#made me laugh way harder than it should have

[little-jana]

"Fractured Edges"

Pairing: Spencer Reid x reader

Genre: angst

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: raised voices, emotional distress, fighting, case-talk, self-doubt, unresolved conflict, no comfort, mentions of Maeve

Summary: Spencer’s anger and fear explode after you put yourself in danger without telling him.

You had never seen Spencer Reid this angry before.

Not when cases went sideways. Not when he was on the receiving end of ridicule. Not even when his own life was at risk.

But now? Now, as he stood in front of you, his hands clenched into fists, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths—you realized there was an entirely different side of Spencer you had never seen before. One that wasn’t built from logic and facts, but from raw, unfiltered emotion.

And it terrified you.

"You lied to me," he snapped, his voice like glass breaking against concrete.

Your stomach twisted. "Spencer, I didn’t—"

"Don't." He shook his head, his jaw tight, his entire body rigid with barely restrained fury. "Don't insult me by pretending like it wasn’t a lie."

You swallowed hard, the weight of the situation settling deep in your chest. "I didn't tell you because I knew how you'd react."

His laugh was hollow, bitter. "Oh, so you knew I’d be upset? That makes it better?" He took a step forward, his eyes burning into yours. "What else have you kept from me?"

The question hit you harder than it should have.

"It wasn’t about you, Spencer," you said, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "I made a choice, and I stand by it."

"A choice?" His voice wavered, disbelief coloring every syllable. "You put yourself in danger, you took risks that could’ve—" He cut himself off, running a shaking hand through his hair.

You knew he was struggling to keep his composure. To hold back the fear that had transformed into anger.

And somehow, that hurt more than the words themselves.

"I did what I had to do," you said softly, but the words felt weak.

Spencer let out a sharp exhale, pacing now, hands gripping his hair in frustration. "God, you sound just like—" He stopped himself.

Your stomach dropped. "Like who?"

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t have to.

Maeve.

The name sat between you like an open wound, fresh and bleeding.

You sucked in a breath. "Spencer..."

"Don’t," he said again, but this time it wasn’t sharp—it was broken.

You wanted to reach for him, to tell him that this wasn’t the same, that he wasn’t losing you, that you weren’t her.

But the look in his eyes told you it didn’t matter.

He felt like he was losing you. And maybe, in a way, he already had.

“Tell me why you did it.”

The demand was quiet, but it didn’t lack force. Spencer had stopped pacing, his gaze pinning you to the spot.

You hesitated. He deserved an answer. You owed him that much.

But how could you explain it to him?

How could you put into words the way your stomach had twisted when you realized the danger—how it wasn’t a reckless decision but a necessary one? How could you explain that if you hadn’t done what you did, people would have died?

That he could have died?

You forced yourself to meet his gaze. “Because it was the only option.”

“That’s bullshit,” Spencer snapped. His voice was sharper now, cutting through the tension like a blade. “There are always options. You just didn’t trust me enough to find another one.”

Your throat tightened. “That’s not true—”

“Isn’t it?” He let out a bitter laugh, his eyes dark with something you couldn’t name. “You didn’t tell me. You didn’t talk to me. You just—just decided without even thinking about what it would mean for the rest of us.”

For me.

The words weren’t spoken, but you heard them anyway.

You took a step forward. “Spencer, I wasn’t trying to shut you out.”

“But you did.” His voice wavered. “You did, and now you’re standing here, acting like I’m the one being unreasonable for being angry about it.”

You flinched. “I don’t think you’re being unreasonable.”

“No?” His arms crossed tightly over his chest, his entire posture defensive, bracing. “Then why do you keep acting like this is something we can just move past?

Because you had to.

Because if you didn’t, if you stayed in this place of hurt and anger, you weren’t sure you’d ever come back from it.

But looking at Spencer now, at the way his hands were shaking, at the way his breath hitched when he tried to speak—you realized that maybe he wasn’t sure if he could come back from this either.

“I was scared,” you admitted. The words felt foreign, raw. “I knew what I was doing was dangerous, but it wasn’t about shutting you out, Spencer. It wasn’t about you.”

His jaw clenched. “That’s the problem, though, isn’t it?”

You frowned. “What?”

His voice was quieter now, but the anger hadn’t faded—it had only settled, simmering beneath the surface.

“I wasn’t part of the equation,” he said. “You didn’t think about what this would do to me. To the team. You just decided that you’d handle it alone.”

The words stung.

You wanted to argue. To tell him that he was wrong, that you had thought about him—about all of them.

But had you?

Had you really stopped, for even a second, to think about what it would feel like for them to watch you put yourself in danger without so much as a word of warning?

Your silence must have given you away because Spencer exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “That’s what I thought.”

“Spence, I—”

“You keep saying it wasn’t about me.” His voice cracked, and that was what finally shattered you. “But don’t you get it? It is about me. About all of us. About what happens when we lose someone else because they thought they could do it alone.”

He didn’t have to say her name.

The ghost of Maeve lingered between you, unspoken but deeply felt.

And now, you had wedged yourself into the same space—another person he cared about, another person who made a choice without him, another person who could have been taken away just as easily.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, and suddenly, it wasn’t anger in his eyes anymore. It was fear.

A deep, bone-deep kind of fear that made your chest ache.

You took a shaky breath. “You won’t.”

His lips pressed together in a thin line. “How can you be so sure?”

Because you weren’t.

And neither was he.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and fragile, like a thread pulled too tight.

Finally, Spencer inhaled sharply and took a step back. It was small, barely noticeable, but it felt like a chasm opening between you.

“I need time,” he said.

Your heart clenched. “Spencer—”

“I need time,” he repeated, and this time, his voice was steady. Firm.

Final.

And then he turned, walking away before you could stop him.

You didn’t chase after him.

You didn’t call out his name.

Because for the first time since you had known him, you weren’t sure if he wanted to be caught.

And that?

That hurt more than anything else.

[amesul]

favorite nerd; c.clark ❥₊ ⊹

“you look cute,” the compliment towards your girlfriend impacted the corners of her mouth to lift, giving you a view of how white and shiny her teeth were as she showered you with more compliments.

that only made you laugh and admire her face features that had quickly returned to her teammates, lexie hull and aliyah boston. chatting about the next season and how caitlin would feel as a vet soon.

u saw the way the not so new glasses, that she had boughten just three months ago apt her appearance, only making her look like a nerd.

yet, you couldn’t help urself but feel your entrance leak a little when caitlin slowly bit her bottom lip, listening to aliyah’s comments before nodding her head and making a funny reply, earning a giggle from you.

u never knew you would have a kink to see her in glasses, but is it ur fault? it didn’t feel like ur fault when her other teammates had called her beautiful with glasses on and that it suited her, which had of course made you envious.

it was like she read your mind because her hands flew to ur right thigh, scratching the surface softly as she continued on with her conversation.

tho, u wanted her hair to meet your own for a kiss, and maybe more than that.

“caitlin,” you whispered low the best you could, trying to succeed in getting her heed, ur hand wandering off inside her hair, scraping a bit of her scalp that had suddenly caused caitlin to sigh in relief.

“mh’ yeah, baby?” she asked, twisting her head to you for a split second, flashing you a smile before returning it to lexie who had made a joke.

u couldn’t debate whether you should tell her because it was truly embarrassing. you got soaked over a pair of glasses on the wnba’s roty along with time’s aoty.

if that doesn’t speak on how sensitive you are, then who knows.

u tugged at her puff jacket, hugging the epic knit jacket underneath, which just made her look even hotter in ur opinion. especially with how her perfectly straightened hair fell.

“can we go home?” you trailed off with a knowing tone, giving her the puppy eyes hoping she would notice but she didn’t, only replying with a small, “why?” already turned to her teammates.

it was starting to make you feel irritating, the conversation caitlin was having with lexie and aliyah surely shouldn’t be as interesting.

you didn’t want to get jealous, there was no need for that, you knew lexie and aliyah had a good friendship with caitlin, so you shouldn’t feel envious.

“i just wanna go right now ‘s all” you mumbled, moving a strand of hair behind her ear slowly, scrutinizing her side profile.

caitlin finally twisted her attention on you, taking notice of the way ur breathing slowed down and the frown u gifted her.

“what’s wrong, sweetheart?” she questioned, wondering if you had gotten ill.

you responded by grasping her veiny hand, subtly slipping it under the waistband on ur shorts, trailing it down to ur throbbing pussy that needed the touch no one could ever give like her.

she met your doe eyes, the sly dimple appearing above her left cheek, her smirk only growing as she saw u close ur eyes, letting her hand pinch ur clit under the table.

“care to explain?” she asked softly, taking a choice and letting two fingers escape from the fabric, hiding and folding in between ur labia.

u immediately took a deep breath, trying to calm down, only getting harder to do so when caitlin was nearly tickling ur g-spot with a flow you loved every time.

“i- um.. caitlin.” you moaned as low as you could, lexie and aliyah almost forgotten when caitlin’s fingertips glided swiftly on ur bundle of nerves, meeting caitlin’s eyes — only to see her now nodding at whatever lexie was saying.

and you? you felt like you were already gonna release.

u wanted her to look at you, look at the way she was making you struggle, so there was no better way than to try and stop her movements.

check. it worked.

her furrowed brows only grew as she saw ur pout, “look at me,” you whispered, “please.”

u examined the way her eyes drew you in, lust written all over her orbs as she slowly continued, “i can’t, darling.” mumbling, signaling over to her teammates that were in a conversations themselves now, and to make it more risky, you both were sitting in front of them.

“take me home th-then, fuck you—why are you doing this knowing we-“ you cut urself off before you could let out a scream, three fingers pressing hard against ur g-spot suddenly.

“but i love seeing you suffer, sweets” now she pouted, hinting a smile to indicate it was also a joke, yet it was hard for you to laugh when her fingers found home inside ur dripping entrance.

“you still didn’t answer my question, y’know,” she reminded you, and u quickly blushed, embarrassment taking over you at the thought of getting turned on from seeing ur girlfriend with glasses on.

“just.. flashbacks,” you tried to mask it with a fake answer, hard to admit but also hard because her fingers were still rocking against ur bud.

caitlin wasn’t stupid, she knew you better than anyone.

she saw that lie more than she should’ve, humming softly as lexie asked her something, but she took no action in talking to her as she dipped her fingers deeper into ur slippery walls.

she cocked her brow, “i know you better than to lie, princess,” and with the tone, the eyeing, the easy demeanor had some type of courage to tell her what it actually was.

you didn’t wanna keep anything from her, especially because all of this happened because of her.

“your.. f-fuck, your glasses,” you confessed, the knot in ur stomach building up as her fingers started a rapid pace around ur bundle of nerves, eye contact helping you chase the strong catharsis.

“mm’ really?” caitlin asked, almost to herself before smiling and shaking her head, turning her head to aliyah who suddenly asked her something too, still trying not to risk the moment and get caught, but she felt the want to get caught and let her teammates know how she was making you feel.

you on the other hand, felt like the world was caving in, the adrenaline rushing through you, but also having all of ur blood rush to ur brain as pre cum started to seep out, clenching around her fingers as you tried everything in you to hold it in, failing almost immediately as you quickly bit ur lip so hard you knew blood would appear, but you didn’t care.

the moan that slipped out was incredibly unnoticed by the two teammates, but the small wet patch that went through the shorts was surely to be noticed.

you felt proud, you didn’t know you could get away with releasing in public, the only thing that you couldn’t get away with was caitlin’s fingers still flicking against ur g-spot.

“and that’s our cue to go, we’ll see you later guys, it was very nice to have the opportunity to talk about this particular topic, love ya’ll.” caitlin quickly dismissed the both of you, feeling ur cum all over her hand was enough for her to make you want to cum all over her strap.

“alright, we’ll catch up later!” lexie exclaimed, the both waving at the couple, oblivious on your panting and the athlete concentrated on whatever she was thinking of.

as soon as you both got in the car, caitlin’s lips latched onto yours, “my glasses, huh?”

an. the glasses on her. that’s all i have to say.

[xlettex]

Indelible || osamu miya Tattoo Artist Au - Oneshot

You deal in flowers, fleeting and delicate. He deals in ink, bold and lasting. You should’ve known better than to let Osamu Miya linger, but he always had a way of getting what he wanted. And now? He’s got you right where he wants you—under his hands, under his needle, and marked in a way you’ll never forget.

pairing - osamu miya x reader genre - romance-ish, erotica/smut rating - 18+ MINORS DNI chapter word count - 4.0k content warning - slight dirty talk, oral (receiving), fingering, praise, overstimulation

The space smelled like warm amber and sunshine, petals carrying the heady fragrance of summer in full bloom. Even with boxes still unpacked and stray leaves littering the floor, your little flower shop felt alive—vibrant with the hum of something fresh and new. It should have been peaceful.

But then he walked in. 

Osamu Miya leaned against the doorway as he had nowhere else to be, arms crossed, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. The sharp scent of ink and faint traces of smoke clung to him, a stark contrast to the soft florals that surrounded you. His presence alone shifted the air—made it heavier, warmer, and harder to ignore.

And the worst part?

You could already feel yourself leaning into it.

Osamu Miya was a problem.

A problem with broad shoulders, ink-stained hands, and a way of slipping into spaces that weren’t his.

His tattoo studio, Kitsune Ink, sat just next door, and from the moment you moved in, it seemed like he had made it his personal mission to hover. You’d barely been here three weeks, yet somehow, he had already woven himself into the fabric of your routine.

He showed up almost every day. And somehow, you’d gotten used to it. The most frustrating part? He knew it.

“Ya know,” he drawled, stepping fully into your shop as if he belonged there, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone struggle this much with a shelving unit before.”

You sighed through your nose, glancing down at the half-assembled wooden shelves sitting in a pathetic pile near the window. The instruction booklet crinkled in your fist, a silent admission of defeat.

“It’s not that bad.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, the sound deep and warm, and yet entirely mocking. “Sweetheart, the instructions are still in your hand, and ya look like ya wanna fight ‘em.”

Your glare was half-hearted at best, and Osamu—predictably—did not look even slightly deterred. Instead, he just shook his head, rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie before crouching down beside the mess of wood and screws.

You hadn’t asked him to help. You never did. But that never stopped him. First, it was fixing a wobbly table. Then, it was carrying in heavy bags of soil without a word, only tossing you a glance like it was obvious he’d do it. Now, it was the shelves.

Three weeks. 

Three weeks of stolen glances, of his steady hands, brushing yours as he passed you tools, of ink-stained fingers grazing your wrist in passing. Three weeks of his scent— smoke, leather, sandalwood, something unmistakably him—lingering in your space long after he left. 

You knew this game. You just didn’t know who was going to fold first.

“Why do you keep helping me?” you asked, arms crossed as you watched him make quick work of the shelving.

He didn’t answer right away. He was focused, dark brows drawn together slightly as he secured the base, testing its stability before reaching for another screw.

"Dunno. Maybe I just like watchin’ ya get all frustrated."

He smirked, slow and lazy, his gaze dragging over you from head to toe—a deliberate, unhurried once-over that made your skin prickle with awareness.

Then, just as easily, he looked away. Like he hadn’t done a damn thing. Like he hadn’t just set your nerves on fire.

Your stomach flipped.

Not at his words—no, those were typical, he meant to poke, to tease—but at the way his voice had softened. At how easy it felt to have him here, kneeling in your shop like he fit there, like he fit with you.

You scoffed, reaching blindly for the nearest thing you could grab—a handful of delicate petals from a bouquet resting on the counter—and tossing them at him.

He barely flinched.

The petals fluttered down onto his shoulders, catching in the folds of his hoodie. And instead of brushing them away, he simply tilted his head back to look at you.

Grinning. Sharp. Knowing.

Something tight curled in your chest. The air between you felt charged, expectant, like you were waiting for something—

Or like he was waiting for you to give in first.

But you wouldn’t. Not yet.

So you turned back to your work, ignoring the way his presence still lingered.

A few days passed.

And, just like before, Osamu kept showing up. Every day, without fail.

Sometimes he found an excuse—a crooked sign, a shelf that suddenly needed adjusting. Other times, he didn’t bother with one at all.

And you? 

​​You started waiting.

Not on purpose. Not at first. But when the door stayed closed too long, when the shop felt too quiet, you found yourself listening for the chime. Expecting him.

Today was no different, the shop was bathed in golden afternoon light and the air was thick with the scent of fresh blooms. Your fingers worked carefully, arranging stems into a bouquet—soft pink peonies, delicate baby’s breath, sprigs of eucalyptus. Each piece tucked in with purpose, in perfect harmony.

The task was familiar, something steady to lose yourself in. Until–

The door chime jingled.

You didn’t need to look up.

You already knew who it was.

“You know,” you said without missing a beat, voice laced with dry amusement, “for someone who’s supposed to be a super busy tattoo artist, you sure spend a lot of time here.”

Osamu smirked, entirely unbothered as he strolled in, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie. Like always, he walked in without hesitation, as if the space were already his.

And maybe, in some ways, it was.

“Strange, huh?” he mused, gaze flicking over the shop like he was only now realizing how often he found himself here. Then, with that signature, lazy grin, he added, “Maybe I just like the view.”

Your fingers fumbled slightly with the ribbon, the slip small enough that most people wouldn’t notice. 

Osamu wasn’t most people.

But you covered it quickly, exhaling an exaggerated sigh. “Flirting with the florist now? Didn’t take you for the type.”

He leaned against the counter, tilting his head as his grin stretched wider. “Maybe ’m just tryna get a discount.”

You scoffed. “You don’t even like flowers.”

“True,” he admitted easily. “But ya like talkin’ to me, so I figure that’s a fair trade.”

Your jaw clenched. Heat licked at the edges of your skin—annoyance, you told yourself. Just annoyance. You focused on tying the ribbon, refusing to meet his eyes. “You’re so full of yourself.”

He hummed, something close to amusement laced in his tone. “Yeah? And what’s that say about you, sweetheart?”

You stiffened as his voice dipped lower, smooth and measured like he was testing something.

“Not once,” he murmured, “have ya told me to stop comin’ around.”

Your hands paused. Damn him. You opened your mouth—because of course you were going to argue—but then—

A sudden gust of wind rushed through the shop, sweeping in without warning.

The chime above the door rattled against the frame, petals stirred from the counter, and the silk ribbon you had been tying fluttered between your fingers. A warm breeze wrapped around you, tousling strands of your hair, brushing against the bare skin of your arms—

And then—

Your skirt lifted. Just for a second—just enough.

The hem fluttered, the soft fabric riding up a little higher along your thighs before settling again.

His gaze dropped.

Slow. Intentional.

His smirk stilled, his brows lifting just slightly as the fabric lifted—baring a little more of your thigh before it slipped back into place. And then, just as slowly, his gaze dragged back up—

Measured. Unhurried.

Taking in everything—the smooth stretch of your skin, the way the sunlight kissed the bare expanse of your legs, the delicate curve of your hip where your skirt had briefly ridden up.

And then—it hit him.

His smirk twitched, almost thoughtful. He tilted his head, his eyes lingering, searching— Like he was expecting something. Like he was looking for something. And not finding it.

For a moment, he just stood there, taking in the lack of dark lines. Then, voice low, teasing, edged with something just a little more real than before, he murmured—

“Wait a minute.”

The teasing lilt in his tone was there, but beneath it, there was something else. Something real.

His gaze flicked over your bare arms, the delicate curve of your shoulders, then lower—down the line of your thigh where the warm glow of the afternoon sun kissed exposed skin.

And that’s when it clicked. Something flickered behind his gaze.

“You don’t have a tattoo, do ya?”

His voice had dropped, a little quieter now.

Not mocking. Just curious.

Your stomach flipped. Your fingers twitched around the bouquet ribbon, and for some stupid reason, you suddenly felt bare in a way that had nothing to do with the heat.

“What does that have to do with—”

“Holy shit.”

He grinned, really grinned like he’d just discovered something mischievous and fun.

You lifted your chin stubbornly, crossing your arms. “Not all of us like defacing our skin, Miya.”

“Deface?” His voice dipped low, smooth as ink. Dangerous. “That’s a bit harsh, ain’t it?”

You scoffed, but he wasn’t letting up.

“What, ya scared?”

Your fingers tensed. “I am not scared.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping lower—teasing, challenging. “Mm. Sounds like somethin’ someone scared would say.”

Your glare was immediate, but he just chuckled, straightening up.

“Ain’t a big deal, sweetheart. Just funny, is all.” He gestured vaguely toward his own ink-stained skin, the sharp lines that curled up his forearms and peeked from beneath his sleeves. “You own a shop full of flowers that’ll wilt in a week, but ya won’t let somethin’ permanent sit on your skin?”

You hesitated.

You’d never thought about it that way.

Noticing your silence, he seized his opportunity, nodding toward the black ink marking his own arms.

“Think of it like this,” he murmured, “flowers die.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking between your face and your bare wrist.

“Ink stays.”

Your teeth grazed your bottom lip. You hated that that actually made sense. Still, you lifted a brow. “Aren’t you fully booked?”

His grin softened, just a little—something unreadable flickering in his gaze.

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice low, warm.

And then, slowly, too casually, he reached forward, brushing a loose petal from your wrist with deliberate slowness, his fingers barely grazing your skin. They should have lifted away. Should have left no trace.

But they lingered. For just a second too long. Warmth spread through you, up your arm, into your pulse, curling deep in your chest.

“For you,” he murmured, tilting his head just slightly—just enough for you to catch the amusement flickering in his eyes. “I’ll make room.”

The air between you too thickened.

A pause. 

Long enough for your breath to feel too shallow, for your pulse to quicken just slightly beneath his lingering fingers. And then—

He leaned in just a little more. Not much. Just enough for you to feel it—the shift, the space between you shrinking, stretching something taut between you.

His voice dipped, smooth, lazy, and entirely devastating.

“So…”

He tilted his head, his smirk downright sinful now.

“…you gonna let me mark ya up, sweetheart?”

Your breath hitched.

And Osamu?

Yeah. He noticed.

You should have said no. Should have walked away before this went too far. Before he did exactly what he’d been waiting to do all along.

But you didn’t. And the next thing you knew—

You were in the back room of Osamu Miya’s tattoo shop. 

The scent of disinfectant and ink replaced the soft florals of your shop, the steady buzz of a tattoo machine in the next room filling the space between you. Everything about Kitsune Ink felt different—sharper, heavier, a stark contrast to the delicate beauty of your world. Dark walls, bold artwork, and the faint scent of something deep and earthy clinging to the air. 

Osamu fit here. Too well.

You were sitting in his chair, his gaze flickering over you like he was figuring something out.

“Still got time to back out, y’know,” he mused, one brow lifted as he leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you with that same lazy confidence that had gotten you here in the first place.

You stiffened. “I didn’t come here to back out.”

“Mm.” He didn’t look convinced.

You exhaled sharply, fingers curling against the chair. “I want a flower.”

He hummed, tilting his head slightly. “Predictable.”

His smirk was slow, knowing, and when he spoke again, his voice dipped—low, smooth, just shy of mocking. “If that’s what ya want.”

A pause.

Then, his gaze flicked over you, slow and deliberate. “So, where’s it goin’, sweetheart?”

Your breath caught, pulse fluttering in your throat. And then—

Before you could second-guess yourself before you could stop the words from leaving your mouth—

“My hip.”

A beat of silence.

Then—something shifted. His smirk deepened, slow and knowing, and for a moment, he just looked at you. Like he was making sure he heard you right. Like he was waiting for you to take it back. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

“…Yer hip, huh?” His voice was low, a little rougher around the edges.

You swallowed, gripping the arms of the chair just a little too tightly. “Yeah.”

His smirk twitched.

Oh, he was enjoying this.

“Good choice,” he murmured, flicking a switch on the tattoo machine, the soft buzz filling the space between you. The soft buzz filled the space between you.

Your breath stalled. Before, it had just been an idea—a teasing exchange that you could still walk away from. But now, with that unmistakable hum vibrating through the air, it was real.

He noticed.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t push. Didn’t tease. Instead, he let the machine run, his fingers adjusting the settings with practiced ease—giving you just enough time to sit with it.

Letting you feel the weight of the moment.

And then, slowly, too casually, he took a step closer, then another—until he was close enough for the scent of his cologne to wrap around you until your thighs brushed his jeans when he sat down beside you.

“Skirt’s gotta come up.”

Your breath hitched.

The words were so simple, so damn smug, and yet your pulse jumped anyway.

But you refused to react. Refused to let him win.

Lifting your chin, you reached for the hem of your skirt—slow, deliberate—pulling it up just enough to reveal the front of your hip, the soft dip where skin met the waistband.

The lace of your panties peeked out just slightly, delicate against your skin—barely there, but enough.

Osamu didn’t move. Didn’t say a word.

But his gaze flickered down—just for a second—before settling back on your face, and you swore you saw something darker behind his smirk. 

Something insatiable.  Something barely restrained. Like he’d been waiting for this—aching for it. Something that made your fingers curl against the leather seat. And then—before you could process it before you could stop him—

His hands brushed against your waist.

Soft. Deliberate.

A sharp inhale caught in your throat.

He didn’t press, didn’t tighten his grip—just let his fingers rest against your skin, just barely there, warm and steady, as if testing you. His thumb skimmed just above your hipbone, tracing the spot where ink would soon meet skin.

You were sure he could feel the way your breath shallowed, the way your pulse jumped beneath his touch.

His smirk curled at the edges, a little too smug, a little too pleased. His fingers slid just a bit higher, dancing along the sensitive skin of your lower belly. Your muscles twitched under his touch, goosebumps rising in their wake.

"Relax," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "Yer so tense"

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your neck. "Though..." His teeth grazed your earlobe, sending a shiver down your spine. "I can think of a few other ways to help ya...loosen up."

His hand drifted lower, teasing the edge of your skirt. Your breath hitched, anticipation coiling tight in your core.

"You're playing with fire, Miya," you warned, but your voice came out breathy, wanton.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against your skin. "Ain't afraid of the heat, sweetheart."

He nipped at your jaw, teeth grazing just enough to sting, before soothing the spot with his tongue. His fingers inched higher, slipping beneath the hem of your skirt, tracing slow, deliberate circles against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

"Ya gonna stop me?" His voice was low, thick with challenge, his gaze half-lidded, full of promise.

Your heart pounded, heat pooling deep between your legs. You should tell him to slow down, to think this through. But the words caught in your throat—lost to the pleasure of his touch.

His hand slid higher, higher—until his fingers slipped into your panties, pressing against your slick folds.

A soft moan spilled from your lips, your hips canting into his touch, chasing more.

"That’s it," he purred, teasing, approving, circling your clit with maddening slowness.

His lips found your neck, trailing kisses, biting and sucking a path down to your collarbone. His other hand slipped beneath your shirt, fingers grazing over your breast before cupping it fully—kneading, testing, claiming.

You arched into him, lost to sensation, lost to him.

"Osamu," you gasped, barely recognizing your own voice. "We shouldn’t..."

But the rest of the protest melted into a whimper as he pinched your nipple between his fingers, rolling it just enough to make you shudder.

"Shhh."

His tongue flicked over the sensitive peak, laving the sting with warm, wet heat.

"Let me make ya feel good."

His fingers picked up speed, rubbing tight, devastating circles over your clit.

Your hips rocked into him, desperate for more, for anything. "Oh god," you panted, head falling back against the chair. "Yes, right there..."

He chuckled against your skin, the sound low, knowing, sinful. "Knew you’d like that."

Then—two fingers, pushing inside you, stretching you open with a slow, delicious drag. His thumb never left your clit, pressing, circling, teasing as his fingers curled, finding the spot that made you gasp, arch, and tremble.

"Fuck, yer perfect," he murmured, voice thick with praise, with intent. His fingers thrust deep, matching the pace of his thumb, building you up, pushing you higher.

"Come for me, baby."

Your climax hit like a tidal wave—crashing, overwhelming, sending pleasure rippling through you. Your fingers scrambled for purchase, grasping at the chair, at him, at anything to keep you grounded.

He worked you through it, prolonging every pulse, every aftershock, dragging out your pleasure until you had nothing left to give. Finally, slowly, you drifted back down, boneless, sated, ruined.

He pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your temple.

"There now." His tone was smug and teasing, but laced with warmth. "Feelin’ more relaxed?"

You hummed, a lazy smile playing on your lips. "Much."

He grinned, his eyes dark with promise. "’m just getting started."

He leaned in close, his lips grazing the shell of your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "And remember," he murmured, voice low and rough, "you gotta be quiet for me, sweetheart."

His teeth nipped at your earlobe, just enough to make you gasp. "Can’t have anyone hearing us, now can we?"

A shiver ran through you, heat pooling low in your belly at the filthy thrill of it. You nodded, biting your lip to hold back any sounds.

He smirked, clearly pleased. His hands trailed down your body, fingertips grazing overheated skin, leaving fire in their wake. He traced the curve of your thighs, pushing your skirt up around your waist, his dark gaze locked onto you—watching, waiting.

Your breath hitched as he hooked his fingers into your panties, tugging them down your legs with a slow, deliberate drag. The cool air against your heated flesh made you shudder.

"Fuck," he groaned, his voice thick with want. His fingers slid through your slick folds, teasing, exploring, making you squirm.

"Still so wet." His lips curled into a smirk. "Fingering you wasn’t enough, huh? You need more."

A whimper escaped you, humiliation and arousal twisting together, your cheeks flushing hot. "Please, Osamu," you whispered, needing more, needing him.

He chuckled darkly, dragging the pad of his finger in slow, lazy circles over your clit. "Please what?" His tone was infuriatingly smug. "You want me to fuck you with my fingers again?" A sharp, teasing press against your clit."Or maybe with my tongue?"

You moaned softly, hips jerking up toward him, seeking more, needing more. "Either. Both. I don’t care, just—please."

He stilled for just a second, his smirk deepening. "Been picturing this since the day I walked into that damn flower shop."

The confession sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through you, a delicious kind of ruin settling in your bones. And then—

He sank to his knees, pushing your legs further apart, spreading you open just the way he wanted. A feather-light kiss, barely there. Then another. Higher. Then another—slower, teasing, deliberate. Higher.

Until—

“Oh!" Your cry spilled out before you could stop it, a sharp gasp as Osamu’s tongue delved into your heat, dragging long, slow strokes through your slick folds.

Your hands flew to his head, fingers tangling desperately in his hair, holding him there, keeping him pressed against you.

He groaned against your core, the deep vibration sending shockwaves through your body. His tongue flicked lazily over your clit before circling it with teasing precision, drawing out a shuddering gasp from your lips.

"Quiet," he murmured against you, pulling back just enough for his breath to brush your soaked skin. "Or do ya want everyone to hear what a little slut you are?"

A broken whimper escaped you before you bit down on your lip, nodding shakily.

He chuckled darkly—low, smug, knowing. And then he dove back in.

His tongue worked you over like he had all the time in the world, alternating between long, slow licks that made your thighs tremble and sharp, precise flicks that had your spine arching off the chair.

It was too much and not enough, all at once. Your thoughts blurred, words dissolving as your body moved instinctively, your hips rolling, chasing the friction his mouth offered.

He let you.

Let you grind against him shamelessly, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you spread open for him—for his tongue, his mouth, his relentless pace.

You were gone. Completely undone. It wasn’t long before you felt it—the sharp, unmistakable coil of pleasure tightening deep in your belly.

"Osamu—" you panted, voice wrecked, breathless.

"I'm gonna—"

But he already knew. He felt it in the way your thighs tensed, in the way your walls clenched around nothing, in the desperate way you tried to press closer as if you could sink into him completely.

He hummed against you, the sensation pushing you right to the edge. Then—a final, devastating suck on your clit.

Your body snapped, pleasure crashing through you in a wave so intense it left you breathless.

He held you down, his tongue never relenting, never slowing, dragging out every last tremor, every last aftershock, until you were left shaking, boneless, ruined. He pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips still glistening with your release

"Mm.” His voice was low, rough, dangerous. His eyes—blown dark with lust—dragged over you like he was already thinking about the next time.

"You taste so fucking good." He let the words roll off his tongue, slow, savoring. "Could eat you out for hours."

A fresh wave of heat flooded through you. Your body still hummed, oversensitive, tingling from the aftershocks of your release. You barely had time to catch your breath before he straightened, running a lazy hand through his hair.

"Now," he said, his voice back to normal, like he hadn’t just wrecked you. "I believe I owe you a tattoo."

You blinked up at him, dazed, boneless, your mind still too foggy to process what he’d just said.

He chuckled, amused at your expression, before gripping your chin between his fingers and pressing a quick, possessive kiss to your lips.

By the time you registered the warmth of his mouth, he was already reaching for the tattoo machine—the sound of which had never stopped buzzing in the background, masking the sounds of your pleasure.

[dandelionwishh]

Left Behind: Pt. 4

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Reader (Ft. Choso angst)

Summary: You waited for him. He never noticed. Is it too late?

Genre: Angst, Fluff, Love Triangle, Heartbreak, Choso regret, Gojo being possessive, Gojo being down bad for you.

PART1 PART2 PART3 PART5 PART6

You don’t mean to do it at first. The first time you find yourself lingering near Gojo, it’s unintentional.

You’re already feeling restless, the weight of Choso’s absence pressing against your ribs in a way that makes it hard to breathe. So when you hear Gojo’s voice, lighthearted and teasing as always, you gravitate toward it without thinking.

He’s leaning against a railing near the training grounds, tossing a wrapped candy in the air and catching it between two fingers, looking entirely too pleased with himself. He notices you immediately. “Well, well,” he drawls, pushing off the railing with a lazy stretch.

 “To what do I owe the pleasure? Finally realized I’m the most entertaining person around?” You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it.

If anything, his presence is a welcome distraction.

“You’re the loudest person around. There’s a difference.” Gojo grins, tilting his head. His blindfold is off today, leaving you momentarily caught in the endless blue of his gaze. He watches you too closely, always too perceptive for his own good. 

 “You seem tense,” he comments, voice lighter than the weight of his stare. “Boyfriend trouble?” You scoff, but the words hit harder than they should.

 “Choso’s been busy.” There’s a shift in Gojo’s posture—subtle, but there. His smirk softens just a fraction. “Busy?” You exhale through your nose, arms crossing over your chest as you look away. “Training with Reina. Talking with Reina. Sparring with Reina.” Gojo lets out a low whistle. 

“Ouch. Didn’t realize he was that stupid.” You huff, shaking your head. “He’s not stupid. He just—” You pause, lips pressing together before you sigh.

“He doesn’t realize how much it’s affecting me.” Gojo hums, stepping closer. 

“So, what are you gonna do about it?”

You glance at him, skeptical. “What do you suggest?”

His grin is slow, wolfish, like he already knows where this is going before you do. “Well, if he’s too busy, you could always hang out with me.”

You should say no. You should tell him it’s not that simple.

But there’s something about the way Gojo is looking at you—something teasing but sincere, something playful but undeniably warm. And maybe it’s the way Choso has made you feel like an afterthought lately, or maybe it’s just that Gojo is too charming for his own good, but you don’t think twice before answering.

 “Fine. But don’t annoy me too much.” Gojo laughs, slinging an arm around your shoulders as he guides you toward the courtyard. “No promises, sweetheart.”

Spending time with Gojo is easy in a way you don’t expect.

He’s loud, ridiculous, and shameless, but he’s also… fun. He keeps your mind off things, pulling you into playful arguments, roping you into games with the students, making you laugh more than you have in weeks. And it’s not just that—he listens.

Beneath all the dramatics, there’s a sharpness to him, a knowing that unsettles you sometimes. “You don’t talk about yourself much,” he comments one evening, both of you sitting on the roof as the sun sets.

You raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean? I talk all the time.” He smirks. “You talk, sure. But you don’t say much.” You open your mouth to argue but stop when you see the look in his eyes.

He sees right through you, like always. You sigh. “Maybe I just don’t think anyone really wants to listen.” Gojo is quiet for a beat, then he exhales. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” You snort, rolling your eyes. “Wow, thanks.” 

But he’s serious now, head tilting as he studies you. “I’m listening, y’know.” And for a moment, just a moment, you feel something shift. It should just be fun. A distraction. But the way Gojo looks at you makes your chest feel too tight, makes something unfamiliar settle in your stomach

You don’t know when you started looking at him differently, when you started noticing the way his fingers brush against yours absentmindedly or how his smile softens when it’s just the two of you.

And then there’s Choso.

At first, he doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does, but he doesn’t think much of it. He’s too caught up in training, too caught up in his own world with Reina to see what’s slipping away. But then, one evening, you catch him watching. You and Gojo are sparring in the training yard, your laughter echoing in the open air as Gojo dodges your attacks with ease, taunting you like always.

He reaches out suddenly, grabbing your wrist and spinning you effortlessly, catching you against his chest in a way that’s almost too natural. You don’t even realize Choso is there until you turn and meet his eyes. He’s standing a few feet away, stiff and unreadable. His gaze flickers between you and Gojo, something sharp and unfamiliar beneath the usual calm.

Gojo, of course, notices. He smirks, resting his chin on your shoulder in an exaggerated show of closeness.

“You look tense, Choso.” Choso’s jaw tightens. “Didn’t realize you two were so close.” There’s something in his voice—something almost accusatory.

You straighten, pulling away from Gojo as you level Choso with a look. “I didn’t realize you cared.” Choso’s expression falters, just for a second. But it’s enough.

You don’t say anything else. You just turn and walk away, leaving him standing there as Gojo gives him a knowing smile, effortlessly bending down to pick up your weapon—like instinct at this point. His fingers curl around the handle with practiced ease, but his eyes never leave you, watching as you disappear.

At this point, Gojo’s whole world was you. 

The sparring sessions that stretched longer than necessary just so he could keep you close. The impromptu market trips to try new sweets, where he always bought extra just to see you smile. The morning tea that Choso used to bring but hadn’t in weeks—so now, without question, Gojo made sure it was waiting for you instead. And for the first time, Choso finally realizes.

You might not be waiting for him anymore.

[abyss-strikas]

“I’m worried, captain.” Shakes said quietly, watching his ex-best friend interacting with one of the new Silver Lions captains. “I don’t understand why they’re hanging around them so much. The Silver Lions are good people, but they might get hurt by them.”

Dancing Rasta sighed and shook his head. “Shakes, mon. You gotta let this go.” His captain said sternly. “We had our doubts about them before, including myself. But they've proven themselves to us. We can’t really question their decisions, dey know what they’re doing.”

“Yeah, but…” Shakes protested weakly before he looked back up, staying silent as let Trent’s deep-pitched laughter and Skarra’s snarky laugh fill the silence.

The older captain sighed deeply, before he stilled and glanced over his shoulder. He was still getting used to Oliver sneaking up on him without making a sound. Rasta still found it a bit unnerving considering his tall height and weight, but he never really thought to question it. Or felt like it was his place to ask.

Oliver moved his gaze from Rasta to the back of Shakes’s head, before tilting his head up to watch the scene before them. He hummed quietly, his left fingers tapping a rhythm on his prostheses that were crossed. As quiet as he was compared to his husband, excluding the rare time he actually spoke out against them, Rasta had come to understand what the tapping meant.

“What are you thinking, Oliver?” Dancing Rasta asked, lowering his voice so Shakes wouldn’t hear him.

Oliver let out a deep sigh before he uncrossed his arms and glanced down at the Supa Strikas captain. “You need to put a leash on that kid, Rasta.”

The comment made Rasta’s eyebrows shoot up. Any other time he would have defended the young striker, but he kept his mouth shut and gave a little nod towards Oliver to continue.

The Silver Lions captain returned the nod before moving his gaze back to Shakes, who had walked off to join his team a few seconds earlier. “I don’t say that lightly but it needs to be said. He’s already on Liam’s bad side in regards to the twins, and now I've heard from Fergus that he indirectly insulted Jill and their work, causing them to storm off and leave him in the mall.”

Dancing Rasta winced. “I’m guessing their time together didn’t work out.”

“Yes and no. I’m inclined to think that they both had a moment where they could relate to each other on the subject of history, but Jill did seem rather distraught after the interaction. It’s not like them to let something like that affect them.” Oliver let out another sigh, crossing his arms again. “All that is to say, Trent and I agree that Shakes needs to just…chill out for a while.”

The Supa Strikas captain let out a dry chuckle. “Dat’s gonna be harder than trying to separate him from his video game controller." He joked before he cleared his throat and his tone became serious. "But you're right. I'll talk about it with Coach, and see if we can do something about it. Find out what's causing him to act out more than usual."

The Silver Lions captain huffed but nodded. "That's an understatement." He said. Just before he stepped towards his team, he looked back at Rasta and his face softened. "Also...thank you, Dancing Rasta."

The midfielder captain blinked in surprise. "For what?"

"For being patient with me and hearing me out this time." Oliver turned back to him, hands in his jacket's pockets and his shoulders slumped. "I know I'm not always the best at conversations, nor am I...the best at being a participant. It's not the way a captain should be, I know, but...I'm not trying to make an excuse but I still appreciate the fact you are being patient with me after all this."

Dancing Rasta was quiet for a moment before he stepped closer to Oliver and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I should be thanking you, mon." Rasta said with a gentle smile. "You reminded me that people think and act differently, and that includes the captains of this league. Sure, you may not come off as the most open captain, but your observations about everyone and everything, things people don't see right away...I do appreciate that." His grip on shoulder faltered a little. "Especially since it helped me realize that something was going on with my team that I didn't even notice."

Oliver was a bit stunned by what the other captain said, but he reached up and gripped Rasta's hand that was on his shoulder. "Thank you." He said quietly, a genuine smile on his scarred face. "That really means a lot coming from you."

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

Okay so, this sketch wasn't supposed to be a continuation of this post, this was gonna be something else but I am struggling to get around to doing art stuff. Especially pull out the tablet to actually render stuff and whatnot.

Still, I hope you guys like this. In the past, I never really developed the relationship between Dancing Rasta and Oliver would be, during the time Oliver was the sole captain of the Lions. But I do feel like the two of them can get along in their own way. Even if Oliver is much more quieter than most captains, as Trent does more of the talking.

Really am gonna have to write down what I wanna do next, hmph. Me and my damn ADHD brain...

[myenterpriseisparked]

Beverly: Well, I got pregnant that night.

Jean-Luc:

[thowawayuntilfurthernotice]

I didn’t have “Cherri Bomb’s original pilot VA becomes a lawyer” on my 2024 bingo card. But here we are.

[askhaley]

🤸

🏌️

WAAAUGH!

[allthebestcowgirls]

god my coworker is cool but they like constantly try to one up everything i say. i forget what exactly we were talking about but i mentioned how my family is irish and mexican and there's lots of alcoholism/ addiction. and they were like "yeah my dad's addiction is scary. he loves smoking and adds mint essential oil bc they don't sell menthols" or whatever and like um. well my dad's addiction killed him so

[brokendreamscreation]

@gctchell

//SCREAMING AND KICKING AS YOU DRAG ME TOWARDS MY NEW AGE

[thelosercenter]

i had to

[bookishjules]

[banapricot]

[possibly-pasta]

me and @ceo-of-lesbians praying to Sappho to fly us and all the other girlies to The Island of Lesbos for their big gay parties and so we can oogle the pretty ladies

[dubioushonour]

SINCE WHEN HAVE YOU BEEN CIS

Karkat I'm so sorry you had to find out this way

[nepoboyfriend]

just wanna remember this. finally i triumph over that man (thanks kc)