#maybe i should talk to someone about these desires

[nqueso-emergency]

The only interviews I believe are Lou's and Ryan's. Everyone else.... I don't know what tf they're talking about.

It's interesting that the only interviews that came out tonight were all Tim. We didn't get Ryan, whose character is looking at houses in Texas. We didn't get Oliver, whose character is about to fucking go through hell. We didn't get Callum, who should have probably gotten an exit interview based on past events we've experienced in this fandom.

But no. It was like a Tim Exclusive Tour, and we got nothing from him that we didn't already know anyway.

I'm just honestly speechless about how things are shaping up. We see one thing on screen, a completely different thing in interviews and then absolutely nothing in promos.

I truly believe that something has happened within the cast or crew that made them really swerve away from initial plans and ideas. Maybe it's someone's desire to leave, I don't really know but it's strange and deliberately NOT being discussed openly.

And this is not me making excuses for anyone. This event, whatever it is, has completely ruined this season so far. I really hope something positive happens going forward. Otherwise, I will live in the fanon version of bucktommy and follow Lou to whatever project he does going forward.

And no, I can't ask my cousin because they are all now under a completely different contract for 8b. At least that should make the bestie boos foam at the mouth.

[cuckoldlifeofjosie]

You like that she has a boyfriend. That she regularly gets fucked the way you know she needs and deserves. Even when she started to fall in love with him you still got aroused. So much so you encouraged her. You told her it is okay for her to have an emotional connection with him.

It was you who told her, if she really feels she loves him. She should tell him. She did the next time she saw him. Whispering "I love you too," while in bed with him. While his cock split her pussy and he slowly pushed it inside her and slowly pulled it out. They melted into each other when she said it. Kissing, dipping their tongues into each others mouths. It felt intoxicating. The desire she felt for him her pulse quickened. Telling him "I love you," made it real, it made her even love him more. To crave him. Crave his body, his touch, to be with him. When he filled her with his cum he pushed all the way in, farther than you have ever gone igniting her own orgasm. With a groan he clenched his ass as his cock throbbed and poured his fluid inside her moaning and twitching body under him. It wasn't fucking, they made love.

She told you she told him "I love you," and it aroused you so much, she watched as you had a powerful orgasm of your own and it made her feel good that you approve of her loving another man. That it arouses you too and gets you off.

You still have sex but it feels different. Like your little dick no longer belongs inside her. You can't reclaim her. She is no longer only yours so you reconnect. Sex outside her feels so much better for both of you. You rubbing your little dick on her clit, her jacking you off while she tells you about their weekend together out of town. How she told him "I love you" like a thousand times.

Both of you teased and fantasied together. She told you that you feel so much better out of her pussy. Maybe that is where you belong. Her pussy reserved for men that can fuck her the way she needs. Men like her boyfriend. It got you hot and got you off. Again she saw you orgasm in her hand harder than you ever have inside her.

Your married though, a married couple has to have sex right? So you go through these cycles. You having sex with her, then both of you fantasizing again about you only on the outside. Your angst got the best of you. That jealousy, the fear of her leaving, the feeling of inadequacy. One morning she came home to you after a long weekend vacation with him and you weren't excited. You felt hurt, even betrayed, sad and alone. You blew up at her and you had a fight. This wasn't the first time. It is like a rollercoaster of emotional and sexual highs. Then your angst hits and it comes crashing down on both of you. She didn't want to see him anymore to save your marriage. You make up and have sex. You think how hot it was that she spent a romantic weekend with him, that she didn't call, ignored your text. You wish you didn't lash out at her.

Alone you masturbate. You think about that pain she caused you. About her with him telling him she loves him like a thousand times. You are eager for her to do it again. You don't want her to leave him to save your marriage. She does do it again. They see each other to talk about what happend between you and her. They can't resist and make love. Only this time she doesn't tell you. You snoop and find out though and it feels like she cheated on you. Again the angst hits like a car hitting you head on, or someone reaching into your body and pulling your heart out.

You tell her you know. You forgive her though. Encouraging her to keep seeing him.

One day you go on a website. A website you never thought you would be on. There are so many choices. Micro, short, small sized cages. Rings that hold it into place. You do it. You order a micro chastity cage for your tiny little sissy dick. So you can lock it up.

It feels so arousing when it arrives. You try it on. It feels tight around your balls and restricting around your dick. But you like it. You wear it all day and it reminds you, you are a cuckold, a sissy. It feels submissive, it feels right. You want your wife to openly cuckold you. Even cheat on you if she wants. Your dick swells but it can't get hard. A feeling that is hard to describe, blood is flowing to your dick. It is a warm pleasure a feeling of humiliation and arousal. You show your wife and she laughs. "It is so cute, you really are tiny." Her words should humiliate you but they arouse you too. So much so you make sure you tell her it is a micro cage. It helps, she spends the night with him and you feel the pleasure and pain of the cage all night. Like she is giving you a gift, being at another mans house and making love. The cycle goes on and on. She takes it off. You slip inside her, then you unintentionally slip out and she laughs. "Your little dick isn't made to stay inside me, that is what my boyfriends cock is for." Again you should feel humiliated but it gets you harder. You rub your dick on her pussy and cum so fucking hard your toes curl. You both want it but you can't admit it as fact, not fantasy. You want to be pussy free and she doesn't want your dick in her pussy anymore. She fantasizes and masturbates about having sex with other men, she craves and desires sex with her boyfriend when she cums on her vibrator.

You fantasize about and masturbate thinking about her getting fucked like a slut by other men. you crave for her to see her boyfriend again and make love to him so you can be and feel like the sissy cuckold you are. You want to accept it. You understand she might leave you, you don't want her too but it is an arousing thought. A fantasy you don't want to come true but accept that it might. Her leaving you for another man she loves. You are now being emotionally cuckolded. Uncertainty is part of life. It is time. To lock it up, time for permanent chastity. Time for her pussy only to be for other men.

[have-you-seen-my-sanity]

A lesson in power

Duke Leto Atreides x f!reader

Summary: Your house is no match against house Atreides. Leto shows you.

Cw/triggers: smut, nsfw, p in v, captive reader, power imbalance, I will say dub-con vibes at first, kind of possessive Leto.

The leaders of your house didn't know how powerful house Atreides really was when they sent an army towards it.

You only knew rumors, and your leaders didn't really go into detail with the strength of Atreides' army.

You were among the fighters that have been captured.

Standing infront of him inside his personal chambers, the Duke chose you to make an example of what happens if someone messes with Duke Leto Atreides.

"You should be relieved to know I won't be doing a counter attack on your pathetic house."

Leto reached out, gripping your chin firmly.

"Tell me, did your leaders tell you about our mighty house?"

"No, Duke..." you answered softly, looking him in the eyes.

Leto hummed, "Do not mess with our house. Your house wouldn't be the first that would have been wiped from existence because they've attacked us."

He stepped back, his fingers moving to slowly undo his uniform.

"Undress, get on the bed and prepare yourself for me." came his firm order.

Seeing nothing else you could do besides obeying his command, you hesitantly undressed and laid down on the bed.

After Leto stripped down, he turned towards you, wearing nothing but his boxers which did nothing to hide the prominent bulge.

The Duke stalked towards you, his expression intense with desire but also authoritative. Once at the bed, his eyes roamed over your vulnerable form, then set themselves down onto your core.

He gripped your thighs, spreading your legs, stepping between them, then reached into his boxers to pull his thick cock out.

"Brace yourself." was the only warning he gave you before pushing his girth into you.

At first you let out a gasp at his sudden impalement, his hand coming down to rub your clit. Despite your situation, you found yourself getting increasingly wet, your head falling back against the sheets.

Leto used this to lean down, keeping his movements steady.

"You're loving it, don't you?" he rasped, his hands moved to to grip your hips, holding them as his hips now increased their pace.

The only thing you could do was moan in response, the overwhelming ecstasy made you fall limp.

"Listen to those sounds... enjoying yourself pretty good here, hm?" he chuckled dryly, slowing his pace slightly, turning to look at how his cock disappeared into your dripping pussy.

Oh, how he enjoyed that sight. Made him wish he could see it more often instead only this once...

"You know what?" he asked between thrusts. "Maybe I should keep you as a trophy... so the leaders of your house would always remember the day they messed with the wrong people..." he said huskily.

His words reached you, but you couldn't focus on giving an answer.

Feeling the build up in your belly, your hips bucking up into him on their own, your orgasm was fast approaching.

Leto felt you tightening around him, it caused him to chase his own release, his thrusts became sloppy and his grip on your hips tightened almost possessively.

The pleasure he delivered was too much for you, you couldn't hold back any longer then your slick pussy clamped down on him, gripping his girth like a vice.

Leto groaned deeply, his hips jerking erratically at his desperate state, then with a last slam against you, he filled you up.

"Fuck!" he groaned, collapsing down on top of you, his face falling into the crook of your neck, with both of you panting.

After Leto had calmed down, he pulled his softened cock out of you, watching his cum oozing out of your spent pussy mixed with your own juices.

Leto then stood up, putting his soft cock back into his boxers, looking down at your exhausted form on his bed.

"And now, let's talk about your loyalties, shall we?"

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

Tags:

@nekoyin @steven-grants-world @iolaussharpe-24 @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction

@krakenkitty @tokkiwrites @lunaana-02 @faretheeoscar

@rosegnome @ghoulzsstuff @autismsupermusicalassassin @silvernight-m

@theaterm @ivystoryweaver @freedreampeach

Wanna get tagged?

[anikabooker]

"No, you care too much about the stains and the carpets and the deposit — " she countered, avoiding that compliment on his tongue, greens rolling playfully. Anika could go on and on, and list all the other things he cared for, that he didn't have to. Because she knew of that too. The useless, little things in no need of his attention. Unlike her, who rarely cared about anything other than herself. Anika, who'd never bring herself to get him take out or leave a stupid, little post it, or have the common decency to knock on his door instead of barging in. She'd always been a force that only took, and took and never gave anything in return.

So, why would he think that she had, given him anything? What could she possibly give him? Impossibilities, pipe dreams, delusional daydreams — "Are we talking about the same person?" she wondered out loud. "I'm only going to hurt you." maybe that's why she tried to pull away; stunned and cursing at her own stupidity, her own broken pieces all laid out on display for him to see now. Urging him to make the right decision — to walk away, before she'd leaned in any further, before she made the wrong move (the very right move) that could lead to disaster. Another place turned home left. Bags packed and by the door. She could already see it. Leaving him.

Anika could barely recall the last time she put her mouth (a taste that wasn't stolen) to someone, and felt that flip of her stomach that was now nothing but a foreign thing she could barely recognise. Even as it happened, she didn't know what to make of it. She didn't know what to make of that lump in her throat — like she'd swollen something very hard. Her body has not ached for a touch, in so very long. Her lips had not burned to be kissed. Intimacy had become something she feared. She didn't know what to do with her hands, she didn't know what to do with her mouth (like a teenager, but without the naivity of youth on her shoulders) — if she should brave the storm and claim his own (mouth and hands) before he sobered up and realized what he was staring at. That the green in her eyes didn't swirl and swirl like vines, but the tails of medusa's snakes.

Had he forgotten who she was? She couldn't. For a moment, Anika thought it wasn't just the whiskey — he must've lost his mind. He kissed her, knowing that she could claw him apart. Lips to starving lips, like he found something thrilling in wanting her to. He wanted her sharpened nails to tear the skin off his back, her dainty fingers around his throat. He'd be a fool to think her taste would be anything but bitter. There was nothing gentle, nothing tender about the woman in his arms — the only delicate thing about her, was his touch on her face.

There was something arcing in her chest. That fear that was so bright and dazzling, pulling their lips apart like it had grown hands and claws and they had gripped tightly onto her (tighter than the hold of his hand on hers.) She was letting it win. She was giving it the power to rip her away from him. "I, uh — " that scar on her hand started to pulsate, like it had suddenly acquired a heartbeat, and was alive. Her forehead leaned against his, the tip of her tongue going over her bottom lip briefly. " — I don't know what I'm doing." you sound fucking ridiculous. Her heart beated desire and panic all at once.

The hand that wasn't in his, reached up and found the dip at the base of his neck. Those patches of dying, amber light scattered over his skin. And her fingers traced them all; a torturous decent down to his chest. She was drawn to him — tied to him.

"It's not the whiskey — " a beat, suddenly wishing he wouldn't take this the wrong way. But he knew — Reid knew this had very little to do with him, and entirely to do with her. This was all her, fucking it up before it had even begun. "I just — I haven't. You know I haven't."

"Must have been quite a long conversation, then?" He murmurs half-heartedly because the words fade away to the back of his mind. In place is a pressure that squeezes at the front of his thoughts, gnawing at the edges of his skull with electricity that's feral and untamed. They're good at snarking, terrible at talking — better at being impulsive and reckless. They're reckless. Daring the desert storm to meet with the icy depths of the ocean is reckless. Slumped in the corridor, digits tangled and forearms ghosting is —

"Does it make me an artist as well, being able to see all the greens in yours?" He cannot count how many different hues he can see, depending on the light, or the dark. But Reid can't give her the depth of his sight, even for a second. So she might know in the mirror how many colours she's missing in her palette. He tips his head lazily against the wall, diverting from her eyes, to hover at the proximity of her chin, and the dip towards her throat. Sorry, hangs on the edge of his tongue, because he knows that he cannot help himself from having all those pleasant thoughts of normalcy stained by the idea that he's entirely too aware of the bob in her throat when she parts her mouth to speak. He's aware of her lips too, as much at the stretch of a vein in her neck where they're both against the ill taste of floral wallpaper.

When she gets closer, it's like she knows she's taunting. He imagines that this is how Anika goes for the kill; swiftly. All awareness behind a gaze clouded with a decision. She's playing a game and Reid doesn't know the rules. He only knows what the next move is supposed to be because he's played a version of this, countless times. But he's never played against — or with her and he's not an active player anymore. There's no going past go, or collecting — he's not even in jail, there's no doubles or dice. God, he is a nerd, Anika's right. He's a fucking nerd, terrified that she might wake up and realise she's holding the hand of a man who should have died nearly a decade ago; that his touch will eventually be enough cold water to wake her up from whatever delusion, or dream — or intoxication that has her not thinking straight. Madness. Doubt sinks in, as the Loki-like trouble brews in the twitch of her lips. He's talking himself out of that being an invitation.

Reid doesn't want them to snap out of this, he might like to freeze them here. A peaceful, playful state, where he's still clinging on to the idea he might neglect the beastly appetite and she might continue to look at him like he's not a creature that could rip her throat open with his teeth — he licks his lips, teeth scratching at his lower lip once as he moves his head away, just an inch to offer space when he whispers, truthfully: "You've no idea what you've given me," Moments he never imagined he'd get to have, in undeath. Snippets of his world that didn't appear so grey and ugly; a version of himself that he thought he'd never get to glimpse at again in the mirror.

So he shouldn't dare to want to take any more; to smash the fragility of whatever he might have built with Anika. She's drunk. He's mostly there. It'll look different in the morning when she goes out into the world, and he stays hiding in the shadows of the apartment. It'll be like nothing happened, she'll double down on her knife-like words and he'll avoid bringing it up. As they always do. As they always have. It would be incredibly reckless to cross this line.

But she's right in front of him, cloves, and wet wood — peats of the forest floor fill the space between them; the whiskey talking. And she says his name like now she knows it, it's a poke to the cheek. She knows what he is — he steers his gaze across her face, draws it away from her tilted neck and notices how her eyes and lashes slip down his features when he speaks.

He's going to regret this, he knows it. But they've always spoken in long silences and actions. And he cannot burn off the touch of her hands like the daylight can peel away his flesh. He tells himself it's a distraction, the whiskey, the hands, the colours in her gaze — he's not a teenager, overlooking one of the Portland bridges, waiting for the right moment that a boat might pass underneath them or the sky might offer them the reflection of the moonlight on the waterfront —

Fuck it, if they've read this wrong — if he has blinded himself in agony and despair that makes cushions on the sofa of his selfishness. Then he'll blame the monster, or the man (both things, are himself), and he'll expect Anika to drive that moth-blade through his chest; at least he'll never have to see the look on her face afterwards for his actions when she turns him to dust. He smiles at that like he's waiting for the inevitable. She should know his reply, because it's the same as when she invited him into her bedroom, in the middle of the night. Misery loves company. He didn't leave that way, though. There aren't instances he recalls with her that he doesn't — Reid dips his head forward, the hand that isn't in hers stops reaching for the whiskey bottle and gently meets the side of her face. "Okay."

You win. (He'll always let her win.) And he tastes the amber on her lips like it's the thing he's been starving for; the hunger he's pushed down to the depths of the dark, where it swims idly by. Feeding on the scraps Reid does let fall to the ocean floor. His mind is thundering loudly, the roar of the seabed; urging him to stop, but at the bottom of the abyss, the surface cannot hear the screams.

[shyranno]

More self-indulgent Maul and Meow Meow Shy adventures

[happyk44]

Something something Percy wishing he loved Nico in the same way because he can't stand the idea of hurting him, even though Nico has never needed Percy to love him in the same way or even to love him at all.

[selvepnea]

Been thinking about my body a lot

[girl-bateman]

Feeling a debilitating sense of dread and despair 🤨 Which probably means nothing😍👍

[smol-tired-binch-blog]

hate how im now at a point where im legit like kicking my legs and grinning like an idiot over fictional characters SEND HELP

[tristanrambles]

Me through clenched teeth with a white-knuckled grip on my pen: My Art has Value, the Only One who has to Like it is Me, My Art has Value---

[truecorvid]

starting to suspect that i am not very good at engaging in open/honest/non judgmental conversations on the internet actually

[tenok]

While it's a great analysis, especially the part about Aziraphale being desperate for respect, recognition and validation from people he consider his authorities — which is somehow get painted as his moral failure in fandom and not an inherent human quality, — I want to disagree (or more like... look from other perspective?) on couple things.

First: I always took "bad guys" as face value and I don't get what's fandom problem with it. Yes, the wording might be better, but it's a shorthand for all party lines from both sides packed into two words and it works for this rushed conversation. The point with "bad guys" and "good guys" is that it's arbitrary sides, and Aziraphale and Crowley points it again and again, aren't they? It's not a morality question at this point: they just sides, sure, but they have *goals*. Heavens is the "good guys" that works toward ultimate good (in theory! We and Aziraphale know that it's not the case). So, if you correct this system toward the goal it supposed to achieve, it should start make "good". Now, hell is the "bad guys". Correcting it toward it goal, making it effective leads to making more "badness" (look at Crowley: he's bad at being that kind of demon that kills and tortures, but his innovations actually *effective* at making more people miserable and making bad decisions — it's brushed in series but was more pointed in book). So, yes, "of course you said no, you're the bad guys" there = "your goals as to 'not make people miserable' contradicts hells main goal, while making things good are technically heavens goal and we can work on it there, as you always wished" (yes, heavens actually don't give a shit about humanity, but Aziraphale plans to correct this! How far he will get with it is another goal) (arguably, Crowley also doesn't want to make humans lives better, he's perfectly fine with how they are — it's Aziraphale that loves to meddle, but it looks like he thinks that they align there, making leap from "don't want to kill innocent kids" to "actually wants to go out of my way to change things to the better"). Now, I *do* think that if Crowley told him that he plans to go into hell and become the new prince to make things *less bad*, make it *harder* to hell to gather souls, make it *easier* for people who get into hell because things are unfair and they stole some bread to eat, Aziraphale probably *would've* decided that it's very noble of him (and than he would put him in box and secure this box in a safe, because hell no you're not going lol he's overcompensating when it's the matters of Crowley safety), but it's probably not something he ever considered — which is part of him thinking in black and white, sure, but also like. He has no reason to think about how Crowley can reconstruct hell (again, I want to stress it: Crowley don't think about changing things, and all Aziraphale knows about hell Is from him and heavens propaganda, it's not his fault if he's left with impression that you can't make hell's better!) daydreamed for years about what he would've do as Supreme Archangel, so I think we can go easy on him there.

But what I absolutely don't see is him *wanting* angel Crowley back in any way aside from protection it'll give them and justice it'll bring to Crowley (in Aziraphale's mind), him wanting to change him in any way. Look. He was always accepting of Crowley from their first meeting as a demon, and he never shows any concerns towards him that's not based on fears that based on real possibilities (are you tempting me? Can someone there overhear that we were called friends? Are you lying? Etc). From immediately accepting his new looks and names, to always stating "you're a demon and I hang out with you", not "you're a demon and I hang out with you despite of this". More than that, he's ready to accept version of Crowley that much worse than he are, actually (notice how when he asks "are this your doing?" in Bastille or with nazis, he's not outraged, he's not disgusted, he's mildly irrated at worst! He's not pushing him away based on this! If Crowley will ask him to lend him a shovel he'll probably came ready to help to hide a body, he's that ride or die. Now, I think it's as important to the acceptance as "I know you, you'll never do X". Aziraphale ahowes again and again that there's no unforgivable with him, he will be ready to forgive and forget). And look at how he talks about Crowley to other angels — he can't imagine himself saying something about how bad he is even to beings that haven't heard any honest word from him for millennia, it's just not something he has in his mind. He uses an argument "you were an angel once" twice in this series, both time when people's lives were on stakes, and I can discuss it separately since it's already too long but it was it, just an argument he used with several others to try and persuade Crowley (and Aziraphale, being not really great with social skills, usually uses arguments that will work on him, so). I won't even touch the walls and car and color of Crowley eyes. It's not Starmaker eyes, we all already gushed about it, whatever. (And he wasn't made *uncomfortable* by Starmaker, aren't he? He immediately get *afraid* for him, which is integral part of this relationship. So I don't think he ever dreamed that making Crowley an angel again would make him any different, make him "proper" angel that would be easier to love. Notice how his offer is not going with "and you should promise to be on your best behavior", it's actually partnered with "now I'll be the one in power, so I will protect you from mistreatment").

Honestly I love fics where Aziraphale struggles with shame, but I can't see it as "I ashamed to be attracted to demon so I want to change him into angel" even way back, and definitely not at "six thousand years later" point (and I think it's important to remember that flashbacks are exactly this: flashbacks. Like, you can't hold against Aziraphale beliefs he already changed). I would've compare it to his love of food (sorry Crowley but you definitely a snack). See, Aziraphale ashamed of not being proper angel, but he's not showed to be ashamed of his love of food or to think that food is really a disgusting thing that sullied him. It's complicated feeling, but to love a demon and being ashamed of not being proper angel is not necessary means you ashamed of your attraction, or you ashamed of him being specifically demon, it's more like "I'm ashamed that I'm not ashamed" (forgive me for parallels, but: I'm a person with low empathy, I'm not ashamed of it, I for sure don't want to change it, I'm actually really glad that word tragedies are not affecting me in the same way it can affect my more empathetic friends, but sometimes I get ashamed *because* I like how I am and I don't want to change it, since I know that from many people's perspective it means I'm bad and also lazy. I think Aziraphale really showed it in his "I'm soft" and I think it corresponds well with how he feels about Crowley. Call it more the shame of wanting good things for himself, not the shame of wanting something bad; it goes nicely with Crowley tempting him into doing nice things for himself, aren't it? Ok, now I'm not sure I make sense whatsoever).

Now, sure, maybe he felt some joy about making things easier in his mind if Crowley would become an angel — sure, there'll be much less shades of gray than in relationships with demon. It's possible! But in the whole I'll argue that it's just a headcanon, and that in canon we have no indication of Aziraphale being ashamed of Crowley/attraction to Crowley or at least it being his motivation, partially or wholly, to make Crowley an angel (I can see him being ashamed *now*, because he made an offer and was rejected and now Crowley thinks that he's stupid for accepting and Metatron thinks he's stupid for offering and everyone around him thinks he's *not capable* — and look, aren't it funny how fandom latched on Crowley being the one in need of praise and reassurance, while it's Aziraphale the one that always gets belittled in canon and can't stand up for himself? Fascinating)

Anyway, I agree on some bits and I think that Aziraphale's beautiful brain is full on contradictions and denial, which is what that makes him interesting and unpredictable and what made Crowley fall in love with him in the first place. And I'll be a minority there, but I don't want him to change this, like, just give him information and let him build his best decisions on it I'm sure whatever happens would be FUN. But the part about shame is just not something I see in canon, and while maybe for the second there Crowley thought AHA SO YOU WANT ME TO CHANGE, I can't believe that he, having all proofs on his hands from the six thousand years of knowing Aziraphale and being his friend, can really think "ohhhh he never loved me like thiiis he would prefer an aaangel". Like. No? Like, I do think that they will (or actually that any competent adults on their place would've) resolve it with easy "hey, when you said X, it sounded like Y and I was really sad for a moment" (and let's not forget Crowley picking on Aziraphale being incapable and stupid, which is something he needs to apologize too and probably keep it in mind for their next fight, since it's something he tends to do when he's frustrated and angry/scared, as we saw in season 1). I think the things they need to discuss for more healthy relationship is much more boring, like what things we can do as unit, what we can do separately, how to communicate it clearly and how to not get defensive/attacking when we enter a disagreement. I also think that it's not really great for TV plot, so on screen we will get tearful confessions and a kiss, but whatever, I have my fanfiction for it.

I can go on, since there's a lot in original post to discuss about, but I already spend half-hour on this and I really need get back to work lol. Thanks for interesting points, and as usual, the most important part is that Aziraphale's really, truly good, even when he's being a bastard 😀

if you take "I can make a difference" at face value you simply must also consider "you're the bad guys.” like they are both vital aspects of aziraphale's decision. the problem is not just aziraphale's attempt to lead a corrupt system, it is also his continued belief in the superiority of heaven and angels over hell and demons. that's why crowley was so hurt. it's not just a miscommunication, or a disagreement on the practicalities of changing hearts and minds in heaven--it is a fundamental misunderstanding of morality and of crowley as a person. if crowley had asked aziraphale to come to hell to help fix it and protect the earth, he would not have gone. he says so. it’s not just about safety, or reform. it is about being Good.

and all of this happens because aziraphale is not just motivated by fear and love: he is also motivated by shame. he is insecure in his identity as an angel and a Good Guy, and both his alienation from heaven and his relationship with crowley have always aggravated this insecurity. it’s why shax’s mockery hit him so hard, and why he’s so susceptible to manipulation from the metatron. he desperately wants to be taken seriously and treated with respect and to have power and be an uncomplicated Good Guy, and that is just as much of a motivating factor in his decision as his desire to protect humanity and crowley.

and re: “appoint you to be an angel”: I know people want to insist that aziraphale has never wanted to change anything about crowley, but I’m sorry, I just don’t think that’s true. over and over in season 2 aziraphale demonstrates a desire to sand the rough edges off people and things for the sake of the Greater Good, without consideration for the free will or complex emotions of others. obviously this tendency culminates in the ball, where he exerts control over all of the humans to make everything perfect for maggie and nina, and in doing so, infringes on their autonomy and nina’s (crowley’s narrative mirror!) capacity to feel her own anger and sadness. and he has never liked that crowley is a demon. in his mind, the problem has always been that crowley was put in the wrong category, not that the entire system of dividing people and angels into Good and Bad is ridiculous. that’s the exact lesson he needs to learn.

and yes, his intentions are good, absolutely. I don’t think aziraphale ever acts out of malice, and I do think he genuinely wants the best for the people around him, particularly crowley. after all, if crowley is accepted as an angel again, as aziraphale has always secretly considered him to be, their relationship can (in his mind) finally stop being so fraught with danger and conflict. (the other side of that, of course, is that aziraphale can also stop being so ashamed for loving someone who is supposed to be Bad, and everything in his life will make sense again, the way it hasn’t since he met that star maker who got so upset about god’s plan.)

but that’s not who crowley is, and it never has been. even before he fell, crowley’s recklessness and relentless questions made aziraphale uncomfortable. their relationship has never been safe or easy, and in wanting to make it so, aziraphale is demonstrating a desire to change the parts of crowley that led to his fall, whether he intends to or not.

I’m rambling, but the point is: the insistence on reframing this moment as a purely selfless, calculated, self-sacrificing decision by aziraphale to protect crowley and the world ignores the uglier parts of the things he said in order to make their eventual reconciliation less complicated, and it’s really frustrating to me. crowley is in fact right to be upset by what he said, and it’s not just a misunderstanding that can be fixed with aziraphale saying “I was only trying to protect you!” and another kiss. it’s a culmination of all of the double think aziraphale has been doing in order to preserve his vision of heaven as The Source Of Truth And Light And Good since before the beginning of time, and it’s time for him to finally unpack it.

(and because every post on the final fifteen needs a disclaimer: aziraphale is trying his best and has an incredible amount of love in his heart and wants so badly to do good and ALSO the things he says, does, and believes can be incredibly hurtful and destructive. all of these things can be true.)

[unequivocallyreid]

Why Didn’t You Tell Me?

it has been SO long... i was suffering from serious writers block but it think i'm finally out of it :)

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

summary: Spencer Reid used to be your best friend, but things changed. How long can you pretend that you don't love him before it ruins you?

warnings: angst! (with a happy ending), smut (unprotected piv), character loss, mention of Maeve, very sad Spencer, mental health struggles, drinking/bar scene, light choking, fighting, slight praise kink

wc: 8.8k 🤗

i’m very proud of this one! i hope you love it!

Every morning when you wake up, you feel a familiar and creeping sort of dread in the pit of your stomach.

Don’t get the wrong idea; you love your job. You love helping people and stopping horrible people from ruining any more lives, but the creeping feeling and desire to get out is always in the corner of your mind. Anyone working in this field would tell you that. There’s no absolute separation between you and the victims and their families. You take all of them home with you, and you just have to learn how to deal with that and not let it eat at you.

It doesn’t help that it’s an isolating job as well. The last time you were in a serious relationship was in college. Now, every date you have ends in disappointment. Not only do you lack interest in most of the men and women, but it couldn’t go anywhere even if you did. 75% of your time is spent in the office, on a jet, or hundreds of miles away from your home.

All of this contributes to the feeling, but the worst part of your job is Dr. Spencer Reid.

He’s secretive and dismissive and just about the most attractive person you’d ever seen. You honestly don’t know what is worse: his constant physical presence in your life or the fact that you can’t stop thinking about him no matter what you do. You’ve tried to get over it; you’ve buried yourself in work, lamented to your friends, and gone out on dates (all with guys that looked vaguely similar), but nothing has worked. All his worst traits grate your nerves and light you up at the same time.

The worst part of it all is that it wasn’t always like this. When you first joined the BAU nearly two years ago, you and Spencer got along well. You were friends, he talked to you about his life, he understood you, and you really severely fell for him. He became your best friend.

Everything changed around six months ago. Spencer started to develop migraines, and as those developed, he started distancing himself from you. He became snippy and closed off, he started hiding things from you, and he stopped talking to you about life outside of Quantico. It was like overnight, you became nothing to him, and you really didn’t understand. Everyone else on the team got the same old Spencer, but you went from his right-hand man to someone he only spoke to when it was necessary.

Maybe he didn’t deserve to be vilified. You know, realistically, he can and should be able to decide who he wants to be close to, but working with a man who unknowingly broke your heart was close to the hardest thing you’d ever done. So, you decided hating him was easier. The real emotions you feel toward him sit somewhere inside you, but they have been covered by manufactured distaste. Addressing the actual feeling would hurt too bad, so you pretend to hate the things you used to love.

Nothing, however, could have prepared you for the last case you worked on: helping Spencer save a girl he met about six months ago, a girl he loved. You tried to stay collected, you said nothing when Spencer assisted when he shouldn’t have, and goddamn, did you do everything in your power to find that girl. Maeve. She was perfect for Spencer, and you saw that immediately. Everyone did. The sight of him sobbing in front of her body is one that will never leave your mind.

Now, two weeks later, no one has heard from Reid. The only indication that he hasn’t abandoned his life altogether is the absence of the gift baskets on his doorstep that Pen leaves daily.

Nearly everyone has been to his apartment, but they are met with a closed door and have yet to receive a response. Everyone but you.

Penelope is the first to bring up your lack of appearance at the end of a long day of paperwork.

“Y/n, please, you just have to try. No one is getting anything from him.”

“I really don’t think my presence would do any good,” you pause for a moment, trying to collect the thoughts running through your head like a freight train. “Me and him haven’t been close in a long time, Pen.”

Before you can continue, she cuts in, “Everyone has tried, Y/n. Hell, I’ve even considered tracking down Gideon, and I really, really do not want to do that.”

She pauses for a moment before looking up at you with a pout on her face, “Please, Y/n, for me. I can’t bear the thought of him in there all alone, just wasting away in grief.”

For someone who claims not to be a profiler, Penelope knew exactly what to say to get you to agree. She’s the only person in your life who you told about how you felt, though you’re sure everyone else (aside from Spencer) knew: you’re shit at keeping secrets.

“Okay, okay, I’ll try.”

She nearly bursts with excitement, “Thank God-“

You cut her off before she can finish, “But I’m telling you, I’m not the person he wants to hear from right now. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Yes, yes. I just want him to know we all want him to be okay.”

Before you can hurry out of the office to follow Pen’s instructions, she stops you and hands you a basket full of assorted snacks and fruits.

“Make sure he eats!”

The walk up to Spencer’s apartment is a hard one to take. The smell of his building hits you as soon as you step into the lobby. From there, everything rushes back at once. Memories of nights you spent watching reruns of Doctor Who or listening to him prattle off about whatever he last read assault you with every step. As you slowly make your way up, you start to question why you agreed to do this in the first place.

You feel a lot toward Reid. More than you should and less than you could. But all that care and feelings that are so close to love aren’t enough to make you forget why you’ve been trying to hate him for so long. He deserted you without an explanation and cut you off without a warning. You spent weeks (three months) crying over him like a love-struck teen. So, as much as you want to hold him and comfort him, you know it’ll hurt you to do so. Penelope sent you, with the whole team’s approval, you’re sure, to try to patch up a broken heart he got loving someone else. There’s a sickness in your gut, but it’s not enough to stop you from rapping your knuckles against his door.

“Spencer? It’s Y/n.”

There’s no response.

“I know you probably don’t want to hear from me right now, but I want to make sure you’re alright. Can you tell me you’re alright?”

Again, nothing.

You know he’s there. Despite your lack of communication, you know Spencer well enough to know that he would never leave his life behind entirely. That being said, your next few attempts at garnering a response are unsuccessful.

You decide to try one final time before just leaving the basket alone on his doorstep and texting Pen it was a bust.

“There’s a lot I don’t know about you now, and I won’t pretend to know what you’re feeling.”

You don’t exactly know where this is headed, but you continue on regardless.

“I know you’re in there, and I know you can hear me, and I know you’re hurting. You shouldn’t- I don’t want you to be alone right now, Spence. You can either unlock your door, or I can pick it, but I’m coming in one way or the other. You know I will.”

You wouldn’t, actually. It’s a last-ditch effort, and it’s met with the same silence you’ve heard on the other side for the past ten minutes. You’re about to turn to head back down the stairs when you hear the very faint sound of a deadbolt turning.

There’s no other sound or movement, and for a moment, you think you might’ve imagined the sound, but you try the handle anyway. It turns, and the door slides open. You take a step in.

“Spencer,” you call out to him.

You don’t see him at first in the mess of his apartment, but when you do, you feel a crack form in your heart.

Beyond the clutter of his entryway, you see his back on the couch. His frame looks smaller than you’ve ever seen it, and you can see his legs curled into his chest. You set down the gift basket by a collection of others on the entry table and walk over to him. Slowly, like you’re trying not to spook a lost dog, you creep in front of him.

His head is down, and his gaze stays trained on his knees.

You reach out your hand and lay it over his. He flinches but doesn’t pull away.

“Spence, I’m so glad you opened the door.”

You didn’t plan out what you would say, but ‘sorry’ feels redundant and useless.

You go on, “I’m here. I- I don’t know what to do or say, and I’m sorry that I don’t. I can get someone else for you. Just tell me what you need, and I’ll do it.”

You wait for him to say he wants Penelope or JJ, but it doesn’t come. Nothing comes. You start to move to get up, figuring you could clean up a bit and try to make him something to eat, then go, but he grasps your arm before you can.

He looks up at you, and his eyes hit you right in the gut. They’re bloodshot and sunken but still beautiful.

“Stay. Please. I just- I need to know I’m not dreaming. I keep thinking I’m dreaming.”

His voice is croaky from disuse and breaks at the end, but it’s so heartbreakingly earnest that you feel your breath catch. You move from your crouch and sit beside him on the couch; your hand is still in his.

You stay like that for a long time. His breathing is shakey and uneven, and every so often, his body shakes with what you can only assume are sobs. You stay pressed to his side the whole time, thumb rubbing back and forth over his hand.

Eventually, you speak again, “I’m gonna get you some food, Spence. You should eat.”

He says nothing back, but he does loosen his grip. You push yourself up from the coach with a promise you’ll be as fast as possible.

His kitchen is nearly empty, and you hope he’s been eating from the baskets. Still, you find enough to make noodles and butter, and you figure the carbs should help his energy some.

You return with the bowl. Spencer hasn’t moved, but his head follows you as you walk back over to him.

“It’s not fine dining.”

He studied you for a second, and you catch a glimpse of the old him in his eye.

“You did the same thing when I was sick on a case a year ago.”

You smile at his recollection.

“It helped you then.”

The rest of the night is spent mostly in silence. Occasionally, you tell him something to try to remind him that you’re there and that you won’t leave as long as he wants you there. Eventually, you get up from the couch again.

“Spencer, it’s too late to still be awake.”

He nods and still says nothing, but he is far more receptive than before. You reach your hand out to him to help him up from the couch, and he takes it.

He leads you to his room at a slow pace. His head stays down as you both take a seat on his bed, hands still interlocked. Being in his bedroom is odd for you. You’ve been to his apartment quite a few times before he disappeared from your life, but you never breached this space. It’s all very him. Almost surprisingly cozy, with books scattered around nearly everywhere there’s space.

You take in the moment for a beat before saying, “I’m gonna head home, Spencer, but please call me if you need anything at all. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

This makes his head snap up, and his eyes lock with yours.

“Please stay.”

That’s all he says, but every part of him is pleading with you. It’s not a good idea, and you know it. You’re the only person he’s seen in days, you aren’t close anymore, and you don’t particularly want to sleep on a couch tonight.

“Spencer, I don’t want to sleep in your living room tonight. I’ll come back.”

He pauses for a moment, “You can stay here with me. I don’t want to be alone.”

Your heart cracks again. There was a time when this was all you wanted. It’s still, deep down, all you want, just not like this. You know he doesn’t really want you there and he’s not himself. But you aren’t strong enough to say no, so you don’t.

He gets you clothes to wear, and you change in his bathroom. You come out and find him in his bed, laying with his back to you. You have no fucking idea what you’re doing, but you get into bed next to him anyways. There are a thousand thoughts racing through your head, but the prevailing one is how badly you want to touch him, to hold him, to make him forget, just for the night. You stay still, though, confined to the edge of the bed and start to count to drown out the noise.

Though, you can’t drown out his voice, saying, “Can- Could you hold me? I think that everything feels better when you touch me.”

Another crack. By the end of this, you know Spencer Reid is going to break your heart all over again.

~

When you wake up the next morning, Spencer is still asleep. You sneak out of his room and call Hotch. When he answers, you tell him Spencer has let you in, and you ask for time off to try to help. You can tell from his voice that he doesn’t think it’s a good idea, but he grants you it anyway.

Much of your day is spent like the night before. You stay next to Spencer, and you cook for him after leaving to pick up clothes and groceries. Then, you get him to shower and wash his hair. He sleeps with his head in your lap, and you feel like a fucking idiot at first, but as long as it’s helping him in some way, you let it happen.

That’s the thing: you don’t really know how to help him. You know he isn’t the type to talk about something until he is entirely ready, so all you can do is add something domestic and bright to his life while he grieves. It’s all you can think about in the moments of silence. Hell, you even read to him to try and get your mind off of it, but it barely helps.

The night is the same. You change in different rooms and slip into his bed at different times. You feel dirty for imagining what it would be like if the circumstances were different: if he wanted you like you have wanted him for the past two years. You hold him against you, and you pray for sign that you should be there.

The sign comes the following morning when Derek calls you.

“Y/n…”

You can hear his teasing tone over the phone.

“Hi, Derek.”

“What are you doing, mamas?”

You sigh, “What do you mean?”

You’re playing coy. You know he’s wondering why you’re at Spencer’s house, picking up the pieces, but you won’t be the one to bring it up.

“Why’d you ask Hotch for the week off, Y/n?”

Another sigh, “You know why, Derek. I just, I want to help him.”

“I know you do, Y/n, I know.”

He pauses for a moment, and you let the moment fill with silence.

“I know you care about him. We all care about him. But who is taking care of you?”

“I am. I can take care of him, and I can take care of me.”

“I know you can, but I don’t want you to get hurt, Y/n. Don’t let this be something that hurts you.”

“It won’t. I- You have to- Fuck, I’ll be fine. He’s not fine. I don’t care about me or any feelings that may get hurt right now. I’ll be fine.”

There’s another bear of silence, “Okay, Y/n. Just know you’re allowed to tap out.”

You try to think of anything else to say, but nothing comes, so you say your goodbyes.

You won’t need to tap out. You can take care of him and be good to him and ignore the other feelings you have. You can be good.

The call does make you think it’s time to push, to try harder, to help him get better. So, you approach him that day before bed, before he tucks himself into your arms and falls into a fretful sleep.

“Spencer?”

He takes a moment and then responds, “Yes?”

“You have to talk about it. I think that you need to talk about it. It doesn’t have to be to me but to someone.”

He’s quiet for a long time, and your breath is caught in your throat, waiting for him to say anything.

“I- I don’t want to,” his voice cracks while he says it.

“Spence, you can’t come back if you don’t. You can’t move forward if you don’t.”

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

A ringing echos in your ears.

“You don’t mean that. She- she would want you to keep going.”

Wrong thing to say.

“You don’t know anything about what she would want.”

He’s seething now, below the surface, but smoke has started to plume from his ears. Still, you don’t stop.

“Spencer, everyone knows that. No one would want you to put your life on hold.”

He speaks his next line through his teeth, “You don’t know anything, Y/n.”

You’ve never heard him sound so angry.

“Spencer-“

“No, just stop. You don’t know her. You don’t know me half as well as you think you do. You don’t know anything. I don’t even know why you’re here. I don’t want you here. You can't be what I need.”

The ringing in your ears is louder.

“Spencer, please. Just-“

“No!” His voice is raised now, bordering on a yell, “I don’t want you here. I want you out, Y/n.”

This has to be what shell shock feels like. The ringing, the tingle in your limbs, and the heat in your face. You don’t know how you are moving, but you are.

His voice is echoing in your head, or maybe he’s still talking, but you can’t tell either way. The only thing you can focus on is how Spencer sounded like he hates you and that Morgan was right about the hurt.

~

You spend the next day trying desperately to shut down the noise in your head. It doesn’t work. The day after is the same. And the days following that. You ignore calls when they come, you ignore the texts, but you can’t stop looking at your phone for a message from the man who fills your thoughts.

Spencer doesn’t call, obviously, and you have to sit with a pit in your stomach while you beg yourself to just get the fuck over it. Two years of reckoning with the severity of your love, months of watching him live happily without you, and it’s the three days you spent trying to help him feel incrementally better that floor you.

You feel like a dumb teenage girl with so much love and nothing to do with it. On top of everything, you feel selfish. Spencer lost the love of his life forever, and you’re nursing the worst heartbreak of your life because a boy will never want you and never has. Still, you send out prayers for him over and over. You hope you’ll see him in the BAU again, even if his eyes glaze over you. Hell, even if they look at you with hate the way they did two days ago. You just want him to function. You want him to be good and eventually be happy. You try to go to bed with soothing thoughts, but you end up with a mantra of his name.

You wake to your alarm and dress for work before you realize you aren’t actually supposed to go back yet. You never set a date to return. You wanted to be open as long as Spencer needed you. You’re supposed to be with him. You’re supposed to be helping and not tapping out. But you aren’t.

You have no reason not to return to the bullpen, so you do. You walk in and feel eyes on you. You wait for Morgan to call out to you, but he doesn’t, so you follow the feeling.

Your breath catches in your throat; it’s Spencer. He’s sitting at his desk, paperwork spread out, and he doesn’t look away from your gaze; he just holds it. His face is unreadable, and yours is definitely not, so you look away first. You don’t look up again until you reach Hotch’s office. You knock and hear him call out to come in.

“I’m back if that’s okay.”

He looks up at you, and you want to cry. You know he can read you. He has always been the best at it.

“Are you okay with that, Y/l/n?”

You lock eyes with him, “Yes, sir.”

It’s no use; he knows your tells and you aren’t being honest.

“Alright, conference room in five.”

Whatever he sees in your face, he ignores and takes you at your word, but there’s a warning in his tone. He knows when to let things go and when to push. More than that, though, he knows you’d never let something like this affect your work.

~

The first case back is in Maryland, and the one after is in Austin, and the next is in Philadelphia with The Replicator. The job takes you all over the country, and the cases blend together. You don’t speak to Spencer through all of it. You’re never partnered, never work together, you sit on opposite ends of the jet. You don’t even speak at Strauss’ funeral. It’s radio silent, and everyone notices it, but no one brings it up.

In that time, you allow yourself to slip away slightly. You don’t go out with the team, you see Pen at nearly half frequency, and basically, the only time you speak is on cases. It’s stupid and melodramatic, but you call it healing. Derek tries to reason with you, JJ sticks to you a bit more than usual, and Penelope calls you virtually whenever she can, but their efforts are mostly in vain. This is your way of protecting yourself. You feel like you have to isolate in order to improve, and you know, given time, you will come back to yourself.

Penelope’s insistence that you go to her Day of the Dead celebration breaks your distance.

“Y/n, please come. I know you aren’t going out, but you have to. I know you have people to honor, and I need you there.”

You sigh, “Whose going, Pen?”

“The team, which you are a part of, so you must be there.”

“I don’t think I can do that. I promise you I will celebrate with you. I’ll help you set up, just please don’t make me go.”

Penelope pauses, but the glint in her eye keys you into the fact that she is not interested in giving up.

“We miss you, Y/n. Everyone loves you and misses you. You’ve been living this stupid, isolated life, and it’s time for you to come back. You are not this person. I refuse to believe it. You’re coming, and that’s final.”

Maybe you don’t have the energy to argue, or maybe you know she’s right, but you agree to go.

~

The thought of seeing him makes your heart race, and the clock you keep glancing at makes it worse. Just a few more hours before you're trapped in a confined space (Pen’s beautiful home) with a man you haven’t spoken to in weeks.

You busy yourself with preparing. Lights are hung, food is made, and you make a trip to the store while Pen sets up her remembrance table. When everything is said and done, you can’t help but feel this is the most beautiful thing you’ve been a part of in a long time.

The first knock comes at 7:30 exactly, and it’s Hotch and Rossi. They are followed closely by Blake, then Derek and JJ. By 7:00, the atmosphere is light and loving, and you feel a bit of your anxiety let up as the minutes go by without Reid. But, eventually, the knock comes, of course it does, and you move into a corner as Spencer walks in. You feel a shift in energy, though you doubt it’s palpable for anyone else. Rossi is the first to make his way over to you, and his presence comforts you nearly immediately.

“How you doing, kid?” His voice is soft like he’s speaking to a scared rabbit.

“I’m better,” you say, and it’s about as honest as you can get. As much as you’d like to think he knows nothing about what’s gone on, you’re smarter than that. He’s the best profiler on the team, and he’s always known when someone was off with you. Even so, you are better than you were, even if you aren’t quite good, and you know he believes you.

There’s some idle conversation between you before he asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not tonight. I don’t know when, but I will. Eventually, I will.”

It’s good enough for him, and you move on easily, which surprises you.

Right before Pen gathers you all to present your photos, he says, “Sometimes we think we’ve seen the whole picture, but we miss a big part. People do things because they don’t want to be hurt, but those things hurt them more. Just, be open.”

You don’t quite understand what he means, but you hope you will.

Penelope presents the first picture, which shows her parents. JJ honors her sister, Derek, his dad, Hotch Haley, and Rossi, Hernandez; then it’s your turn. You place down a photo of your best friend. You hadn’t talked much about her, but you think of her daily. She passed a few years before you joined the BAU.

“I was lucky to have someone that hurt that much to lose.”

That’s all you say, but it’s enough for you, and it would be enough for her.

Spencer is last. He places down a picture of Tesla and a picture of Maeve. Your heart is heavy for everyone.

The night dwindles from there. Hotch and Rossi say their goodbyes, and Rossi gives you a knowing look as he leaves. You just smile. You stay for a few minutes after, but eventually, you move to leave as well.

You make it down Garcia’s porch before you feel a hand grab your arm. You turn, and it’s Spencer’s face you see.

“Would you- Do you think you could come over? Do you think we could talk?”

~

The feeling you have walking up to Spencer's apartment is similar to what you felt the last time. You’re incredibly anxious, but at least you know you’ll be let in this time.

The drive over was silent. Spencer had taken the metro to Penelope’s, so he rode with you. It wasn’t necessarily awkward. There was just an understanding that the car wasn’t the place to begin your conversation.

Now, as Spencer unlocked his door, it’s one of those rare moments you felt starved for words, and you know it’s because you’re scared you’ll say the wrong thing and face the same reaction that you did the last time you were in his home.

He leads you to his living room and motions for you to sit, and you do. The two of you are on opposite ends of his couch while you wait for him to say something.

His first words are airy and light, “Thank you for letting me talk to you.”

You look at him but remain silent, waiting for him to go on. All you can think about is why he wants to speak to you at all. The last time you spoke, he made it incredibly clear he did not want you in his life or around him at all.

Before you can think about it more and let your anger and sadness build, he speaks again, “I feel really stupid right now. I kind of feel stupid whenever I’m around you recently.”

He pauses momentarily before going on, “I’m so, so sorry, Y/n. About the last time we spoke. I’ve been thinking about it pretty constantly for the past few weeks.”

You open your mouth, unsure of what exactly to say, but you can’t get there before he’s off again.

“I’m not sure how to talk to you anymore. I don’t think I’ve known how to for a long time. I just, I need you to know how sorry I am for speaking to you like that.”

He takes a shakey breath but keeps going, “That wasn’t me, and that isn’t how I feel. I’m just unbelievably sorry, Y/n.”

He stops there, and you work to collect your thoughts.

“I know. A part of me knows, at least, that you didn’t mean it. I just wanted to be there for you, and hearing that made me- I just- I think it made me hate myself for wanting to be there.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m unbelievably sorry.”

“You didn’t talk to me for months, Spencer. I just don’t understand. I don’t understand why you let me in in the first place. I thought you hated me.”

He’s silent for a long minute.

“I never hated you, Y/n. I just stopped knowing how to act around you, and then I met Maeve. I fell so deep into it that I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. I- And I just started to feel like you didn’t want me to speak to you, so I didn’t. But, when you came here, after everything, I guess I just felt like you were the only person who would get it. You never, no one on the team ever treated me or talked to me how you did. I just wanted that.”

Tears had begun to well in your eyes now. A part of you gets what he means, at least about letting you in, but the other part is so confused as to why he stopped being comfortable around you.

“I don’t understand, Spencer. Why did you stop knowing how to be around me?”

There’s desperation in your voice that makes you sound like a stranger to yourself. Maybe you’re a stranger to everyone right now.

“I uh, I don’t really know.”

“That's not fair, Spence.”

You’re crying now. Just a little bit, but you can feel the wetness on your cheeks. You can see that you are by the look on his face. He looks broken, and you know it's a reflection of your own image.

You wipe your face, “Thank you for apologizing, Spencer. I just, there are parts of this all that I don’t understand, and if you can't explain them to me, I don’t think I ever will.”

“Y/n-,” he calls out your name like a prayer.

“It’s okay, Spence. You don’t have to say anything more. We talked, and things will go back to how they were eventually.”

“I’m so sorry, Y/n.”

You smile sadly as you get up to leave.

“I am, too, for what it's worth. For whatever I did to make things change in the first place.”

You leave it at that, and it takes everything in you not to look back as you leave his apartment.

~

Things do get easier after that. Not completely. You still love him, and it hurts, but it helps to know he doesn’t hate you. He talks to you some, cordial things, and you do the same. You're sure your teammates still sense something is off, but this works for you. Right now, it works. Getting over him, not loving him anymore, is going to take work, but eventually, you know that you won’t hurt anymore.

Shortly after you and him talked, you started going back out with your friends. Spencer joined periodically, but that was normal. Bars were never really his scene.

Tonight, everyone gathers at your local pub. Your last case was particularly grueling, and you all need a way to blow off some steam. It's fun, and you feel good, even with Spencer sitting across from you. You feel proud of yourself for getting to this point.

JJ and Penelope feed you drinks to try and get you to dance, and you let them. Tonight feels as good of a night as any to ‘get back out there’ as Pen says. So, you do. You dance with them, and you ward off the other cops and agents around you who try to pull you away from your group. You aren’t interested in that. Right now, you're just having an appropriate amount of fun for a woman 15 feet from her boss.

Time goes by quickly, and by the time you get back to the table, you, Derek, Penelope, and JJ remain. He tells you that Hotch, Rossi, Reid, and Alex left a few minutes before. The conversation between you flows for a while, up until the drinks loosen Penelope up enough to bring up what you were pretty sure the team designated a no-no topic.

“Y/n, you have to talk about it.”

You’re still laughing as something Derek said when you reply, “What?”

“You know what. You and Boy-Genius. What on Earth happened? You went from ice-cold to semi-friendly. None of us saw it coming.”

“Babygirl-,” Derek tries to stop her, but you cut him off.

“No, it’s okay. I have to talk about it at some point, and I think right now is the only time I’ll be tipsy enough to let you get it out of me.”

You're still laughing slightly, but the pit that's lived in your stomach for the past few months starts to rear its head.

“After your Day of the Dead party, he asked to talk to me. I went to his place, and he apologized. I don’t really understand what he said or what he meant, but I can’t be sad about him forever.”

Pen perks up a bit at that, “I knew that party would bring good things!”

You giggle a bit at her outburst, but then JJ asks, “What did he say?”

The faces around you all tune in at that. You know they don’t see this as gossip. They care about you both too much to trivialize it like that.

“He just said that he stopped knowing how to act around me, and he didn’t know why, but then he met Maeve, and I guess it didn’t matter so much after that. He was my best friend, and then he was nothing.”

JJ shares a glance with Derek and then speaks, “Oh, Y/n.”

“What?”

After a beat, Derek says, “He didn’t just not know how to act around you.”

Now you're confused, “What do you mean? I talked to him, that's what he said. He didn’t know why. I mean, he knows everything and didn’t know why he didn’t want to be around me anymore. How fucking stupid is that.”

You laugh again, but it does come off as genuine in the slightest.

“Y/n, he probably doesn’t really know why. At least not fully. For someone as smart as he is, the kid can be really stupid.”

“Stop being cryptic.”

Derek sighs but goes on, “Pretty girl, pretty boy was in love with you. Probably still is. He just didn’t think you’d ever feel the same.”

“No. That's not true.”

You look at the others around you, but their faces are serious.

“He loved Maeve. He loves Maeve. That, that doesn’t make any sense.”

It's JJ’s turn to talk now.

“He definitely did love Maeve, no one is denying that, but we all saw how he was around you. His whole relationship with her was safe. He couldn’t be hurt by her rejection every day because he had no way of seeing her. With you, he could.”

Your mind is moving a mile a minute, “Did he tell you guys this?”

Penelope puts her hand over yours and says, “He didn’t have to, love. We all say the way he looked at you and acted around you. The way he talked about you. That boy was head over heels.”

“Guys, I appreciate whatever you’re trying to do, but this isn’t real. Spencer doesn’t- this is not real.”

“Y/n, pause. Think about the way he acted around you, the things he said. Think about how Reid is.”

You hear what Derek said, but it all sounds faint like someone stuffed your ears with cotton while you weren't paying attention. All you can focus on are the different scenes running through your head, the scenes of your life with Spencer in it. How he memorized your coffee order and brought it for you every day, how he never shied away from your touch despite his aversion to contact, how he consistently went out of his way to protect you on the field. At his house after everything, the way he clung to you and wanted to be held. How he said in his own words, “You can't be what I need”; not “you aren’t,” but “you can’t.”

Your whole world is crashing down in this bar, and you can’t do anything to stop it.

“Y/n?”

JJ’s voice snaps you out of your spiral.

“Just go talk to him.”

You nod mutely, and you get up.

~

Everything in the last ten months of your life has led you to the exact spot you were when everything blew up in the first place: Spencer’s door.

This time, you aren't too worried about him not letting you in. If anything, it's the opposite. Him opening this door could open a hundred others, and you don’t quite know if you are ready for any of them. You sit there and sit there and sit there, trying to work up the courage to knock, though you aren’t sure it's there to begin with. Right as you're about to walk away and decide you’ll come back another day, his door swings open.

“Y/n?”

His face is lit up with shock, and you notice his hand that is not on the door is holding his pistol.

“What are you doing here?”

You don’t answer, “Why did you open the door?”

He sets his piece down on the entry table before responding, “I heard footsteps in the hall and saw they stopped here. I was anxious. 50.3% of home invasions happen between 8:00 pm and 7:00 am.” He cuts himself off there, “Y/n, why are you here?”

You didn’t pay attention to anything he said. All you could think about was the way his lips were moving and the way his eyes locked onto yours as he talked.

“Do you love me?”

That is not what you wanted to say.

His lips fall open as he takes in a sharp breath, “What?”

“Or I guess did you love me? Before everything? Because Derek and JJ and Pen, they all said that you loved me, and now I can’t think about anything else, Spencer.”

He doesn’t speak, but you don't really give him a chance to.

“I just, I know I sound crazy right now, but I feel fucking crazy. I keep going over everything in my head, and I have been, for the past year I have been, but now it’s all different. It's all different because they said that you loved me, but you didn’t think I’d feel the same way.”

Here, you do pause, but he still doesn’t say anything, so you go on before you can stop yourself.

“Because if that's true, Spencer, it's just- I did. I do. And if it's not, then please just tell me so I can stop feeling this way.”

He sounds resigned when he says, “Y/n,” and you feel like you know what that means.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I'm doing this. You don’t have to say anything. Actually, please don’t say anything. I don't think I can hear it. Just pretend I never-”

He cuts off your ramble, “Y/n, stop.”

You draw your eyes from the floor, look up at him, and find something in his gaze you have never seen before. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at you, and it takes everything you have not to look away. His hand raises to cup your jaw, and your skin lights on fire. Before you can process what he’s doing, you feel his lips press against yours, and something clicks. At first, his touch is light, like he’s giving you the chance to pull away. But, when he grasps that you won’t, he presses himself to you harder, and all you can think about is how nothing has ever felt so right.

His lips move against yours, and you don’t know how you're managing to reciprocate because it feels like everything in your body has gone fuzzy. The kiss is by no means long, but it feels like it lasts forever, and by the time he pulls away, you’re breathless.

His forehead stays connected to yours, and he whispers, “I do, Y/n, love you. I have.”

You don’t feel the tears on your cheeks until he’s wiping them away.

“Oh, Y/n.”

“Did you know? That you did? Is that why…”

You trail off, hoping he’ll pick up on what you're asking, and he does.

“I didn’t at first, or I didn’t realize I was falling in love with you until it happened. I got scared, so I ran. I just never thought that you could feel the same or that I was hurting you. I didn’t realize that. I just thought I was doing what was best for us. I felt guilty for being in love with my best friend.”

“And Maeve?”

“I loved Maeve. I’ll always have love for her. I was trying to move on, and I thought I could eventually be with her and be around you without it hurting. I wish I would have told you this before.”

“You’re telling me now. That's enough.”

This time, it's you who pushes your lips to meet his. Your arms snake around his neck, and his fall to your waist. You follow when he pulls you into his apartment and closes the door. There is still pain on both sides, but you can feel it dissipating as you cling to each other. You’re just two broken people who have finally found a way to each other.

This kiss is different, hungrier. Neither of you pulls away for longer than a few seconds as you navigate your way from his entryway to his couch. Every touch is desperate like you're searching for something you never knew existed until now. His hands pull you closer and closer until he's pulling you on top of him, and each of your legs rests on opposite sides of his hips.

Your lips break from his for a moment, “What do you want, Spence?”

His reply is instant, “You.”

From there, things move faster. Your hands unbutton his shirt and push it from his shoulders while he undoes your pants. There are moments of awkwardness that come with exploring another for the first time, but it feels good. His hands trace over your hips and push further until you're left on top of him in only your underwear and bra. He takes you in like you are something to be marveled at, and you know your eyes reflect the same adoration.

You raise yourself off of him and work to get him in the same state of undress as you, and when you position yourself on top of him, you feel his length press against your center. The two thin layers of fabric do little to hinder the intensity as you rock into him. He lets out quiet moans at the action as his lips trace down your neck and over your collarbone.

His breath ghosts over you and makes you shiver when he asks, “Can I touch you?”

“Please.”

His hand moves between the two of you, and his fingers find your clit easily, rubbing circles over the fabric of your panties. You pant his name against his lips at the action. You feel like your whole body is lit up, and under any other circumstance, you'd feel embarrassed at how worked up you are, but you can’t seem to care.

After a few moments, he lifts you up and carries you to his bedroom. From there, he positions you below him on the bed, removing your remaining clothes in the same motion. The new setup lets you grip him, and he feels big in your hand. His fingers resume their previous assault before dipping down into you. You cry out at the feeling of him inside you, slowly pushing in and out, finding a spot that makes your legs start to shake. He’s relentless in his pursuit and all you can muster up the energy to say is his name.

“You’re so beautiful, Y/n.”

It's somewhere between a whimper and a whisper, but the sound of his voice causes you to clench around his fingers.

He picks up on this, of course he does, and quickens his pace as he coos at you.

“So pretty like this. I’m so lucky.”

You’re embarrassingly close already, so when he moves his thumb over your clit to rub circles as he fucks into you with his fingers, you come undone almost instantly with a warning and cry of his name. He works you through your orgasm, all while whispering praise in your ear. Once you come down from your high, you start to push his boxers down his legs, but he stops you before you can fully.

“We don’t have to do anything more, Y/n. I liked just making you feel good.”

“I want more. I want to feel you if you want that too.”

“Of course I do. I just don’t want you to regret anything.”

“I couldn’t regret this, Spencer. I love you. I want all of you.”

It's the first time you’ve actually said those three words to him, and it feels so fucking good to say.

“I love you, too. God, so much.”

With that, he positions himself back on top of you, running his fingers over your slit gently before gripping himself.

“Do you have a condom?”

“I might somewhere, but I have an IUD, and I’m clean. I can try to find one if you’re more comfortable with that?”

“IUDs have a failure rate of around .05% and are largely considered the most effective form of birth control, so uh, as long as you're okay with it, I am.”

You smile to yourself at his statistic but nod, “I want to feel you, Spencer.”

He returns your smile before rubbing his length over your entrance a few times and slowly pushing himself into you just slightly. He teases you, or maybe himself, for a moment before fully entering you. You push your hips up to meet his, and feeling him in his entirety makes your jaw fall open. He’s big, and you feel unbelievably full.

He waits a moment for you to adjust before he starts to develop a rhythm. His hands are everywhere, but his eyes are focused solely on your face like he doesn’t want to miss a moment of your reaction to him inside of you. To be fair, you are probably putting on a good show. Every movement he makes hits you in exactly the right spot, and you don’t think you could be louder if you tried. You can feel the leg he’s not holding up against his shoulder shake against the bed. Your first orgasm has made way for your second to be incredibly close.

“Spencer, please.”

You’re crying out, desperate for a little more to push you over the edge.

“What do you need, baby?” His voice is tight like he’s not far himself, and it sounds better than anything you’ve ever heard.

“Harder. Please, harder.”

He takes your direction immediately, rubbing circles on your clit with one hand while he thrusts into you with a bruising force. He’s fucking you like he wants you to remember the feeling long after he stops, and you know that you will. Everything about it is overwhelming: his smell, his pace, his eyes. You are covered in him, and he is covered in you.

After a moment, the hand he had on your stomach trails up to grasp lightly at your throat, and you fall into feeling. You can’t warn him that you're about to come before you do. The feeling is white hot. Bigger than your first, and the fact that you're coming on him sends you into overdrive. You can feel his hips falter for a moment, but you're lost in a daze, crying out his name.

He pumps into you a few more times before he follows suit. He pulls out, and you feel stripes of his come paint your cunt and lower stomach as he finishes with a moan of your name.

He falls next to you on the bed, and it takes you both a few moments to collect yourselves and catch your breath.

Once you do, the only thing you can think to say is, “I love you.”

It feels like those are the only words circling around in your head at the moment. Some mixture of his name and that declaration. While you know you each said it before, that your profession was the exigence of the sex you just had, it feels uniquely vulnerable to say now. It’s like the moment you just had together could have changed things or made him realize that he doesn’t actually love you after all.

That shoe doesn’t drop, though. Instead, you hear the three words echoed back to you by a man who, 6 hours ago, you thought would never, ever say them.

You turn to face him, and the love on his face feels like it could knock you out. He’s looking at you and smiling in a way you haven't seen in a long time.

“Will you let me clean you up?”

You know that part of the reason he’s asking has something to do with the likelihood of bacteria growth or something like that, but you think it's mainly that he wants to take care of you. Him wetting a rag and running it over you feels intimate in a different way, in an excruciatingly gentle way. Personal in a way that makes you feel like nothing between you could ever be wrong again, and maybe that's naive to think, but you feel hopeful regardless.

Once he finishes, he takes his space back next to you in the bed. This time, he pulls you into his arms, and it's different than it was all those months ago. This time, you know that he won’t push you away and that you won't hurt yourself by being next to him. This time, you just tuck yourself into him, and you let him whisper sweet nothings into your ear as you begin to drift off. This time, it feels like peace.

~

The following day, you wake up to Spencer still next to you, looking incredibly soft in the early morning light. You search for a moment to find your phone in the piles of clothes and are greeted with a text from Pen.

How did it go????

You smile before turning your phone off and climbing back into bed next to the man you love. It couldn’t have gone better.

-

all done! yay!!!

i hope you guys love it!! i’m not 100% happy with the ending but i’ve been writing this for so long and just needed to be done.

this is my first time writing angst on here and my longest fic, so PLEASE tell me what you think! all (nice) feedback is welcome and i love to hear from you guys!! :)

[skzms]

⛓️˚₊‧⁺⋆♱ ruin me - part II lee know x f!reader

There are no words in any language he speaks that could explain what he’s feeling, so instead he pulls you into a kiss, one that wipes his brain free of anything except an almost primal need, and an even more primal sense of pride that he is able to kiss you like this now. Uninhibited. Uncoordinated. Needy. Filthy. Tongues tangling until there’s spit dripping out of the corner of his mouth. The whimper you press into his mouth tells a story of a desperation he never in his wildest dreams thought you could feel about him. He could sob. Maybe is about to, when you rip yourself away, push yourself up with a hand next to his head, and then, suddenly, curl your other hand around his neck and Minho roars, stars exploding in his vision from the intensity with which his eyes roll, his body locks up. OR minho's obsessed with you. turns out, you're obsessed with him, too. and you match his freak better than he could've ever anticipated.

word count: 10.2k words

author's note: phew part 2!!! this got ambitious, lads!! the tenderest, and horniest tenderhorny bdsm shit you will ever read. This one’s real dirty, so please heed the warnings! and while the kink is definitely under negotiated in this fic, I tried to create a realistic portrayal of how consent can look, and how the energy can ebb and flow, how you can go in and out of a scene. be safe everyone!! but also enjoy the filth. Not enough perv!minho out there. he’s not pathetic enough, not down bad enough, in most x reader fics. I have been wanting to write him like this for a looooong time, so really, why am I surprised it got this long

warnings: they match each other’s freak, in a weird fucking way; he’s obsessed with pudge and pubic hair (like a man should be); undernegotiated kink, please don’t engage in this kind of stuff without extensive communication!; very explicit bdsm things: dom!reader, sub!minho; panty stealing, choking and breathplay, on oneself (DON'T!!!) and on someone else, painplay, ball slapping, degradation, praise, spit, dacryphilia; breeding; implied butt stuff (m receiving)

link to part 1

skzms masterlist // ko-fi

A wet dream. His best, filthiest, dirtiest, most magnificent dreams and then some, that’s what it feels like when you push him onto the bed, curl two fingers into the chain of his necklace, your necklace, and slot your lips over his in a hot, searing kiss.

It’s everything. You’re everything. Everything he has ever wanted. Needed. Desired, loved more than anything. Your lips are soft, your spit sweet, the way you move against him controlled but demanding in a way that makes him want to just open his mouth and let you have your way with him. When you nip at his bottom lip, jolts of electricity shoot between his legs and his cock is throbs. He’s so, so close despite being entirely untouched.

And God, every inch of you he can get his hands on – it’s all so fucking perfect that he struggles to make sense of it. Every new inch of you that his hands touch is so new and so perfect – he wants to try and catalogue it all, store it away in his head for a rainy day, when he touches himself, when he’s three fingers deep and sobbing into his sheets. Just in case this is a dream.

Your tongue licks over his bottom teeth and Minho moans. It’s not a dream.

You’d pushed him against the wall as soon as the door closed behind you, one hand fisted into the collar of his shirt, and his breath had caught, his whole body taut like a bowstring – but you didn’t kiss him. You were trembling, breathing heavily, mirroring the desperate shake in Minho’s impossibly tight body, but you didn’t kiss him, only let your forehead fall against his and mumbled out a we need to talk about this first before dragging him to his room.

And talk you did. Standing in front of him, flushed and gorgeous, and just a little self-conscious. That alone nearly sent Minho to his knees in front of you. You’re my best friend. I’ve wanted this for a long time. If we do this, I can’t just be your friend. I want us to be more. The words had just tumbled out of your rose petal lips as if saying them was easy, as if they weren’t words Minho had never in his wildest dreams thought he’d get to hear from you. He’d breathed out your name, taken a step closer, fingers itching to touch, to feel, to finally sink his teeth into what he never thought could be his, but you’d stopped him, a steady palm in the middle of his chest, eyes pits of a darkness so deep it made the hairs on Minho’s neck prick up. Traffic light. Red for stop, yellow for slow down or try something else, green for good. Got it? Minho, nodding blindly, excitement shivering through his veins, his cock already filling out in anticipation. You blinked at him, something even darker running through your eyes like molten glass. Don’t look at me like that. Minho, sucking in a breath. Like what? Barely audible. Breathed out a laugh that wasn’t one.

Like you want me to ruin you.

This time, Minho’s legs did buckle, stumbling backwards, until his ass hit his mattress. A desperate breath, a pleading, something in his voice he’s never heard before. You, stalking towards him, one step at a time, a look in his eyes like you were ready to tear him to pieces. His wildest, dirtiest dreams, coming true.

Ruin me, fuck, please, ruin me.

You straddled him, turning his brain into goo with your sudden proximity, rattling off a laundry list of dirty things you wanted to do to him, waiting for a nod or a shake of his head – the latter of which he had previous few to give you. Most everything you mentioned coming straight from his filthiest dreams. It was a miracle he could listen at all, your breath fanning over his face sweet like steamed red bean buns, the plush of your ass on his thighs, the heat of your body slowly settling into his until he felt like he no longer existed as himself, like he was only a vessel for you to do with as you pleased. At the end, you only looked at him for a long moment.

We’ll talk more about this later, but were you honest with me? Are those your only hard no’s?

The words reached him through a fog, through a dense, all-consuming desire to kiss you. He nodded again, blearily, blinked up at you, met your eyes; dark, predatory, yet oddly loving. He shivered, a full-body thing that you watched impassively, your expression giving nothing away. Then you leaned in. Whispered the words that made Minho whimper pathetically before your lips met his and his entire body exploded into fireworks.

God, you’re perfect.

Minho has never believed in God, but he thinks kissing you is the closest thing he’ll ever experience to heaven.

The weight, the heat of your body – he has imagined it so many times, but it’s so much better when it’s really you. When it’s the plush of your thighs caging his hips against the mattress. The drag of your chest against his as you lick into his mouth.

Your fingers find his jaw, press into the sides until his mouth falls slack with an embarrassing sound, somewhere between a moan and a gurgle, before you lick into his mouth. The smell of you, your shampoo, your perfume, the smell he has sucked out of so many of his sweaters, is all around him, threatens to overwhelm him. He wonders if his sheets will smell like you when you’re done. He might have to sleep on the couch. He might not be able to handle it.

Your hand is still on his jaw, fingers digging into the hinge of it, when you pull back, blink your eyes open, stare at him. Pinned to the bed, under the delicious weight of your body, he lets you stare your fill.

“You never said …” you suddenly murmur, and Minho blinks. Raises his eyebrows in question. “When I said I didn’t want this to be a one-time thing. That I wanted to be more. You never said if you wanted it, too.”

Minho feels his heart plummet. Oh God, how could he not have … how could he …

He tries to say something, but because of your hand on his jaw, all he can do is gurgle. So he settles for nodding, his eyes wide, blinking rapidly.

You watch him struggle, and smile. It’s disorientingly soft for how harsh your grip on his jaw still is, nails digging into his skin and all.

“Shh, it’s okay, bunny,” you mumble, and Minho squirms. His cock throbs at the nickname. “We can talk later, I just needed to know you want me the way I want you. For good. Forever.”

Minho swears his heart gives out at the words. He strains, tries to get the words out, pleads with you with his eyes, and you seem to understand.

“Okay, good,” you whisper, and then you pucker your lips – and spit right into his mouth.

Minho’s eyes roll into the back of his head. You let go of his jaw and his mouth snaps closed immediately, swallows your honey sweet spit before the words tumble out like they were just waiting to be freed.

“Forever. Want you forever. Have wanted you. Always. I lo … I love you. I love you. Please.”

Too much? Too soon? It barely scratches the surface of how he feels for you. Those words seem paltry compared to what you do to him. But he can’t think when you’re so close, when you just kissed him for the first time, when he hasn’t even gotten to kiss you for a second time yet.

Your eyes crinkle at the edges, and you smile, so wide your cheeks bunch up and your nose scrunches adorably and Minho makes a helpless noise in the back of his throat.

You dip down, rub the tip of your nose against his, giggling when he needily tries to push up, tries to mush his lips onto yours again.

“Oh, Minho,” you sigh, and it’s better than every moan of his name he has ever picked out of your daily interactions and manipulated until they fit into his fantasies.

You wait until he meets your eyes, a little cross-eyed from how close you are, before you whisper a soft “I love you, too” and lean in.

This kiss is raw. Softer, slower, but so full of feeling – and maybe he was worried that his sentimentality ruined the moment, but that fear is assuaged by the sheer desperation with which you kiss him, the little sigh that you breathe into his mouth that makes a shiver run down his spine.

“Where are they?” you mumble into his lips without pulling back, and Minho doesn’t have to ask what you mean.

Blindly, he shoves his hand under his pillow and pulls them out. Black lace, crushed and crumpled and humiliatingly obviously spit stained. He’d sucked on the seat of them until he was choking on his saliva just this morning, his mind swimming with the knowledge that you knew, that you would come over later that day ‘to talk’ – the mind-blowing possibility that you might feel the same.

You pull back, and he watches you blink at them, the fingers of the hand resting on his chest curling into his sensitive chest, making the sensitive nerve endings there explode into an exquisite pleasure-pain. You breathe out a curse, dip down to kiss him again, your whole chest flush with his, your weight on his chest and your lips on his making it hard to breathe, but all it does is make his cock throb harder. He might come at this rate, only from your lips on his and the fact that you’re the one robbing him off his breath instead of his own hand.

You pull back until your lips are merely brushing his, your eyes still closed, as your hand slides up the arm, to the hand that he’s clutching the panties in. You stop at the wrist, circle your fingers around it and squeeze. Minho’s breath catches in his throat.

“I came in them,” you mutter, lowly, and Minho’s sanity slips. “I humped my pillow, thinking of you.”

This can’t be real. This can’t be real. He must be dreaming. This cannot be real. He lets out a guttural, feral moan.

“I had come up with the plan then, already. I knew I was going to leave them there, hoping you would pick them up. I … I came so hard, Minho,” you shiver out the last words and Minho’s arms finally move from where they were uselessly resting against the sheets, wind around your body to pull you against him, trying to feel more of you, his hips grinding up into your hip helplessly. “I came so hard thinking of you taking them.”

Minho can’t help himself. There are no words in any language he speaks that could explain what he’s feeling, so instead he pulls you into a kiss, one that wipes his brain free of anything except an almost primal need, and an even more primal sense of pride that he is able to kiss you like this now. Uninhibited. Uncoordinated. Needy. Filthy. Tongues tangling until there’s spit dripping out of the corner of his mouth. The whimper you press into his mouth tells a story of a desperation he never in his wildest dreams thought you could feel about him.

He could sob. Maybe is about to, when you rip yourself away, push yourself up with a hand next to his head, and then, suddenly, curl your other hand around his neck and Minho roars, stars exploding in his vision from the intensity with which his eyes roll, his body locks up. He pulls your hips flush with his cock, at the same time as he presses his hips up so hard it almost hurts. He’s throbbing, one second away from coming into his pants. You tighten your fingers. Minho gurgles out another moan. This is everything he has ever wanted.

“I want you so bad. My filthy, pervy, best friend.”

His vision speckles, his heart thumps in his chest. His breath comes out in short bursts.

“Don’t you think I saw you staring? Don’t you think …”

You let go of his neck and oxygen rushes into Minho’s lungs so fast he has to screw his eyes shut so he doesn’t pass out. You lift yourself off him, and he nearly sobs at the loss of warmth. He doesn’t need to look down to know there’s a wet spot on his sweats. He hears you laugh, hears the note of condescension in it, and his cock twitches in his pants. Clearly, you see because you laugh again. He’s so overwhelmed, he throws his arm over his face and whimpers pathetically.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” you snarl, and Minho shivers with something that is almost fear, but he doesn’t dare remove his arm from his face. “Do you think I can’t see it …,” you trail off dangerously.

And then, so quick he can’t even wrap his head around it, mean little fingers curl into the waistband of his sweats and his boxers and rip both down his legs in one fell swoop. Minho gasps, arm flying off his face and back flying off the bed, his hard, aching cock slapping heavily against his abdomen. When his eyes fall on you, you’re staring straight at it.

“Do you think I can’t see your cock bulging in your pants when you get hard?”

You meet his eyes and Minho blinks, nods, then shakes his head. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to figure out if that was really a question, if you wanted an answer, what answer you wanted.

You smile at him, almost eerily, before you drop your eyes back down to his cock and go back to staring.

“So big,” you hum, and Minho shivers. His cock twitches. “So pretty, too. I wonder if you even know what to do with it.”

Minho’s nails dig into the sheets so hard he wonders if they will tear. He needs you to touch him. He needs it more than he needs air. But you won’t, you just keep staring.

“P-please,” he croaks out, and your head snaps up to him, eyes filled with faux surprise.

“Please what, you nasty little thing? Aren’t you literally currently getting off on me staring at that useless dick of yours?”

Minho whimpers, and he swears he feels tears prick at his eyes. He swallows them down.

“T-touch …,” he chokes on a whimper.

You breathe out a laugh, and Minho thinks he might actually cry.

“Not so fast. Need to see what I’m dealing with here, first. On your hands and knees, now.”

Minho’s body computes the order before his brain does, already scrambling up before his thoughts catch up. When they do, he hesitates. Looks from you to the bed, and back. You seem to understand. You smile.

“Such a good boy,” you purr, and he sinks his nails into his thighs. “Face towards the pillows.”

Oh, God.. He’s imagined this. So many times.

He turns, plants his shaking hands on the mattress. He’s naked from the waist down, except for his socks. He’s still wearing his t-shirt. And the necklace, of course. His ass is still planted on his heels, too shy to lift it, though he knows you want him to. Can feel it. But a part of him wants you to ask.

He’s shaking.

You tsk behind him.

“Come on, bunny. You know what I want. Get your pretty little ass up. Show me.”

Minho does as he’s told. Puts more weight on his trembling arms. Props himself up.

The cool air against his ass, against his hole, is maddening. He wonders if you like what you see. Wonders when he last shaved. It's not like he's getting any. The last time he tried sleeping with someone, he couldn't even get it up. Came in three minutes when he got home and touched himself to the thought of you, though.

He follows blindly when he feels your fingers guiding his legs closer together, barely registers the brush of your touch against his cock before it’s gone again, his balls tucked behind his legs, his shaft resting along the backs of his thighs. He’s so exposed.

You hum appreciatively. One warm palm finds his ass cheek, caresses, kneads the flesh, the other smoothes over his calf, up and up over his thighs, until it’s resting on his hips. It feels like you touch him like that for forever, and he gets so lost in the sensations that he almost screams when a dry finger brushes against his hole.

You shush him soothingly and somehow, it does calm him. His breath is already coming in erratic bursts. He feels his cock twitch against his thighs. You probably see it. You probably see everything. The thought makes a few droplets of precum dribble from his tip. He’s mortified. It only makes him harder.

“Do you like your little hole played with, bunny?” you ask, sweetly, and he doesn’t even pretend to hesitate. He nods frantically. You hum like you’re stowing away the knowledge for another day.

“We’ll try that another time, won’t we? Because only good bunnies get their hole played with. And you’ve been bad, haven’t you?”

The line should be cringey, but your voice is so soft, almost dreamy, and it works. He shakes his head. Then nods. Then stops in despair.

You laugh. He blushes crimson, knows you can see it on the tips of his ears.

You don’t respond, instead you’re quiet and then-

Minho screams when your palm makes sharp contact with his balls. The pain zaps through his oversensitive body and then settles deep in his abdomen, where it turns into liquid hot arousal. His arms give out and he faceplants into his pillows.

“Been staring at me for so long. Staring at me and then getting hard. With that big cock of yours bulging through your pants.”

You slap his balls again and this time he expects it, doesn’t scream, only yelps, screw his fingers into the sheets. Another dribble of precum drips from his tip. It hits his calves. God, he has never been this wet before.

“How long have you been touching yourself to the thought of me?”

Minho barely computes the question. His whole body is trembling, waiting for the next slap, his mind bleary and foggy.

Your palm comes down on his thigh, then his ass, and then his balls, one after another, so fast he barely has time to catch his breath. This time, he moans.

“Answer me, Minho.”

The arousal in his guts pulls tighter at the way you say his name.

Stern, a little mean. Dimly, he realises he will come soon.

You say his name again, warningly, and he blinks the fog from his eyes enough to answer.

“Always,” he gasps out, screw his eyes shut in humiliation, “since we met. Always thought you were the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. Couldn’t stop thinking about you …”

He cuts himself off with a high, keening moan, when he feels soft fingers run over his balls, massage the soft skin. You’re touching him. You’re touching him.

“Go on,” you mutter, and he does. He would do anything you ask.

“Couldn’t … couldn’t stop thinking about you. W-wanted you, yes, to touch you but also … so much … ah … more. I always loved you, I promise, I promise.”

He nearly sobs. It feels insane to finally say all of this out loud. To say it to you.

You hum, a soft, appreciative thing. It makes his heart do somersaults in his chest.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

The slap catches him off guard this time, and he yelps, his back arching, the arousal pulling hotter.

“‘M so-sorry …” he howls, “I didn’t think … never thought you … you could want me like that … you were too … perfect …”

“So instead you touched your cock to fantasies of me spanking you? Being mean to you?”

Minho nods, and the next spank sends a full-body spasm through him. There’s a violent heat, building in the very core of his body, and his legs start trembling.

“Stupid boy,” you mutter, and the softness in your voice, laced in with the annoyance, the humiliation pulsing behind his eyes, and the next slap, hitting him just right–

Dull pleasure explodes through his body, and he comes with a tiny, choked up moan, back arching, chest and face pressed into his sheets, his cock spurting his load down the back of his thighs, hot and sticky.

The orgasm is astringent, thin and sharp, like the pain still lingering from your slap, and he sobs into the quiet of the room. You’re frozen behind him, probably in shock. Staring at the mess he made of himself. He fists his hand into the pillow next to his head. Tries to hold on. Feels himself start to spiral.

Suddenly, you get up, your weight lifting off the mattress, the sound of your socked feet leaving the room, and his usual post orgasm shame slams into him like a freight train. He doesn’t even move, stays with his face buried in the drool-stained pillow, his ass in the air, cum drying on the back of his thighs. The pillow feels like it’s getting wetter, and it’s only then that he realises that he’s crying. Not a full on sob, but a steady sniffle, dripping into the cotton until he can feel it wet his skin.

He doesn’t hear you come back into the room, nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels a warm, wet washcloth run over the backs of his thighs. The touch is barely there, almost utilitarian, if it wasn’t for the gentleness with which you touch him, hold him in place, caress over the skin. It’s so soothing. When you ghost the towel over the sensitive underside of his cock, he sniffles into the pillows. You make a soft sound under your breath, and the next thing he knows, he’s slowly being guided onto his side by your gentle hands.

He doesn’t even try to hide his tears, couldn’t if he tried, his arms aching too much to move them to hide his face. But he doesn’t avert his eyes from the ceiling, tries his best to ignore your stares burning into him. He can’t face it yet, whatever it is you feel.

Only when he feels you slowly unfurl his legs, helping him straighten them out, knead them between your warm palms, does he look down. You look like an angel. So pretty. So gentle. Tears blur his vision. He doesn’t want to have fucked it all up. He can’t live if you don’t love him any more now.

When his body is stretched out, resting clean and comfortable again his sheets, you lie down next to him. Place your gorgeous head on his pillows, fold your palm underneath your cheek, reach out the other to card through his sweaty hair. Minho thinks he can feel the touch in his entire body.

For a long moment, it’s quiet. You’re looking at him. He’s staring at you. He tries not to blink. He doesn’t want to miss a single moment. A small smile steals its way onto your lips, and he feels tears gathering in his eyes again. God, he’s so fucked up over you.

Before he can cry again, you gently scoot closer to him, your gaze dipping down to his lips, your nails dragging over his scalp soothingly.

“Shh, it’s okay. You’re okay. I’m here. Did so well, for me, my sweet boy …”

Your voice sounds far away, but your words make the dread melt from Minho’s bones so fast it makes him dizzy. Replaces it with a quiet, helpless kind of love. He can feel your breath on his lips. He closes his eyes. When you kiss him, he kisses back.

It’s only a closed-mouth kiss that you press to his lips, then another, and another. Soft. Almost chaste. Until Minho presses forward, makes one linger. Gently, still fragile, scared, he parts his lips, runs his tongue over the seam of your lips, greedily swallows the little sigh you make in the back of your throat. You open your mouth to him, slide your hand into the hair at the back of his head, and he presses closer, licks into your mouth. Tentatively, he places a hand on your waist. Holds his breath. Waits for your hum of approval, you arching into his touch, before he finally lets his hand explore the body that’s been haunting his every waking hour for the last years.

The dip of your waist is sweet. It fits perfectly under the curve of his arm when he winds it around you, pulls you against his chest until he can feel all of you against him, your belly softly rising and falling against his, your tits squished into his chest, thighs pressing together, before one slings over his. He can feel the strap of your bra under your shirt. He curls his fingers into it for just a second, entertains the thought of ripping it off you. Of the punishment you might dole out. It makes his cock twitch. He’s sure you can feel it, but you seem distracted enough, your fingernails dragging down his bicep, slipping down to his waist, to snuggle even closer, press your body into his like you want to make a home in it. He wishes you would. Carve out his chest and crawl in. Make yourself a home in his bones. He’d keep you safe.

Slowly, slow enough for you to be able to protest, should you not want it, he drags his palm down the dip and curve of your back, until his fingertips start gliding over the thick, mouthwatering swell of your ass. His pinky snags on the pocket of your jeans when he slides down to cup your cheek. Then he squeezes.

Dumbly, he watches, feels, as you gasp into his mouth, your hips twitch forward into his body your hand tightens on him, tries to drag him closer, though your bodies are already pressed so close he loses track of where he ends and you begin. When he kneads your ass again, you rock your hips forward again, and he slips his thigh in between your legs almost instinctively. Your legs clamp around it and with the next squeeze of your ass, you gently moan into his mouth, suck his bottom lip between your teeth and grind against his thigh. He can feel the heat of you through your jeans.

Minho’s cock is already hardening; so fast, and so soon after coming, that it aches. But your body underneath his hands, so beautifully responsive, so clearly enjoying him touching you–

His hand wanders, slides down the expanse of your thigh, down the outside, then back up, sweeping over the top, his thumb dragging over the inside seam of your jeans, until his fingertips find your waistband.

When he pulls himself away from you, he’s breathing heavily. There’s a string of spit that hovers in the air for a solid second, before it breaks, wets your bottom lip. He leans in, licks it clean, presses a chaste, almost reverential kiss to your lips. Much as he wants to let it linger, he doesn’t. He pulls back until he can look at you again and finds you already staring at him. Doe-eyed, yet wild. He has to swallow a growl, like a feral fucking animal. His fingertips trace the waistband of your jeans, knuckles brushing against the impossibly soft, sweetly pudgy skin underneath your belly button, until he reaches his goal. He taps his fingers against the metal button, looks at you with a question in his eyes. You nod.

Your breath puffs against his face in shallow bursts as he pops the button, his mind playing a highlight reel of all the time he’s imagined his as he slides down the zipper. He doesn’t even bother pulling your jeans down, only leans back enough so he has enough space to shove his hand down your pants. It feels a little dirty this way. Like you could be anywhere. In the car. In a restaurant bathroom.

His fingers brush past coarse, trimmed hair and God, he loves that you haven’t shaved it all off. He wants to bury his nose in it, wants to breathe you in until he never forgets your scent. The cotton of your panties is sticky against his knuckles when his fingertips make contact with the hot, slick heat of you. You gasp, and his cock twitches, and he can’t help the wanton groan that tears past his lips.

With the awkward angle, he can really only dip his fingertips in, and it’s not enough, not even remotely, so much so that he feels greedy, feels maybe more courageous than he should. He kisses you harder, pushes you backwards with every greedy press of his lips, until you’re lying back against the pillows and your legs fall open, and he can shove his hand further down your pants and finally–

Your body arches into his, your fingers fist the material of his shirt, when he sinks his fingers into your slick properly. A wet finger finds the button of your clit and his mind shuts down, the only thing he can think of is you. Your heat, your body, your pleasure. He would die in service of it if he could.

His cock is half hard and aching, where it’s lying against his thighs, and he hisses when the sensitive skin of it brushes against the harsh material of your jeans in the most delicious way. He sinks his ring finger into your heat and one of your hands wraps around his chin, forces him to look at you.

The insistent strength of your grips makes fuzziness bloom in his consciousness again already.

“You sure you’re good for another round?” you whisper.

It’s a silly question. As if Minho could rest, knowing he hadn’t pleasured you yet. As if he could rest without knowing what your orgasm tastes like.

Blearily, he nods, grinds his hard cock against your jeans again. He hopes he stains them. If it were up to him, you’d leave his apartment tomorrow with his cum stained all over your clothes. Make sure everyone out there knows you’re his.

“Soft or rough?” you offer, and he nearly melts. You’re so sweet. But you don’t know how insatiable he is for you. How sweet the the roughness feels to him.

He twirls his finger, rubs it against the silky walls of your pussy. The feeling of it sucking him in makes his eyelids flutter and his train of thought fizzles out.

“Rough,” he manages to choke out, his free hand curling around your wrist, dragging your hand up to his throat until you get the memo, but you stop there suddenly. Stare down, like you just realised something.

“The necklace,” you murmur, and he swallows thickly. He’s scared that you smell it on him, the desperation. That it’s somehow written on his face, branded into his skin, how often he has choked himself with it as he was spilling over his fist.

“Did you know …” you murmur, as you reach out, play with the metal. Your fingers are so close to his throat, he barely dares to breathe. His blood thrums in anticipation.

Then your fingers tighten, and you pull and suddenly, there’s metal wound tightly around his throat and the thin little stick end of the closer peeks out of your closed fist.

“It’s a slip chain,” you whisper, eyes trained on Minho’s face.

It feels so good like this. Tighter, a more even pressure. Oh, he had no idea it could feel this good. Stars dance in Minho’s vision and his hips rut forward, his cock grinding and drooling heavily against your jeans. Finally. Claim. Mark. His brain no longer feels like his own.

“I barely dared think about it when I bought it. But I couldn’t help myself …”

His vision goes spotty, and he doesn’t know whether it’s from the lack of oxygen or the fact that all this time, he had worn the necklace, had worn his devotion to you wrapped around his neck like a dog and now … you tell him you thought about it, too.

All too soon, he thinks, you let go and the oxygen rushing back into his lungs makes Minho nearly collapse into your chest. He moans hoarsely and you hum in response.

“But it’s dangerous. You have to promise me you won’t use it like that when you’re alone.”

Minho blinks. Your tone has changed. He’s trying to figure it out, but his brain isn’t … doesn’t …

Slowly, you pull his hand from your pants and he frowns. Did he do something wrong? He doesn’t think he did, but … you don’t want him to touch you any more?

“Promise me, baby,” you repeat, and he just blinks at you. You seem to finally realise when your face softens, your hand comes up to cup his cheek. He nuzzles into it instinctively, his eyes slip shut. You swipe a thumb over his bottom lip, and his mouth falls open instinctively. Your breath hitches.

“Are you worried because you like playing with the necklace? Hm, bunny?”

Minho nods. Without opening his eyes, he nuzzles closer into your palm. Your attention on him is so addicting. Your thumb finds his bottom lip again, pushes in until it’s resting against his tongue. He wraps his lips around it. Sucks, just a little. You curse under your breath.

“God, you’ll be the death of me. Don’t worry, bunny, we can still play with it,” you purr, and Minho’s brain goes to static, “I’ll choke you as much as my dirty little bunny wants, but alone is too dangerous. Bunny could get too into it. Hurt himself.”

He feels himself nodding. He guesses it makes sense.

You pull your thumb from his mouth, shush him gently when he whines at the loss of its weight on his tongue. But all complaints die in his throat when he realises what you’re doing.Calmly, you shove

down your jeans, exposing your panties. They’re not black, like the ones he stole, but grey this time, but they have the same lace detailing around the waistband. His mouth goes dry when you pull them off your legs nonchalantly, dark where they were sticking to your slick cunt. He can’t see your pussy from here, only the tantalising V of it, your sweet belly and the little curl of pubic hair on your mound, but he feels like he can smell it. His brain zones in on it like he’s a hunter, and it’s his prey. He needs to … he needs to touch … he needs …

“Promise me, and you can touch,” you say, gently, but firmly, and he blinks back at you. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth and the words barely want to come out.

“I … I promise.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Promise what?”

Your hand winds into his hair and the touch shudders through his entire body. His eyes flutter shut, and he grinds his cock forward, mewls when he finds your skin instead of jeans now.

“Minho …”

He sucks in a breath. Wills his brain to focus for one more second.

“I … I promise I won’t play with the n-necklace w-without you …” You hum, press a soft kiss to his lips, and he nearly tumbles into you when he tries to chase your lips.

“Good boy,” you hum, and Minho preens.

The hand in his hair holds tighter, starts pushing him away from you, and he blinks his eyes open in confusion, before he realises where you’re guiding him.

He lets himself be pushed down, between your legs. His mind swimming when you part your legs for him, expose where you’re wet and needy and so pretty , without shame, and the trust you put in him isn’t lost on him, not even in this state.

Your little clit, pink and sweet and swollen, peeks out from underneath its hood, wedged between the lips of your cunt, and he reaches out before he can stop himself. Brings a thumb there. Drags the silky pudge of it aside so he can see more. Spit pools in his mouth.

When the top of your foot makes sharp contact with his balls, it makes his whole body jump – and he drools a little bit. You laugh. Almost a little mean, yet nowhere near mean enough. He wonders if he will get to tell you to be meaner. He wonders if you’ll want to be.

Nonetheless, he flushes red hot, wipes the drool off his chin with the back of his hand.

“I don’t need to even tell you what you did wrong, hm?” you mutter, disappointment laced into your voice. He shakes his head, swallows thickly. Mumbles an apology. You hum, then your eyes harden.

“Shirt off,” you order, and he rips it off his body so fast he nearly falls over. When his eyes focus back on you, you’re staring at him. Eyes roaming over his shoulders, his chest, the hint of abs on his stomach.

Minho takes a deep breath. Steels himself for what he’s about to ask.

“You, too …? P-please …?”

He blinks his eyes at you innocently. You stare at him, and sit up, and pull your top over your head.

And as much as Minho tries, he can’t stop his eyes from straying, gluing themselves to every newly exposed inch of skin. How your tits strain against your bra, how the straps dig into your shoulders. The goosebumps that litter your skin when you reach behind yourself, undo the clasp. He nearly drools again when your tits tumble free. They’re as perfect as the rest of you. The perfect size, jiggling prettily, when you lie back down. He watches as your big, soft nipples slowly pebble in the cool air. Notices little streaks of stretch marks around the side of them. He wants to trace them with his tongue, wants to suck your tits into his mouth and feel your fingers tug at his hair and–

“Bunny, you were about to do something, weren’t you?”

Minho blinks back into focus when he realises he’s just been sitting between your legs, staring at your tits for an embarrassingly long time. But the fuzziness in his brain prevents him from feeling any real shame. And so does the soft condescension in your voice.

“Oh, goodness,” you coo, and it’s so sickly sweet it makes Minho’s attention snap back to you, “already so stupid, and we’re not even doing anything yet.”

His eyebrows draw together. He wants to say something, but his brain won’t work the way it should. Instead of thoughts it’s just static.

You sigh, shake your head.

Static. Sadness.

“We’ll have to see if you can even manage to make me feel good,” you sigh, and Minho vaguely shakes his head, clumsily reaches out, digs his fingers into the soft skin of your calves. He wants to lie down, already, wants to eat you out for as long as it takes, as long as it takes for you to shake through an orgasm. He’ll learn. He’ll be patient. He’s not too proud. Your pussy on his face would be a privilege. He’d do anything for you. Anything.

“Aw, sweet thing,” you hum, and he realises he just said all of that out loud. His mind spins. His cock throbs.

“Well, if all else fails, at least you have that big, gorgeous cock of yours,” you hum, and the object of your appreciating twitches needily between his legs. He’d always hoped you’d love his cock. Big, girthy, but not too much. Sensitive. Hard. Leaking. He hasn’t had many partners, but they’d all loved his cock.

“Bunny …” you call, and he realises he zoned out again. “Why don’t you finally put your mouth to good use, hm? Before you get distracted again. Maybe that’ll keep you busy enough.”

And despite how badly he wants it, he freezes. Stuck staring at you with a wish lodged in his throat that he can’t find the words for.

“What is it, baby? What’s your colour?” you ask, and this time, it’s free of any condescension. You’re really checking in on him he realises. It’s okay. You want him to feel good. He’s safe.

“G-green,” he mumbles, swallows, “c-can I have a k-kiss?”

Your eyes turn impossibly softer, and without a second’s hesitation you sit up, grab him by the wrist, gently pull him closer until he can lean in and press his lips to yours. It doesn’t last for more than a few seconds, but he leans into it with everything he has, drinks up every ounce of love you offer him until he feels drunk, until the static in his head turns warm, like a million bees buzzing around the sweetest honey. It makes him dizzy, floaty, barely aware of his body lowering itself onto the bed, his hands wrapping around your thighs, your waist, his mouth opening and his tongue lolling out, laving over your most intimate place. The staticky mess in his head goes quiet only long enough for him to hear his own debauched moan he laves into your folds..

Tart and sweet like raspberry syrup. Addicting like it’s laced with something. The smell of you, the smell he’s been chasing in the cotton of your underwear for the last week, only tarter, sweeter, muskier. Real. He wants to fucking drown in it.

Your folds are slick and slippery under his tongue, only aided by the drool that slips out his mouth, his tastebuds going haywire. When he laves over your hole, there’s a whole new world of flavour. Something hotter. Sweeter. Creamier.

He chases it, laves at your hole until your legs start closing around his head, before he finally licks into it, past the soft muscles, fucks his tongue into the impossibly small, burning hot space of it, and all the finds is more of the taste he can’t get enough of. It’s even purer there. He laves over your walls, revels how they flutter around him, clench when he’s especially deep. He sucks against your skin, moans as drool and slick slide down his chin.

His mind is completely gone, and when you gently tug at his hair, pull him from your hole and up to your clit, he dutifully starts licking there, too. Licks over your clit, circles it with his tongue, flicks it until your hips start twitching, jerking so hard he can barely keep his mouth on you, so hard he has to dig his hands into you more firmly, and it helps. It also makes your pussy quiver, and as if on cue, he slides down to your hole again and oh, you’re only getting sweeter. He licks at you again, and again, presses over your clit, then slides down, laps at your hole that’s still, somehow, getting more delicious, cream and peaches and musk–

Distantly, he hears you moan, hears you whimper his name. Not bunny, or baby, his name. It shakes him out of his stupor. Almost drunkenly, he pulls away. Feels a drop of your slick, of his spit, slide down his chin. The hand in his hair slips down to rest on his cheek. He blinks up at you and oh. He’d never thought you’d look like this.

Your head is thrown back and you’re flushed, from the apples of your cheeks, down your neck, your chest heaving with heavy breaths, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on your body like a thousand diamonds. Your thighs, trembling next to his head, your belly twitching sporadically. He shudders out a breath and you look down at him, make eye contact with him over the swells of your body, and he wishes he could paint so he could immortalize this view. Your makeup is smudged, a strand of your hair is plastered to your forehead. You look absolutely debauched. Fucked out. Perfect. You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Oh god, he wants to make you come.

He would've dived back in right then and there if it hadn’t been for your hand sliding back into his hair, fingers tightening in the strands, tugging him to stay upright.

Oh. Right. He was meant to listen. To learn. Instead, he got so lost in it … Are you mad at him now?

“Stop eating me out like you’ve done this before,” you growl, and Minho’s poor, fuzzy brain ties itself into a knot of confusion. “You’re making me fucking jealous. Don’t make me think of you with someone else.”

Oh. He almost laughs.

He almost laughs because … how could you think there could be anyone else? Since the day he met you, he knew this was it for him. It was you, or no one. Anyone he may have had before is only a distant memory, mediocre pleasure, bodies he doesn’t remember, tastes that never did more than mildly gross him out. Right here, between your legs? With the way you look at him, touch him, talk to him, he feels like a virgin all over again. He wants to relearn pleasure. Wants to map it out on your body for the rest of his life. And maybe the next one, too.

Your brows furrow, face scrunching up in annoyance, and he feels giddy. You’re jealous. Jealous of him. Of him.

With a rough little shove, that embarrassingly makes Minho moan very loudly, you push him back, until he’s sitting back onto his haunches. Then you turn around, reach back for his hand and tug him closer.

“Fuck me,” you order, and Minho nearly chokes on his breath.

“F-from behind?” he squeaks out, his brain threatening to melt out of his ears at the mere suggestion.

You nod, shuffle back until you’re right in front of him, stick your ass up and let your upper body fall into the sheets. Presenting your ass, your little hole, your sopping wet pussy to him on a silver platter. When he doesn’t do anything, you wiggle your hips impatiently. Enticingly. As if the view of your naked back, the slope of your waist, the little jiggle of your ass wasn’t enough to drive Minho insane.

He might not survive this.

“Fucking fuck me like you’ve never touched anyone else before,” you hiss, reach out for one of Minho’s pillows, shove it underneath your face, “and make it hard. I wanna feel your cock every time I sit down for at least the next three days.”

Minho reels. You’re filthy. You’re perfect. His hands find your waist, dig into the soft skin, into the soft lines of your stretch marks. He hopes you let him learn them by heart one day. Maybe if you’re still here tomorrow, when the morning sun streams in through his windows. He’d like to kiss you then, all over your body. Explore every inch of it. Worship it like you deserve.

Because he feels almost out of his mind right now. Brain still fuzzy, overwhelmed with the knowledge that you’re here, naked, and jealous. He can hardly remember how to have sex at all. How to make his limbs go through the motions. How to keep enough control of his body to not come immediately when his cock is inside of you. He has soiled innumerable, uncountable sets of bedsheets and pillowcases just imagining this. And now you’re here, naked, jealous of whoever came before you.

“Come on, bunny, or have you really forgotten how to use that big cock of yours?”

Minho breathes out. Tries to shake enough of the fuzziness out of his head to be able to do this. He wants to do this right. Needs to do it right.

With shaky hands, he reaches between you, takes a hold of his cock, hisses at the contact because God, he’s so turned on it actually hurts. He doesn’t know how he will hold out, but he grits his teeth – he will have to. He wants to fuck you with his cock that you called beautiful, and he wants to feel you come around him, and then he wants to breed you f-full …

Nope, he can’t go there right now. He really can’t. He won’t make it. He lines himself up with your hole, watches entranced as your folds part around him, your slick coats his tip – and then he pushes in.

The head of his cock pops in and Minho … loses it.

“Oh fuck. Oh, fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuuuuuuuck.”

He curses until he bottoms out. Loud. Way too loud for a Thursday at 7pm in his busy apartment building. He doesn’t give a fuck. Your naked body is in his hands. Your slick, wet hole is sucking him. Taking all of him. His head nudges at your cervix. It’s a perfect fit. It’s a perfect fit. He almost starts crying.

But before he can, you swivel your hips forward, and then backwards again, fuck yourself back on his cock so perfectly, he nearly doubles over. Nothing has ever felt like this before.

“God, you do feel good,” you moan into his pillow, and Minho just whimpers helplessly. “Such a pretty cock. All for me.”

Without allowing him a second to catch his breath, you do it again, pull back almost all the way before you press his cock back into your pussy, then, again, and again, the slide of it getting easier with every swivel of your hips.

You fuck yourself back hard, slam your ass into his pelvis and the head of his cock brushes your cervix, and he throws his head back, his hands that were previously hanging helplessly by his side, scramble to find your waist. He digs his fingers into your skin, tries to ground himself.

With his cock buried all the way inside of you, you start grinding your hips in slow, torturous circles, and Minho’s cock twitches violently, deep inside of you. You laugh, breathlessly.

“Are you gonna do something, bunny?” you ask, the condescension still clearly audible, even through the veil of arousal. “Come on, I know you wanna. Filthy boy. Come on, hump me, like the horny dog you are.”

Minho nearly blacks out. The embarrassment settles deep into his guts, burns brightly, making his balls tighten already.

“W-wanna … so bad …”

You coo, clench your walls around him tightly, and he keens, nearly doubles over and crashes into you.

“Then go for it,” you coo, “come on, bunny, with a cock that big I’m sure I’ll still feel something at least.”

He feels like the luckiest man alive. Like he’s nothing but a feral, horny dog that you’re tugging into place so he can hump you. He’s the luckiest man alive because you let him and you like it.

He tightens his grip on your waist, sinks one of his hands into the plush of your ass, pulls back, and then fucks into you at the same time as he pulls you back onto his cock, and it’s the best thing he has ever felt in his entire life.

“Yeah,” you breathe, “do it again. Just like that.”

And he does. Every thrust punctuated with a helpless moan, he starts fucking into you, slowly, savouring every drag, until your pussy gives way for him so easily, the drag against your walls gets so wet and easy, that he speeds up. One hand screwed into your ass, using the thickness of it to pull you against his cock, he starts slamming into you in earnest.

He’s moaning. Wantonly. Loudly. Dimly, he realises that you are, too. Just as loud. Your hand fisted into the sheets so hard your knuckles are turning white.

He lets his body take over. Rolls his hips, grinds against you harder with every thrust. His knee slips slightly to the side on the sheets, and it angles his hips differently, and you moan loudly into the sheets, your pussy gushing wet and hot around him. He drills into the spot again and again, rolls his hips, rubs the sensitive underside of his cock against your walls until he thinks he might pass out, the pleasure rocking through him threatening to consume him.

When you swirl your hips to meet him, his hips stutter. But you do it again, drag over his cock with a practised swivel of your hips. Practised. With someone else.

Suddenly, the tables have turned. Now he’s the one consumed by a murderous jealous rage.

He doesn’t know if you feel it in the air, if something changes in the way he moves, but suddenly, you’re moving, pushing yourself up on your shaky arms, reaching a hand behind you, reaching out to him, and he doesn’t hesitate to lace his fingers with you. Pull you up. The changed angle makes you gasp, your fingernails digging into the back of his hand.

“Fuck,” he gasps out, his hips faltering, settling into a slower, more controlled pace, “baby. Baby. Y/Nie …”

He’s babbling, but he can’t stop himself.

“I love you. I love you so fucking much. Please, don’t … don’t fuck anyone else ever again. Want you to be yours. Want to be your only one. Please. Please.”

His voice is high and thin. He’s babbling and pleading, and you whimper, and then you grind backwards, grind his cock inside of you deeply, and he feels the shudder that goes through you shiver through the walls of your cunt. He’s connected to the deepest part of you and the knowledge alone makes him dizzy. Blindly, he falls forward, plants one palm into the bed in front of you. Your soft back catches him. His face lands in your hair. He breathes you in like a starved man. You’re here. You’re his.

“F-fuck, bunny,” you gasp out, and it’s so close to Minho’s face that he can feel your voice rumble through your body. It’s unreal.

With one hand resting on your belly, resisting the urge to worship every inch of it with his fingers, he cautiously pulls back, just a little bit, and then sinks his cock back into you. The twin moans you let out, bounce off the white walls of his room.

“I love you, too, bunny, you’re the only one,” you gasp out between the little moans punched out of you with every rut of Minho’s cock inside of you, “never felt … never felt like this, bunny. Baby. Minho.”

His name again. Minho feels faint. His lips find the skin of your shoulder, brushes against every inch of it he can reach. Tongue, teeth, lips. Licking up the saltiness of your sweat, the heady musk of your body.

He feels drunk when he starts to set a cautious rhythm. Pulls back as far as he can, without having to unglue himself from your back, because he thinks he might die if he does.

Your pussy feels hot. Swollen. Wet. Abused. It throbs around him. He wishes he could stay buried inside you for the rest of his life.

Both your bodies move with every thrust of his hips, and his slow pace picks up again soon because it’s addicting, hearing the noises punched out of you, feeling every single tremor of pleasure shiver through your skin. His free hand finds your tits, wraps around one of them, thumb and pointer finger finding your nipples. Soft. Soft soft soft like everything about you. He pinches meanly and you gasp quietly. Not so sensitive there, he notes, carefully, in the compendium of you that he will fill out for the rest of his life.

With one particularly deep thrust, your pussy squelches around him, and he realises just how wet you are around him.

“G-gonna cum,” you mumble.

You wrap your fingers around his wrist, bring his hand up to your mouth and suck two of his fingers into your hot, wet mouth. Minho groans, fucks forward so hard he nearly sends you toppling over. You’re not phased, only lick around his digits until they’re soaked, and then, with an unrelenting confidence, drag them down, down, down, between your legs and oh of course.

The angle of his arm makes his body press closer to you, and he could cry for joy. Every deep thrust of his hips makes your sweaty bodies slide together. Minho laves over a bruise in the crook of you that he barely remembers sucking into your skin, and rubs his fingers over your clit and your response is immediate.

Your head falls back, comes to rest against his shoulder. He rubs deeper, harder, fingers brushing against where his cock is pounding into you with every swipe, trying desperately to not lose his head, trying to take in every single second of this.

Your body leaning back into him more, relying on him to hold you; your walls tightening, fluttering, squeezing him so hard he can barely feel his toes, so close is he to coming.

The beautiful tightening of your body culminates, and before he knows it you’re shaking apart in his arms. Trembling. Letting out a long, desperate moan, fucking your hips back against his cock, holding his hand between your legs, wringing every single drop of your pleasure out of his willing body.

Before you’re even done, he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, and he comes, too, pleasure throbbing through his veins, pounding through his head so hard he fears he may black out. Still rubbing your clit he bullies his cock as deep as he can, and then fucks in even closer, no doubt bruisingly punching against your cervix, but you don’t seem to care. You moan. Sob. Take every single drop of his seed, milk it out of his cock and into your greedy body.

You freeze there, for a second, breathing heavily, aftershocks racking through your body, through your pussy, still locked around him. Minho’s brain feels like it’s floating somewhere far above him. Blearily, he realises that he’s still blindly suckling on the skin of your shoulder, and he lets go of it with a pop. There’s a bright purple bruise where his mouth was. It makes a familiar flicker of shame lick up in his guts.

But before he can panic, you sigh contentedly, take his hand, slowly manoeuvre the both of you onto the bed without Minho’s cock even slipping out of you. Some feral part of him purrs in satisfaction. Wants to plug you up and keep you full of him all day, every day.

You come to rest in his arms, the little spoon to his big spoon, warm, pliant, slightly sticky, pulling him closer until he’s plastered against your back again, wrapped around him tightly, like you don’t want to let him go either. When you try to pull him closer, still, he can’t help the soft giggle that escapes him. You smile. His heart skips a beat at the sight.

Lazily you squeeze his hand, pull it up until you can press a soft kiss to the back of it. You hold it there, nuzzling your face into his skin, nudging his thumb with your nose. His heart threatens to beat out of his chest. You let the fingertips of your free hand trail softly over his arm.

“Did so well for me, baby,” you mumble, sleepily, “so well. Love you so much. Let’s rest for a moment and then shower, okay?”

The words make something in Minho’s chest bloom. The flicker of shame and anxiety is smothered by sheer light and warmth, and he realises now, what he was missing all this time.

He mumbles your name into your hair. You hum.

“Stay?”

You giggle, gently tug his arm tighter around you until he nearly topples over you, his sensitive, softening cock shifting inside of you.

With your eyes closed, and a giant smile on your face you bring his hand back to your lips, press a kiss the back of it again, before you start peppering kisses all over his hand, his wrist, anywhere you can reach. You tip your head back, wait until he presses a soft, dazed kiss into your hair, before you blink open your eyes. Smile at him. “You’re not getting rid of me anymore.”

Minho smiles. Then he leans in and kisses you. Cups your face, runs a hand over your sweaty hair, breathes a million I love yous into your lips until you’re giggling again. In the morning, he’ll find the real words. All the scattered remnants of his burning, desperate love for you, scattered through his battered, bruised, body, and he will tell you, for real. He will tell you how and and just how much he loves you.

But not now. Now he’ll kiss you, again and again and again, just because he can, until you call him bunny again, just to make him pliant enough to let you shoo him in the shower.

He likes being your bunny.

link back to part 1

skzms masterlist // ko-fi

🔖 general taglist: follow and turn on notifications for my library account: @skzms-library 🔞 I monitor ages over there, just like I used to do with my taglist. I will block minors and ageless blogs, and you'll have to message me again to get unblocked. so just have your age in your bio before you follow!

[nightprompts]

&. 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

(  another collection of smutty dialogue for you heathens (affectionate). please do not interact if you are under eighteen. feel free to edit and change how you seem fit. )

❛ i know my worth. and if you want me, you'll do as i say. ❜

❛ you don't want me here? then why does your body say otherwise? ❜

❛ oh? does that turn you on? ❜

❛ you look good on your knees like this. ❜

❛ i'm not jealous. you're just mine. ❜

❛ i need you. please. i'll be quick. ❜

❛ you used to hate me, and now you can't take your eyes off me. ❜

❛ you want me quiet? make me. ❜

❛ i know you have one more for me. come on, i'm not done yet. ❜

❛ fuck, that was so hot. ❜

❛ such a good boy/girl. making me feel this good. ❜

❛ go on. fuck yourself on my cock. ❜

❛ you have no idea how long i've thought about having you like this. ❜

❛ keep the noise down, baby. you're too loud. ❜

❛ you taste so fucking good. ❜

❛ they can't fuck you like i can. ❜

❛ fuck, i've missed you. ❜

❛ keep going. just like that. ❜

❛ they don't get to have you like this, but i do. ❜

❛ pretty good, huh? i told you i'd make you feel good. ❜

❛ you're mine. and don't you forget it. ❜

❛ i'm not gonna last long if you tighten up like that, sweetheart. ❜

❛ what, got nothing to say? no matter, i'll have you screaming in no time. ❜

❛ just a little more. you can take a little more, can't you? ❜

❛ getting close? don't worry, i'll take care of you. ❜

❛ what would they think if they could see you now, huh? ❜

❛ maybe i should put my dick in your mouth so you'll shut up. ❜

❛ maybe if i sit on your face, that'll shut you up. ❜

❛ look at how well you take me. even though it's been so long. ❜

❛ it's apparent in your eyes — you desire me. ❜

❛ don't stop. please, don't stop. ❜

❛ fucking doesn't involve this much talking normally. ❜

❛ you want this, don't you? want me all over you? inside you? ❜

❛ don't forget who you belong to. ❜

❛ if you want something, then you ask for it. ❜

❛ when was the last time someone fucked you? ❜

❛ i'll make us feel good. you'll love this. ❜

❛ how was that? satisfying enough for you? ❜

❛ oh no, i'm not finished with you yet. ❜

❛ what, afraid i might break you? ❜

❛ what, afraid you'll break me? ❜

❛ stop teasing and just put it in already. ❜

❛ fuck me harder. don't you want to make me feel good? ❜

❛ that's it, babygirl. ❜

❛ you want me to sit on your face? ❜

❛ i want this. let me have you like this. ❜

❛ now that you've given me what i want, i can give you what you need. ❜

❛ don't just stand there, you tease. come here and let me taste. ❜

❛ i want you like you used to have me. like we had nothing else to live for. ❜

❛ how do you want me — spread out on the bed or up against the wall? take your pick. i don't mind. ❜

[brokenmenswhore]

I hate to do asks but like just imagine this! At hogwarts there is a group that’s kinda like a polyamorous relationship but just for s*x and it’s like slytherin and gryffindor students and they decided they wanted someone from like a year younger so they start to slowly talk to innocent reader to get them comfortable around them before starting to get touchy with her (maybe she is a hufflepuff? That’s my house)

i’m a hufflepuff too 🫶🏻 thanks for feeling comfy enough to send me this ask if you don’t usually like doing that!

a proposition | poly!marauders

pairing: poly!marauders x fem!reader (james, remus, and sirius, featuring alecto, dorcas, evan, lily, and mary)

warnings: none!

a/n: i don’t even realize my sirius favoritism until i proofread a poly story and i’m like damn okay then WHORE

a proposition: masterlist

────── ☾ ──────

Everyone knew about it.

Even though it wasn’t spoken of in the presence of the students not involved, everyone knew about it.

It wasn’t exactly a polyamorous relationship, because a relationship implies more than just physicality, which is what it was. It was purely for sex.

It was started, of course, by Sirius Black. He had a casanova reputation, and after a while, he started looking to the same group of girls when he was in the mood. His best friend, Remus, unknowingly slept with quite a few of the same girls, and a lot of those girls slept with each other.

James didn’t have as much sex as his two best friends, but he quickly became involved. After a while, a group was established.

All of the students involved knew one another well, and were all somewhat close friends that had not romantic desires toward one another, but unashamed lust. It was a sex positive group, and was essentially just a group of students who fucked each other whenever.

Despite the unofficial, non-relationship standing, they all agreed to only have sex with each other. If they wanted to add someone into the group, they all had to agree to it. So, in a way, it was a relationship, but, in a way, it wasn’t. There wasn’t really a label on what it was, but it worked for them.

Everyone in the group was in the same year at Hogwarts, so they all related to each other well.

However, a few of them began to crave something new- someone not so in line with everyone.

Everyone sat in the Gryffindor common room at an hour late enough that most others were asleep. James sat on the floor, his back resting between Dorcas’s legs as she played with his hair, tying small braids from the curly strands.

“We wanna bring something up,” James said.

“We’re doing we’s now?” Sirius scolded, taking a drag of his cigarette.

“I just mean, there’s something Dorcas and I talked about, and now I’m talking about it with all of you,” James clarified.

“Fair enough, what’s up?” Mary asked.

“I’m wondering how everyone here would feel about inviting someone new into the group.”

Everyone looked around the room at one another, attempting to gage the energy of everyone else before speaking their own opinions.

“I vote we should bring in someone younger,” Evan added.

“Younger like what? Like wouldn’t that be weird?” Remus asked.

“No, idiot, like a year under us,” Evan retorted.

“Where the fuck are we gonna find someone a year younger than us who would be down to do this?” Mary questioned.

Sirius flicked a spark off of his cigarette, clearing his throat and sitting forward a bit. “I have someone in mind.”

“Has everyone been trying to scope out prospects? Am I the only one who hasn’t thought about inviting in anyone new?” Alecto asked.

There was another shared look, and everyone shrugged. They had all thought about a change.

“Who’d you have in mind, Sirius?” Dorcas brought the attention back to his statement.

“There’s this hufflepuff a year below us, seems super innocent though,” Sirius said, taking a quick hit of smoke, “blushes every time I look at her.”

“Is she hot?” Remus asked.

“No, I’m proposing we all fuck her because she’s not hot,” Sirius snapped, his voice laced with evident sarcasm.

Sirius told them your name, and a few of them already knew who you were.

“She’s super cute!” Dorcas exclaimed, “I’m super down for that. Anyone disagree?”

Everybody was on board with the idea.

────── ☾ ──────

“Go on, then.”

James turned to Sirius and Remus, saying, “why does it have to be me? You go do it.”

“Fine,” Sirius replied, “Remus, go talk to her.”

Remus threw his hands up. “What happened to being set on making James do it?”

Sirius shrugged his shoulders. “She’s not gonna be sitting at that table forever. You nervous or somethin’?”

“No,” Remus quickly replied, “this is just, I don’t know, weird.”

“How’s it weird?”

“Because I’m about to go interrupt the poor girl in order to talk to her with the intention of later asking her to fuck me and all my friends,” Remus explained, “I don’t know, it’s just a weird thing to do.”

“Fuckin’ hell, I can’t stand you two,” Sirius said, flicking a spark off of his cigarette and walking over to you. He sat down across the table from you, watching you intently as you scribbled notes off a textbook.

You didn’t look up because you didn’t even consider that he was sitting near you for a reason.

“Hey.”

You looked up, and Sirius was looking directly at you. The familiar tint of red crept into your cheeks. “Hi.”

He took a drag of his cigarette, kicking his feet up onto the table. “Seen you around quite a bit.”

You couldn’t help but stare at his lips as they wrapped around the cigarette.

“We do go to the same school,” you quipped, smiling to show it was lighthearted.

Sirius smirked, happy you were responding well to him. “I usually don’t get on with anyone that isn’t in my year.”

“Why talk to me then?” you asked.

“Don’t know,” Sirius said, swinging his feet off the table and leaning his torso over the table a bit, “guess somethin’ just caught my eye.”

He knew his flirtations would make you blush, and they did just that. You smiled as you tilted your head back down, pretending to look over your notes in an attempt to calm yourself.

Sirius’s smile only widened watching you squirm under his gaze. “Whatcha studying?”

“Fwoopers,” you responded, “but understanding seems to evade me sometimes.”

“You know who’s super smart? My friend James.”

“Wh-“ before you could even stop him, Sirius signaled over James, who approached you with Remus in tow.

“This is James, James, say hi.”

James sighed. “I’m not a dog, Sirius, unlike some people.”

“Funny,” Sirius retorted, “do you think you could help my new friend with some Care of Magical Creatures work?”

“Oh, I don’t- I’m all good, I-“

“Course,” James lit up, sitting down directly next to you, “lemme see.”

He pulled the textbook toward him, familiarizing himself with what you were reading as Remus took a seat next to Sirius.

You watched a few girls walk past your table, shooting you dirty looks when they noticed that the boys were otherwise occupied with you. Sirius, Remus, and James has grown to be quite popular, and them speaking with a random, younger Hufflepuff was odd. Remus noticed your shift in energy.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Yeah, I just- I’m a year under you, I can’t do your schoolwork for you or anything.”

Sirius furrowed his brows in confusion. “Why would we want you to do our schoolwork?”

“I don’t know, is that not why you’re all talking to me?”

James diverted his attention from your textbook, looking at you in understanding. He felt a pant of guilt for springing everyone on you at once, and a pang of sadness for the fact you didn’t think they would actually want to talk to you just because.

“You forget James is top of his class,” Sirius said, but James didn’t think the mood called for quips. He shot Sirius a look, taking over the conversation.

“We’re sorry if we came off a little strong,” he started, “we all just wanted to say hey. We see you around a lot and think you’re cute, it’s as simple as that.”

“Oh,” you said, suddenly turning weak.

Sirius was smiling and relaxing back into the chair, amused to high hell with how innocent and blushy you were from such a small little compliment. He was so happy he suggested you.

────── ☾ ──────

The following day, Remus and Lily caught you walking down a corridor during your free period.

“Shouldn’t you be in class?” you asked, directing the question toward Remus as they caught up to you.

“Didn’t feel like going,” Remus said, nonchalant.

“You can’t just not go,” you laughed, assuming he wasn’t serious.

“Be careful with this one,” Lily said to you, gesturing to Remus, “he’s a horrible influence. You wouldn’t have caught me dead skipping a lecture last year. He can be very persuasive.”

Something about the way she said it made you swallow hard, suddenly extremely aware of your presence and appearance.

“I’m Lily,” she finally introduced herself, throwing a piece of hair behind her shoulder. She was beautiful, and you became self conscious in her vicinity.

You didn’t respond, just smiled, so she took the opportunity to continue. “My friends and I are all headed to Hogsmeade later. You’re welcome to join if you want!”

“You’d want me to join?” you questioned.

“Don’t be silly, why not? Remus will be there too, and a ton of other really cool people.”

You contemplated your options. You had no reason to believe that Remus and Lily were not genuine in their invitation, and you were excited at the prospect of new friends. “Sure,” you responded.

Lily squealed and gave you a small hug. “I’ll go tell everyone you’re coming!”

“Why would you need-“

“Bye!”

Lily scrambled off down the hallway, leaving you alone with Remus.

“She tends to get excited,” Remus explained, “she’s the friendliest people-person I know. Can get quite annoying, actually.”

You giggled at his statement, and he took the opportunity to brush his hand against yours. You took it as an accident, so you didn’t even react, but then he intertwined his fingers with your own.

You didn’t retract your hand, but instead looked to where yours met his, and then looked at him. He continued looking forward, walking alongside you and not acknowledging what he did. He wanted to see if you would pull away on your own, but you didn’t. It felt comfortable.

You got ready for your trip with your new friends alone, since all of them were in Gryffindor or Slytherin and stuck to their respective common rooms. You caught Lily and Mary outside of their common room, and you walked with them down to Hogsmeade.

Now that you were outside of the castle walls, you noticed a shift in how everyone acted with one another. They were all very touchy, making sexual innuendos at each other and allowing themselves to have fun without restriction.

You followed as they immediately went to Honeydukes. Alecto informed you that Sirius had a serious sweet tooth, and always made everyone go there as the very first stop on their trips. No one complained, though, because they all wanted to anyway.

As you all exited the shop, Dorcas made a show of sucking her lollipop, staring Evan in the eyes as she did so. You felt your cheeks go hot, almost feeling like you saw something you shouldn’t have.

The next stop was the Three Broomsticks, and James saw your confusion as you reached the entrance.

“You okay?” he asked you.

“Yeah, just- didn’t you all just get a whole bunch of sweets?”

James laughed, “and?”

You smiled toward him. “Fair enough.”

“We don’t like to shy away from the pleasure of life, darling,” Dorcas said, imitating a very english accent. Everyone laughed in unison at her impression.

You all crowded around a table, and you remained silent, your hands in your lap for fear of obstructing the space Sirius had to your left and Mary had to your right.

You listened intently as everyone joked and talked about their current courses and professors, when suddenly a question was directed at you.

“So tell me, which professor do you like the least? I just know it’s Professor Bins. I mean, you’re crazy if you don’t say Bins,” Lily said.

“If I had to pick, sure,” you said.

“He’s never done anything to drive you crazy?”

“I mean, there was this one time he assigned so much work over the holiday that someone threw a desk out the window,” you started.

“Wait what? What exactly happened?” Lily asked, enthusiastic that you were finally opening up.

“It was just all textbook readings and analysis, especially about the Ministry and MACUSA and all that, and he said it had to be done by the time we came back from holiday. A few students protested, and he just got more and more angry until someone stood up, picked up a desk, and chucked it out the window. It happened so fast I don’t think anyone had the time to levitate it before it hit the ground.”

Everyone chuckled at the story, and you felt at ease now that you were becoming more and more comfortable with the group.

“And did he…”

“Faint from sheer stress? Oh absolutely,” you added, smiling as you spoke, your posture adjusting to mimic your growing comfort.

You didn’t catch it, but Sirius and Remus exchanged a look, nodding their heads upward at one another as Sirius gently placed his hand on your thigh.

Your body jolted a slight bit as you flinched, startled by the unfamiliar feeling. Sirius immediately pulled his hand away, but you turned to him, and spoke low enough that only he could hear. “It’s okay, you can leave it there.”

Sirius put his hand back, resting it low on your thigh. As time went on, and you continued talking, he began to rub his thumb on your leg. It felt unfamiliar, but soothing and intimate.

Of course you were attracted to the people at the table: they were all insanely attractive and kind to you, but you hadn’t felt this feeling before. Someone was touching you, and so intimately, and it was doing something to you.

Sirius began to slowly creep his hand upward, rubbing your inner thigh under your skirt, only a few inches away from your most sensitive area.

You shuddered and your breathing hitched in your throat, but you didn’t stop him.

You were suddenly snapped back to reality when you noticed everyone watching you. You looked around the table, slightly embarrassed and slightly confused.

“We have a proposition for you,” James said.