#no one asked you to do that with a hair tie

[nanavn]

[ID: Several photos, totaling a chapter from the book BUTCH is a NOUN.

FAGGOT BUTCH

“I hated that essay,” he says to me, “about femmes who care for you when you travel; I really hated it.” And when I ask why he tells me that he thinks it sounds like all butches should be soothed by femmes, and vice versa; he says, “Why would those femmes have assumed that you were a butch who liked femmes?” He says, “Maybe you’re a faggot butch, did they even consider that?” He says, “I know you’re not just for femmes.” That’s what he says, but I know what he’s thinking. And even though I know how dangerous it is to assume I know what someone is thinking, I know this butch maybe as well as I know myself, and he’s thinking, “Fuck you, for having it easy even in being queer. Fuck you for going along on your happy little way to San Francisco and finding a bunch of femmes who see you as a big stud-duck butch and just want to pour themselves through your fingers. It’s just as hard to be a faggot butch as it is to be any kind of fag.” There’s all that masculinity to consider when you want to rub up against someone, like that old joke about porcupines: How do porcupines mate? Very carefully. He’s saying, “I want to show up at brunch someplace and assume that anyone who I want to flirt with will want to flirt back, and will do it, will want to, without fear of recrimination from hir community. I want you to put something in that book of yours for me. I am a butch whose identity, sexual or otherwise, has nothing to do with femmes. They are not my natural partners in this gender crime the way they are yours. I wake and sleep in the arms of butches like me, butches who understand a whole host of things about my life, my world, the way I see things, the way things affect me that no one else could understand. Write about us. Write that we have sweet, hot sex in which no one has to put on a pair of panties, or take them off; write about how good it feels when ze fucks me hard, so hard. Write about how it feels to fall asleep with the weight of a butch on you, one tattooed arm and one furry leg pinning you down and grounding you in your sleep. “Write about all the ways in which butches care for each other, comfort each other. Write about how we understand all the shit that comes in the world for our partners and salve it as best we can, about how I have all the more respect for hir because of all I know it takes to survive as a butch.

“Write about how, as soon as butches were no longer the scourge of dykedom for aping masculinity, or whatever that baloney was, it became faggot butches who were scorned and derided. Everyone understands butch/femme because it seems familiar, like Ozzie and Harriet but with better hair and more pussy. Everyone understands femme on femme, even though you don’t see it all that often cause it doesn’t read queer, you know, but it’s in the first images of‘lesbian love’ most of us see, in porn or on television. Two longhaired pretty girls smooching in a daring fashion wherever they happen to be. No one’s threatened by that, not the dykes, not the men, nobody, but if I want to kiss my butch anywhere, I’d better be damn sure of my audience, or better yet, be sure we don’t have one. “I can be a butch without opening doors for girls,” he’s saying. “I can do it even if I follow while dancing, I can do it without spending my Saturday afternoons as a femme’s shopping bottom at the mall and I do. I am. I am honorable, I take good care of the people I love as well as I possibly can; I watch out for my community. I have a butch heart full of love that I can express when I feel safe enough; I walk in the world resisting gender norms and transgressing gender rules, transcending them. I am fixing whatever I can, whenever I can, and I laugh, and play, and let the spaces in my masculinity show, just like you, just like every butch. I get all slicked up for a date in a suit and tie and I pick up my date, also in a suit and tie, and we just open the door if we get to it first and we take turns paying, and it doesn’t make me less a butch. It doesn’t make me less of anything. It doesn’t mean that I don’t think femmes are swell, I surely do, but they are not my salvation when I travel, they are not the North of my heart’s compass. That’s butches for me, and I will always go a little weak when I see someone who looks scared and hardened and delighted and ashamed and proud — proud, just like me.

“You’re writing a book? Of course, I’m glad, but don’t chicken out. Don’t write a book that speaks so many volumes about your adoration for femmes that it leaves out the ways in which I know you cherish butches too. Yes, not the same way as you cherish femmes, entirely differently, butches and femmes are different creatures, sure, but I don’t just mean how glad you are and always will be to have butch brothers, abutch tribe. I mean, make sure you don’t forget to mention that you put butches on their knees in front of you and enjoy them, that you kneel down too, that you sit sometimes stunned by how much you want to lick a buzz cut or a hot tattoo, that you know what a great grace it is to fall asleep next to a butch’s heart and muscle and skin and ink and fur, that you understand how wonderful it can be to feel butch arms around you. Make sure you mention me, make sure you give me and my lovers and my life the same benefit of some of your words, make sure you don’t write another book that leaves us on the cutting-room floor. Give us a place on the landscape, help us become visible. Say this: Say that when butches love butches they hold lightning between them, but that as much as it burns it also illuminates. That it’s the sweetest burn I’ve ever known in my life of searing pain, that it keeps me from feeling the flames of the world’s hate licking the soles of my boots, that I hold it in my heart and it fuels me every day. Say that it shows me things I could never see any other way, that without it I would grow cold and die. Say that there is nothing else I would rather be.”

End ID]

Text from the link in OP

butch is a noun, s. bear bergman 2006

[reidmarieprentiss]

Don't Get In Your Own Way

Summary: You and Spencer have always been close - everyone else can see it's more than just friendship. When will you two be ready to see it as well?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAU fem!reader

Category: fluff, light smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: alcohol consumption, suggestive content, friends to lovers, minimal BAU case talk, mild public indecency

Word count: 10.3k

a/n: this was an olddd draft ,,, i came back to give it the ol' razzle dazzle

main masterlist

Every afternoon, like clockwork, you and Spencer retreat to the stairs outside the FBI offices, your little quiet corner away from the noise of the bullpen. The team is usually scattered—some opting for takeout at their desks, others heading out for a bite—but you and Spencer? You prefer the fresh air, the slight reprieve from case files and fluorescent lights, just the two of you.

Spencer talks—a lot. And you let him. You never interrupt when he goes off on a tangent, whether about a book he’s been reading, some obscure historical event, or even the latest behavioral theory he’s been mulling over. He’s learned, over time, that you listen—that you don’t just humor him but engage, ask questions, challenge him. It’s one of the reasons he feels safest around you, why he lets the mask slip, why he doesn’t feel the need to filter himself. Around you, he’s just Spencer. Not Dr. Reid, not the genius of the BAU. He's just a guy who loves sharing the things that make his brain light up.

Lately, he’s been growing his hair, letting the waves fall into his face while he works. He never noticed how often he pushed it back, but you did. One afternoon, after watching him shove it out of his eyes for the hundredth time while struggling through paperwork, you wordlessly slid a hair tie onto his wrist.

“For when you finally give up,” you’d said with a small smile.

Spencer had looked at the simple black band like it was some kind of sacred object before slipping it on. He never did tie his hair up, but the band stayed. Now, when he’s anxious, when his thoughts spiral too fast for even him to keep up, he rolls it between his fingers, snaps it lightly against his skin, and uses it as an anchor. He wonders if you even realize what you’ve given him and how something so small makes him feel grounded.

You are completely unaware of how much Spencer sees you and how much he feels for you. You like him—more than you should, more than is probably appropriate for two people who are just friends—but you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. Spencer is brilliant and kind and so effortlessly attractive, and you? You convince yourself he’d never see you that way. It’s not self-deprecating, not really—just… reality.

Meanwhile, Spencer sits beside you every day, wondering how you don’t notice how his eyes linger, how his heart jumps every time you laugh, and how he holds onto your hair tie like a lifeline. How he wonders if you feel the same way.

—

Derek doesn’t let up. Not now, not ever.

Spencer’s been subjected to his relentless teasing for years, but ever since he started growing his hair out—and ever since you gave him that hair tie—Derek has been on a mission.

“Pretty Boy, you’re pathetic,” Derek says one afternoon, leaning against Spencer’s desk with his arms crossed, watching him roll the hair tie between his fingers like it’s some kind of lifeline.

Spencer, who has been deep in thought, barely looks up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on, man,” Derek scoffs. “The hair tie? The way you light up every time she talks to you? The fact that you, the man who hates all forms of physical contact, don’t even flinch when she gets in your space? Do you even hear yourself when you talk about her?”

Spencer blinks at him, feigning ignorance. “I talk about her the same way I talk about all of my friends.”

Derek lets out a loud, incredulous laugh. “That’s funny. Real funny. Because I don’t remember you getting all flustered and dreamy-eyed when you talk about me.”

Spencer’s brows furrow. “I don’t get flustered.”

Derek raises a brow and mimics Spencer in a high-pitched, breathy voice. “Oh, she listens to me ramble. She actually engages with me. She’s so perceptive.” He drops the act, shaking his head. “Man, you are down bad.”

Spencer rolls his eyes and turns back to his book, a weak defense mechanism. “I really don’t think—”

“No, you don’t think,” Derek interrupts. “That’s the problem. Because if you were thinking, you’d realize that she looks at you the same way you look at her.”

That makes Spencer freeze, a book halfway in his hands.

Derek smirks, knowing he’s struck something deep. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Spencer opens his mouth, ready to protest and argue some logical counterpoint, but nothing comes out. He can’t explain away the way his heart clenches at the mere possibility that you might feel the same.

Derek slaps a hand on his shoulder, grin widening. “Any day now, Pretty Boy. Any day now.” Then he walks off, leaving Spencer to stare blankly at his book, brain absolutely wrecked.

He glances down at the hair tie around his wrist, suddenly hyper-aware of the way it sits against his skin.

Rossi is just as relentless with you as Derek is with Spencer—except he’s a little more subtle about it. He doesn’t tease in the same playful, in-your-face way that Derek does with Spencer. No, Rossi prefers to plant little seeds, make small comments, and give you just enough to get your mind churning.

He’s been keeping a close eye on you ever since you joined the team. Maybe it’s the way you love to talk about home or how you light up when someone treats you like family. So, naturally, Rossi steps in. A guiding hand, an occasional piece of advice, a warm presence when you need one.

And right now? Right now, you need someone to tell you that you’re being blind as hell.

“You know, bella, I’ve been around a long time,” Rossi says one afternoon, leaning back in his chair, swirling a glass of bourbon in his hand. “I’ve seen a lot of things. A lot of things. And I’d like to think I have a pretty good read on people.”

You barely look up from your case file. “Are you about to say something wise or just something annoying?”

He smirks. “Oh, I can do both.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue.

Rossi takes a sip of his drink, watching you with that knowing look that makes you feel like you’re being studied under a microscope. “You like him, you know.”

Your stomach twists uncomfortably, but you don’t react. Not outwardly, at least. “Who?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb. You’re smarter than that.”

You exhale sharply, still keeping your eyes on your paperwork. “I don’t like Spencer.”

Rossi chuckles, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “That’s cute. Now say it again like you mean it.”

You finally glance up at him, narrowing your eyes. “I mean it.”

“Mm-hmm,” Rossi hums, clearly unconvinced. He leans forward, resting his arms on his desk. “You know, you remind me a lot of myself when I was younger.”

You raise a brow. “Oh? You had a thing for Spencer, too?”

Rossi lets out a full-bodied laugh. “No, but I was stubborn. And I was good at convincing myself that things weren’t what they obviously were.” He tilts his head, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Let me ask you something. If I told you that Spencer thinks the world of you, that he practically glows when you’re around, what would you say?”

You swallow, suddenly very aware of your heartbeat. “I’d say you’re exaggerating.”

Rossi shakes his head. “No, bella, I’m not. Derek sees it. I see it. Hell, even Garcia sees it, and she’s usually too busy matchmaking herself to notice when something’s right under her nose.” He leans back again, watching you carefully. “But the real question is—why don’t you see it?”

Your mouth opens, then closes. The truth? Because the idea that Spencer could feel that way about you is terrifying. You’ve convinced yourself he wouldn’t, couldn’t, not in the way you secretly hope.

So you deflect. “Spencer’s just… Spencer. He’s sweet to everyone.”

Rossi sighs, shaking his head with something like fond exasperation. “You keep telling yourself that, kid. But one of these days, you’re going to wake up and realize you’ve been standing in your own way this whole time.”

You scoff lightly. “What, you want me to march over there and declare my undying love?”

Rossi grins. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

You shake your head, muttering something about meddling old men as you shove your paperwork into a neat stack, trying to ignore the way your hands feel slightly unsteady.

Rossi just watches you, amusement still lingering on his face.

Because he knows.

And one day, you’ll know, too.

—

The precinct is buzzing with too much movement and too much noise. Officers shuffling papers, detectives arguing over case details, coffee machines gurgling, the fluorescent lights humming like an irritating static in the back of your head. It’s a small station, cramped, and the team has been forced into an even smaller conference room, shoulder to shoulder with local law enforcement.

Spencer has been quiet all morning, his fingers twitching slightly, his blinking a little too frequently. You’ve been with him long enough to notice when the world is becoming too much for him, and right now, it’s clear that the rapid-fire conversations, the overlapping voices, the smell of burnt coffee and cheap air freshener—it's all pushing him to the edge of his tolerance.

So, as usual, he attaches himself to you.

It’s something he’s done for years, seeking you out when things get overwhelming. You’ve never minded. In fact, you never even thought much of it—until now.

Right now, his head is slumped against your shoulder, a deep sigh escaping him, his breath warm where it ghosts over the fabric of your shirt. His long fingers loosely clutch your jacket sleeve, not in an obvious way, but just enough that you know he’s anchoring himself with your presence. His entire frame is pressed slightly against your side, fitting into your space in a way that should feel intrusive—but it doesn’t. It never does.

But today? Today, it does feel different. Not bad, not at all, just... noticeable.

The warmth of his body against yours. The way his hair brushes your cheek when he shifts. The way you can feel the weight of him, trusting, unguarded.

You should say something—acknowledge it, maybe even tease him like Derek would—but your throat feels tight. Instead, you sit perfectly still, let him rest, let him take what he needs from you.

Across the room, Rossi is watching. He doesn’t say a word, just gives you a knowing look, an almost smirk, before turning back to his conversation with Hotch.

You swallow hard, your mind racing with thoughts you don’t have time to entertain. Not right now. Not with a case on the line.

Spencer exhales again, a deep, exhausted sound. Without thinking, you lift your hand and gently brush it over his arm, a quiet reassurance. He hums in response—barely audible, but enough to let you know he appreciates it.

And you?

You pretend your pulse isn’t hammering; pretend this is just like every other time.

Even though, for some reason, it doesn’t feel that way anymore.

—

The room is already cold and sterile, the air thick with the lingering scent of antiseptic and something darker, something that clings to the walls of places like these—death, decay, the remnants of lives cut short. The mortuary is dimly lit, the fluorescent bulbs casting a bluish hue over the metal slabs, the bodies covered with crisp white sheets.

Spencer and Emily step inside, the door clicking shut behind them, sealing them away from the world of the living for just a little while.

Emily exhales, rubbing her hands together despite the temperature-controlled environment. “I don’t know what Hotch thinks we’re going to find that we didn’t already see,” she murmurs, but there’s no real complaint in her tone—just exhaustion.

Spencer doesn’t answer right away. He’s already moving, scanning the room with sharp, restless eyes. He doesn’t like being back here. Too quiet, too still. Too much time to think. And he’s already spent the morning overstimulated, barely hanging onto himself. If it weren’t for you—your presence, your steadying warmth—he might have lost his grip entirely.

But you’re not here now.

Emily watches him for a moment, sees the way his fingers twitch slightly, how he pushes his hair back only to drop his hand to his wrist, rolling the familiar hair tie between his fingers. A grounding mechanism. She’d seen him do it before.

“Spencer,” she calls gently.

He blinks and looks at her.

“You okay?”

He hesitates, then nods.

Back in the SUV, Emily watches Spencer out of the corner of her eye as he flips through the case file, his knee bouncing slightly, his fingers twitching against the edge of the folder. He’s rattling off statistics about the likelihood of unsub behavior escalating post-mortem examinations, but there’s a certain absentmindedness to the way he’s speaking—like he’s not entirely here.

And Emily Prentiss? She’s no fool.

So, as she turns onto the road leading toward the mortuary, she decides to go for it.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she starts, keeping her tone casual. “In fact, I haven’t for the past few years.” She glances at him and watches as his fingers tighten slightly on the folder. “But today felt different. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Spencer stills, his knee stopping mid-bounce before he forces it back down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Emily snorts. “Oh, come on. You can’t seriously expect me to believe that.”

Spencer purses his lips, shifting in his seat like he’s trying to physically move away from this conversation. “We have more important things to focus on right now.”

“Uh-huh,” Emily hums. “And yet, back at the station, you looked about one deep sigh away from crawling into her lap.”

Spencer stiffens. “That’s an exaggeration.”

Emily shrugs, smirking slightly. “Is it? Because from where I was standing, you were practically molded to her side.”

Spencer stays silent, glaring down at the folder like it’s personally offended him.

Emily softens, tilting her head. “Look, I’m not teasing you. I’m just asking—are you okay? Because I’ve seen you cling to her before when things get overwhelming, but today… it was different.” She hesitates. “You were different. She was different.”

Spencer swallows, pressing his lips together. He could brush it off. He could easily throw out some logical, cold dismissal. I was overstimulated, and she provided a familiar presence. There is nothing unusual about that, but the problem is, it is unusual.

Because for the first time, he noticed it.

Noticed how natural it felt, how good it felt, to be pressed against you. Noticed the way your touch lingered, how your fingers brushed his arm with a softness that made his skin buzz. Noticed how he felt safe, not just because you were familiar, but because he wanted to be close to you. Because he liked it.

And that? That realization is unraveling something in him he isn’t sure he’s ready for.

“I—” He hesitates, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know.”

Emily watches him for a moment before nodding, letting the conversation settle for a few beats before she speaks again.

“You know,” she says, keeping her tone light. “You could always ask her.”

Spencer’s head snaps toward her, eyes wide, panicked. “Ask her what?”

Emily grins, eyes twinkling as she pulls into the mortuary parking lot.

“Oh, you know. On a date.”

Spencer makes a strangled noise of protest, but Emily is already unbuckling her seatbelt, pretending she doesn’t hear it.

She lets him stew in his thoughts and sit there with that panicked expression because honestly?

He needs to figure it out for himself.

—

Tuesday nights were for Star Trek, and Friday nights were for pizza and movies. It had started as something casual, a way to unwind after long days at work, but over time, it became an unspoken rule—a part of your week as consistent as waking up in the morning.

Tuesday nights meant curling up on your couch, debating over which Star Trek series to watch that week. Spencer always had his preferences—he loved The Original Series for its groundbreaking storytelling and The Next Generation for its philosophical depth—but he never protested when you picked Voyager because he knew how much you liked Captain Janeway. You didn’t always pay attention to the episodes the way he did, but you loved listening to him ramble, watching his eyes light up as he dissected the scientific inaccuracies or argued about the moral dilemmas presented in each episode.

And then there was Friday night—pizza and movie night.

Unlike Star Trek night, where Spencer usually held the reins, movie night was a battle. You had vastly different tastes—Spencer leaned toward old classics, noir films, and things with intricate plots that required full intellectual engagement. On the other hand, you sometimes just wanted to watch an over-the-top action flick, something fun and ridiculous.

“I don’t understand why we can’t watch Casablanca,” Spencer had complained one Friday, frowning at your choice of Die Hard.

“Because Casablanca is depressing, and I just want to watch Bruce Willis blow things up,” you’d argued, plopping onto the couch.

Spencer had grumbled but ultimately stayed, reluctantly eating his pizza while you enjoyed Die Hard a little too much.

But despite the friendly bickering, you both always showed up for each other. No matter how draining the week was or how heavy the cases got, Tuesday and Friday nights were yours. If one of you was too tired, the other brought food. If Spencer needed to visit his mom, he’d make you promise not to watch Star Trek without him. If you had a bad day, he let you pick the movie without a single complaint (except for that one time you picked Twilight, which he still refuses to acknowledge).

For years, it was just routine, something comfortable, something easy.

The case had finally wrapped up late Wednesday afternoon, and while you should have been relieved—grateful that everything ended as cleanly as possible—you were distracted. Off-kilter. Your mind wasn’t on the debriefing, the flight back to Quantico, or even the pile of paperwork waiting for you tomorrow.

No, your mind was stuck on him.

Spencer.

More specifically, the way you couldn’t seem to shake the lingering warmth of his body from when he had leaned against you, or the quiet, vulnerable way he had sighed into your shoulder, or the way Rossi’s words had wormed their way into your brain and stuck.

"You keep telling yourself that, kid. But one of these days, you’re going to wake up and realize you’ve been standing in your own way this whole time."

Damn him.

You were usually so good at compartmentalizing, at keeping your feelings neatly boxed up and shoved into the farthest corner of your mind where they couldn’t betray you. But now? Now, every little thing Spencer did had you spiraling.

Like right now.

Friday afternoon rolls around, and you’re already on edge.

When Spencer casually walks up to your desk, his messenger bag is slung over his shoulder, and his hands are tucked into his pockets, you already know you’re in trouble.

“Hey,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “We’re still on for tonight, right?”

You blink at him.

Wait. What?

Is he confirming plans? He hasn’t done that since the first month you started doing this—since he was still unsure if the ritual was set in stone. But now, after all this time, he’s asking?

Your heart starts hammering, palms go clammy.

“Yeah—yes,” you blurt out, nodding a little too fast. “Of course. Why wouldn’t we?”

Spencer watches you carefully, clearly picking up on something being off. His brow furrows slightly, and he studies you with that damn profiler gaze, the one that makes you feel like he’s reading every single thought you’re desperately trying to bury.

“You okay?” he asks slowly.

You force a laugh. It comes out weird. “Yeah! Why wouldn’t I be?”

His frown deepens.

Okay. You need to fix this before you combust.

You grab your phone off your desk and clear your throat. “So! What are we watching tonight?” you ask, trying to force the conversation forward before you completely unravel.

Spencer tilts his head slightly, still watching you with suspicion, but he lets it go.

“For our movie night? Or are you asking if we’re switching to a Star Trek episode lineup for some reason?”

You roll your eyes, grateful for the distraction. “Movie night, obviously.”

He hums, his lips quirking slightly. “I figured it was my turn to pick.”

You groan dramatically. “Ugh. If this is another silent foreign film that you claim is ‘captivating,’ I’m kicking you out before the pizza even gets here.”

Spencer smirks. “It’s not silent.”

You narrow your eyes. “But it is foreign.”

Spencer just shrugs.

You groan again, shaking your head. “Fine. But if I fall asleep, I’m blaming you.”

He grins, and for a moment, just a moment, everything feels normal again.

Except it’s not.

Because now you’re noticing everything. The way he’s smiling at you, like he genuinely likes looking at you. The way he’s still standing a little too close, the scent of cologne you’ve never noticed mixing with the faint smell of old books and coffee. Your heart is pounding, not from panic anymore but from something else.

And Rossi’s voice echoes in your head—You’re going to wake up and realize you’ve been standing in your own way this whole time.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to push the thought away.

Spencer is still looking at you, waiting, expectant.

You clear your throat. “So… my place at seven?”

He nods. “Your place at seven.”

And with that, he walks away, leaving you gripping your desk, trying to convince yourself that your entire world hasn’t just shifted on its axis.

—

The knock at the door makes your stomach drop.

You weren’t expecting it. Not from him.

Spencer never knocks. Not anymore. Not when he’s been coming here for years, slipping inside without hesitation, using the key you gave him so long ago that neither of you even remembers when it stopped being your apartment and started feeling like his, too.

But tonight, he knocks.

And for a moment, you just stare at the door, pulse pounding in your ears, a strange, unsettling panic twisting in your chest.

Why?

Why would he knock?

Did something happen? Did you do something? Did he?

You scramble to your feet, nearly tripping over the corner of the rug in your rush to reach the door. Your hand hovers over the doorknob for half a second too long before you finally pull it open.

And there he is.

Standing in the dim glow of the hallway light, looking just as nervous as you feel.

He’s holding the pizza in both hands, gripping the box like it’s the only thing anchoring him. His lips are parted slightly as if he’s mid-thought, mid-explanation for why he’s standing here like a stranger instead of walking in like he always does.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is careful, deliberate. Like he’s testing the temperature of the air between you.

You swallow. “Why’d you knock?”

Spencer shifts, his fingers flexing against the cardboard. “I—” He exhales sharply, eyes flickering down for a moment before meeting yours again. “I wasn’t sure if I should just—if you wanted me to just come in.”

Your stomach twists. “You always just come in.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I just—” He stops, swallows, tries again. Spencer takes a breath, shifting his grip on the pizza box. “Can I come in?”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the doorknob as you nod and step aside.

The warm glow of your living room wraps around Spencer like a familiar embrace. The scent of old books and candle wax lingers in the air, mingling with the rich aroma of fresh pizza. He’s holding the box carefully as if it were fragile or important. His fingers clutch the edges a little too tightly.

Something is different.

You feel it the moment he walks through the door, the way he hesitates on the threshold before closing it behind him. His usual easy presence is replaced with something unsure, something heavy that neither of you can quite name.

It’s never been awkward before.

But tonight, it is.

Maybe it’s the way he swallows before speaking or the way you feel hyper-aware of the space between you—space that’s usually nonexistent when you’re tangled up on the couch, watching whatever movie you finally agreed on after bickering for twenty minutes.

Maybe it’s the way his fingers brush against his wrist absentmindedly, rolling the hair tie between them, a habit you know means he’s feeling too much.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because something unspoken has been hanging in the air between you for a while now, something neither of you have dared to name.

Spencer sits down beside you, a little closer than usual but still not quite enough. His knee brushes against yours, and you don’t pull away. Neither does he.

“Movie?” you ask, trying to sound normal. Trying to push through the tension.

Spencer nods, but he doesn’t reach for the remote. Instead, he glances at you, searching your face, lips parting slightly like he wants to say something.

And for the first time in all the years of Friday pizza-and-movie nights, for the first time in all the comfortable silences and easy laughter, you think—

He might actually say what you’re both thinking.

But when Spencer finally does speak, it’s not what you expect. You blink at him, your brain short-circuiting.

"Do you want to watch 10 Things I Hate About You?"

It takes you a second to process the words because that is not what you were expecting.

For a moment, your grip tightens on the edge of the couch, your knuckles going white, and your heart still hammering from the sheer weight of what you thought he was about to say.

“What?” you finally spit out, voice higher than you’d like.

Spencer shifts awkwardly in his seat, clearing his throat as if he’s just realized how strange the moment is. “It’s… isn’t it your favorite rom-com?”

You stare at him. “Yeah… but I didn’t think you liked it.”

“I don’t dislike it,” he hedges, suddenly looking everywhere except at you. “And, statistically speaking, if we’re ranking romantic comedies based on their adherence to Shakespearean influence, it’s arguably one of the better adaptations of Taming of the Shrew—”

You cut him off with a squint. “You’re rambling.”

He presses his lips together, a nervous habit, his fingers twitching slightly. “Right. Sorry.”

The air between you feels charged, like an unsaid truth is pressing against the walls, threatening to break them down. But instead of confronting it and saying whatever it is that’s clearly sitting on the tip of his tongue, Spencer is talking about rom-coms.

You cross your arms, tilting your head. “Okay, but… why? Why that movie? Why now?”

His eyes flicker up to yours then, just for a second, and there’s something raw, vulnerable, and uncertain.

And then, before you can decipher it, he shrugs. “I just thought you’d like it.”

Your heart clenches painfully because God, he’s so Spencer. Always thinking of you, noticing the smallest details, and looking out for you even when you don’t expect it.

And yet… there’s still something unspoken lingering between you, something simmering beneath the surface, something that almost came out before he took a sharp left turn into the world of 10 Things I Hate About You.

“Do you want to watch?” Spencer asks again in that vulnerable tone, lifting the movie case from his bag.

You exhale, rubbing your hands on your pants to wipe off the nervous sweat. “Yeah,” you sigh.

Spencer nods, but it’s almost hesitant, almost like he wasn’t sure you’d say yes. He lingers for a second with the 10 Things I Hate About You DVD case in his hands, gripping it just as tightly as he had the pizza box moments ago.

You swallow, rubbing your palms against your pants again before reaching for the remote. “Uh, you can put it in.”

He moves toward the DVD player slowly, methodically, like he’s focusing on the action so he doesn’t have to focus on you. You watch him as he kneels down, sliding the disc into the tray, his fingers steady even though you know he isn’t.

The air between you is thick with something unspoken, a weight pressing on both of you, but neither of you acknowledges it. Instead, you wait as the movie boots up, the familiar menu music filling the quiet space between you.

Spencer hesitates before sitting, but it’s closer than usual when he does.

Not overly close—not close enough to make it obvious—but close enough that you can feel the heat of his body, close enough that his knee brushes yours again.

You pretend not to notice.

He pretends not to, either.

The movie starts, and for the first time, neither of you is watching it.

You’re too aware of him—the way he shifts slightly when you do, his fingers twitch against his knee like he’s trying not to reach out, and the way his breath catches ever so slightly when your arm brushes his.

Spencer doesn’t usually do this. He’s tactile when he’s overwhelmed, yes, but this? This is different. This is hesitation; this is awareness; this is something tiptoeing dangerously close to the edge of something neither of you has dared to touch before.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

So you try to focus on the movie, try to push through the nervous energy coiling in your stomach.

But then—

Then Spencer shifts, leans back against the couch, exhales softly—

And his arm drops, just slightly, around your shoulders.

Your heart stops.

You stare at the screen, unblinking, unsure if he even realizes what he’s done.

But he doesn’t move.

And neither do you.

The room feels different now. Warmer, heavier, charged with something neither of you have spoken aloud. You can’t tell if it’s the candlelight flickering in the dim space or if it’s just him, just this, whatever this is, settling around you like a second skin.

Spencer’s arm—his arm—is resting along the back of the couch, not quite on you, but close enough that you can feel its weight, close enough that if you shifted even the slightest bit, it would be.

You try to focus on the movie. Try to act like nothing’s changed.

But your body betrays you.

Your shoulders stiffen at first, instinctively, not because you don’t want this—God, you do—but because you don’t understand it. Because Spencer Reid does not do things like this. He does not reach out in this way, not unless he’s overwhelmed, and even then, it’s different. This is intentional, isn’t it?

Isn’t it?

You inhale slowly, carefully, keeping your eyes trained on the screen as Kat Stratford delivers another sharp-witted insult. But you’re not really listening. You’re waiting. Waiting for Spencer to shift, realize what he’s done, pull back, laugh nervously, and pretend like nothing happened.

Except—

He doesn’t.

If anything, he seems more relaxed than before. His breathing is even, his body settling into the couch like he belongs there. Like you belong there.

And then, before you can stop yourself before you can overthink it like you always do, you shift. Just slightly. Just enough that your shoulder leans into his arm.

The movement is so small and insignificant that if it were anyone else, they wouldn’t notice. But this is Spencer. And Spencer notices everything.

You hear the sharp inhale of breath and feel the way his body tenses just for a moment—just long enough to make your pulse hammer against your ribs—before he exhales slowly, deliberately.

And then—

Then his fingers brush against your shoulder.

A whisper of a touch, hesitant, almost like he’s waiting for you to pull away.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

So, he stays.

And for the rest of the movie, neither of you moves. Neither of you speak.

But everything, everything, has changed.

The credits roll. The music swells softly through the speakers. The dim glow of the screencasts flickering shadows across the room, but neither of you move.

Not even a little.

Your body is still pressed into his side, your shoulder tucked against him, his arm draped so loosely yet so deliberately around you that you can’t tell if it’s keeping you close or if it’s keeping him grounded.

Maybe both.

Maybe that’s what this has always been.

You don’t know how long you sit there, frozen in the moment. You don’t know if he’s thinking the same thing, if he’s waiting for you to speak, to move, to acknowledge that something unspoken has settled between you like a weighted silence.

But then—

“Y/N,” Spencer murmurs.

Just your name.

Soft. Almost careful.

You inhale sharply, blinking yourself back into the moment. Your head turns toward him slowly, cautiously, like moving too fast might shatter whatever fragile balance is hanging between you.

And then—

Spencer shocks you.

Because the second your eyes meet his, the moment your lips part in silent question—he leans in.

And he kisses you.

It’s not hesitant.

It’s not unsure.

It’s not like the Spencer Reid you thought you knew—the one who second-guesses, who overthinks, who analyzes every possibility before making a move.

No.

This is something else entirely.

This is Spencer moving without logic, without calculation, without fear.

This is Spencer wanting.

And for a split second, your brain short-circuits, unable to process what’s happening or understand how the man who had just spent two hours analyzing 10 Things I Hate About You is now kissing you like he means it.

But then—

Then you kiss him back.

And it’s over.

Whatever line had existed between you—whatever barrier had kept you from stepping over the edge—it's gone.

Spencer exhales against your lips like he’s been holding his breath for years. His fingers tighten against your shoulder, just slightly, pulling you in closer, pressing against you like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go.

But you’re not going anywhere.

Not now.

Not after this.

—

Dating Spencer is like stepping into something timeless, warm, and constant. It’s not rushed or overwhelming. It’s not dramatic or chaotic. It’s just Spencer. And that, in itself, is everything.

He doesn’t love convention. He doesn’t do big grand gestures unless they mean something. But he does the little things, the things that matter. The things that show how deeply and irrevocably he feels for you.

Like reading to you before bed.

It starts without much thought, just a quiet habit that becomes part of your nights. You never ask him to do it, and he never makes a point of it, but it happens—night after night, in the soft, dark quiet of your bedroom when the world slows, and nothing exists but the warmth of his arms and the soothing rhythm of his voice.

Some nights, it’s The Picture of Dorian Gray or a few pages from Pride and Prejudice. Other nights, it’s something entirely different—a passage about an old poet, a historical retelling of an artist’s life, something obscure and worn, a book he’s read a hundred times before. It doesn’t matter. You don’t even remember the contents most nights.

What you remember is the sound of Spencer’s voice, the way it lulls you into a hazy, comfortable state within minutes. The way his fingers draw lazy circles on your arm as he reads, absentmindedly tracing patterns like he can’t not be touching you. The way his lips brush the top of your head in soft, feather-light kisses like he’s saying goodnight without ever actually stopping the words on the page.

You never make it past a few minutes.

That’s how long it takes for his voice to pull you under, for the warmth of his chest to turn into a lullaby, for his steady breathing and gentle presence to quiet every thought in your mind.

And Spencer?

Spencer never minds.

Even when you fall asleep on him mid-sentence, even when his voice trails off and he realizes you’re gone, lost to dreams, he just smiles to himself, presses one last kiss to your temple, and quietly closes the book.

Because he loves this.

Loves you.

Even if he hasn’t said it yet.

—

You knew Spencer was good with kids—he had an innate gentleness, a patience that most adults didn’t possess. You had seen him with Jack before, seen the way he could calm a crying toddler with a few soft words and a fascinating fact about dinosaurs. But this? Watching him take care of a baby?

This is a whole different level.

JJ and Will had been desperate for a night out—just a few hours, nothing crazy—and with Garcia tied up at some tech conference, JJ hesitantly asked you and Spencer to watch Henry. She had barely finished asking before Spencer nodded, assuring her that he had plenty of experience with child development and cognitive growth.

Now, an hour into babysitting, you sit on the couch in quiet awe as Spencer moves around the living room, cradling Henry against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"Statistically speaking, infants exposed to language early on are more likely to develop higher literacy skills in adolescence," Spencer muses softly, bouncing Henry gently in his arms as the baby babbles against his sweater. "So even though you might not understand this now, Henry, I think you'd really enjoy learning about the Fibonacci sequence when you’re older."

You stare, biting your lip to contain the ridiculous grin threatening to take over your face. "Spencer, are you seriously lecturing a one-year-old on mathematical sequences?"

Spencer glances at you, unfazed. "He seems interested."

Henry lets out a delighted squeal, gripping a fistful of Spencer’s cardigan and yanking with surprising strength.

"Ah—Henry, no, that's my—" Spencer stops mid-sentence as Henry starts giggling, his tiny fingers still tangled in the fabric. Instead of pulling away, Spencer just sighs in resignation, adjusting his hold so Henry can comfortably rest his cheek against his shoulder.

And oh, no.

Your heart is gone.

Your ovaries? Destroyed.

Because Spencer—sweet, brilliant, slightly awkward Spencer—is standing there in JJ’s living room, holding a baby like he was made for it, rubbing gentle circles on Henry’s back as he hums absentmindedly.

And you are not okay.

"You’re good at this," you murmur before you can stop yourself, watching how he instinctively shifts to sway Henry slightly, lulling him between sleep and contentment.

Spencer shrugs, but there’s a soft pink dusting his cheeks. "It’s just… knowing how to respond to their needs. Babies need security and reassurance. If they feel safe, they thrive." He glances at you then, his voice quieter. "It's not complicated."

But it is.

Because suddenly, your brain is not thinking about just this night. It’s not just thinking about babysitting Henry. It’s thinking about Spencer as a father, Spencer with his own baby in his arms, rocking them just like this, whispering facts to lull them to sleep, pressing soft kisses to their tiny forehead.

And the thought wrecks you.

JJ has no idea what she’s done by asking you to babysit.

Because now?

Now, you are painfully aware that Spencer Reid would be the best dad in the world.

And you really need to go splash cold water on your face before you say something insane.

The drive is quiet at first, a comfortable kind of silence, filled only with the hum of the engine and the faint rustling of Spencer shifting beside you. The weight of the night still lingers, the softness of it, the warmth—Spencer holding Henry, the easy way he’d cared for him, the way it had done things to you that you weren’t entirely sure you were ready to name yet.

"Are you dropping me off," Spencer asks suddenly, his voice cutting through the stillness, "or am I coming over?"

Your hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel.

The question is simple. Straightforward. But there’s something deeper beneath it, something unspoken. Because this isn’t the first time Spencer has stayed over. But tonight, with the way you’re feeling, with the way you want him—really want him—the meaning feels different.

Your pulse picks up.

You don’t answer right away, not because you don’t know what you want, but because you do.

Because you want him to come over. Because you want him in your bed for more than just resting. Because you’ve wanted it for a while now, but neither of you have crossed that line yet.

And suddenly, it feels like Spencer knows exactly what you’re thinking.

He’s watching you, quiet, observant, his fingers resting lightly against his knee as he waits for your response. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pry—he just waits.

You swallow, exhaling slowly before finally speaking. "Come over."

Spencer doesn’t say anything at first. But when you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, his lips are pressed together, his fingers twitching slightly—nervous energy, anticipation, something else.

"Okay," he says finally, voice quiet but firm.

And that’s all.

You don’t talk for the rest of the drive.

But you feel everything.

The way his hand rests between you is so close to yours but not quite touching. The way your breaths sync up is slow but uneven, charged with something you both know is coming.

When you finally pull into your parking spot, turn off the car, and steal one last glance at him, Spencer doesn’t hesitate.

He just unbuckles his seatbelt, pushes open the door, and follows you inside.

Spencer follows without hesitation but doesn’t move past the doorway immediately. He lingers, standing just inside your apartment, watching as you set your keys down on the counter, as you exhale slowly, as you try to steady yourself against the weight of what this night is turning into.

You turn back to him then, and the sight of him standing there—hands tucked into his pockets, shifting slightly on his feet, looking at you like he’s trying so hard to figure out what happens next—makes your stomach flip.

He’s waiting for you.

Waiting for permission.

You take a step forward, closing some of the space between you. Spencer watches you carefully, his breath hitching just slightly, his fingers twitching where they rest at his sides.

Spencer nods. Swallows. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he asks, “Are we just sleeping?”

The question hangs between you, thick with implication, and that’s when it happens—the shift from nervous anticipation to something else.

You step closer again, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, close enough that if either of you moved just slightly, you’d be touching.

And then, softly, hesitantly, you reach for his wrist, fingers brushing against the skin just above the hair tie he still wears, the one you gave him so long ago.

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “Do you want to just sleep?”

Spencer’s breath catches. His eyes flicker to your lips, then back up again.

“No,” he murmurs. “Not really.”

And that’s all it takes.

Because suddenly, you’re kissing him.

Or maybe he kisses you—you don’t know who moves first, don’t care, because all that matters is the way his hands are suddenly on your waist, pulling you closer, the way his lips part against yours, slow and deep and wanting.

It’s different from the previous kisses you have shared. And as his hands slide up your back, as you press yourself into him like you’ve been waiting forever for this, as he exhales sharply against your mouth because he’s finally getting to have you—

You know neither of you will be getting much sleep tonight.

The first time you and Spencer had sex was nothing short of mind-blowing—at least for him.

You hadn’t known just how little experience he had until later when he mumbled something against your skin about only having done this once before, his voice laced with disbelief and something like awe.

But it wouldn't have changed anything even if you had known beforehand. It had started so slow, like neither of you wanted to rush like you were both trying to memorize each other in ways you hadn’t been able to before.

Spencer had been nervous at first—not clumsy, not hesitant in a way that made you think he didn’t want this, but careful, intentional, like he wanted to make sure he was doing everything right. Like he was terrified of messing up, of not being enough.

But God, was he more than enough.

Because once he got past the nerves, once he stopped thinking and started feeling—

It was everything.

He touched you like he was discovering something new like he was learning you in real time. His fingers mapped the soft curves of your body, memorizing the way your breath hitched when he kissed your neck and how you sighed when his hands gripped your waist.

And when you guided him, when you whispered what you liked against his lips when you told him exactly how to move—

That was when he really fell apart.

Because Spencer thrives on knowledge, learning, on understanding. And now, he was learning you—learning what made you shiver, what made you moan, what made you clutch at his shoulders and gasp his name in a way that sent a shudder through him so deep he thought he might break apart completely.

By the time you were actually together, when he finally slid inside you with a deep, shaky moan, his hands gripping your hips like you were the only thing keeping him grounded—he knew.

He knew he was ruined for anything else.

Because nothing—not the one experience he had before, not the books he had read, not the theories or statistics—could have ever prepared him for this.

For you.

And when he came undone, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm and ragged, your name tumbling from his lips like a prayer—

It was the closest thing to heaven he had ever known.

You pulled Spencer on top of you without hesitation, letting his exhausted body flop onto yours, his full weight pressing you into the mattress in the best possible way. He didn’t resist or try to roll away or give you space—he just let himself be and melt into you like he belonged there.

You traced slow, lazy shapes on his bare, sweat-slicked back, feeling the way his breathing gradually evened out, the rise and fall of his chest pressing against yours in a steady rhythm. His damp curls tickled your skin where his face was buried against your neck, but you didn’t dare move. You liked having him close like this.

Then you felt it—Spencer taking a deep breath like he was about to say something important.

His voice was muffled, soft, still laced with lingering wonder as he exhaled against your skin.

“Did… was that good for you?”

You smiled at the ceiling, your fingers still tracing mindless patterns along his spine. He was too cute. Too him.

“It was amazing, Spencer.”

He didn’t respond immediately, but you felt him tense slightly, his arms tightening around your waist as he let out a small, almost sheepish exhale.

“I’m sorry it was over so quickly.”

You laughed, tilting your head so you could press a soft kiss to the crown of his head. “Spencer, you have nothing to apologize for.”

He huffed, shifting slightly so his face was visible again, his flushed cheeks still pressed against your skin. “But I—”

“Nope.” You cut him off before he could finish whatever self-deprecating thought was about to leave his mouth. “I loved it. And besides…” You trailed your fingers down his spine, feeling the shiver it sent through him. “Now that the nerves are out of the way, we’ve got all night to take our time.”

Spencer froze for half a second before lifting his head just enough to look at you properly, his eyes wide, dark, needy.

“All night?” he repeated, voice barely above a whisper.

You smirked, fingers tightening ever so slightly on his back. “Mmmhmm.”

And just like that—

Spencer wasn’t exhausted anymore.

The night stretched long and slow, turning into early morning, and in those quiet, intimate hours, you discovered things—things that made you grin, things that made Spencer writhe, things that neither of you had ever put words to before but suddenly felt so obvious now.

Like hickeys.

Spencer really liked hickeys.

You hadn’t meant to leave one, not at first. But the moment your lips latched onto the sensitive skin of his neck, the second your teeth scraped lightly against his pulse point, Spencer let out a sound that was almost embarrassing—a sharp, gasping whine that had his fingers digging into your waist, his hips bucking up against you without thought.

And just like that, you knew.

“You like that?” you murmured against his skin, already smirking, already marking another spot just below his jaw.

Spencer shivered violently, his breath stuttering, his grip on you tightening. “I—” He cut himself off with a choked noise, arching into you again.

Yeah. He definitely liked it.

And then there was the other discovery that made your entire night.

Spencer was a certified bottom.

He liked giving up control, liked you taking the lead, liked it when you moved on top of him, guiding him, making him fall apart underneath you.

And oh, he thrived in it.

Especially when your hands threaded into his hair, whispered things to him, and praised him in that sweet, teasing tone that made him whimper.

And God, the way his hands roamed when you were on top—

Which led to the third discovery of the night.

Spencer was a tits guy.

Sure, he loved all of you—he worshipped every inch of you with those big, eager hands, his lips, his tongue, taking his time, savoring you like he had all the time in the world.

But your boobs?

Those really got him going.

Maybe it was because of the angle, the way they bounced when you moved, or maybe it was the way they fit so perfectly in his hands, how he could squeeze, cup, and knead them just the way he liked.

Maybe it was the fact that he could bury his face in them, groaning as he nuzzled into your chest, leaving open-mouthed kisses against your skin, mumbling about how perfect you were, how soft, how he never wanted to stop.

And when you realized?

When you teased him about it?

He turned a deep shade of red, sputtering something about biological instincts and aesthetic appeal, but the second you rolled your hips and dragged his hands back to your chest, his words died completely.

“Oh my God,” he groaned, his head thudding back against the pillow, his fingers squeezing you almost desperately.

And yeah—

You really liked that discovery, too.

—

Spencer had barely stepped into the bullpen when Derek’s booming voice rang through the air like a damn foghorn.

"Pretty boy!"

Spencer flinched. He knew that tone. That taunting, giddy, Derek-is-about-to-ruin-your-life tone.

And then—before Spencer could so much as blink—Derek was grinning at him, full teeth, eyes sparkling with absolute mischief as he pointed directly at Spencer’s neck.

“Oh no,” Spencer mumbled under his breath, instinctively reaching up as if he could somehow erase the evidence.

But it was too late. Because Derek had seen it. The hickey.

The hickey.

The one you had left on him Saturday night. Or was it Sunday morning? Honestly, it didn’t even matter—what mattered was that he had forgotten to cover it up, and now? Now, Derek was never going to let him live this down.

“Damn, kid,” Derek laughed, sauntering over with the confidence of a man who lived for this kind of teasing. “So you are gettin’ some.”

Spencer groaned, his entire face going up in flames. “Derek—”

“Nah, nah, don’t even try to deny it,” Derek interrupted, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “That is a grade-A hickey, man. I’m talkin’ official, stamped, certified ‘this man is gettin’ wrecked’ level.”

“Derek, please,” Spencer hissed, glancing around desperately as if he could somehow stop this from escalating.

Too bad the damage was already done. Because JJ and Penelope were already staring. And then laughing. Loudly.

“Oh my God,” Penelope gasped, practically shrieking with delight. “Spencer! Look at you! Our boy is all grown up and getting marked up like a romance novel protagonist!”

“Okay, stop,” Spencer pleaded, feeling absolutely doomed.

JJ just smirked, sipping her coffee like this was the best entertainment she’d had in weeks. “So, how was your weekend?”

Spencer exhaled sharply, adjusting his bag on his shoulder and making a beeline for his desk, determined to escape. “I hate all of you.”

Derek just grinned, following after him with his arms crossed. “Nah, Pretty Boy, you love us. Just not as much as you love your girl—who, by the way, did some damage on you, man. She got territorial.”

Spencer slammed his forehead onto his desk with a loud thud. JJ and Penelope cackled. Derek patted him on the back like he had just won something. And Spencer?

Spencer knew damn well that this was never going away.

—

Spencer was always composed. Always Spencer. Polite, intelligent, articulate. The type of man who didn’t act impulsively, who thought through everything before making a move.

Except, apparently, when it came to you.

Because when it came to you, Spencer had no self-control.

And nowhere was that more apparent than tonight—right now—when he had you pressed up against the bar in the middle of a crowded room, his lips hot against your neck, his hands resting just a little too low on your waist, and his very obvious boner grinding against your ass.

This was not the Spencer the team knew. This was not the awkward, hesitant genius who stumbled over his words and overanalyzed his every move.

No, this Spencer was different.

This Spencer wanted you, and he didn’t care who saw.

This Spencer also happened to be a few glasses of champagne deep in his birthday celebration with the team.

“Spencer,” you hissed, gripping the edge of the bar for support as another firm roll of his hips had heat coiling low in your stomach.

He hummed against your neck, his lips still moving, still marking you in the same way he had been since he discovered how much he loved leaving hickeys on you.

“Hmm?” he murmured, voice low, dragging his tongue lightly over the fresh mark before pressing an open-mouthed kiss against it.

Your grip tightened on the bar. “We’re in public,” you reminded him, but your voice was breathy, weak, barely convincing.

Spencer chuckled—actually chuckled—against your skin, his fingers flexing against your hips. “And?”

And?

And?

You blinked, stunned by his sheer audacity, by the fact that Spencer Reid was grinding up against you in a public bar like he had every right to.

Like he owned you.

And maybe he did.

You hated to stop him. God, you hated it.

But Spencer was too drunk.

It wasn’t that he was wasted—Spencer didn’t drink often, and when he did, he rarely overindulged—but tonight, between rounds of celebratory drinks with the team and the way he had relaxed into your presence, he was just tipsy enough that his usual inhibitions were gone.

And normally, you wouldn’t mind. Normally, you’d love seeing him like this, out of his shell, more bold in his affections. But Spencer was intoxicated, and you were sober, and you refused—refused—to take advantage of that. 

So, with a deep breath, you gently pried his hands off your waist, turning around to face him fully.

“Spencer,” you murmured, voice soft but firm.

He blinked, slow and dazed, his lips swollen from where he had been so intent on marking you up. “Huh?”

You cupped his face, thumbs brushing against his flushed cheeks. “We need to get you home, okay?”

His brows furrowed. “But—”

“No ‘buts,’” you interrupted, kissing his cheek quickly before pulling away completely. “Come on, before Derek starts making bets about whether you’ll take shots with him.”

Spencer groaned, looking devastated—like a scolded puppy who had just been denied his favorite treat. His hands flexed at his sides like he wanted to pull you back, but even in his inebriated state, he listened.

With one last longing look at you, he sighed. “Fine.”

You smiled, taking his hand and leading him back to the group. The second you announced, “I’m taking Spencer home,” a chorus of hoots and hollers erupted from your friends.

Derek practically howled with laughter. “Damn, Pretty Boy, she’s gotta put you to bed already?”

“I hate all of you,” Spencer grumbled as Penelope cackled.

JJ smirked into her drink. “Don’t forget to hydrate him.”

“Oh, I will,” you assured her, rolling your eyes as you steered Spencer toward the door.

After a few more teasing remarks and one last dramatic wolf whistle from Derek, you managed to load Spencer into the passenger seat of your car.

As soon as you pulled out of the parking lot, you reached for the stereo and turned on classical music—something calming that would hopefully settle the restless energy still buzzing under Spencer’s skin.

And sure enough, within minutes, he was already melting into the seat, head lolling to the side as the soft notes of Debussy filled the quiet space.

You smiled to yourself, reaching over to squeeze his hand.

“Almost home, Spence,” you murmured.

He sighed deeply, squeezing back. “You’re the best,” he mumbled, voice slurred with exhaustion.

The rest of the night had been easy enough—getting Spencer home, guiding his sleepy, clingy self into bed, listening to him mumble drunken nonsense as you pulled the covers over him. He had curled around you the second you lay down beside him, burying his face in your neck, sighing deeply as if you were the cure to whatever hangover awaited him in the morning.

Before you had drifted off, you had set up a glass of water and some painkillers on his bedside table, making sure everything he needed would be right there when he woke up.

Now, in the golden light of morning, you were sitting up in bed, back against the headboard, reading while Spencer slowly resurfaced from his alcohol-induced slumber.

He stirred first, shifting slightly under the sheets, letting out a sleepy little grunt before blinking blearily up at you.

For a moment, he just stared.

His hair was a complete mess, curls sticking up in every direction, and his face was still warm and soft from sleep. His lips parted slightly, his eyes unfocused as he tried to piece together where he was, why he felt like this, and why the hell you looked so perfectly content beside him while he felt like his brain was swimming in molasses.

“…Morning,” he croaked, voice raw from sleep.

You glanced down at him, smiling over the top of your book. “Morning, baby.”

He blinked slowly, still processing. Then, realization dawned—the bar, the teasing, you dragging him home like an overgrown toddler.

He groaned, flopping onto his back and throwing an arm over his face. “I was drunk.”

You laughed softly, closing your book and setting it aside. “Yep.”

He peeked out from under his arm, his lips twitching slightly. “Did I…?”

“You were very affectionate in public,” you teased, shifting to face him. “Like, very affectionate.”

Spencer made a noise between a groan and a laugh, rubbing his face. “Derek’s never going to let me live this down, is he?”

“I didn’t let anybody see, Spence.”

He sighed dramatically before turning his head to look at you again, his expression softening. His eyes flickered to the bedside table, taking in the water and painkillers, the small gesture that made something warm and fond settle in his chest.

“You took care of me,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Of course I did.”

Spencer didn’t say anything momentarily, just looking at you like he was trying to memorize you in the morning light. Then, without warning, he reached for you, pulling you down into his arms, burying his face in your shoulder.

“I love you,” he mumbled against your skin, voice still thick with sleep.

Your heart stopped.

Completely.

Frozen in time, in this moment, in him.

Spencer had said it. So casually, so effortlessly, like it had always been there, sitting just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to slip out. Like it wasn’t something earth-shattering, something that made your breath catch and your entire world tilt.

You barely breathed as you whispered, "You love me?"

You felt his lips curve slightly against your skin—soft, sleepy, so sure.

"I love you," he repeated, voice muffled but certain, like it wasn’t even a question in his mind. Like it never had been.

The warmth of his words settled over you, seeping into every inch of your skin, curling around your heart like the softest, safest thing you’d ever known.

Suddenly, you were moving, pulling back just enough to cup his face in your hands and tilt his head so that his eyes met yours—still drowsy, still heavy with sleep, but so incredibly full. You smiled, soft and disbelieving like you couldn’t believe you had gotten this lucky. Like you couldn’t believe he was yours.

"I love you, too."

Spencer blinked, like it was his turn to freeze like his still-sleepy brain was trying to process that you had said it back. Then he smiled—wide and beautiful, the kind of smile that made his dimples show, the kind of smile that made your chest ache in the best possible way.

And without another word, he kissed you.

Slow, deep, certain.

Like he had just decided—right here, right now—that he was never letting you go.

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

tag list <333 @yokaimoon @khxna @noelliece @dreamsarebig @sleepey-looney @cocobean16 @placidus @criminalmindssworld @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @charismatic-writer @fxoxo @hearts4spensco @furrybouquettrash @kathrynlakestone @chaneladdicted @time-himself @mentallyunwellsposts @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @gilwm @reggieswriter @loumouse @spencerreidsreads @i-live-in-spite @fanfic-viewer @bootylovers44 @atheniandrinkscoffee @niktwazny303 @dead-universe @hbwrelic @kniselle @cynbx @danielle143 @katemusic @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @laurakirsten0502 @geepinky @mxlviaa @libraprincessfairy @fortheloveofgubler @super-nerd22 @k-illdarlings @softestqueeen @eliscannotdance @pleasantwitchgarden @alexxavicry @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @criminal-spence @navs-bhat @taygrls @person-005 @asobeeee

[celuere]

Loud incorrect buzzer for that anon's failed obvious rage bait! 🔊🔊

Anyways! What do you think Arle's size and shape down there? (I just know she's massive) And do you think her hair is trimmed? Shaved? Or an absolute rainforest? And do you think her hair is fully white or it also has Tufts of black and red like her hair???

Wild request but hey? I know we're all curious what's underneath there.

Yours truly, sane Arle fan

-🎐

in the light of recent events, i‘m sharing my dick headcanons on a few of my favorite hyv women and how they‘d handle you in bed <333

characters: arlecchino, mavuika, clorinde, raiden, feixiao, acheron x fem!reader

cw: size kink, manhandling, bondage,, breeding, unprotected sex, titfucking

ALSO i started working on this prior to your ask so i thought i‘d just merge it together!

arlecchino

₊˚ପ⊹ a grower. is while soft around four inches long and can actually bring a proud length of seven to eight inches when she is hard as a rock for you <333

₊˚ପ⊹ her base is a bit thinner when compared to her shaft, with a slight curve upwards. perfect to hit every important spot inside of you!

₊˚ପ⊹ the black hair surrounding her base is always neatly trimmed along with the happy trail, she takes very good care of both <3

₊˚ପ⊹ carries the same gradient as the one on her arms, with a single arrow running along the downside of her dick

₊˚ପ⊹ she loves, loves, LOVES to feel herself grow hard inside of you, having you sit down on her when she still so so soft not as nearly as big as usual, making it easy to slip inside of your greedy pussy <3

₊˚ପ⊹ i don’t think this needs an explanation but she can’t even fit halfway inside when in her other form. the tummy bulge surely drives her fucking crazy, but a voice in the back of her mind would still be screaming at her to be gentle with you.

₊˚ପ⊹ but plead hard enough and she‘ll make sure to use your stretched out pussy as her own personal fleshlight.

₊˚ପ⊹ has a thing for watching her cum ooze out of your spent hole, she‘d often catch it with her fingers to stuff it back inside. wouldn‘t want to waste anything, right?

mavuika

₊˚ପ⊹ smaller than arle but a thick girl. she can never slip inside completely in one go, let alone without foreplay. 

₊˚ପ⊹ a shower actually! her size doesn’t change a lot once hard, there also isn’t a noticeable curve in her shaft

₊˚ପ⊹ by the time she is done with preparing you with her fingers you‘re already a fucked out mess, your clit puffy and aching from how good she fingerfucked you

₊˚ପ⊹ a messy but clean rainforest!

₊˚ପ⊹ she has nightsoul tattoos running up her shaft. do i need to say more????

₊˚ପ⊹ her favorite position has got to be cowgirl, watching you carefully trying to sit down on her cock as you do your best to fit her in, tip already dripping with precum from watching her wife struggle on her dick <333

₊˚ପ⊹ the way she has to hold herself back when you take her into your mouth to restrain from facefucking you. her cock is just a bit too thick for your throat to take, she really don’t wants to hurt you :((((

₊˚ପ⊹ has INSANE stamina and i mean that with all my heart. riding her equals a gym workout.

₊˚ପ⊹ intentionally breeds you. (consensually ofc) just the THOUGHT about getting you pregnant and starting a family with you OH her clothes are GONE.

clorinde

₊˚ପ⊹ lengthy shower! more slim but what she lacks in thickness… eight inches definitely make up for it.

₊˚ପ⊹ has a really nice curve and is actually soso easy to get hard. the bare sight of you sitting naked in her lap or just a messy make out session get‘s her THROBBING.

₊˚ପ⊹ keeps her bush always shaved clean sadly💔 but happy trail is still up tho!

₊˚ପ⊹ tie her up and ride her for all she‘s worth. really. just do it. save a horse, ride a champion duelist.

₊˚ପ⊹ do with her as you please. that woman has literally no backbone when it comes to you.

₊˚ପ⊹ she‘d let you grind on her abs. yes. grind. right on her sixpack. cock dripping with precum as her hands are fixed above her head while she is forced to watch you drench her skin as you drag your pussy over the surface of her muscles UGHHHH

₊˚ପ⊹ i don’t think she‘d be much into breeding, mostly avoiding coming inside and rather wants to dump her load on your cunt instead. or tits. or face. or ass. anywhere.

raiden ei

₊˚ପ⊹ this one was a bit tricky because of her puppet body, but… she is customizable. short, thick, slim, long, curved, not curved, whatever you desire.

₊˚ପ⊹ if you want her to have a happy trail, she‘d upgrade the puppet with great pleasure. same thing with the option to dump her cum into you.

₊˚ପ⊹ oh my, she loves seeing you full of her cum. breeding aspect aside. watching the sticky fluid slowly drip out of you after pumping you full of her…. let her go for another round.

₊˚ପ⊹ yes, she‘d give you a replica of her dick. with the same customizable parts.

₊˚ପ⊹ loves to fuck your tits SO MUCH. no matter how big or small, you‘ll make it work. and her semen spread all over your pretty face<33

₊˚ପ⊹ oh wow mindgames in her plane of euthymia. she‘d totally not go all out there. TOTALLY NOT.

₊˚ପ⊹ tagteaming against you with miko WOW WHO SAID THAT???????

feixiao

₊˚ପ⊹ how do i put it…. a beast. that‘s what she is.

₊˚ପ⊹ length. thickness. she’s got it all. eight inches, ladies and gentlemen. and she‘ll make sure to fit it all the way inside.

₊˚ପ⊹ not curved but who gaf about that when she still manages to hit all your spots almost effortlessly

₊˚ପ⊹ RAINFOREST DICK. that bush is well cared for but she only ever trims it if gets a bit too long for her liking ngh

₊˚ପ⊹ will take extra care of the trail of hair up to her belly button if she sees you have a certain liking towards it

₊˚ପ⊹ pray for your pussy tho once this woman gets in heat. stamina is a foreign word to her. she will be mounting you like a starved wolf

₊˚ପ⊹ but she does come relatively easy on the other sides my, can you even keep all of her inside?

₊˚ପ⊹ just puts you into whatever position she pleases. literally anything. one moment your getting your ass fucked before you suddenly find yourself in a mating press with her tip bruising your cervix!

₊˚ପ⊹ tummy bulges and feixiao go hand in hand. she sometimes slides herself inside extra slowly to watch it appear <3

₊˚ପ⊹ unlike clorinde, she’d have you ride her abs in order to earn her dick. you may only let yourself down on her boner once her skin is covered in your slick 

acheron

₊˚ପ⊹ feixiaos cockbuddy. only difference is that acheron is a grower! you‘re laughing until she grows to her full size. then it ain’t funny anymore.

₊˚ପ⊹ mmmmmh due to her roaming through the cosmos all the time, i don’t think she‘d put much care into he purple-white bush, other than cleaning it occasionally. 

₊˚ପ⊹ so perfectly curved it has your eyes rolling into the back of your head at the first thrust. she doesn’t have to do anything other than just fuck inside of you.

₊˚ପ⊹ not a fan of condoms but also isn’t too hot on getting you pregnant so she prefers to cum outside, but the sight of her stuffed pussy isn’t something she‘d mind if it does happen somehow

₊˚ପ⊹ her dick grows the same red flower surface once she unsheathes her katana btw.

₊˚ପ⊹ would fuck you in the most banal places, most of them where you two could easily be caught by passerby’s, but she don’t got the time to worry about such stuff.

₊˚ପ⊹ that happy trail would be going crazy tho. like absolutely fucking lickable.

₊˚ପ⊹ big fan of throat fucking you. your gagging, those teary eyes, smeared makeup, drool-cum covered chin, my fucking god she‘d do anything to forever be buried inside your throat.

[byhees]

when you want to do the ribbon trend

heeseung would have the smuggest look smothered all over his features; it’s as though it’d be a telltale hint as to why his pretty girl would be skipping towards the living room, a roll of pink satin ribbon in hand; and immediately after you’d ask him for his permission to tie little pretty ribbons around his biceps, he’d respond with a playful “you don’t even have to ask, love”; would intentionally flex his muscles whilst you’d be tying them, wanting to show off a little— and perhaps earn a compliment or two…

jay would be a little amused; had he ever seen this trend before? never. is he bothered by it? absolutely not— especially not with the glint in your gaze, the way you excitedly explain the concept of the short video to him has his heart melting, hesitance dissipating into thin vapour; “just let me know what to do, yeah?” he’d say, sitting still and patient as you tie the pink ribbons around his biceps— would flush ever so slightly when you tie one around a bundle of hair, the bow sitting pretty atop his head…

jake would, initially, be a little confused, but he’d simply follow along, not wanting to defuse that euphoric tint to your eyes; once he’d gotten more or less of the trend, he’d fully bask in it— “are you sure that one’s straight? looks a little wonky from where i am”, he’d comment under his breath, a cheeky smile playing on his lips as you lean in once more, re-tying the satin ribbon around his bicep— it’s just a silly excuse for you to do it again; would wind up leaning close to press a kiss on your lips, heart thumping with adoration, the video stopping its recording a second or two later…

sunghoon would, surprisingly, be a little menace, and find new ways to fluster you; the whole concept of the trend already has him drowning in a puddle of excitement. would wind up being a little trend-inventor, suggesting new takes; “how about you leave a pretty kiss mark on my cheek, that way it’ll highlight the whole ribbon thing”— that’s.. not exactly correlated; “how about i tie some in your hair too? that way we’ll match”— you’re sure that he’s forgotten the main idea of the trend; regardless, you let him do as he suggests with a small, exasperated smile, given that he’s so enthusiastic about the whole video…

sunoo would be adorably eager about the whole idea; a millisecond after explaining the concept of the video to him, he’d find himself sprinting to the room, already grabbing the roll of satin ribbon for you— “i’m ready, baby”, he’d chirp, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to reveal his biceps; you’d have to contain the growing blush across your cheeks from his directness, paired with the urge to giggle at how enthusiastic he was being…

jungwon would tease you on end; “gosh, if you wanted an excuse to gawk at my biceps, you could’ve just said so, baby”, he’d cheekily sing, rolling up the short sleeves of his shirt to show his toned bicep— would intentionally flex his muscles, finding the bashful clear of your throat, and the pink hue to your cheeks, adorable; “it’s the prettiest thing ever, love. thank you”, he’d giggle, gazing up to meet your twinkling eyes…

riki would be flustered beyond the capacity of words; would cock his head to the side, brows furrowing as a soft “huh?” slips past his lips— wouldn’t get it even after the second time of explanation; simply follows what you say, gazing at you with light confusion as you tie a pretty ribbon around his biceps. “i still don’t get it.. but i guess it looks nice”, he’d mumble, fingers lightly fiddling with the ends of the satin; without a doubt, he’d lie in bed the following night, scrolling through social media for more couple trends…

[marauder-misprint]

A regular thing

Sirius Black x fem!Slytherin!reader

series masterlist

2.6k words

cw: fluff

When you exit the broom closet, both of your clothes are disheveled. Sirius has a pleased grin on his face.

“So, is this going to be a regular thing or…?” Sirius asked.

You rolled your eyes as you fixed your uniform. 

“Take me out and we can decide later,” you said firmly.

You reached out and fixed his tie for him.

“Hey! Maybe I liked the ruffed up look!” he protested.

“Just not.. Too ruffed up..”

You finished adjusting your own clothes before leaving Sirius behind. You had no clue when this date would be, but that would just be a reason to talk to him later. All you could do right now is hope that no one saw you two go into the closet together, or worse, leave it. You weren’t displeased with what went down. You just weren’t sure you were ready for the whole castle to know.

‘Those boys will make your life complicated.’ 

Beatrice’s words echoed in your mind as you walked back to the Slytherin Dungeons. How do you explain to someone you’re barely on speaking terms with, someone who somewhat counts as your ex, that you snogged their brother in a broom closet and were going to go on a date with him? That was the most complicated part. 

The other complicated part was fully convincing yourself that you liked Sirius. He was just so damn magnetic and certainly understood you better than his brother did. It was most definitely going to be the talk of the common room whenever this date happened. So many things told you that you shouldn’t like him, and yet, you did. You kept wearing the ring, knowing Sirius would see it. You’d be dumb to not see Sirius wearing his. You knew he was wearing it to get to you, to get under your skin, to have an excuse to talk to you, and you liked that. It was a private grand gesture, if those could exist. 

“Girl, do you brush your hair?” Dorcas asked when you entered your dorm.

“Yes?” you replied, turning to look in the mirror and groaning. 

Sirius. It was the consequences of your actions. You reached for your brush to fix the mess upon your head. 

“Definitely was brushed earlier,” Pandora muses. “Before Defense class, even.”

“Rosier,” you warned. 

“Didn’t say nothing,” she said, smiling at you in the reflection of the mirror.

“Oh?” Dorcas said, her interest piqued. “Something you want to share?” She turned her attention to Pandora. “Has she moved on from mystery Ministry boy?”

Pandora gave you a wicked grin as she said, “More like made a move on Ministry boy.”

Dorcas sprung up and grabbed your shoulders. Your eyes were wide, hers narrowed.

“Thought you said we didn’t know him. How can we not know him if he goes here?” 

You sent a quick glare at Pandora. At least it’s only those two in the dorm. You really didn’t want to share all of your secrets with Beatrice right now; you knew she’d be the worst one to break the news to. 

“I… may have lied… while I figured shit out.”

“And you’ve figured shit out?”

You nodded.

“Then spill. Who. is. he?” 

“Sirius.”

“Black?”

“Yes.”

“No,” Dorcas gasped, releasing your shoulders. “Godric, you’re fucked.”

“Yeah. I know. That’s why I didn't tell anyone,” you said with a sigh. “Well, Cora knew. And obviously, Pandora knows and can’t keep her damn mouth shut.”

“And now everyone but Bea knows!” Pandora said cheerfully. 

“Don’t sound so happy about that!” you groaned. “She cares the most about blood status and the possibility of me dating a so-called blood traitor? She’ll make being in this dorm insufferable!”

“I mean, she’s tolerated me ‘n’ McKinnon,” Dorcas said, sitting down on her bed yet still watching you as you leaned against your bedpost. 

“It’s only your first strike. This is my second. And if our date goes well…”

“You are going on a date?” Pandora asked excitedly. 

“We’re going to, yeah. Makes sense given… everything,” you said, flourishing your hand in front of your chest.

“Fill me in, darling. What’s this everything?” Dorcas asked.

“Besides kissing at the party, there’s been some flirting and now, um, like just now, we made out in a broom closet.”

“Which is why her hair was a mess,” Pandora added. 

“Rosier!” you exclaimed, making her laugh. “But, yeah. That’s why. He’s just so… infuriatingly magnetic? It’s like I’m drawn to him ever since he’s really crossed my path. We danced at the party and he’s a lot, but it’s a good lot. If that makes any goddamn sense.”

You let out another groan. You fell backwards onto your bed. 

‘Those boys will make your life complicated.’

Well, one of them would because you honestly feared what Beatrice would say and do when she found out. 

“You’ll keep it under wraps until after the date and we know if it’s going anywhere, yeah?”

The two girls hummed in agreement before Dorcas said, “Beatrice won’t hear from us.”

---

You swore Sirius was looking at you more than normal; you, however, only knew that because you were looking at him more than normal. You kept making eye contact and you couldn’t prevent yourself from blushing at his smile. The way his friends acted told you that they were very aware of what transpired in the broom closet. 

You wanted to talk to Sirius about the date that you were going to go on. You needed to know when, where, what, the details. If you could kiss a boy, you should be able to talk to him. 

Right? That logic made sense? 

Every time you thought you could approach him or you saw him approaching you, Beatrice was around or all of his friends were surrounding him. If it was his friends, you chickened out. If it was Beatrice, you made yourself scarce so that she wouldn’t see or hear anything. It was a frustrating scenario, but it was life. 

Then you were walking with Dorcas to Charms when someone pulled you into a broom closet. 

“It’s me,” Sirius’ voice said.

It was pitch black in the closet so you couldn’t even make out his outline. He was just a voice you could hear and a body you could feel pressed against yours in the cramped space.

“I said we could decide if this was going to be a regular thing after our date,” you hissed.

“Yeah, well, it’s hard to figure out when that’s happening when you disappear every time I try to talk to you about it.” 

“Because you keep trying to talk to me when I’m around Beatrice.”

“So?” 

“I haven't told her about this.”

“So?” 

“Salazar, Black, have you met her? She thinks you’re a blood traitor?”

“Again, so? My own brother thinks that of me.”

You threw your head back in a groan, hitting your head against the shelf behind you and making you groan loader.

“If you keep that up, someone will hear you,” he whispered with an entertained tone. 

“Until we know if this is going to be a thing, you don’t talk to me around her,” you told him firmly. 

“Right, why we’re in here. Our date.”

“Yes. Um, when are we-”

“Are you doing anything after classes tomorrow?”

“Homework?” 

“Great, you can do that later. Now, library or quidditch pitch?” 

“What? Black, you are not getting me on a broom.” 

“No brooms. I promise. Only thing you might be riding is this di-”

You smacked him upside the head. 

“Jokes! I joke!”

“Library. I’m not going outside when it’s cold as shit,” you said, not appreciating his joke. “You certainly know how to ruin a moment.” 

“Can’t a guy make a joke?” 

“Can’t a guy be tolerable for more than a minute?” 

“You’re the one who led me into the first closet, remember?” 

“You’re the one who told me to think about you!”

“You’re the one who listened.” He paused. “And then shoved me for calling you a good girl.” 

“Why are you so infuriating?” 

“Because you like it.”

“I do not like-”

You didn’t get to finish your sentence because Sirius pressed his lips against yours. As soon as he did, you knew that you would both be late to Charms. Very late. When he left you to compose yourself in the broom closet, he told you to meet him in the library after dinner tomorrow and to not eat dessert. 

Rather than walking into Charms after Sirius and extremely late, you decided to skip it entirely. You would freshen up in your dorm and meet your friends in the next class. You told them that you weren’t feeling well and ignored the knowing look that Dorcas gave you. She whispered something into Pandora's ear and suddenly she was giving you the same knowing look. There were only so many people in the castle who would pull you into a broom closet and make you miss an entire lesson, one of such people having shown up to Charms late. 

---

From what you could tell, Dorcas and Pandora kept their word of not telling Beatrice anything. You hadn’t had a moment alone with Cora so while she knew that Sirius was the Ministry boy, that’s all she knew. 

At dinner the next day, you tried your best to not look over at the Gryffindor table every other minute. You knew Sirius was over there, probably talking about whatever he had planned. You didn’t tell any of your friends about the few details you knew. The less they knew, the better. You would tell them about it eventually. You had debated bringing your books to dinner with the excuse of going to the library to study after, but if you had, you’d risk one of the girls saying they’d come study with you. So you decided that you’d tell them you were going to see about a book you wanted to read for fun. No one would come with you for that, especially when all of their things were in your dorm. 

You saw Sirius leave the Great Hall with his friends a bit before your group headed out. You gave your excuse and like you expected, no one offered to come with you. Your heat started to pound in your chest as you neared the library. What had that boy planned? 

Sirius was waiting for you just inside of the library. There weren’t many students around. 

“So, what do you have planned?” you asked as he took your hand. 

He didn’t say anything. He led you down a few shelves until he stopped in front of a fireplace. You gave him a curious look as he pulled out his wand and cast a freezing charm on the fire. 

“After you, m’lady,” he said, gesturing to the now cool hearth.

“Excuse me, what?” 

“Fine, follow me then.”

He crouched and went into the hearth. When he disappeared from sight, you crouched yourself and gasped. There was a room behind the hearth. You followed Sirius in and then he relit the fire, giving you privacy and the room a warm glow.

“How do you discover something like this?” you asked in awe.

“Aw, love, I can’t share all of my secrets,” he told you. “Plus, if I did, there is a good chance I would end up expelled tomorrow.”

You laughed and looked around the room, really seeing it for the first time. There was a blanket spread on the ground with a platter of various desserts. 

“Holy-” you started to say as you sat down on the blanket.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked and the house elves didn’t mind sending a bit of everything. You know how they are.”

You rolled your eyes. Sirius sat down on the blanket with the platter in between you. He reached for a custard tart. 

“So, why wouldn’t you get on a broom?” he asked.

“I’m utter shit at flying.” “But what if I were flying?” 

“Don’t think I’ve seen you fly since… first year? I don’t know if you’re to be trusted with my life hundreds of meters in the air.”

“Okay, fair, fair,” he chuckled. “Then, for next time, what is your favorite dessert?”

You leaned forward, considering everything he had gotten from the elves. You reached for your favorite and lifted it in front of his eyes.

“This. Mum can’t figure out the recipe so we only have them when we buy them.” You took a bite and moaned at how good it tasted. “And they always taste better fresh. Merlin, I love these elves.” 

“At least your mum tried. Sweets weren’t too common in the Black household…”

“And the Potters?” you questioned.

“Effie always has something made. A real kitchen witch, you know? I believe it’s impossible to go hungry in that house.” 

“Must’ve been a welcome change…” you mused.

“Everything was a welcome change when I ran away.”

You didn’t know what to say in response so you took another bite of the dessert in your hand. The silence that fell between you wasn’t uncomfortable though. The two of you ate your desserts. Then your curiosity got the best of you.

“You say everything was a welcome change. But you left stuff behind, or forgot stuff, I guess. What did you go back for on Christmas?” 

Sirius coughed in surprise. He was mid-bite and considered himself lucky that he didn’t start full-on choking. 

“Well, it was kind of hurried packing. I had to get out before I got caught. And I thought everything I was leaving behind I could live without. Then, erm, I found myself needing something. I searched for it in my stuff at the Potters, but alas, not there. I had to get it.”

“What was it?” 

“Bit embarrassing to say. Maybe I’ll tell you later.”

You frowned at him. “Come on, Sirius. Tell me.”

“If you won’t trust me on a broom, how can I trust that you won’t laugh at me?” 

You laughed. 

“Those are completely different things! Yours is something you can tell me. Mine is my life!” you defended. 

He shook his head before finishing a slice of pie he’d been working on. 

“Think of it like third date or so information,” he told you. “Maybe we’ll go for a broom ride and I’ll tell you when we land with you completely alive.” 

“Fine,” you said with a soft smile. “Besides getting dragged to the party, how was your first Christmas at the Potters? I figure it’s different?”

“You figure… correctly.”

Sirius delved into the extravagant activities, meals, presents, decorations and everything else that one could do during the holidays. All of it was above and beyond. He briefly described Christmas at the Blacks, just so you would have something to compare the Potters’ version of Christmas to. You hated how you related more to the Blacks’ Christmas than the Potters’. After that, the conversation drifted into lighter topics until the tray in front of you was completely empty. 

Sirius stood up, froze the fire again and gestured for you to leave first. He followed you out before relighting the first again. 

“I mean, it’s totally your call, but I’d really like for those broom closet snogs to become a regular things,” Sirius said as you walked toward the front of the library.

Madam Pince gave the two of you sharp looks. She didn’t recall seeing either of you when she did her latest sweep of the library to tell students it was nearing curfew. 

“As long as we also make the dates a regular thing too,” you replied with a teasing glint in your eye. “I am more than a pretty girl to snog.” 

“You’re a pretty girl that I’d love to flaunt around Hogsmeade and take on broom rides.”

tags: @nsr-15, @kabekusa, @made-for-oliverwood, @sunflowerscloudydays, @salvatt1, @sammyreid, @ravisinghs-wife, @petrificustottally, @stanzie, @moonjellyfishie, @1989-taylors, @urmykindofwoman, @mrspotatas

y'all, I apologize for the wait for the update. The Remus requests have me in an irongrip rn (and I'm not complaining 🫣)

[maeintree]

the way harvey just unwinds the second he’s in your arms, the weight of the day slipping off his shoulders because you’re there. he doesn’t even have to say anything—he just melts, letting you kiss away the tension like it’s the most natural thing in the world. and that little sigh he lets out when you kiss his forehead?? pure allegiance and devotion!!!!!! he’s so in love with you it’s ridiculous. 🥲

he doesn’t need to be harvey specter, top closer, when he’s home—he just needs to be yours. and you take such good care of him, like it’s second nature, like loving him is the easiest thing you’ve ever done. (because it is..)

also the way he gets just a little needy at the end?? “only if you stay right here” HELLO?? he’s so used to the chaos of his work, the pressure, the endless expectations, but you? you’re his peace. and he never wants to be without that. without you.

the moment you hear the front door shut, you know.

it’s not a slam, not careless, just heavy. exhausted. like the weight of the world is in his briefcase, on his shoulders, in every step he takes through the penthouse.

you close the book you weren’t really reading, stretching as you get up from the couch. by the time you reach the entryway, he’s already shrugging off his suit jacket, movements slow and tired. he barely even looks up as he drapes it over the back of a chair, fingers reaching for his tie like even loosening it is too much effort.

“harvey,” you say, soft, careful.

he sighs, finally lifting his head. the moment he sees you, something in him shifts—just slightly. like the first hint of relief after a long day. but there’s still tension in the set of his shoulders, in the crease between his brows.

“rough day?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

he huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “you could say that.”

you step closer, gently pushing his hands away from his tie and undoing it yourself. he lets you, his hands dropping to your waist instead, thumbs brushing absentminded circles against your hips.

“wanna talk about it?” you murmur, carefully undoing the knot and slipping the silk from his collar.

he shakes his head. “not right now.”

“okay,” you say, running your fingers over the first few buttons of his dress shirt, undoing them without a second thought. “what do you need, then? shower? drink? food?”

he exhales slowly, eyes closing for a moment as he leans into your touch. “just you.”

your chest tightens. you nod, taking his hand and leading him to the couch. the moment he sits, he sighs, leaning back like even holding himself upright took more effort than he had left.

without a word, you settle beside him, pulling him into you. he doesn’t resist. he never does. he shifts, head resting against your chest, arms slipping around your waist like he’s anchoring himself to you.

for a while, he just breathes. doesn’t say anything. doesn’t move.

you run your fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp lightly, feeling the tension start to ease from his body. he exhales, a slow, deep breath, pressing his forehead against your collarbone.

“you wanna hear something stupid?” he murmurs after a while, voice rough with exhaustion.

“always.”

he lets out another small huff of laughter, this one a little softer, a little lighter. “whole day, all i could think about was getting home to you.”

your heart clenches, warmth blooming in your chest. you press a kiss to his hair, lingering there for a moment.

“that’s not stupid, harvey.”

“feels like it is.”

“feels like love,” you correct gently.

he doesn’t argue. doesn’t tease. just tightens his hold on you, presses his face further into your neck, and sighs, the tension finally melting away.

you press a soft kiss to his temple, feeling the way his body slowly relaxes against yours. his grip on your waist loosens just enough to show he’s not holding himself together anymore—he doesn’t need to. not with you. 

you smile a little, shifting so you can kiss his forehead next, lingering there for a moment. his skin is warm, and he hums softly, barely audible, like he’s savoring the moment. 

“that feels nice,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, softer. 

“yeah?” you ask, brushing your lips over the crease between his brows, trying to smooth out the tension with every little kiss. 

he nods, eyes still closed, the last bit of stress in his features fading as you work your way down. a kiss to each cheek. to the tip of his nose. to the sharp line of his jaw. 

when you kiss the corner of his mouth, you feel the faintest hint of a smile forming against your lips. 

“i could get used to this,” he mutters, voice rough with exhaustion but laced with something else, something lighter. 

“you already do,” you tease, brushing your nose against his before pressing another slow kiss to his lips. 

he sighs into it, his grip on your waist tightening again, but this time, it’s not stress holding him together—it’s you. 

“you take such good care of me,” he murmurs when you pull away just enough to look at him, your fingers still carding through his hair. 

you press your forehead against his, letting your fingers trace lazy patterns over his shoulders. “somebody has to.” 

he chuckles, but it’s soft, sleepy. “lucky me.” 

you smile, kissing him again, slower this time, deeper. he lets you, lets himself melt into you completely, no walls, no defenses, just you and him in the quiet of your home. 

and when you finally pull back, his eyes are half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion but so, so full of love. 

“get some sleep, harvey,” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair one last time. 

he exhales, a slow, content breath. “only if you stay right here.” 

“always,” you promise. 

and with one last kiss, he closes his eyes, finally letting go, finally letting himself rest.

[atinystaypixie]

A Husband's Present

Summary: It's Kento's birthday and your husband deserves his presents. WC: 2.5k+ CW: 18+, MDNI, Smut, (brief) biting, creampie (with intent of pregnancy)

Kento was the best husband one could ask for. Attentive, understanding, patient. He was a natural provider and made it easy for you to always be in a state of ease. Even when you first started dating, you never had to ask, he would always do. The sink was broken? He was fixing it without a second thought. Tires looking flat? Pumping air in them and going to take you for replacements.

He was romantic as well. Dates were well thought out and never boring. Why go to an expensive restaurant when he knows you prefer picnics with a movie projector? Just because you were a homebody didn’t stop him from showing up with your favorite snacks and making pillow forts. He also loved being in the kitchen with baking. It’s how he proposed to you when he presented you with a cupcake topped with a ring. You still don’t know how he managed to put it on there without you seeing  when you both were decorating at the same time.

You never would have thought such an amazing man would be in your life. It’s why you are planning on creating life with him tonight. You’ve seen the way he’s looked at families lately whenever you two have been out. Along with him being amazing, he was respectful of your body and never wanted to push the topic unless you were ready. You’ve been married for four years now and dated for three. Your biological clock was ticking too and you are more than willing to give him kids. 

It’s why your acrylics were done in his favorite color with his initials, your hair styled in a high ponytail that he loved pulling, and your plump lips glossed to perfect. He would be home soon. Sadly work pulled him away for the day due to his birthday falling on a weekday this year. Awaiting him was his favorite hot meal, go to item from the local bakery, and of course, you wrapped up pretty for him. There was just something about how delicious you looked when dressed for his eyes only. A sacred, precious being crafted just for his touch.

His hands made sure to never leave an inch of you untouched. Gripping at your hips, smoothing over your thighs, fingers pressing into your back. Pink lips pecking at the skin of your neck, molding to your own lips, and whispering endless sweet vows to you. Your mind started to slip off into thought as you stood in the middle of the kitchen thinking of the love your husband never fails to give you. 

The timer on your phone pulls you out of thought with a jump. You tighten your robe and make your way to the stove pulling out the last of the food. It’s getting close to time for him to be getting home so you start setting the plates. It should all be finished as soon as he walks through the door.

Well, it should, but why do you hear the front door opening already? 

“Baby,” the man of the hour comes around the corner, loosening his tie, “I’m home.” He says making his way towards you.

“Kennie, you’re home early. Everything okay?” You ask, kissing his cheek. You’re more than happy to see him, but you weren’t expecting him so soon.

“Mm. I missed my wife, didn’t want to be there anymore.” He says while pulling you closer, arms wrapping around your waist, and lips pressing kisses to your jaw. His hands slide down to the fat of your ass, gripping them. “What’s under here?” A smirk etching itself on his face.

“That’s for you to find out after we eat,” you emphasize the after and slip out of his hold. 

It doesn’t take long for you both to settle in and enjoy the food you made. He tells you about his day and you do the same. It’s obvious he is distracted throughout dinner though. His eyes lingering on your lips as you speak, scanning down to the cleavage peeking from the slight opening of your robe, and some responses are just mere hums and nods. Kento doesn’t care how long you have been together, he will never not be attracted to you.

Once finished eating, you clean up while he goes to shower. It took convincing since he hates not helping you, but you finally got him to go. You needed him to go so you could set up in the bedroom. After all the neverending spoiling he gives you, you at least want to attempt to take control for one night.

Your tall, blonde man finally emerges from his shower with a towel around his waist. The candlelit room and soft music playing makes him smile. If there is anything he loves, it’s the scents that come from you. Whether they are on you or filling the house.

“What’s all this, love?” 

“I wanna take care of you tonight, Kennie. It’s your birthday. Let me show my husband how much I appreciate him.” How can he resist when you are looking at him with those eyes? Your voice causes his heart rate to quicken. 

You have Kento feeling like it’s his first time again. He knew you were his peace and place of relaxation, but you were really working a number on him. Your soft hands worked all the knots out his muscles, leaving occasional kisses in their wake. It wasn’t helping that you now had him on his back and was straddling him. His stomach clenching as you teasingly raked your nails low, close to his hardened dick.

“Kennie, open your eyes. Look at me, baby.” Your voice was soft, seductive. All the touching and teasing alone you have been doing was about to send him over the edge.

“Love, stop teasing me please.” His voice was raspy and eyes were low. You loved when your husband got like this for you. That was all it took for you to hook your fingers in the towel and loosen it exposing his member. It was pretty and long, a darker shade from need, and a strong stance as it laid against his stomach.

You ran a hand up and down it, making him do a sharp inhale. It didn’t take you long to maneuver yourself down with your face in front of it. Kento pried his eyes open in time to see you peppering the underside with kisses. Every touch makes him twitch in your hand causing a seductive giggle to come from you. One thing about Kento is that he would always flip a switch in your brain. You thrived off of his sexual needs, eager to please.

“Fuck, love, are those my initals?”

“Mhm, you like?” He tried, he really did, but he can’t sit back any longer when he’s married to a vixen. 

He sits up, his veiny hand wraps in your ponytail tilting your head back while the other runs a thumb over the designs. “You really know how to mess with me,” his eyes locked on yours, “open.” A simple command that leads to him tapping his tip on your tongue, slowly feeding you his cock. “Good girl - fucckk- good girl,” he breathes out as he guides you down, pushing him to the back of your throat. Your tongue massages him as he finds relief in the wetness. You’ve made it a habit over the years to cockwarm him with your throat and it pays off with how easily you can keep him there. Your mouth is always warm and the moans you release around his length only add to the pleasure.

Kento loves stuffing your throat, the sight always making his balls tighten. It’s a slow, repeated process of pushing in and dragging himself out after a few seconds. He goes in all the way to the base and almost pulls completely out, stopping at the mushroom tip. One hand in your hair and the other cupping your chin, catching the stray tears that fall from your pretty eyes. It’s a beautiful sight having the woman he would die for trust him with her body in such ways.

He pulls out of your mouth tracing his tip over your lips thoroughly running whatever gloss you have left on them. “Let me unwrap you now, doll.” He guides you back up into his lap and undoes the belt to your robe. 

Exposed. You’re so exposed for him. Your perky breast sitting out pretty with the lace accentuating them, your stomach only covered by thin patches of the lace, and your pussy. Your pussy was completely uncovered sitting between the material. It’s easy access, perfection. He knew just how to play your body like a string on a guitar.

“Is this all for me, my love? Hm? Dressing up all pretty for me?” You would answer straightly, but it’s hard when his thumb is swirling your clit just right. “Answer me, doll. Did all this so I could fuck you real good?” It’s just something about the way he looks in your eyes and speaks with that tone that has you attempting to close your legs around his hand. You would be successful if he didn’t have you straddling him still. “Haven’t even done anything to you yet. It’s okay, love, I’ll take care of you.” He pushes the remainder of the robe off your body, throwing it off to the side somewhere.

“Wait,” you whine, “Kennie, I was supposed to be taking care of you.”

“Shh, shh. You know there's nothing I love more than loving on my beautiful wife. Let me enjoy my present thoroughly, yea?” He knew he had you when your eyes glazed completely back over. He laid you down and littered kisses across your face, down your jaw, and stopped at your belly. 

“Baby,” you mumbled.

“I know, I got you.”

“No. I want…I want you to put a baby in there.” You spoke a little louder, but timid making the man pause for a moment. Did you know he had been wanting to have a child with you? Since when did you want kids? Was he hearing things? His brain was trying to process the words. “Kennie, did you hear me? I want to have a baby with you-,” He cut you off with a deep, slow kiss. His tongue is swirling with yours and claiming your mouth as his for the second time tonight. 

“I’ll give you one, don’t worry.” It was all he said before you felt him lower himself again. This man is magic with his tongue and fingers, both were working open your sopping hole. His lips latch onto your clit while his fingers curl deep inside of you. In the process of working him up earlier, you made yourself needy too. You didn’t even need the extra foreplay, but Kento knew just how much your body reacted when his mouth connected to your pussy.

“Cum on my tongue and then I’ll give you everything you want.” His voice was so soothing, it was supportive almost, encouraging you to coat his taste buds in your juices. A few more sucks and curl of his fingers was all it took to have your back arching off the bed and pussy releasing. 

He groans out a collage of curses before sitting up and dragging you closer to him by your thighs. “My pretty wife,” he says while spreading your pussy lips. This is a present he will forever be happy to open. Your folds are all shiny as evidence of your activities, ready to indulge in more. While using his thumbs to hold you open and taking his time to admire you, your soft hand wraps around his length stroking it. 

“I love you.” Another smile blossoms on his face. How did he get so lucky? 

He thrusts forward into your hold a couple of times before removing your hand and interlocking your fingers. “I love you more.” His free hand guides his cock through your folds, the tip pressing against your clit with each one. He doesn’t stop until you whine at him again. He loves when you need him. Both of you are in love with one another needing each other.

He finally lines himself up to you and pushes in. You would think he hasn’t fucked you in months with the way your pussy squelches as it drags him in. “Shit, you’re taking me in so well, baby.” Once he bottoms out, he brings his chest yours, dragging your hands above your head. Both of you are panting as you hold eye contact, a silent conversation between lovers.

Your legs wrap around his waist and he doesn’t hold back from plunging into you. The sloppy musical happening between your bodies is enough to know he’s fucking you with purpose. Knowing he’s working to impregnate his wife gives him a new drive. He’s so deep in you and only pulling his length halfway out with each stroke leaving little breaks between each rush of pleasure you feel. You two are so close that your bodies are almost one. Layers of sweat covering you both as you moan out his name.

There’s a knot forming in your lower belly already making your insides slipperier. “Kennie,” your breath out. 

“Let go, baby. I got you.” He feels your fingers grip at his harder, the squint of your eyes and raise of your voice almost push him over the edge. Your gummy walls pulse around his member letting him feel every second of your release. He slows his thrusts working you through it while muttering sweet words into your ears.

When he sees you coming back down some, he raises up from you and puts both of your legs over his shoulders. “Saw that this was a good position to ensure pregnancy.” Your fuzzy brain barely has time to think about what he said before he is speeding up his thrusts again. He looks down to see his cock coated in white as he moves in and out of you. His hands have found home on your hips, his head turning to the side to kiss at your calf. Kento is getting close and you can tell from the way he brings your leg closer and sinks his teeth into the skin trying to hold on.

“I’m so close, baby. So close.” He rasps out feeling his balls tighten. Your pussy working to milk him. 

“Come on, Kennie. Fill me all up.” That’s all it takes for him to explode, hips stuttering and broken moans falling past his lips. You lower the leg he isn’t holding and sit up some to reach at his dick. Your fingers massage the amount that isn’t stuffed in your cunt making him rock back and forth from sensitivity. 

When he finally calms down, his eyes land on you. He places your leg to his side and pulls you up by the neck for a sloppy kiss. 

“Happy Birthday, Kennie.”

“Thank you, baby,” he smiles and kisses you again, “but I’m not done enjoying my present yet.” Kento was going to keep you here all night until he felt you were stuffed enough with his cum.

✨

Pixie’s Flying 🧚🏽‍♀️

This a repost! I posted this back in July but it never showed up in tags! Hopefully it shows up this time and you can read and enjoy it🥹

ENJOY! Reblog, like, and comment💜!

Pixie’s Masterlist

[cherrriesinthespring]

72 with dom!spencer pls 😫

again, tried to be inclusive!!

warnings: spanking, punishment, talk of later punishment and a belt but not shown, teasing, marks left on the reader. use of daddy!!

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

a dinner party at rossi's mansion, the third one you'd been to since getting with spencer. you knew his coworkers pretty well, not only based on his perfect descriptions of each, but also you're friends with a few.

earlier that night, spencer had teased you relentlessly as you got ready. it started when you were in the mirror, styling your hair. he came up behind you, whispering in the low tone he knows you love "can't wait to pull on this later.."

you weren't used to him having such an interest in dirty talk, he was never one for it unless you were the one guiding him through something you begged for. one thing is though, he loves seeing you flustered.

slipping on your outfit, he came over again, as you perfected the last touches. "I've watched you put this on so I can figure out how long it'll take to get it off" that rendered you speechless.

you begged him to touch you, he refused. your asks got more and more simple, a kiss on the lips, on the cheek, a hug?! none of it. so you decided to make it impossible for him not to touch you, no matter what kind of touch it was.

the party began, you didn't drink all that much, neither did spencer. one glass of champagne loosened you up enough to put your plan into action. sauntering over to derek, you asked him to dance, why would he deny you?

spencer eyed both of you from across the garden, his hands dangerously close to your hips. the touch wasn't particularly intimate, but enough to set spencer off. derek seemed to notice the way spencer watched closely, fidgeting, his hands gripping his glass so hard it could've broke.

he doesn't say anything though he ignores it when spencer comes up behind you, murmuring something about "need to talk to you" biting back a smirk, you let go of derek and follow spencer inside, his steps are calculated, eager, he knows what he wants and he's going to get it.

once you two are tucked in a guest room, far off from any of the main lounge rooms (just to be safe) he scoffs at the innocent batting of lashes.

"what do you think you're doing, Y/N?" hes agitated, pulling his tie off as he speaks, reaching for his top button. your head tilts, acting all sweet and normal once again, voice light and airy.

"what do you mean?" that spurs him on further. he comes close, lips connecting with yours, his hand wrapping around your neck, practically dwarfing it.

"strip off your bottom half. lay down, ass up. now." as soon as he's finished you begin stripping off like he said, you know he won't ask again. you're also finally relieved you're getting touched.

you strip, he pushes you down over the mattress, your fave buries into the white fabric, it almost reminds you of a hotel bed. the sheets smell better than a hotel bed though, and you know it's rossi's place. it's probably cleaner than a-

'SLAP' and a moan erupts from you. you choke on the breath you attempt to take in and he smirks. another one, he can see the curve of your ass changing colours, the marks visible.

"please- FUCK, fuck- I'm sorry.. I'll be good, daddy i swear!" you're loud, but it's no worry, the party is out back. another loud slap echoes through the room and you hear it before you feel it. you're practically soaked, trying to rut your hips against the bed to feel something, it doesn't work.

"I'm going easy on you, you should be getting the belt right now " his hands play with the plush fat of your ass, squeezing and grabbing at what he can. another two slaps across marked skin and he pulls you up by the hair, smirking at the mess between your thighs.

"we're going back out there, keep your hands to yourself, and no more champagne. we need you to be sober for when we get home, eat too, you'll need the energy" you know he means it.

he's gentle as he slips your outfit back on, and can't help roughly shoving you against the wall to make out with you a little before intertwining your hands. you walk out with a smile on your face, as promised, you fill your plate and opt for soft drinks.

[midnightw4tch3r]

Yandere roommate who you think you've met in a fairly normal way. You needed help with rent, so you put up an ad about needing a roommate. And you're surprised by how fast you get a reply, someone asking if you have any certain rules. You're happy someone was actually interested, maybe that's why you didn't think so much about the ad. Didn't even notice how no one else asked, and the fact that it was immediately taken down. Things move fast, because they end up moving in almost the same week. He's pretty nice, mature, and keeps his space. You'd been a bit worried about how things might work, but it seems you were worried over nothing.

+ Yandere roommate who acts like he just happened to stumble upon the 'need a roommate' ad. He'd been stalking you for months, and this was the opportunity he'd been waiting for. He'd secretly been doing things behind the scene to force you into looking for a roommate. And he acts like he's a total stranger, like he doesn't know who you are even though he knows you extremely well. He tries to keep appropriate space, tries being friendly while not trying to be in your business. But you're so naive and trusting, you don't even lock your bedroom door. Don't notice things missing, how you're favorite hair tie is gone, that old shirt you'd always wear to sleep isn't there anymore.

"I just want to stay in your bed a little longer, your smell is intoxicating. And this is new, since when did you own a piece of clothing like this? I'm sure you wouldn't mind if I take it for myself..."

[fmhobeus]

youngest intern in the history of ppth's oncology. thats you.

"you're still here?" wilson calls out to the void seemingly. your head peaks out from the crowded shelves of the lab to give him a nod.

oh this is bad.

this is not what you need. you dont need you're hot boss to distract you when you're trying to conduct some tests he asked you to. especially not when you haven't slept in 2 days and have had copious amounts of coffee in your system making you jittery. you dont need him to increase your heart rate to the point where your capillaries explode. oh you're gonna fuck up somehow. you're tell him you like him. because lord knows you do. your boss. you have a silly schoolgirl crush on your pathetically gorgeous boss. the kind that makes you nauseous and unwell because he's just so, so pretty. and you'd end up telling him that you'd risk it all if he just gave you the chance.

but you like this job. you need this job. you can't it go just because you've got a thing for older men with kind eyes whose soft lips spill praises like...

"you there?"

"mhm" you gulp. somehow your mouth is really fucking dry. good god, james wilson. good fucking god. you just want to rub your face on his chest like a cat. you need him to touch you. to pet you. to run his deft fingers refined from years of surgery and administration through your hair or something... what's wrong with you? there's a pit in your abdomen that needs him. you need him to praise you, like he always does. you need him to look at you, take you in, take advantage of you. just dear lord do something. not just stand there and express concern as your employer. just come closer, please, your mind whimpers to him.

"i really think you should rest. we've made considerable progress thanks to your good work and extra hours. you've really proved yourself"

you don't want this to stop. he thinks you're good. useful. your boss, the intellectual, witty and beautiful man you work for, the best doctor you've met. the one who puts in the hours and effort to better himself in what he does... thinks you did a good job.

wilson does find you admirable. he likes your work ethic, your thirst to prove yourself. he likes your obsession, he compares it to house's sometimes. he like the way you talk, not much to him for some reason (maybe it's the "boss" thing or...) but everyone else in the oncology department. he likes that you're young and you hold him in high regard. you're always so attentive when he talks, so perceptive, so willing. among those things he commends, the ones he can tell his colleagues about, he also likes the tint in your skin when you stand under the dim lighting in the lab. some of it reflecting off your hair, slightly unkempt but beautiful. he likes you without the lab coat. he likes your keen eyes, your smile, your hands, your face, your tits, your...

he lets out a deep sigh. wilson likes you. admires you. maybe overstepping his place as your boss, as your mentor, as whatever that is you're making him in your head, the reflection of which he sees in your eyes sometimes. something desperate. aching. calling out his name, as if to say "come heal me".

and he knows what it is. it's the same look of admiration he gives you. the murky one. the slightly lustful one. he knows what you are. pretty young thing, final year med student, who'd rather flirt with house than chase or foreman. but he'd rather pretend he didnt. kid himself into thinking he doesn't care when chase of all people calls you young. he doesn't feel guilty for wanting you to want him.

maybe if he played into it long enough, played dumb long enough, made you feel like this is just how he is. just this sweet. if he made you believe that he had a reason to fold his cuffs to reveal his rather slutty forearms, loosen his tie on a late night, take off his coat complaining about the new jersey weather, gaze into your eyes at every occasion he got, all in pure innocence. this isnt flirting. this isn't an old man's desperation and desire permeating his professionalism.

no. this is okay. all he hopes for is that one day you'll give in. confess your love to him like cameron did to house. fight for him. shed a few tears. maybe then he could wipe then off your pretty cheeks and sigh. he could then reject you. just speak those words of "i'm sorry, it's inappropriate and your much younger than me" into existence. make them real, if only he could use all the rationality in the world to convince himself that he doesn't want you as despicably and carnally as he does.

he shuts his eyes and takes in a sharp breath. no. this isn't right. he'd be taking advantage of you. even if its what you want. even if it could be his little present to you.

"go home, doctor."

he leaves the door of the lab open on his way out.

[its-echo-song]

Hotel Room One Shot

Hey guys! I did a little bit of a spicier rewrite of one of my chapters from Aura of Life and decided maybe to just post it here for fun. If that's not your thing, feel free to skip this one. Though, I will say, it fades to black so I would rate this mature but not explicit. As always Donny belongs to @tuna-jsgross

We stumble our way into the hotel, giggling and dancing our way down the hallways to our room. We’d taken a cab, leaving the truck in the parking lot of the restaurant, and now we’re ready to retire for the evening. 

Donny’s loosened his tie, unbuttoned a few buttons off the top of his shirt, and his hair has fallen loose of the gel’s feeble attempts to hold it in a slicked-back style. All things considered, even in his mussed state, Donny looks lovely in formal wear. 

“I should ask you to dress like this more often.” I coo at him, pulling his tie completely undone with a gentle swoosh of the fabric and tossing it over his shoulder. He grins down at me, lopsided, blushing, and full of roguishness. 

“Yeah? It’s not my favorite but if you like it I guess it wouldn’t kill me.” 

“Oh, ‘like it’ is an understatement- I could stare at you all night. I think I just did, actually.” 

He laughs, pulling an arm around me and unlocking the door to our room. “You love to stare when you’re drunk.”

“Because you’re intoxicating- the most handsome man in the world.” 

He opens the door and I gesture widely for him to enter. 

“Dork- you’re going to give me a big head.”

“Never. You can’t call it an ego if it's a simple fact.”

“Flatterer.” He states as he loosens my tie, pulling it off and placing it aside. A moment later, his joins it, pulled off his shoulder and tossed with far less care than mine. “How do I get more of that to happen?”

I pull his jacket off his shoulders, placing a kiss on his cheek as I do. “Just keep being how you are, I can’t help it.” 

“Can’t help it, now?”

“I mean- look at you-” I gesture at him, he flushes slightly- but his grin does not fade in the least. I turn and hang his coat in the closet, taking mine off and hanging it next to his. The size difference is almost laughable. 

“I say it a lot but I love you- you don’t understand.”

I laugh now, turning back to fix him with a look. “Whatever do you mean? Like I don’t feel the same? I’m also quite enraptured, remember?” 

“Mm, but I think it’s impossible for you to understand how I feel, anyway.” He walks over and grabs me by the waist, pulling me close and giving me a kiss. I’m unsure, entirely, if my head spins because of the dopamine or because of the alcohol. I hear myself giggle, pulling him back in by the collar of his shirt. I’m not particularly concerned with the details of the cause of my joy at the moment.

He picks me up, the same as when we’d had our first kiss, my stomach does a flip of excitement and for a moment I forget all else as I wrap my legs around his waist-

Until there’s a loud thud and I realize a few moments after that it was the sound of my head hitting the wall- I only process it by the way Donny is apologizing and asking if I’m okay. 

“This seems to be a rough ride.” I comment, intertwining my finger through one of his loose waves, curling the strand around it. “I’m not sure if I trust the driver anymore.”

He laughs gently, burying his head into my neck, bracing himself against the wall. The whiskers of his beard tickle, sending goosebumps across my flesh. I do my best to hold back the giddy laughter from it. 

“Sorry. Are you okay? Really.”

“Yes, I’m fine. But perhaps we aren’t sober enough for that- as much as I like being tossed around.”

“I’m very invested in you enjoying being thrown around, Harv.” He teases with an arched eyebrow.

This causes the blood to rush to my face, the tone of his voice catches me off guard. “Yeah, well, what if I want to do what you like?”

“Me.” He draws back and meets my gaze. “Easy answer, do me.”

I laugh, full bodied and joyful, appreciating the gleam in his eyes when I react this way to him. “Yeah? What do you want me to do with you?”

He thinks for a moment, studying my face, then pulls me away from the wall and tosses me onto the bed- I can’t lie and say I’m not impressed by the sheer strength it takes to do such a thing, that I’m not attracted to it. He sits down and starts taking off his shoes, chucking one and then the other before laying down with me. “I like being able to be close to you, to hold you, to kiss you- I like it when you do those things first.” “What else?” I kick my shoes off, Donny’s eyes track the motion before wandering back up to my face.

“Well-.” He takes a slow and deep breath in, looking over me again with a spark of heat. The rest of his response is murmured in a low and bassy tone. “I want you to touch me, make me lose my damn mind.”

He pulls me close and I find myself running my hands along his arms. I’m captivated by the subtle shifting of muscles under my fingertips, frustrated by the fabric which folds and catches as I try to etch the lines of them. “Do you need this?” I tug at the sleeve and his eyebrows shoot up. “I hope not.” He sits up, starts undoing the next button on his shirt. I sit up with him, pull his hand away and take over the task for him- kneeling as I work on the buttons. “You know… I find the human body fascinating. It’s amazing how we function, move, breathe-” I glance up to meet his eyes, the redness on his face betraying nerves in equal measure. I pull the shirt off his shoulders, tossing it aside and pressing my palm against his chest- feeling his too-fast heartbeat in rhythm with mine. “And- I like knowing that I’m the reason your heart is beating like this.”  

I trail my hands up, gently pulling him toward me for a kiss, reveling in the way his breath hitches as I brush fingertips along his jugular vein to the back of his jaw. 

His lips meet mine and I can’t help the smile that forms on my face as they do, delight being such a simple concept in the moment- but how it ever existed without him, I do not know.

He brings his hand up to my neck and pulls me closer, starving for more as if the kiss will never be enough. In this particular instance, I agree. 

Somewhere within this exchange, I find myself wandering. My hands glide over beautiful skin and I enjoy the way Donny seems to melt into my touch, breathing a soft hum of approval as I move. 

He pulls away suddenly and starts to kiss my neck, a gesture that sends my head reeling, the feeling of wet, open kisses on my skin is nearly too much to bear. 

He works on the buttons of my shirt at the same time- fumbling, slightly, until I impatiently tell him to just rip the damn thing open. He glances at me questioningly, but then simply chuckles and obliges. The buttons fly off in a cacophony and he slides the shirt off my shoulders freely, kissing along my clavicles as he does.

Then he falls onto his back, grabbing me by the waist and pulling me with him so my hands rest on either side of his head and I’m straddling his hips. I smile down at him for a moment, then grind my hips into his. He moans loudly, throwing his head back and flushing deeper, a sight and sound that I enjoy to its fullest before I move on.

I start kissing a trail down his neck, over his collarbone, between his pecs, arching my back as I move lower, pulling myself further back on my knees. I glance up at Donny as I do this, loving the way his eyes are following me in reverent hunger. 

I giggle, feeling the rush of joy from the look of anticipation on his face, and sink my teeth into his chest. Once again, Donny moans for me, spitting out a swear and gripping at the blankets- being more worked up the longer I take.

So I take my time, breathing over his skin and whispering soft proclamations about his beauty, the way I adore him, the way I love how he sounds- I mean every word of it and he damn well knows it. Each word hits him in full, a new rush of sensation, another hitched breath, another exclamation of how much I’m driving him insane.

But we both know he won’t do anything about it until he’s on the edge of desire- this is the game we play. 

So I begin describing in detail the nerves that run along his arms, tracing them softly with kisses before graduating to discussing the science behind endorphins. 

I demonstrate this by gifting him several bite marks along his sides and hips, explaining his pain threshold to him as he writhes under me begging me to stop teasing him.

I answer this by sliding my fingers along his waistband, slowly unbuttoning his pants and sliding them down and off of him. The underwear follows suit without much ceremony. I can tell by Donny’s breathing that he’s sure that I’m done now, he feels relief in the finality of the movement- so I trace a trail back up his body with my tongue, gently kissing along the way and muttering how he’s been so good for waiting so long. 

But he’s growing frustrated with the waiting, the way I’ve pulled every trick I possibly can to make him want this more than he’s ever wanted anything, and when I look back into his eyes all I see is an all consuming, lust-sodden, darkened gaze. 

So mercy, it is -as if I’m not on the edge of teetering over into animalistic carnality anyway- I hurry to dispose of my own clothing, tossing them off to the side and relishing the feeling of flesh against flesh. 

Donny’s hands glide down my back, warm and heavy and beautifully large in the way they nearly encapsulate my hips entirely when he grabs them. 

Now it’s my turn to plead with him, leaning down and savoring a kiss that’s as much lust as it is appreciation, when I pull away I breathe out a simple ‘please.’ 

It’s enough for him, he fumbles a bottle of lube and I feel a shock of anticipation heatwave through my body- a moment passes before Donny gives me a nod, I kiss him again, and with an utterance of “good boy” said more like a song than a gasp of pleasure, I lower myself onto him.

[moonysentropia]

sister · @black-brothers-microfic · word count: 847 · cw: trans person coming out (no angst)

'Do I look good?' Regulus' eyes were closed. She could feel a constant tickling on her eyelid, but she wouldn't dare to move.

'You always do, Reggie.' Sirius' voice was calm, soothing. She was so close her citric scent crawled up Regulus' nose and stayed there, familiar and comfortable.

'No, but really.'

'Yeah, really.' Sirius let out a low chuckle and Regulus could imagine that annoying sly grin she always wore on her face. She would have shoved her if her older sister didn't have a sharp pencil pressing on the top line of her eye.

Elton John was singing in the background and, in other circunstances, Regulus would have judged Sirius for her questionable taste on music, but there was only one thought on her mind.

Finally.

She was doing it. They were doing it.

It was scary. She couldn't stop sweating and Sirius wouldn't stop yelling "stop moving your knee or I'll tie you up to the chair!" and blowing hair into her nose, making Regulus squirm and finding another excuse to groan.

But it was happening.

Even if Regulus hadn't wanted to accept it, she had always known it would end up coming to this. After years of self-hate, of doubts, of pure and sour denial. After months of self-acceptance, of sneaky readings and overwhelming and sweet hope.

She had finally say it to Sirius.

'I'm a girl.'

'I'm one too.' Sirius had only answered, giving another bite to the chocolate bar she was eating.

'Doesn't it bother you?' Regulus then asked, anxiety running through her blood.

'Not really? You're still Reg, my Reggie, my sister.' She gave her one of wolf-like smiles, all full of white, shiny teeth.

And the word stroke him like a wave, soaking into her bones, settling in her heart.

Sister.

It sounded so fitting, like the piece of the puzzle that had always been missing.

'I don't want Father and Mother to know.’

'Then they won't know.'

'But l hate having to wear those ugly shirts and trousers.’

'I can lend you my tops and skirts if you want.’

'But maybe they'll look too big on me.’

'I can ask Lily to stitch them up. Did you know she's a pro at sewing?'

'I want to try your red lipstick.'

'Oh, it would look killer on you.’

'But I don't know how to do it properly. Would it be too much?'

'Make up is never too much, Reggie. Want me to give you a makeover? We are alone until late today.’

And that’s how they ended up like that. Regulus sitting in the middle of Sirius’ room, the record endlessly spinning under the needle and Sirius humming while she did whatever she wanted to Regulus’ face.

It had been a while since Regulus’ had felt comfortable in their house. She wouldn’t even dare to call it "home", but Sirius made it all easier, always lighting the darkest corners and distracting Regulus from the horrible things that happened too often. She was her precious sister and, even if little Regulus hadn’t valued it enough, she was sure of it now. Sirius really saw her for who she was.

‘Okay, it’s done.’ Sirius said, and Regulus stayed still for a little more. She was afraid of opening her eyes, of seeing something so real, so her, it would break her apart.

‘Don’t be afraid, Reg. I’m the best at make up, you know? I did James’ once and he loved it!’

Sirius was just trying to cheer her up, Regulus knew that, but it still worked. She felt confident enough too slowly open her eyes and focus her gaze on the mirror in front of her.

It was a snap, her eyes meeting hers and, in an instance, everything was in its right place. She knew she didn't need make-up or clothes or any material stuff to make her be sure of who she was, but seeing herself from this new perspective was another step taken, small but significant.

And she loved it. She loved how the dark blue eyeshadow intensified her grey eyes, how the soft pink blush enlightened her cheeks, how the red lipstick, the one that Sirius always wore and made her yearn for something deep and intense, fit her so well it made her wonder "why did it took me so long?". And as if Sirius had listened to her thoughts, she placed her hands on her shoulders and smiled at her in the mirror before just saying:

'Everything comes down to this moment, right?'

And she knew what her sister meant. Because it was not about some colorful powders on her face or about yelling it so loud all the neighbourhood would know. It could just be a whisper or even a thought, it would also be a feeling than only a few could get, and it was, of course, the comfort of sharing that moment with her sister and knowing that she would always be safe with her.

She hold the tears back and gave her sister a big, genuine grin.

'Thank you, Sirius.'

[socgf]

you really got me - chapter 2

dallas winston x curtis!oc

wc: 2074

warnings: allusion to ed

when the pots clanging in the kitchen startle me awake and i peer my eyes open, the spot on the bed next to me empty but with the cologne still lingering, i know i don’t have much time before darry starts yellin’ from the staircase for me to get my butt downstairs for breakfast. i reach over to my nightstand, my fingers reaching for a marlboro red and my pink lighter. it’s not a habit i’m too proud of. despite everyone around me, even pony, smoking like a chimney, it’s different with me for some reason. not something that i should be getting into. but when i walk around smelling like cigarettes, i can blame it on dally rather than my recent affinity for dulling my appetite, if that’s one thing he’s good for.

sitting down at my desk, i run my brush through my hair and tie it back neatly with a bow, before dusting my face with some powder and blush. soda always tells me we got our mom’s eyes, all big and doe-like. i like to think they’re my best feature, and that if i make them pop, i’ll distract from the rest of my face, covered with red spots, though my layer of powder tends to do a decent job. i don’t like looking at myself in the mirror for long enough that i find something else i need to fix, so i snap my compact shut.

“yeah, ‘m coming, dar,” i mutter softly, cutting off his knocks.

soda and pony are already digging into their sunny side up eggs and bacon when i take my seat at the table.

“late night?” soda gleams, mouth half full. he knows better than anyone that when darry has to drag me out of bed, it’s because dally kept me up all night talking. or whatever it is we do, as far as he’s concerned.

“yeah, yeah, now be quiet.” i grumble, but with no malice in my tone.

darry sits down last, giving me a slight once over like he’s suspecting something, but he doesn’t know what. “eat your bacon, rosie posie.” he nudges his fork towards my plate.

“hell, i’ll eat it if you don’t want it.” pony responds earnestly, and i hand it over to his plate, darry huffing slightly but leaving it at that. i smack pony’s head lightheartedly.

“rosie, you gonna happen to be home for dinner? i need a little help around the house.” darry asks casually.

“ah, shit. i can’t, dar. marcy’s put me on the night shift tonight.”

that wasn’t entirely a lie. i was working late at the diner. well, later, as in until seven instead of five. after which, dally was supposed to pick me up and take me to some party at buck’s, on account of me ‘stickin’ my fuckin’ nose in a book all the time lately’. but i could leave that part out.

soda smirks at me slightly from his plate. it’s the same party he’ll be taking sandy to, and he’s keeping his mouth shut so i don’t get a lecture on how the only thing at buck’s to get into is trouble.

a flicker of guilt runs through me at darry’s understanding nod, but i remind myself then that i’m almost eighteen and doing far less than even what ponyboy gets up to on the weekends. besides, with the way dally hovers over me like a damn guard dog when i’m out with him, i’m sure i’ll make it home in one piece.

-

i lift my head at the doorbell jingling and watch dally saunter over to the counter, leaning over ever so slightly with a simple, “hey, doll.”

“what are you doing here?” i laugh softly, my eyes darting around the diner to make sure my manager isn’t watching. “i told you to come get me at seven. you know, when i’m done working.”

“got hungry.” he says plainly, stealing a fry from someone’s half-finished plate on the edge of the counter.

i scrunch my nose, focusing my attention back to wiping off the appliances until they’re perfectly shiny. “well, the kitchen just closed. i couldn’t serve you even if i wanted to.” 

he groans and blows the paper wrapper of a loose straw at my head. “useless.” he scoffs.

i swat the paper away and refocus my attention onto the group of guys in madras loitering around the high chairs in front of me. in my uniform, especially this one with the poofy skirt cut a bit too high for comfort, i’m neither a greaser nor a soc. and i know big tippers when i see them, so i turn away from dally like he’s some creep who won’t get off my back, and put on my most charming smile.

“just a moment, y’all, i’ll be right there.” i don’t know why they tend to like that stupid southern twang so much, but the tall one in the middle gleams in response. 

i don’t miss how dally stiffens up and clenches his jaw at the voices to his left. and if i know what’s good for me, i act as if i don’t know the hood at the counter.

-

“you about ready to go yet?” he drawls, eyes lazily flickering over my uniform. “interesting choice.”

“ha, ha. i brought a change.” i mutter. “wait here a minute. and don’t cause a scene, please.. marcy’s around the corner.” i grab a small backpack from behind the counter.

he can’t resist an eye roll and a hushed marcy can suck my dick for all i care, which i ignore as i head to the employee bathroom. at least he’s not trying to steal from the kitchen this time.

the little black dress is rolled up neatly as i take it out. i had stolen it from mom’s closet a while back, not that she would mind now, i guess. no matter how many times dally or the gang dragged me to buck’s, i never felt i had quite the right outfit for the occasion, but maybe that was just my stubborn refusal to wear jeans and a leather jacket. i liked this dress, though, it was the most daring piece of clothing i owned. i zip it up neatly - mom occasionally let herself indulge in a mail-order piece - smoothing it out in the slightly cracked sink mirror. it’s kind of mod, short and sleeveless with a boat neck, and i feel a little like pattie boyd. i keep my black mary-janes on from work and tousle my hair a bit.

dally’s waiting in buck’s t-bird when i walk out of the diner with my uniform stuffed into my backpack, waving a cheeky goodbye to janie as she finishes mopping up. the sun has already set and the wind is freezing my legs, so i rush into the passenger seat.

“oh my, my. who you all dolled up for, huh?” dally eyes my dress appreciatively, flicking my hair.

“i wasn’t sure what to wear. why, do i look silly?” my face suddenly feels hot.

“we’re going to buck’s and you look like a proper soc, honey. it’s cute.” he’s almost chuckling to himself, but the words have just a bit of bite to them.

as he starts up the car i turn my gaze away from him, playing with the hem of my dress while he tunes the radio to some rolling stones song. he’s tapping his fingers on the wheel like he always does as he speeds down back streets.

the smell of cheap beer and cigarette smoke and the red fluorescent lighting always hits you right in the face as soon as you walk in, if some chuck berry song blasting wasn’t enough. i wouldn’t say it’s my scene in the typical sense, but i feel real cool and rebellious when buck waves me and dally in with a short “you’re good”.

buck is the kind of man i can never seem to figure out. i’ve been up in dally’s room or down in the kitchen enough times for him to give me a nod of acknowledgement when i’m at the door, but i can’t say i’m not still scared of him or what business he gets into in the corners of his parties. i smile politely and dally pushes me inside, with a hand brushing against the small of my back.

“aren’t those the guys in shepard’s outfit?” i mutter softly to him, meeting the gaze of a guy i recognize serving along with tim on the weekends. i didn’t know where tim and dally stood right now after their recent brawl, but i never really know anyway.

dally follows my gaze before giving me a little tap on my lower back. “don’t worry ‘bout that.” he doesn’t elaborate, but i believe him.

“c’mon.” he walks ahead of me carving out a path towards the bar. buck’s back behind the counter now, and he rolls his eyes at dally’s saunter.

“grab me a budweiser, would ya?” dally meets eyes with buck. i can tell when he’s putting on an act, bossing buck around like he isn’t permanently indebted to him for his spot upstairs. but buck seems to understand, even if wordlessly.

“and for the dame… vodka cranberry, ain’t that right?” he gives me that shit-eating grin, but his tone is softer this time.

“my answer never changes, dal. and uh, thanks, buck.” now that i think of it, my wallet isn’t even on me, not that dally would ever let me pay for a drink. though it’s less him being a gentleman and more the fact that he owes me a hell of a lot more in bail.

“she wants no more than a splash of cranberry, old man. don’t cheap out on her.” his eyes don’t leave my glass behind the counter, and i would protest his crassness if he wasn’t spot on.

“hey, you trying to get my baby sister drunk?” i hear that playful tone to my right, and dally and i both meet eyes with soda, who’s got sandy leaning against his arm.

“yeah, baby sister by about five minutes.” i smile wryly.

soda goes in for a real bro hug with dally, ever the affectionate one, before reaching over the counter and ruffling my hair. i’ve always liked sandy with soda. i never see him smile that hard when he’s not with her. he’s real sweet on her in a way i don’t think i ever imagine experiencing.

“hey sandy. i love your dress.” i lean over to her while dally and soda are lost in conversation.

she’s got a pastel yellow shift dress on with a headband in her hair, and she looks completely out of place, but she’s beautiful and radiant as always.

“oh, you’re a doll. i love yours too. i haven’t seen you in so long, rosie!”

“it’s just one of my old ones. and i know. school has been so busy...” i groan lightheartedly, before mentally slapping myself in the face for bringing up that subject with her. i knew how she felt about soda dropping out this year.

“no worries. hey, maybe we can hang out the four of us, go on a double date or somethin’.”

“oh, we’re not-” i tense up ever so slightly, and she gets the picture.

“ah shit, my mistake. well, listen, i’ll come by the diner, alright?” and she brushes it off effortlessly, while i will my face to stop flushing.

before dally beckons me away with him, gripping onto his beer, soda stops me with a gentle hand.

“ain’t that mom’s dress, posie?” his tone is cautious but never unkind, and i falter for a moment.

“...i know. i’ll put it right back.”

he pats me on the back affectionately, and pauses in thought. “i swear you really look just like her sometimes.” he mutters. “be careful, yeah? and let me know if you need a ride home.”

soda has a way of saying the most heart wrenching things so casually, like he doesn’t even think twice about their significance. but i don’t have time to think too hard about it. “don’t worry, sodapop. i’ll let you know. have fun.” i keep my tone cheerful, and he gives me a wink before wrapping his arm around sandy again.

a.n.

i am so self conscious about my writing but i wanted to post to get this out of my drafts :) update coming tmrw ACTUALLY

taglist:

@mrsdillonx @hailpacino @magefelixir @jujuheartz13 @coastershells @r0seb100d

as always comment if u wanna be tagged!

[forgetme-eternally-blissfully]

Part 1 , Part 2

Kim Rok Soo wakes up several hours later. Surprisingly, he hasn't been moved from his position, still held up against the teenagers chest, face in his neck. Only now there's a monster fur wrapped around Kim Rok Soo's back and tied behind the boy. A... baby carrier.

Choi Han presses a hand on the baby monsters head when he notices it wake up. With his right hand he tightens his grip on his knife and casually swings it diagonally through the air, a black aura cutting through the space in front of him and arriving at the creature that attacked them, reminiscent of a cross between a mountain lion and a goat, with oozing green fur and bulging eyes.

The monster is cut. The monster falls.

Kim Rok Soo squirms in the carrier. It makes him recall a memory of a father that would tie his baby to his back when he went out to fight. His wife had died, so he had no choice but to manage alone, because he couldn't trust anyone with his child. They both disappeared one day, and Kim Rok Soo never heard of any bodies being recovered.

Whatever, he thinks. It isn't embarrassing to be in a baby carrier if he's a baby. He hasn't been thrown away or left behind, so it's fine, right? Unfortunately, he notices, it is glaringly obvious that they haven't left the forest yet. Nor does it seem like the teenager has a base.

He didn't want to admit it, but seeing that monster, and a black haired Korean teenager that managed to kill it so easily... it made Kim Rok Soo remember the book he read last night.

The Birth of a Hero.

It seemed unreal to jump to the conclusion that this teenager is Choi Han, and that they're in the Forest of Darkness in a fantasy novel, but the hand stroking up and down his back reassured him that this was reality. And that Kim Rok Soo... was a monster.

...

No, what was he? A monster didn't make sense. Could he really have been dropped into this world as a newborn baby monster? That might as well be the world telling him to die! If he hadn't been next to his egg shell then wouldn't Choi Han have killed him instantly?!

Kim Rok Soo doesn't know how long Choi Han has been in the Forest of Darkness, but the calm exuding from him even when he kills monsters bigger than himself makes it clear that's it's nearing the time that he'll find Harris Village.

His stomach rumbles with a loud noise. He's ravenous, but the idea of hunting a monster ruins his appetite. Choi Han will feed him, surely.

He hasn't eaten since he hatched. Kim Rok Soo was forced to record books about child rearing before so he knows that babies need to eat often. Does a teenager- no, a teenager that is over a hundred years old now- know how to take care of a baby?

Choi Han pats him on the head.

"Hey." The patting was a little harder than maybe it should've been. "... Can you eat meat?"

Kim Rok Soo hums but it sounds like a warble. Monsters don't speak. Babies don't speak either. This kid is really asking a combination baby monster a question about his diet.

Even if it wasn't super obvious, Choi Han was obviously desperate for companionship. The tone in his voice made it clear that he hadn't spoken in a while, to someone or to himself. Yet, in this terrible forest where everything sought to kill him, Choi Han willingly picked up a liability and is trying to care for it.

Kim Rok Soo warbles again, quieter. This is why this kid ends up being the main character. Kind people will always find a way to be kind.

Choi Han unwraps the carrier and Kim Rok Soo readily jumps to the ground. He misses Choi Han's flinch because he's facing the felled mountain-lion-goat monster.

Experimenting, Kim Rok Soo sticks his elongated mouth into the flesh wound made by Choi Han, but only gets a mouthful of flowing blood. It floods his nostrils and he takes his face back out, shaking his head and frowning at the bad tasting blood.

The wound won't work, so he tries to bite through the fur somewhere else, but it doesn't even tear. He's a baby monster but he can't even do that much?

He's going to try something else when a black flash has him flinching and tumbling backwards. He lands with his back to Choi Han's leg.

Choi Han reaches towards him.

Kim Rok Soo closes his eyes. Did Choi Han decide he was useless and that he's better dead? He hadn't even had the chance to try fantasy food yet! He wanted to fall asleep on a human bed once they got out!

Something wet touches his mouth.

Without thinking, he takes it into his maw, finding it squarish and squishy. It tastes like the blood his mouth is coated in.

Kim Rok Soo blinks and looks up. Choi Han is looking down at him with expectant eyes. Though his face is devoid of emotion, he manages to still seem like a friendly- if a little apathetic- high school student.

The meat is chewy and softer than he expected, or maybe his jaws are stronger than he thought, so he ignores the fact that it tastes like blood and stares into Choi Han's eyes.

For being stuck in this forest for a hundred years, he has a nice gaze.

Gulp. The meat glides down the back of his throat incredibly easily. If he hadn't been a human before this, maybe he would've swallowed it immediately without chewing.

Choi Han waits for him to finish swallowing.

Kim Rok Soo warbles, unable to ask why the century old teenager is staring. Is something the matter? He's still hungry.

When Choi Han doesn't move Kim Rok Soo points at the monster with a paw.

More.

He wants more.

Choi Han gapes, astonished, but Kim Rok Soo gets off his leg and sits patiently to his side, waiting. If he is going to take care of a baby, he should do it all the way. Of course, once Kim Rok Soo gathers his strength, he'll guide Choi Han to Harris Village and let them heal his heart. He has to leave to get some powers that he is interested in to make him moderately strong.

Choi Han cuts out another square of meat and offers it to Kim Rok Soo, only to receive a blank stare. Don't just offer it to me, feed it to me. Babies shouldn't eat by themselves, they're too weak.

The wine-red baby opens his mouth. Choi Han's mouth breaks into a small smile. He places the square of meat onto the baby monsters tongue and watches in fascination as it swallows without chewing this time.

They repeat this until Kim Rok Soo burps, lazily blinking. Being a baby is better than he thought it'd be, even if the food isn't great. He can swallow it quickly though, so he reasons that being a monster right now isn't so bad because he doesn't have to suffer through eating tough, bloody meat.

He taps his tail on the ground, like ringing up customer service.

Isn't he taking advantage of the twisted protagonist too much? Kim Rok Soo should hurry and deliver him to Harris Village as repayment.

Choi Han is quick to bring the baby monster up to his chest, wrapping the monster fur around it again. When he strokes the bumpy head, it feels warmer than when he first held it. Despite being here for so long, he doesn't know how a baby monster grows or is raised. Do they normally get warmer the more they eat?

He should feed it frequently, so that it doesn't get cold.

[deesseshesca]

PAC: What would your broken heart feel about your nuptial union ? (18+)

PILE 2 

Star (reverse), High priestess (reverse), 2 cups, 2 wands (reverse) 

SONG 1 : A Sunday Kind Of Love - Etta James

You are an over-sharer and u dont care. You often say the most out of pocket things and walk away like the queen you are. Because you may be disrespectful but u aint wrong. You give me the vibe of Luna Lovegood with the mouth of Cookie Lyon or Pat LuPon. You have a sense of humor, sex-appeal and feminine expression similar to Helena Bonham. Ok Pile 2, I am obsessed with you … Plz say u want to be my friend. It said we are friends, yes you have no choice. I swear I am cool too, maybe not as much as you but I am still a STAR (Mia Goth scream way). 

First letter is written by your present self. Y’all may live alone. You may have  black cat or thought of adopting one from the shelter. You are always down for a late night snack. You were raised by a naked mom (twin … told u we have a lot in common) that's why u walk around your house naked. For the one that doesn't apply to their 3D reality, just know that your manifestations are working. You are on the right path to achieve that kind of freedom. 

Second letter is an update from your future self. 

You drop everything. Close your phone or your TV. Give it a big sight and take some paper and a pen. Other of you, is in your journal. Your done being confused or acting confused. Waiting for the right one to appear, you are taking matters on your own and writing about him (without knowing your are manifesting and using a powerful energy : frustration. Also you may do under a powerful moon (ex : full moon) without knowing) 

Ok … So I want him to look so deep in my eyes that it seems like his having a discussion with my soul. I  don't care that I can't handle eye contact (some of y’all wear glasses), I just want a cute moment. Is that too much to ask ? No it is not ! AND I WANT IT. I also want someone that can't keep his hand away from me. I want someone who's going to drag me towards him softly while I speak to my friend just cause he needs to feel me. I want someone that would hug me to sleep while he plays video games with his friend but he would not just stop there. He would not scream and his friend would yell at him in his headphones but he would chuckle that he’s the only one with a gf for a reason. He would never be ashamed of being pussy whipped and a total simp boy for a fucking weird girl like me. He will not fetishize my weirdness or quirks, he would actually embrace it. He will found joy bringing me to the spiritual shop so I can buy all my crystal and herbs, he would love to plan a trip to Salem so we can dive deeper into the witchcraft scene or maybe love to go to New Orleans so I can bask in the magical air and learn the beauty of a closed practice (u will not practice it but u love learning). He would love to see me put cinnamon  a front of all our doors, fuck why not add this since HIS MY PERFECT MEN …he would love to live in an old house with some antique decor. I also need him to be tall , this tall queen needs to feel like a little spoon 2. Back off my man, short princess, mama got this. I WANT HIM CLINGY. I want him to be unable to sleep without me. I want him to be a homebody but like the clean kind, not the incel way ( ME: EXPLOSION OF LAUGHTER. Girl u seem to talk from a specific experience). I want him to love holding on to my purse, tying my shoes and throwing in some kind of braiding hair skills. I want him to enjoy a road trip because if there's one thing my family is going to do, is go on a trip. I want him to love my family and accept the fact that I am a crybaby. Yes… the stereotype is real, I am the last (or only ) daughter of the family so is my way or the highway. I want him to be able to chase after me when the zoomies catch me when  I am drunk. Did I mention that I want him tie to my hip ? I want him to stop his car whenever he sees me in  the neighborhood just so he can get out and hug me. Universe frl don't play with me … he better not be some long distance bullshit. You know I can't handle it ! 

Yes! Angel number : 999 must be meant to be. 

PS: I just want to throw this here … I mean may as well. I want us to have some light hearted  love making. I want to be comfortable being naked under the cover. I want us to build healthy sexual tension. I also want him to seduce me into having sex, no pressure. I want him to touch me like I am a delicate porcelain doll and look at me with so much love and adoration. I want him to see the value in my naked body … I just want to feel like I am worth more than just a sex doll. 

555

(Your signature) 

Update (In your manifestation journal. You will have one in the future. Also I am channeling a time where u are more organized in your spirituality and more confident than a baby witch) 

SONG : CRUSH - AJ Tracey ft Jorja Smith 

Before I start, you are coming to a realization. Don't worry, it's not a bad one. You just did something u never thought u would do. Actually when u went to meet up with him u did not even think, y’all would do that. You guys fucked in the forest. Some of y’all have a lake in your neighberhood which is your secret spot and u fucked in parking lot around.  Depending on how u park it can be in front of the forest. You were literally coochie out moaning  with the birds. BYEEE … Chérie D’Amour I did not know y’all were down like that. Some of y’all reading are surprise but intrigue, yeah this person is going to bring out the nasty gyal out of you. 

3 pentacles (reverse), king cups, 6 wands (reverse), magician (reverse) 

Home sweet home… I'm back. 

(You take a deep breath. Nod your head and stand up  and caress your bed (lol) then  decide is best to just take a shower. The flashbacks are attacking you in the shower. You may get horny in the shower to the point of wanting to touch yourself but I heard u speak out loud : (Your name) stop being so perv, ( chuckle ) … fuck I forgot how good and hot he was). Dinner with the fam and watching a movie with your sibling back in your bedroom.) 

Ok not only did he crack my shit he also clocked my tea (you are talking to one of your deities). I thought I was the healer in the relationship and maybe I let my ego get bigger than it needed to be just because I did some shadow work. Honestly I hate to say it but I think I stereotyped him … I was so sure he was emotionally unavailable … the whole time I was the guard up one. I remember when he first approached me it was in such an awkward setting (an embarrassing thing that can happen to you on the mundane: Toilet paper on your shoes, blood spotting in your bottoms, maybe your drink spilled all over you.) and he offered to help me. You know me … I don’t have shame because life is life. Nobody is going to remember me in 5 years if I fell on my ass or throw up in the bush after the club and even if they do … fuck them, we ball. He offered his help with a charming smile, Goddess does he smell good. Thank you so much for the tall setting on him … I was starting to lose hope. Offering me paper and running a hand on my back while I threw up in the bush while my other friend is stopping my homegirl from sending her nudes to her boss. (Chuckle) How did he survive such an overstimulating experience ? A crazy girl yelling her sexual fantasy about a man twice her age, while another trying to take the phone away from her and me completely sick on knees vomiting my life away. Yet he was cracking jokes and comforting me. I still remember : ‘’ No you fine baby … No you don't smell, I swear all I can smell is roses. What was that princess ? Can you repeat ? Yes… Thank you baby … I also think you are smoking hot. I would love to talk but let's make sure you are fine first …’’ ( You heart skip a beat, You take a break from writing to enjoy the butterfly in your stomach). His voice adhfbhfnekihgejkng, fuck and dont get me started when his dirty talking me or moaning on top of me. Still can't believe he took my number and called me first in the morning making sure I am fine. Over the months we got closer, no pressure since he already saw me at my worst. We both realize that harboring love was more complicated than we thought but we want each other so bad. My hyper independence had the best of us because I made him think that he was useless. The way I treated him made him feel like I was using him just for entertainment. I made him insecure regarding his intentions, his real feelings and actions because I am not going to lie when he opens up about his past … I started projecting all the men  that hurted me and just distance myself. On his side his separation anxiety is quite overbearing. Always having to text him, calling him and showing him a picture of where I was. Before we knew it, loving each other became a task. A tarot reading later, he texts me randomly and asks me for a second chance. What ? What was I supposed to do ? He invited me to his house and cooked for me. Than gave me a foot massage while we watched one of my trashy TV shows. One thing lead to the other, the flirtatious comment, the sneaky touch, the meal, the clean house, him without a tee-shirt, me in my cute 2 piece, the glasses of wine and before I knew it we were confessing once again our love promising each other to do the wok require to make it work. Honestly I have so much faith in us. He’s the only one that actually sees me. Lol he even gave me a box of beautiful crystals … you would have folded 2, if it were u. 

(The bell of your house goes off. Somebody calls your name downstair, a flower bouquet is waiting for you. You never finish the letter.)

You are going to marry this person but unlike the other girly pop a key moment of y’all relationship came through instead of marriage. Which I didn't even ask for marriage to come through just for your future spouse to do. So it's actually a coincidence that the 2 other piles came through with their wedding specifically. 

[cweeming]

act 4.5.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀...

"welll... you didn't exactly make me cum." your fingers hooked onto the panties by your ankle, pulling them over your crotch. an amused expression were on Patch's face.

"ya chickened out before anythin' could happen." he picked up his cigar from the ashtray, watching as you sat in his lap for the third time, facing his direction. "can't point fingers when you're to blame."

he inhaled his cigar, before releasing smoke from his mouth. technically, he weren't wrong. your legs did give in before you could cum. if only there were a way to make up for what had happened.

"... I don't suppose I could make up for it." you relaxed your body against his, arms over his shoulders. "by redoing what I'd done."

this piqued his interest. with a smug smile splitting his face into two, he turned his full attention to you, ready to hear what you had in mind. "all ears."

you thought about it for a second, looking off to the side. "a warm up. what better way to know I'm all set for tomorrow's show than, I don't know, being primed by someone who already knows their part inside and out?"

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Patch made sure you didn't watch.

with you now sitting near his knees, he had his hand over your eyes, the first step to the test he had for you - one you knew nothing of. the next step? you'd have to undress him.

and how in the world were you supposed to achieve this blind? he'd heard you ask the question, snickering in response. "ain't no expert, but I'd assume thru photographic memory."

you grunted. why yes, of course, photographic memory. he sounded so smug, so pleased in himself, as if you couldn't already come up with what he could. but, no harm, right? all you had to do was play along.

by the time your hands got to his hips, he weren't pleased. his hair were a mess, he'd have to go back and fix his eyepatch, not to mention you nearly made him lose consciousness (by choking him). if you weren't a known performer, he would've taken you out.

"missy... ya sure do have a way of showin' love." he released a sigh, adjusting his eyepatch over his right eye. "didn't take ya for a wild child."

"eh." you shrugged your shoulders. "what can I say?"

he looked up at his forehead, using his free hand to try and pull his hair into place. this is going to take a while.

"nuthin'. don't say nuthin' at all." you heard his fingers scrape in his own hair. "just take off my pants."

and so, you did. but differently. he stiffened as he felt your hands leave his hips, traveling up his torso and to the collar of his suit. your fingers shifted into his bowtie, struggling for a bit before undoing it.

"you want it?" you purred, keeping the bow tie clutched into the palm of your hand and resting your arms over his shoulders. "come get it."

he took that as a challenge. removing his hand from your eyes, he relaxed back in his chair before pulling you flush against his body.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

here Patch was, panting like a lapdog. you took it to the next level. kiss marks all over his face, love bites beneath his jawline. the only form of clothing left were his suit jacket and pants, which were pulled down to his knees. you grinded against his boxers but he were out of it, staring at the ceiling.

"... n'a pas pu le supporter." you paused, glancing at him sideways. "what?" the sound of your voice caused him to become aware of his surroundings, his eyes slowly rolling forward to look at you. "nuthin'. ya outdid yourself."

you sat back on his thighs, him grunting out of pain as he sat up in his chair. "this ain't exactly what I'd had in mind."

your hands traced along his torso, and a groan ripped from his throat, relaxing back in his chair again. you knew how to push the right buttons despite not knowing what his buttons were, which turned him on. though, he wouldn't admit it.

"neither did I, but here we are."

inexperienced, you sat in silence, looking into his eyes. he grabbed ahold of your wrist, guiding it down his torso and to his hip, where your finger latches into his boxers. your eyes followed his hand, and his eyes followed you.

"am I..." you blushed, looking up at him. "... supposed to take these off?"

he nodded. oh boy. your eyes landed back on his boxers.

before you could respond, he released his grip on your wrist, reaching up to cover your eyes. such a gesture put you in a relaxed state. with a sigh, you gained the courage to feel confident, stripping him from his boxers.

his breath hitched, his flesh making contact with the cool air. you thought you had done something wrong, feeling panic build up from inside. meanwhile, he were trying not to be affected.

"i-... it's okay." he steadied his breathing, pushing your panties aside and settling you onto his tip. "don't open your eyes."

"James, I'm worried I-"

"don't. open your eyes." he commanded in a stern tone, and you knew not to object. your lips drew into a line and you went silent, waiting for the next thing.

"nice and easy..." he lowered you onto him, taking only the head of his tip. you didn't know what were happening, nor what you were feeling, breath catching in your throat. you were being filled for the first ever time, your inner walls stretching to handle his length.

"... James." his pulse raced, blood pounding in his ears as he fought the urge to thrust up into you right then and there. he had to resist ruining the moment, removing his hand from your eyes and gripping your chin firmly.

"keep your eyes on me." it were a warning.

you complied, nodding your head. reaching out, you grabbed his shoulders, balancing yourself amid this uncomfortable feeling.

and so, you began to move. his hands supported your hips as you began to sink further, inch by inch. you felt full suddenly, a soft gasp escaping your lips as you fully impaled yourself on his length.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀...

you rode Patch hard, sloppily making out with him as he smacked your ass. despite it being your first time, your found yourself listening to your body, picking up your pace.

"do..." you panted heavily as he pulled away. "... do you believe in love?" you arched you back as you felt his lips brush against you skin, moving his mouth and nose along your neck.

"love?.. that's a big question for a park bench."

"I'm not asking for a philosophical dissertation. just... do you believe that love can be something real, something that just... clicks?"

as promised, you rehearsed for tomorrow's show while having sex. your hands tangled in his hair as he began to kiss your neck.

"I've seen it... maybe not in my own life, but I've seen people who have it, who know what it's like." you moved, lifting up until just the tip remained inside you before dropping back down. you couldn't help but admire the way his breath hitched, causing him to release a low groan that rumbled deep in his chest. "the way they look at each other, like they're the only two people in the world."

what the two of you weren't aware of? the artistic director would be the one to walk in on you, catching you in the act.

"it's like they're in their own little bubble, and the world-" your words would suddenly be cut off when he went in, capturing your lips in another kiss. that's when you knew: screw rehearsing. if you're going to fuck, do it properly and without distraction.

you moaned into the kiss, hands going for his neck while his own roamed along your back. you switched between quick, kittenish kisses to the longer ones that made your lips smack. all the while his cock throbbed inside of you, the velvety walls of your cunt gripping him like a tool.

"are ya enjoyin' this as much as I am?" he cooed against your lips, tracing the bottom one with his tongue. you giggled lightly. "like hell, I am."

with a firm grip of your hips, he pulled you down hard, burying himself to the hilt within you. such a sensation sent shockwaves thru your core, resulting in you gasping aloud. "things like these are the reasons for me wanting to do bad things to you."

before either of you could continue, the door to the room opened, footsteps approaching. you panicked, scrambling to get off him while shielding your body - useless, you were half naked.

"Ms. Smith..." Jelena focused intently on her phone, stopping before the first step of the stage. "... the tutoring club would like to see you."

she looked up, and your blood went cold. shit. what's she going to say? you knew she were a stoic, but even stoics could break out of their stoic character.

while you shook in his lap, he grabbed his cigar from the ashtray, inserting it into his mouth. Jelena's eyes darted between him and you, blurting out before you could catch yourself: "I could explain."

her eyes narrowed onto you, focusing solely on your face. "... on second talk, detention seems more appropriate."

you nodded, hanging your head low and blushing. well, better to be punished than have word go out. just as Jelena left, Patch decided to tease you about the situation. "looks like someone ain't have it in them to contain their urges."

you clocked him in the jaw.