on leather, the jingle of the metal has the hairs on the back of your neck rising and you fight a chill as he pins you with his stare—feeling rather powerless as he towers over you, still essentially fully clothed while you’re completely naked. 

You probably shouldn’t be as thrilled by it as you are. 

Spencer tosses the belt on the floor and watches on, utterly charmed as you rise to your knees. His hands find your waist, steadying you as you begin unbuttoning his shirt with slow, careful fingers. 

“See?” You murmur bashfully. “Helping.”

His voice is equally as soft. 

“Very helpful. Thank you.”

The tension in the quiet room gets to be too much and you have to focus hard on the task at hand, failing to bite back a twisty smile. For once, he keeps his stupid perfect mouth shut and lets you push the fabric of his open shirt from his shoulders in humid silence. 

Your fingers skate down his torso and you watch the muscles tense. You wonder if he notices the way he pulls you slightly closer or if it’s subconscious as you both track the path of your hands. 

“Your button is on the wrong side,” you note, voice wavering slightly, once your fingers stall at the waistband of his pants.

Spencer chuckles. You feel silly. 

“Men and women’s clothing tend to have the buttons on different sides, if that’s what you mean.”

“Oh.” A beat of silence, before the words come pouring out. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I’m still a little bit nervous, I think.”

“That’s okay,” Spencer assures you, hands gliding up and down the soft lines of your waist. “It’s okay that you’re nervous. But I’m going to take really good care of you, okay?”

You nod, not looking away from the exposed skin of his torso. 

“And if at any point you need to take a break or stop, you’ll tell me.”

“I will, but… I don’t need to stop right now.”

“Then you can go as slow as you want.”

You swallow and take a moment to gather yourself before continuing on undoing his pants. With his assistance, you pull them down, and with them his boxers tug an inch or two lower, exposing a subtle v-shape before it disappears beneath the waistband. The fabric is obviously tented. A ball of nervous anticipation spins faster in your stomach, drawing all the heat in your body down between your legs. He’s pretty everywhere. You’d nearly forgotten. 

Spencer’s stomach tenses under your light touch as you drag your fingers down, down, just to the waistband. It’s then that you look up at him for permission to continue, and find his eyes already on you, heated and intense. 

“Go ahead, honey.”

Again you find yourself quite excited to touch him, but you start cautiously, simply letting your hand fall over the shape of him through the fabric. Even that has his chest rising and falling at a slightly quickened rate, and one of his hands finds your unoccupied one, twining them together. That small gesture inspires you to bolden your explorations, becoming more insistent in the way you palm at him. He feels big, which is a concern of yours. But you try not to let that intimidate you.  

Already he’s quite hard, you suspect from going down on you earlier (which is flattering as much as it embarrasses you) and your fingers graze a small wet patch of fabric. You fixate on the shaky little breath he releases as you push down his boxers with new fervor, and his cock springs up. 

He’s still perfect. 

You smear beads of precum down his tip, and he sighs, letting his head fall against yours as you both watch. A few coquettish pumps and he’s humming, kissing your face and dragging his lips down your neck where he makes a home for himself. Apparently the sight of your hand wrapped around him had been too much to bear. 

“So good. Missed this.”

“It’s just my hand,” you whisper, a little insecure that he’s maybe playing it up for your benefit. 

“It’s you.”

His voice is so breathy, you sort of have to believe him. 

“Can I…?”

Too nervous to voice what you really mean, you trail off, but it apparently doesn’t matter to Spencer. He lifts his head like he’s in a stupor but you’ve said something urgent. 

“Anything you want. You can do whatever you want.”

“Okay. Um…”

You let go of his hand (and his dick). Spencer automatically rotates to accommodate you as you end up on your knees on the wooden floor in front of him. 

“This is what you want?” He breathes, already pushing his fingers through your hair and gathering it back as you look up at him and nod. 

Very quickly you have him back in your hand, trying to remember what you learned from the few times you’ve done this. You start perhaps a bit softer, less eager to prove yourself than you have in the past—simply dragging him over your tongue before enveloping his tip in your mouth, and releasing with a pop. Despite being overtly, explicitly, and undeniably sexual, there’s something almost chaste about the way you handle him. It’s a (dirty) expression of love, and you think he understands that as he rubs at your cheek affectionately. 

Eventually, however, you get too excited, and you take him into your mouth in earnest, bobbing your head slowly and seeing how much of him you can take without gagging. 

Spencer makes the prettiest noises—they’re breathy, and not ostentatious, but he’s got such a nice speaking voice it’s like his gasps are bars in a song. You whine around him, wriggling your hips in a rather pathetic display, and then all too quickly he’s tugging your hair so you can’t keep him in your mouth. 

“What?” You ask, closer to pouting than you’d care to admit and voice slightly hoarse. “You said I could do anything I want.”

“Not if you’re that good at it. Come here.”

He helps you up and catches you in a deep, messy kiss before you’ve fully regained your footing, swaying against him, but he holds you fast, pulling away slow like strings of honey trail between your mouths. 

Spencer’s eyes are fixed on yours, lips parted in a sort of wonder before he glances down to your own mouth, wiping the shine from your bottom lip. Any moment you’re expecting him to say something, to tell you you’re beautiful or perfect or that he’s in love with you—but instead he just meets your eyes again, that same wonder-struck look on his pretty face. A tiny, breathy laugh forces itself from his chest like you’re a genuine miracle. 

You feel so observed—seen in a way you’ve never been seen, looked at closer than anyone has ever looked at you before. And he still looks at you like you’re the human embodiment of love, the closest mortal manifestation of the divine, Galatea come down from her marble pedestal. The way he looks at you has your heart pounding and your breathing hastened. Adoration has never been something so physical, so tangible, ever before in your life. Your blood hums at the frequency of his electromagnetic field—an energetic aura that surrounds each person and can be detected from several feet away, as he’d explained it to you. It originates from the heart and if you spend enough time close to  someone, syncs up the beating of your most vital organ with theirs until it’s a perfect match. Maybe that’s why, almost as quickly as your heart had begun to pound, it slows again, and you feel any reservation flush from your body like a fever. 

“Okay,” you breathe, cataloguing every angle and curve of his face to store with all the rest, all the moments that feel important. Of course, you’ll never remember them like he does yours. But you’ll be damned if you don’t try your hardest. 

“Okay?” Spencer asks. He understands the confirmation for what it is, and searches for signs of hesitation on your face while rubbing reassuring circles into your hip. You nod resolutely. 

As he lays you down on your bed, it feels like you’re entering some kind of altered state. Everything is muted and glowing with a watercolor aura in the dark and you really only care about the man on top of you and the way moonlight dances on his skin and the way he smells like smoky amber and rain. He makes sure the pillows are fluffed under you, before sweeping your hair from beneath your shoulders into a corona around your head. All the while his eyes are so soft on you, just like his hands, and his lips when he leans down to touch them to yours. 

One of said hands finds its way to your jaw, trailing down over your neck and collarbone, before settling over your breast where he swipes a thumb over your nipple, lightly, slowly, several times. 

Once again you’re struck with the odd feeling, even with his hand on you like this, that the situation isn’t sexual in the way you’d anticipated. It’s not pornographic, or even very dirty. Everything Spencer does, even as his hand sneaks down between your legs, he does because he loves you. 

“One more like this,” he mutters against your jaw after a moment. 

“Why?”

Your impatience yields a smile you can only feel against your skin. 

“Just want you relaxed and feeling good. That’s all.”

When you assent, his fingers are already slowly pushing inside you. 

It seems you’ve entered some sort of time warp as well, because you reach a gentle peak in what feels like record time, aided by his easy murmurings and saccharine praise.

“Perfect. That was perfect,” Spencer says with a kiss to your shoulder as he slides his fingers from you and you feel yourself literally dripping onto the sheets. “Can I ask you something before we get carried away?”

“Mhm,” you hum, sweet and compliant as pleasure dulls your inhibitions for the second time tonight and your head lolls into the pillows. 

“Baby,” he croons, voice soft as worn paper as your lids flutter and lashes brush febrile cheeks, thumbing over the heated skin. “Need you a little more alert, sweet girl.”

“’M trying,” you whine, though it’s half self-effacing laugh. Spencer chuckles too as you shake your head and take a deep breath, trying to reinvigorate yourself. “Okay. Go.”

“Well… we don’t have any protection.” Before you can groan, loudly, he hurries on. “And that’s… I’m okay with that, if it’s what you still want. I trust you. But there will come… a moment of reckoning. And I need to know where I should… reckon. So you don’t end up surprised.”

Now you’re really laughing—a giggly mess beneath him as your arms loop over his shoulders. 

“Stop it,” he whines, pressing his nose to your cheek as you turn your head in an effort to not snort at your boyfriend to his face. “That was for your benefit, you know. You get squeamish.”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t take you seriously when you refer to it as reckoning.”

“Fine. I’ll rephrase. When I come, you essentially have two options. Inside, or on your stomach. Tell me where you want it.”

Your breath catches and your stomach does that tripping-over-itself thing again. 

“Um…”

Another fond half laugh, at your expense, is pressed against your skin. It’s enough to prompt you into answering—he doesn’t have to say anything to make his point about your being squeamish. 

“Inside,” you mutter, shy as you attempt to bring him closer so he won’t be able to look at you quite so closely. You wonder if he’s remembering the conversation you’d had over the phone last week—before he’d accidentally kind of broken up with you—about this very subject. You certainly are. 

“Okay. I want you to have everything that you want.” A few kisses to your neck later, between nips, he speaks again. “Just need to hear that you want this one more time.”

“I want this,” you repeat, obedient and honest, plain and simple. “Now, please.”

Spencer responds by first kissing you, firm and loving. It soothes you, and he punctuates it with a kiss to your cheek, before he’s reaching down and guiding himself between your legs. You feel surprisingly calm, more overcome with love and the light pleasure rolling down your back as he drags himself over your clit than you are by nerves. Still, you pointedly hold his gaze, not looking down in case you psych yourself out. He slots himself in place, tip resting against your entrance. 

“Remember, if you need to stop at any point—”

“I remember,” you cut him off hurriedly. 

Okay. So perhaps you’re still slightly nervous. 

He watches you, sympathetic though you’re not sure what for. 

“I need you as relaxed as possible, okay? I want this to be easy on you.”

You take a moment, scanning your whole body for tense muscles. When you feel sufficiently relaxed, you offer Spencer a small nod, and at that, he begins pushing into you ever so slightly. 

At first, it just feels foreign. He’s going so slowly, so carefully, you’re not sure he’s moving at all—until he finds resistance and the odd full feeling changes to a hint of burning stretch. Your hips jump and your breath catches, and Spencer stops immediately, relieving the pressure with a tiny shift in position. 

“It’s gonna hurt,” you realize, eyes darting between his like he might be able to tell you otherwise. You’d always been aware of the possibility, but you were holding out hope that you’d be one of those people who didn’t experience any pain their first time. 

“Just for a minute. Then it’ll feel good, angel.”

You swallow and nod. At the end of the day, you trust him completely. You trust him enough to let him hurt you. 

“Super deep breaths for me.”

He watches intently as you follow his directions, taking several deep breaths in succession, before he begins pushing into you once more. The pressure builds and builds until he pushes past that point of resistance, and it’s like he’s breaking you in two. 

“Ah,” you gasp, abs twisting as your body tries to escape the sensation without any input from you. 

“I know. I know, baby, that was the hardest part. Breathe.”

He drops his thumb to your clit, rubbing circles with light pressure to distract from the pain.

You nod, lips pressed together tight as the deep ache muddles your brain. It’s an insistent pressure against something does not seem to want to budge. It burns and stretches and is laced with sour, flirtatious pleasure so that you can hardly tell what it is you’re feeling. Mostly, you’re dizzy and hot.

“Relax, just like that,” he strains, looking down. “My good girl. We’re almost there, baby.”

Cries spill unbidden from your mouth and your eyes shut as he continues to open you up deeper, until finally, finally, his hips settle into the cradle of yours. 

Spencer sighs a curse under his breath, so quiet you don’t think it was meant for you. 

He’s inside of you. It’s bizarre. 

You whimper, and he snaps out of whatever revery he’d been in. 

“You okay? How does that feel?”

You take a shuddering breath, closing your eyes and trying to clear your head to no avail—your thoughts are like TV static. 

“I’m good. I need… I need a minute.”

“You can have as much time as you need. It’s a lot, huh?”

“Yeah,” you admit, voice small and weak. 

“I bet,” he agrees, peppering soft kisses all over your face. “But you’re doing so well. Proud of you, brave girl. You’re doing so well and we’re gonna make sure it feels good soon, okay? Whenever you’re ready.”

“Will you please kiss me again?” you whisper, and Spencer’s brow knits with concern. 

“Of course, angel. Of course I’ll kiss you,” he says, and makes good on his promise with his lips on yours. It sweetens the ache. “I’ll do whatever you want. You can have anything. You’re so perfect.”

He kisses you again, just as lovingly, and soft, like you’re delicate. All the praise is only contributing to your lightheadedness, but you don’t mind at all. It feels good. 

“You can… you can move.”

“Okay. We’ll go really slow, yeah?”

He waits for your nod before his hips are pulling back and you arch at the odd sensation. When he pushes back in, eyes carefully locked on yours the whole time, you keen slightly, frowning and brain shorting out as it tries and fails to process this new feeling. 

“Uh-huh. You’re okay, I promise.”

At first it doesn’t feel good. It mostly hurts. But slowly, the pain begins to abate as you acclimate to having him inside of you, and he’s careful the whole time. 

“Spence?” 

“Hm?”

He sounds concentrated on the task at hand—you’re entranced by the sight of him above you, the parted lips, the unkempt hair over the brow furrowed in pleasure and focus. But he’s never too busy for you. 

“Does it… um—” you pause to hold back a whine—“what does it feel like for you?”

At this, he slows even further and chuckles—it’s a strained, slightly breathy sound. 

“For me?”

“Mhm.”

“You feel perfect, baby. You feel so fucking good.”

The slight fry in Spencer’s voice as he curses, which is a rare event in and of itself, flips your stomach, turns you on immensely. The idea that you’re giving him pleasure too—it’s almost overwhelming. That’s when it starts feeling good. 

“Oh—” you squeak, jaw dropping and bucking your hips inadvertently as the first bolt of true pleasure shocks deep in your core. He hums. 

“Yeah, is that it, sweet girl?”

But you can’t answer for a long moment. Your brain is melting as your legs lock around him. 

“Mm—it’s—it feels…”

“I know it does,” Spencer murmurs.

You whine and press your face into the curve of his shoulder as each thrust gently rocks your body. As the pace picks up bit by bit, you feel yourself clenching hard around him. His hips stutter and he hisses. 

“Ah. Can’t do that, lovely.”

“What? Did I hurt you?”

He laughs breathily. 

“No, you didn’t hurt me. You almost pushed me out. You have to relax.”

“Sorry,” you whisper. “’M trying.”

“You don’t need to be sorry. I know you’re trying, baby, you’re being so good for me.”

Your nails skim his back—a small expression of a much larger desperation. Once he’s sure you’re relaxed around him, begins going faster. 

Your gasps and soft moans come more often now as he finds a steady rhythm and it feels so different when he’s actually fucking you. It feels like he’s everywhere. Every time your hips meet you feel the sweet shock of it in your teeth, your toes, the back of your neck. In the best way, you feel consumed by him. It’s not at all like you’d imagined, and it’s perfect. 

“Wait, Spencer,” you breathe, struggling to form the words. Immediately he stops again, lifting his head from your shoulder to examine your face. 

“What is it?”

He sounds just as wrecked as you feel, panting and strained and it feels good to hear. 

“I wanna watch.”

For a moment his eyes dart between yours like he’s trying to determine what you really mean—but you said exactly what you meant. Then he laughs, a huff of air from his nose as he presses his head to yours and gives you a quick kiss.

Your toes curl as he readjusts his position, holding himself a little higher and resting your heads together so you can both look between your bodies. 

“There,” he murmurs as he slowly begins to withdraw again. “Like that?”

But you can’t answer, because you’re too busy whimpering at the sight of him pushing into you. The feeling seems to increase tenfold as you watch it happen. Distantly you wonder how the fuck it fits. 

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Like that.”

Spencer takes this as a blessing to find a pace again, slower now as he seems to be just as enthralled by the sight as you are. 

“Give me your leg,” he rasps after a few moments like that, and you don’t know what he means exactly but you lift your right leg slightly only for him to press his hand to the back of your knee and push toward your chest, effectively opening you up and giving him more range of motion. It also enables him to fuck you even deeper. Again he slows, apparently savoring the feel of you yielding around him all the way down to the hilt. 

Black spots dance in your eyes as he settles at your deepest point—not pain, necessarily, just overwhelming sensation. Your jaw drops and you choke out a moan as he presses into recesses you didn’t know you had, as he shows you a part that you might have gone the rest of your life without knowing existed. He stops there, like that. Everything stops there, like that. If the cars on the road below ceased to drive, if the airplanes froze in the sky, you’d not be the least bit surprised. Somehow, you’ve unlocked a small eternity. There’s no sound but your joint heavy breathing and your heart pounding in your ears. The words just come bubbling up out of you in a little whine. 

“I love you.”

Spencer’s breath pauses for a moment before he’s letting it all out at once, brushing his lips up the ridge of your nose before they settle on your forehead in what seems like a permanent kiss. A few breaths in, you allow your eyes to flutter shut. Your heart rate slows down a touch, and you settle into the moment, never having been quite so content as you are like this—never having felt quite so adored and safe. 

“I love you,” he finally echoes, voice rasping, lips still pressed to your skin, still breathing against your hair. When he starts to move again, drawing back ever so slowly, you hiss softly. He raises his head from yours, and you look away from where he’s pulling out, meeting his eyes just in time for him to push back in, just as deep. They shine in the mostly-dark room and you moan unabashedly. It’s a high-pitched, sweet thing, nothing that will have the neighbors complaining—but so clearly true, from the depths of your soul, an expression of everything you’re feeling—not just the pleasure. 

Although that’s good, too, as Spencer shapes you to him again and again, the head of his cock kissing places nobody’s ever been and places you hope nobody else will ever venture to. This is all you need. Him. 

“Jesus,” Spencer groans, eyes fixed on your face as he fucks you slowly. But you can’t bring yourself to talk, too new to this kind of pleasure to find it anything other than mind-boggling and world altering. Your lips are still parted, allowing each sound to pass without filter. “Listen to you, beautiful.”

When he stops again, just to look down and marvel at you, you’re conflicted. On the one hand, you can taste the pleasure on the back of your tongue and he keeps taking it away when it’s so close. But on the other—you’re just as overwhelmed as he said you’d be. Your body has never had to process this kind of sensory information before, and you’re exhausted, but it’s so good. 

“Spencer,” you manage. He looks up, pupils blown and eyes lidded where they’d normally be wide. “Please don’t stop.”

He swallows, spurred into action again as soon as you say it. 

“Good?”

You nod and whine again as he picks up the pace bit by bit, remembering to push your leg back once more so he can get as deep as you need him. 

“So good,” you exhale at the top pitch of your voice. Your brows pinch and you release a fuller moan as Spencer finds a speed that’s fast enough to constantly feel good no matter where he is. You’re gasping for breath, back arching—and he finds a new angle, catching against the spot inside you that renders all those years of human evolution that gave you sentience and intelligence a waste. He chuckles airily at your series of series of affronted moans and halted gasps. 

“Right there? That's a good spot, isn’t it?”

“Oh, go—fuck, fuck!”

It feels so good it almost hurts, and your eyes are stinging to prove it. Your legs clamp tighter around him and you realize there’s a very lewd wet sound and you can’t believe that’s you. 

“Spencer, you’re—oh my god, I love you,” you whine, and it sounds like you’re pleading for your life. At this makes his own sound of pleasure, and hastens his messy circles on your clit as if in reward. 

But it’s too much all combined. 

Your hand claps to your mouth to obscure the loud, licentious moan that comes out—but Spencer immediately moves his hand from between your legs to grab your wrist and pin it gently to the bed, intertwining your fingers. 

“Don’t do that. Let me hear.”

You nod, and he lets go of your hand to return his fingers to your clit. If possible you get wetter around his cock—you can feel yourself gushing. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you whine as if pained. 

“Yeah? Gonna finally let me feel you cumming, angel?”

He has a filthy mouth when he wants to. The words hit like high voltage to your core and the very pit of your stomach. You can’t even respond beyond a desperate sob. 

“Show me, baby. I’m right here. Let go.”

You cum around his cock with a broken cry and it’s like a purge of every drop of angst you’d felt over the past week or so—hell, it’s a purge of all the insecurities that had bubbled to the surface since you started dating him. None of it matters anymore. How could it matter when you have him? When you have this?

The orgasm washes you out like a tidal wave, taking everything with it. It’s strong, and it’s so good, so intense, your body is overwrought with sensation and it’s too much even though it’s perfect. Your brain is drawing a blank as it tries to react to the feeling, and it’s like every button on the damn panel has been hit. 

“Fuck, I’m close,” Spencer grits, and you feel it in the way he adjusts his position, shifting as he grips at the edge of the mattress for leverage and the thrusts become messier, needier. You gasp as his other hand tangles in your hair, turning your head to ghost your lips over his forearm. It’s not entirely surprising when his own lips find your shoulder—but the feeling of him finding his release just as his teeth sink into your skin does come as quite a shock. It doesn’t hurt, and you’re sure there’s no skin broken, but it’s an undeniable fact that he has grounded himself in the throes of passion by biting down on you.

Inside you, he feels hot. Searing, almost, as his spend tries to fill space that doesn’t exist. There is absolutely no room for anything else inside of you. Stars dance in your eyes at the overstimulation, but long after he’s finished he’s still fucking into you—albeit much slower and with far less technique. Spencer moans like a two bit whore, like he’s reached pain to a point of ecstasy, and to you it’s as good, as special as the singing of the planets. If he’s as sensitive as you are now, it’s no small feat for him to keep going on like this. It’s a testament to how much he doesn’t want it to be over. The pleasure is carrying him away, but you’re beginning to feel how soft you must be and how if he continues on like this you may bruise like an overripe peach. 

“Spencer,” you manage, skating your hand up and down his back in what you hope are soothing lines. “Baby.”

He whines as his lips detach from your shoulder, but his hips finally slow to a stop, nestled inside you. 

“Jesus, fuck, I'm sorry,” he breathes, opting now to bury his face in your neck (with significantly less biting this time).

You’re still reeling, toes still curled, still struggling to breathe as your head spins and spins and spins. His chest pushes against yours with every heaving breath, hot and heavy on your skin, and that’s the only sign he’s still alive until his hand eventually reanimates in your hair, scratching your head tenderly. 

For a span of minutes, you stay like that—silent, twined together like caducean serpents. His weight on top of you is perfect. This, the lack of differentiation between your body and his, is perfect. You don’t know where he ends and you begin and you don’t need to. It’s a blissful moment. 

“Hey.”

Spencer’s voice is hoarse when he finally speaks, lifting his head to look at you with flushed cheeks and messy hair and sparkly eyes. 

“Hi.”

He smiles. 

“You’re so pretty.”

“You too,” you murmur, moving your hand from his back and pressing your thumb into the hollow of his cheek. His eyes map the curves of your face as he pushes your surely askew hair back. 

“How do you feel?”

It takes you a moment to seriously consider his question, scanning your body for any undue pains, but for the moment, you find none, beyond a dull aching throb that you can manage. 

“Good. Tired.”

You wince at the uncomfortable feeling of him pulling out. Spencer hums sympathetically and presses a sticky kiss to your lips which makes it a little better, though you can’t ignore how uncomfortable all the previously pleasant wetness has become between your legs. 

“Here—stay here, I’ll get a wash cloth and—”

“It’s fine,” you insist, holding on even as he tries to roll off of you. “I just need… will you stay here for a little bit?”

“Of course,” he promises, now pressed close to your side and propped up on an elbow, “whatever you want.”

You lavish in his gaze, warm like a spotlight, as he strokes your cheek and plays with your hair. Very quickly you’re lulled into a doze, eyes fluttering shut. Minutes stretch. You feel drunk on waking dreams, and perfectly at peace. Safe. 

“Angel girl,” he christens you fondly. More than anything, it’s an observation, so lovely it sinks into your skin like a balm, soothing every tired muscle and little mark he’d made. Even half-asleep, it makes you smile. 

“You’re an angel,” you slur, reaching blindly for him, and he chuckles, catching your wrist and helpfully settling your hand on his cheek. 

“I thought you were asleep.”

You hum, “mm-mm,” looking up at him with just as much adoration as he has for you. Those cuddle hormones must be kicking in because soon you’re attempting to pull him back on top of you. He doesn’t quite comply, probably for fear of crushing you—rather he settles next to you, gathering you in his arms. 

Silence blankets the two of you, but it’s not unpleasant as you just watch each other with barely-there smiles curling your mouths. This kind of intimacy still manages to give you butterflies, even after everything else you’ve done. This kind of satisfaction, reverie in the sound of each other’s blood flowing and lungs filling. Setting aside words because you don’t need conversation as a pretense for wanting to be around each other anymore. You don’t need an excuse to look at him like this. You don’t need words any more than you need clothes. It’s enough to just be. 

“I love you,” he says, a soft reminder, and entirely redundant with the way he’d already been looking at you, touching you. 

“I know. I love you too.”

The smile flickers brighter on his face. 

“And thank you.”

Your eyes narrow minutely as you consider what he could possibly be thanking you for. 

“For what?”

“For loving me. And trusting me. It’s…” your heart squeezes as you realizes tears are pooling in his eyes. He takes a moment and clears his throat. It’s incredibly endearing. “It means a lot to me. You mean a lot to me.”

You look down, thumbing at the sheets where you’ve hoisted them over your bodies. 

“You do realize how lame we are if we have sex and both immediately start crying, right?”

At this he laughs loudly but not loud enough to pop the little bubble you’re in, and you look up just in time to catch the brilliance of his smile, the way it changes his whole face and he becomes superhuman in his beauty, the lines that form by his eyes and the way they narrow and crystalline tears bead his lashes like precious gems. 

“Don’t cry,” he requests gently, hypocritically as your own eyes sting. The way his smile fades is like the sun setting. Gorgeous, like everything else he does. “You’ve cried so much, honey. Please don’t cry.”

You sniffle, gathering yourself. 

“I’m not. That would be pathetic.”

Spender leans forward to kiss you tenderly a few more times. Ordinarily you’d worry about coming across as clingy when you hold onto him so closely and so insistently like this, but for now you don’t care. Neither does he, it seems, as he seems unable to get you close enough. Eventually, you end up curled against him, head tucked under his chin and dozing on and off as he traces shapes into your skin. 

“What are you writing?” You mumble some time later, cheek smushed against his shoulder. He only responds with a soft hm, like he was lost deep in thought. You clarify, “it feels like you were writing something.”

“She Walks in Beauty.”

Your lips pull into a sleepy smile. 

“The Lord Byron poem?”

The first time you’d met Spencer, he’d inadvertently caused your painstakingly annotated copy of Lord Byron’s works to go flying all over a cafe, and then kindly helped clean up the pages and reorder them for you in record time. Among the poems had been She Walks in Beauty. 

“Yeah. I was trying to figure out when exactly I fell in love with you, and as someone who is deeply skeptical about love at first sight, I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I keep coming back to our first conversation. I mean, I believe in genetic compatibility, and how that contributes to attraction and what we think of as chemistry, but—”

“Wait, what about our first conversation did it?” Your cheeks ache from smiling as you speak. “As I recall I was being a bitch and I was covered in coffee.”

He laughs dreamily, still tracing letters over the small of your back. You wonder what part of the poem he’s at now. 

“Yeah, mean to me and covered in coffee is pretty much exactly my type. But I think it was actually the annotations on that copy of Lord Byron’s works. They were so insightful, and personal, I—it kind of took my breath away, and I know I shouldn’t have read them all but I couldn’t stop. You were compelling, and charming, and funny and wildly intelligent and beautiful and… and I didn’t stand a chance.”

Everything aches. It’s a good ache. Despite being seconds from tearing up all over again, you snort. He never told you about that first day.

“You thought me writing ‘sister fucker’ in all caps every time he mentioned Augusta was charming?”

“Oh, obscenely so. But now that I’m looking back, I feel like… I feel like I can’t remember not being in love with you. I mean, I remember when I realized I was, and that was later. But it was like I met you, and then I was just… waiting for you to catch up.”

You grab his hand and interlace your fingers, watching the way the ambient nighttime light from the window and the bathroom dips them half in color. 

“We were pretty much on the same page. I was debating courthouse versus small intimate ceremony as soon as you left.”

You watch him watching your joined hands, features soft and relaxed, fiddling with your fingers absentmindedly as he speaks. 

“Definitely small intimate ceremony. I have too many friends who would kill me if they weren’t invited to the wedding.”

You giggle and pretend the thought doesn’t give you butterflies. You imagine a ring on your finger, the one he’s got between his own. Marriage had never been something you’d considered. Not when you had no reason to. It seemed like something for other people. But maybe one day, it will be for you, too. 

“Did you know Lord Byron had a daughter who is regarded by many as the first computer programmer? She wrote the first algorithm for a theoretical machine that was so complex it couldn’t be built with the technology available at the time. It was called an Analytical Engine.”

He sounds almost wistful as he gives you the utterly unprompted, but still welcome, abridged version of her life. The description is ringing a bell—but you can’t quite place her, sleepy as you are.  

“What was her name?”

“Ada Lovelace. She was exceptionally gifted. The odds of parent and child being so extraordinary in their respective fields are incalculable, but from a purely theoretical perspective, negligible. I mean, they’re both massive historical figureheads. That’s extremely uncommon.”

You adore it when he goes off on these tangents—the passion that stains his voice, the ardor that grips him until he has no choice but to tell you exactly what’s got him so excited. You could listen to him talk for hours. It means he’s here with you, and he wants you to love what he loves. 

Since he met you, that’s all Spencer has wanted—for you to love what he loves. 

You want the same. 

“Pretty name,” you murmur, eyes fluttering shut. “Tell me more.” 

[wordsinhaled]

i’m so totally normal about the fact that aziraphale’s last (known) deliberate foray into the queer community was when he learned the gavotte at the fictionalized hundred guineas club (!!!) in the 1800s and now in the 2020s he’s like “grindr? what’s that?”

many are talking about his repression which is very valid… and yet the thing to me that stands out about aziraphale is that he’s actually… incredibly stable in his identity and that identity IS incredibly queer. queer by the standards of heaven AND by human standards as well

metatron describes his “de facto partnership” with crowley as “irregular.” and in fact aziraphale in his entirety is irregular. he likes and makes it his business not only to understand but to be a connoisseur of all manner of things angels aren’t supposed to even remotely care about. food. music. books. theatre. sleight of hand. and more.

it’s the sort of behavior that would’ve gotten him othered, treated as a bit odd, in heaven even if he hadn’t chosen to consort all across the earth with a literal demon. and it IS treated that way - the fact is aziraphale even as an angel has got proclivities that set him apart from the rest of the host (even after offering him the highest position in heaven, metatron still acts deeply dismissive of him… like aziraphale’s bookshop is merely a quaint little hobby of his that can be easily transferred to another custodian, and not a literal extension of who aziraphale has become, full of his tartan and unique bibles and special vintages of wine and the books arranged in a very specific way)

so. aziraphale is a queer angel but of course he’s also queer to other humans. but in such a way that… he had his realization a LONG time ago, and put the matter very much to rest after that. aziraphale is perpetually something like several centuries behind schedule. he owns an ancient computer that probably continues to run windows 98 simply because aziraphale’s decided it should. he wears the same waistcoat and coat for generations because he simply likes them precisely the way they are and sees no reason to change them. but the idea that he doesn’t know how he comes across to others - of course he does. he knows he looks like your prim and proper grandfather and he prefers it that way

aziraphale looked around at humans in the 1880s and said: ah yes. this is where i fit. and promptly ensconced himself in that queer subculture. learned the gavotte. read his austen. loved crowley from afar. aziraphale is fiercely and vibrantly queer. just with the sort of assurance of someone who lives with his lover in a commonlaw marriage for decades and then shows up at city hall for the certificate once society decides it’s ‘allowed.’ like… he hasn’t had any need to know what grindr is because aziraphale’s ‘scene’ was a century and a half ago and it defined romance for him too.

but my favorite thing about aziraphale is how much of him is about appearances versus the truth. he can lie straight to angels’ faces and sleep at night. he knows he comes off soft but he once wielded a flaming sword. he dissembles helplessness but he’s far from it and he knows precisely how it makes others treat him. and at the core of aziraphale is rigidity, inflexibility of ideas… his sense of self is stable where crowley’s is malleable, and so on, and so on

and the fact that he’s continuously fixated on trying to misguidedly do the right thing, the fact that he seeks heavenly approval and wants to fit the world into his schema of good vs evil… in no way do i think that means he isn’t one hundred percent aware of how he feels about crowley or what it means about him by angelic or human standards. i’ve seen some folks saying that aziraphale doesn’t want to like kissing crowley and like… as much as i love me some brideshead revisited/atonement flavored angst; i put forth that it’s not internalized homophobia or queer panic but simply: “i’m trying to do the right thing for both of us and you won’t let me.” and “i wanted our first kiss to be different.” he was envisioning an entirely different flavor of romance than what he got but he emma woodhoused too close to the sun

like, y’all. aziraphale in all likelihood has a glorious collection of historical queer erotica. he just has a feathery diva coat hanging in his closet, and for what. “oh, good lord” he says at crowley’s revolutionary outfit in the bastille, while eyeing him up like an entire meal. he’s so good at affected propriety, at carefully constructed stuffiness, but between the two of them aziraphale’s got to be the one who has experience

aziraphale had been physically throwing himself at crowley the entire season. he orchestrated an entire regency ball so they could touch hand to hand. he spends the entire season (well, and season 1) looking at crowley like he’s particularly coveted. he looked at crowley before the fall like he was glorious and beautiful. aziraphale’s queer and he knows it and i think that isn’t his problem, it’s the fact that he wants to build a different sort of future for the two of them but crowley’s gone and thrown a wrench in it by reminding him of everything he can finally have. like. that’s the heartbreak. it’s how dare you make this ugly? i forgive you for our first kiss being all pain and salt. it’s my dearest, i wanted to make heaven as beautiful as you deserve. as sacred and safe for us as our bookshop. and i can do that for us, because once i held a flaming sword and i still remember how the hilt felt in my hands. and now the taste of you is in my mouth.

[imsosleepyofyourbull]

I firmly believe that Kabru is autistic but masks so hard that he’s convinced himself and (almost) everyone around him that he’s neurotypical.

That man’s special interest is people and how they work, but he just thinks it’s him Being So Good At Socializing — like he doesn’t spend 95% of his time people watching and adjusting his personality in response to the traits he witnesses and obsessing over the intricacies of human interaction while mapping an ever growing relationship chart in his head. For fun. He even admits it in the manga!

Like, look at him!!!

It’s such a shame that — because he’s the narrative foil to Laios and his interest is generally considered more “socially acceptable” in both their world and our own — more people don’t realize this about him. He’s constantly misinterpreted as a horribly manipulative person who only acts the way he does to use the people around him, when that’s explicitly shown to not be the case at all. Kabru is naturally empathetic and is almost always thinking about other people, regardless of whether or not they’re right there with him or a thousand miles away.

I mean, his most defining motivation is his desire to do everything he can to avoid another tragedy like the one at Utaya. Someone who doesn’t care wouldn’t have a goal like that, and they most certainly wouldn’t go about it the way he does. He’s constantly working to help people who can help everyone else and tries so hard to make sure that anyone who seems like a threat is actually someone he needs to worry about before doing anything about it. His supposed aversion to Laios is only because of the ridiculous trolley problem he’s set up in his own head.

Outside of that, he (rather justifiably) hates monsters but is desperate to understand Laios’ love for them and his apparently most selfish goal in getting close to the guy was literally just to become friends with him.

When he’s interacting with the canaries and they imply that they’re going to take him and all of his friends to the West, his first thought is of Rin and how much she’d hate to be stuck in the place that gave her so many bad memories.

He helps Kuro learn Common when Mickbell is asleep and firmly looks forward to the day that the half-foot and Kuro can communicate properly so that their relationship can get properly started without any miscommunication.

And he understands Mithrun with only a handful of weeks AT BEST interacting with him, getting enraged when the elf seems to give up and immediately trying to help him find a new motivation for life.

I’m excited just thinking about the day that Kabru starts unmasking more and more around his friends — both new and old — because if being with my current friend group has taught me anything, it’s that hanging out with anyone so unabashedly themselves is bound to make you more comfortable with yourself too. It’s part of the reason why I like Labru so much! There’s something nice about imagining them hanging out in the throne room or laying in the grass outside and talking for hours on end about their special interests. They might not strictly understand what the other finds so fascinating about monsters or people, but they can grasp that shared feeling of love.

They probably influence each other in really good ways too, with Kabru helping Laios figure out what people are thinking even when it doesn’t make sense or Laios helping Kabru understand that not everyone and everything needs to be analyzed a thousand times over. They both get to learn that there are people like them and people who will love them without them ever having to change a thing about themselves. They deserve to know that they’re fine the way they are.