#obligatory wrist grab

[the-baby-storyteller]

Heeheeheehee manhandling.

Throwing a resisting whumpee into bed

Moving a weak or feverish whumpee from one room to the next

Bridal carriesssssss

Lifting and hefting up a whumpee under the armpits to help them reach something

Roughly pulling a whumpee out of trouble and into their arms

Gripping a Whumpee’s wrist when they try to run away

Restraining ill or injuredwhumpee to make them stay in bed

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now? | 4

in which spencer reid and inexperienced fem!reader are interrupted at the most inopportune of times. he calls you on the first night of his case. dirty talk turns into a hard conversation. we get a glimpse into spencer's past, and we finally learn why he's so hesitant to sleep with you.

series masterlist

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: dirty talk, phone sex/mutual masturbation, softdom!spence, obligatory he talks u through it, lots of graphic discussions of sex, established relationship, angst (sorrryyy!) a/n: so remember how i said you'd need the bonus chapter to fully appreciate/understand this part? i was wrong!! it will come in handy probably in the next part tho:) also idk how these parts keep getting so long im sorry! anyway, i love you all so bad. thank you for bearing w/ my craziness. PLEASE let me know your thoughts on this part!! i adore hearing from you!! kisses

(also special thank you to @fliesforeyes who convinced me phone sex w/ spence could be done!! i will link his phone sex blurb here :)) thank u binx!!

“Three million six hundred eighty four thousand three hundred thirty two times fourteen million seven hundred sixty one thousand nine hundred seventy one.”

You’ve lost count of how many stupid math questions you’ve asked your human calculator boyfriend, just to see if he can actually do them. Spencer is silent for a second, and you think you’ve finally stumped him. 

“That one is complicated.”

You sit bolt upright in his bed, looking down at him and pointing an accusatory finger. His brows raise at the manic look in your eye. 

“You don’t know.”

“I do know. I meant it would be hard to explain if you aren’t a math person.”

“Bullshit!” You scoff, “you don’t know!”

“It would display on a calculator as five-point-three-eight-eight-E-thirteen. It’s a really big number.”

“Oh, really big, huh?” you mumble, searching for your phone blindly in the sheets and scrambling to open the calculator app. “Um… what numbers did I say?”

Spencer repeats them back to you and you press the equals sign. 

You look at it. 

And then you set your phone down. 

“I was right, huh?” he smiles up at you, probably reveling in your pouty wrongness. 

Too proud to admit it, you collapse on top of him, burying your face in his shoulder. 

“I don’t like this game anymore. What the fuck even is an e? Why are we doing algebra?”

Spencer laughs, brushing your hair aside. 

“The e stands for exponent. It’s to the power of ten.”

“Ever heard of a rhetorical question?”

“Yes, I have.”

It’s hard not to snort even at his dumbest jokes. 

“You’re annoying. Let’s do something else.”

You roll over onto your back again, letting your head flop over to look at Spencer, whose hair is exactly the right amount of messy after a long day, falling in impossibly soft waves over the perfect lines and contours of his face. Despite lounging, he’s still in his suit from work—he’d left Quantico and immediately picked you up. There were no solid plans for the evening, so after both of you pretended that you wanted to go out for a while, you ended up back at his apartment. 

He looks good. Almost too good. 

“Something like what?” he smiles lazily, reaching over and tracing his fingers over your cheek. 

“Something… naked?”

His grin widens and he shakes his head. 

“Me naked or you naked?”

Pretending to think about it, you roll your bottom lip between your teeth. 

“Mm… why not both?”

“Hm. Why do I feel like I know where this is going?”

The mattress sinks underneath your elbow as you prop yourself up, dropping your head over Spencer’s to kiss him. 

“Because you’re so smart, and you think it’s a great idea.”

He entertains your kiss for a moment. Just a moment.

“You sound sure of yourself.”

“Because I am!” You finally give in to your impulses, tangling your fingers in his hair and looking at him meaningfully. “It doesn’t make any sense for us to have not had sex. I don’t care about any of your weird, cryptic moral reasoning.”

He grabs your wrist carefully. 

“It is not moral,” he scoffs. “We haven’t even talked about it yet.”

“Really? Because I feel like we’ve talked about it a lot.” 

He begins to reply, but you realize you don’t want to get into a debate over whether you’ve technically talked about it yet. “I don’t even care! If that’s all that’s standing in your way, then let’s talk about it. Right now.”

Spencer sighs, his eyes darting between yours as he reaches up to cradle your cheek. 

“Fine. But I have things to say you’re not going to like.”

“So business as usual?”

He rolls his eyes. You allow yourself a tiny self-satisfied smirk, forever relishing in his poorly-hidden soft spot for your constant teasing. Spencer ignores this. Which is probably for the best. 

“I know you probably won’t see it this way, but—sex is different than everything else we’ve done so far. It can be really fun, obviously it feels good, it facilitates deeper feelings of connection—that’s all true. Which is why, in my opinion, it’s incredibly important that you be selective with who you sleep with. Because it’s so easy to do something you regret, and sex is vulnerable. It should always be with someone you trust and—and… care about.”

A pink flush stains his cheeks like watercolor as he stumbles over the last few words. It makes your heart flutter against the confines of your chest.

Maybe best not to think about the absence versus presence of certain four-letter words and what they may or may not mean. You’ll move on to more pressing matters and pretend like it doesn’t ache just a little in your whole body. 

You cover his hand with your own. 

“Are you going to break up with me anytime soon?”

Spencer’s eyes widen, filling with genuine horror and confusion. 

“What? No!”

“Are you going to cheat on me?”

“Absolutely not, I—”

“Then I’m not going to regret it. Issue resolved. Moving on.”

“Honey, I just want you to be 100% sure that I’m what you want.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, flopping onto your back once more. “I have begged you to sleep with me on multiple occasions. We have been dating for months and I liked you even longer before that. I think about it literally every time I see you. I don’t know how to be any surer.”

It’s quiet for a moment as you study the imaginary pattern on the ceiling. The rebuttal you’d been anticipating doesn’t come—instead, the mattress shifts next to you. Spencer enters your field of vision, now leaning over you with a little smile on his face that gives you butterflies. 

“Every time?”

“…yes, every time,” you agree, voice considerably thinner than it had been a moment ago. Spencer glances at your lips as he speaks. 

“Interesting. And what is it that you think about exactly?”

You groan again, attempting to roll facedown, but he pins your shoulder to the bed. The way he’s sweetly kissing down your cheek and jaw is infuriating because you know it’s a false pretense. 

“Ugh, I don’t know! Don’t make me answer that!”

“You said if talking about it was all that was standing in my way, we would talk about it. Now I want to talk about it. Come on,” he says, voice low and cloying against your throat as he attempts to tease the answer out of you. “Tell me what you think about when you think about us having sex.”

You let out a shaky breath at the feeling of his lips skimming your neck, hating how easily he can reduce you to this. 

“I… I always wonder what it will feel like. Sometimes I wonder if it will hurt.”

Spencer sighs, interrogation by way of seduction momentarily forgotten. You silently curse yourself for saying something so un-sexy. 

“It might, sweetheart. That’s one of the reasons we’ve held back. I… really don’t want to hurt you. I don’t even know if I can.”

You grab his face in both hands, forcing him to look at you with more confidence than you feel. 

“Sometimes I worry about it, too. But I like you a lot more than it scares me. I still want to.”

He kisses your palm. 

“You’ll be okay. It doesn’t hurt for everyone, and even if it does, you’re resilient.”

“Exactly. So you have to get over yourself.”

Spencer laughs like he wasn’t expecting to, eyes sparkling as he regards you.  

“Yeah. Yeah, maybe I do.”

He’s smiling again as he leans down and kisses you—a slow, lingering thing which tastes like spearmint as you part your lips for him. 

“Please?” you whisper against him after a long moment. He hums, keeps kissing you. 

“What is it that you think you want? You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”

“Tell me,” you beg, chasing his lips. “Tell me what you’re going to do with me. We can talk about it. This is talking about it.”

Spencer exhales deeply, wedging a thigh between yours. Immediately you clamp around it, trying not to grind against him too overtly. 

“You want to know what I’d do to you?”

“Yes—” you paw at his jacket. Surprisingly, he doesn’t stop you from pushing it off. Your heart pounds. 

“Well… we both know how anxious you get,” he muses, pressing his lips so delicately to your fluttering pulse-point in emphasis, and then back to your mouth. His thigh pushes harder against you to supplant the absence of his lips as he speaks, though he kisses you sporadically and between sentences. “You’re hard to get out of your head when you’re nervous, you know that? I watch it happen. One minute you’re with me, and then you start overthinking, and getting self-conscious. The only thing that seems to relax you is letting me touch you—so first I would touch you like I’ve touched you before. I’d make sure you know how pretty you are and how good you deserve to feel.” You whimper inadvertently at his words, arching into him and grinding against his leg as he pauses to kiss the sensitive soft spot below your jaw. “You’re going to need to be really ready to let me in. Do you know what I mean by that?”

As he asks, he pushes his thigh against you harder. Your body responds immediately, arching into him and seeking more friction. When you squeak, he takes it as a no. 

“I mean I need you relaxed and wet. You’ll excuse my crude language.”

You pull at his tie, breathing heavier now and so turned on it’s almost painful. 

“What are you gonna do after that?”

“What else is there to do but fuck you after that?” he breathes. “You want me to tell you how I’d fuck you?”

Something about it makes you whine salaciously. You’ve heard him curse—you’ve even heard him talk about fucking you. But it feels more real now; when it’s low in your ear and you’re covertly undressing him and he’s pushing your shirt over your stomach promisingly. 

“Yes, please.” 

He hums against your jaw, nipping and brushing his lips over the skin as he considers. Leaves you waiting. 

“I would have to take my time with you. You’ll be overwhelmed. I know you think you won’t, but you will. I’m going to have to be so, so careful with you, angel. It’s going to drive me insane. But it will feel good for you.”

“Why careful? I don’t want that.”

He chuckles. A chill runs down your spine. 

“Yeah, you do. You’re going to want me to be careful when I’m—” he pauses, pressing his thumb to your bare lower tummy and dragging up to a spot below your belly button. He presses down lightly again. “Right here. Approximately.”

The surface of the sun has nothing on the temperature of your skin in this moment, as you writhe underneath him in both arousal and embarrassment. Mostly, burning need. You feel almost sick with it. 

“Please don’t make me wait anymore. Just do it, please, Spencer. I need it to be you, I don’t want it to be anyone else. I promise I’m ready.”

It’s silent for a moment. Your heart quickens. You sense his walls wearing away, his instinct to keep you intact for god knows what reason crumbling. He’s finally going to give you what you’ve been begging for. 

Spencer opens his mouth, eyes glimmering—

And then his phone rings. 

You both freeze—he melts dejectedly before you do, more accustomed to an ill-timed phone call and realizing the finality it can present. 

He’s breathing heavily against your neck, as if maybe whoever it is will just hang up. But the phone keeps ringing. 

“I’m sorry.”

Your stomach sinks as he sits up, grabbing his phone from the side table and rubbing circles on your inner thigh as he answers.

“This is Reid,” he says, lackluster. 

If you wanted, you could hear what Penelope is saying—but you don’t bother listening. It’s going to be a case. Spencer is about to leave. The details are his problem. 

“Okay. I’ll be there in an hour.”

He hangs up, tossing the phone onto the mattress and not speaking for a moment, just continuing to rub your leg apologetically. Watching you almost mournfully—taking in your disheveled hair, your likely blown-out pupils, the shirt pushed almost over your chest. 

“I have to go right now,” he finally manages with a heavy sigh, gently pulling your shirt back into place. 

You sit up, shedding all the hopes that had been building for the evening, and try to sound chipper—though all you feel is bitter disappointment that goes deeper than you understand. 

“I know. Go ahead, I can get a cab home.”

He frowns, running his hand over the back of your hair. 

“I don’t love the idea of you standing on the sidewalk waiting for a car in this part of town so late. Do you just want to stay here for the night and go home tomorrow?”

You force a smile. Great. So you’ll be spending the night in his bed after all���just without him. 

“Sure. Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you are feeling particularly grateful. 

Soon you’re walking him to his own door. Both of you come to a stop in front. 

“I’m sorry,” he sighs again. 

“Spencer, it’s fine. It’s your job. You don’t need to apologize. You were very clear about this part when we started dating.”

“I know, but… it’s easier in theory than in practice.”

You smile. If Spencer is a reflection of you, it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. His hair is still messy from your fingers running through it and he’s missing his tie. You hope all his coworkers see and feel bad about taking him away from you. 

But it’s not their fault. You just want someone to blame. 

Instead you mould yourself to his body, wrapping around him like you belong there. He returns your embrace, pressing his lips into the crook of your shoulder and rubbing your back in that way he always does with you. 

In that moment, your affection for him becomes so profound it’s like a chemical reaction—everywhere he touches burns and you love him so fucking much it aches in every inch of your body the way your muscles do when you have a bad fever. Love is the most terrible of afflictions, you realize. It is a fever dream. It’s every fiber of your being screaming to tell him how you feel, to beg him on your knees not to go because you love him like a child loves a parent or a bee loves honeysuckle or the ocean loves the horizon. Pared down to your most basic components, the barest version of yourself, you require him. Your soul needs his soul. 

“Spencer?”

“Hm?” 

It’s nothing more than an absentminded hum against your skin. 

“I…”

Should you be looking him in the eye when you say this? Should you say it right before he has to leave? Just because you say it doesn’t change the fact that he’s about to be gone for several long days. Maybe this is a terrible time to admit something that suddenly feels so true and so consequential. 

He senses your internal conflict, pulling back despite your resistance and holding your face between his hands. 

“You what?” He murmurs, soft eyes bouncing back and forth between your own. Fuck—you feel so observed, now. Like he can read your mind. 

“I forget.”

FUUUUUUCK. 

Spencer blinks. Processes. You watch the disbelief crystallizing over his eyes like ice freezing over a lake. 

He knows. 

He knows you didn’t forget, and he probably knows what you were going to say, and he’s going to tell himself he was wrong to spare your dignity. 

Everything hurts when he kisses you. You wonder what regret tastes like. 

“Well, let me know if you remember.”

It’s too gentle and at the same time he can’t hide the edge with all the tenderness in the world. You nod as if in a trance, already looking forward to dissociating as you lie in bed and stare at the dark ceiling.

Two small goodbyes are exchanged, slightly stifled now, as if shared between drunk strangers who have sobered up and are mutually embarrassed about how candidly they’d interacted before. 

You close the door behind him, doing up all the locks, and meticulously flick every light switch in the apartment off before climbing into his bed—though you don’t really feel like you deserve to be there anymore.

But perhaps this is all an overreaction. It’s not like you owe it to him to say I love you, or anything—it was bad timing, anyway. And why can’t he say it? In fact, why hasn’t he said it? 

Maybe you have it all wrong. 

Maybe he doesn’t feel that way about you. 

You fall asleep before you allow these questions to make you sick. 

24 hours go by. 

24 hours go by and you really had meant to leave his apartment—it was just that you woke up late, and your phone was dead so you couldn’t call a car, so you charged it while you made breakfast, and then you ate, and then you decided to take a shower and wash your clothes, and then it was two in the afternoon and you hadn’t left yet and you decided to walk to the store and replenish the groceries you’d used up. 

Maybe you got a bit distracted looking at flowers and other beautiful things at the market and by the time you got home it was 5:00, so you decided to wait until seven to skip rush hour. And then eight, just to be sure. 

Before you know it, it’s midnight, and you’re dozing off in his bed again (teeth cleaned with the brush you’d bought at the store—maybe this whole situation hadn’t been entirely unwitting on your part.)

Throughout the day, you tried to let all your anxiety about the previous night melt away. If it’s something that needs to be addressed, Spencer will address it. Everything will work out in the end. That thought is how you’re able to doze off. 

You’re almost asleep when your phone lights up and begins buzzing on the side table. You wince as your eyes open, not adjusting well to the harsh bright display and unable to discern who’s even calling you at this hour. Stupidly, probably because you’re half asleep, you answer without checking. 

“Hello?”

Your voice is groggy, quiet with sleep. 

“Shit, did I wake you?”

“Spence?” you whisper, stomach flipping at the sound of his voice on the other line. You feel caught, still sleeping in his bed. 

“… yeah,” he chuckles. “Did you not check who was calling before you picked up?”

“I was asleep,” you pout. “Kinda.”

“Okay. Go back to sleep, honey. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

You sit bolt upright, phone balanced between tense fingers and speaking directly into the microphone. 

“No! No, I’m awake. What’s up? Why did you call?”

A longer stretch of silence—you’re too sleepy to comprehend what it might mean, though never too sleepy to worry about it. With a pang of pain, you recall your strange goodbye, the words you hadn’t said. 

“I just needed to hear your voice,” he sighs. You frown, staring at nothing in particular in the pitch black room. 

“Oh. Is everything okay?”

“As much as it can be.”

“Right.”

More quiet. You chew on the inside of your cheek, stricken with a sudden feeling of awkwardness that you haven’t had with Spencer in a while. 

“I’m sorry… I don’t really know what to say.”

“That’s okay,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice which makes you feel a bit better, “why don’t you tell me about your day? Or you can absolutely go back to sleep, if you’re too tired.”

“Don’t ask me about my day,” you whisper, flopping down on the bed once more. Shame seeps into your voice. He laughs. 

“What? Why?”

“Because if I tell you you’re going to think I’m super weird and you’re going to break up with me.”

Laughter tapers off into gentler tones. 

“I already think you’re super weird. It’s actually one of your most attractive qualities.”

Blood rushes to your cheeks. 

“But it’s like… borderline crazy.”

Immediately, he replies, “for better or worse, I also frequently find myself attracted to crazy.”

“Thank you for calling me crazy and super weird,” you grumble. 

“I also called you attractive twice. Tell me.”

When his tone takes on that easy, assertive quality, and it’s sort of raspy and low because it’s late and he’s been talking all day, and you can hear the lazy smile on his face—you imagine him laying on his hotel bed, arm slung over his eyes in the dark as he grins into the microphone—you have a very difficult time saying no. 

“Fine. Guess where I am right now.”

“Um, I would hope you’re in bed?”

You smile to yourself, basking in the victory of successfully throwing him off his game even slightly. 

“Guess whose bed.”

Silence. 

“What an interesting question.” That cocky smile, the low drawling is back, and you chew on your lip, ignoring the shiver that runs down your spine. “If it’s not mine or yours, we’re going to have issues.”

“But if it is yours? You’re not going to call the police on me?”

“Why would I call the police? To tell them there’s a pretty girl in my bed and I don’t want her there?”

“To tell them your psychopathic girlfriend broke into your apartment and might be holding hostages there.”

Spencer laughs; a brittle, drawn out thing, flat and quiet as the desert.

“If you were a psychopath, calling the cops would be a waste of time. I would handle you myself.” The idea of being handled has your thighs clenching. “But—yeah, don’t invite anyone else in.” More humor finds its way into his voice, momentarily relieving some tension that had sneakily begun to build. “Having people in my space makes me anxious.”

“But not me?” Your whisper is half flirtatious, half insecure. Spencer’s reply is soft, as if he’s picking up on this from hundreds of miles away.

“No, not you. You are always the exception.”

“Good,” you say, cheeks aching as you half-bury your warm face into his pillow. “Because I made myself really comfortable. You have a nice shower, by the way.”

Spencer groans. 

“You’re killing me.”

“What? What did I do!”

“Don’t talk to me about my bed and my shower. I might start to think you’re intentionally being a brat.”

“You asked me about my day! I’m just telling you what I did!”

But you’re also intentional teasing him for sure.  After a pause, he sighs in defeat. 

“You’re right. I did do that. Tell me what else happened.”

“Well,” you begin, all too eager, “I had to put my clothes in the dryer after I got out, so I borrowed some of yours. But then they were way comfier than mine, so after I went to the store I put them back on, and—”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?” you frown. 

“Tell me what this is.”

“I—I don’t know what you mean.”

Lying to a profiler is usually pointless. 

“I’m not stupid, sweetheart. Tell me why you keep talking about my shower and my bed and my clothes.”

Caught red-handed. Your skin heats up. 

“I don’t know. I miss you.”

He hums in a way that blurs the line between sympathetic and patronizing. Even through the phone you can feel the bass of it in your bones.  It changes the frequency you’re vibrating at. It’s hypnotic. 

“But that’s not really why you’re being intentionally provocative, is it?”

“No,” you admit quietly. “I’m still upset you had to go last night.”

“So you’re frustrated and you’re taking it out on me?”

Your brow furrows. Well, when he puts it like that…

“I’m not taking anything out on you.”

“I think you are. And I don’t appreciate that, because I’m on your side, honey. Do you think I prefer being in a hotel bed by myself or being in my bed with you?”

Somehow, he makes you feel like a scolded child. But he makes it appealing in ways you don’t understand. 

“Your bed with me,” you murmur, skin prickling with the coldness of his absence even as you curl under the blanket. 

“Right. So why don’t you tell me what I can do for you right now, instead of punishing me for things that are beyond my control?”

“I wasn’t punishing you,” you mutter. 

“No? You weren’t intentionally talking about using my shower and sleeping in my bed and putting on my clothes so that I’d have to think about what I can’t have right now?”

“I—”

“Believe me when I tell you I have been thinking about what I can’t have, all day. Your efforts are entirely redundant and you can’t say anything about yourself that is even close to as dirty as the frankly disrespectful thoughts I’ve been having about you for seventeen hours.”

The lack of air is making you so dizzy your vision goes gray at the edges. 

“What… what thoughts?”

“None that you need to concern yourself with.”

“You can’t just say something like that and then not tell me!” you insist. He’s obviously giving you a taste of your own medicine and it’s fair but it doesn’t mean you have to like it. 

“I can do whatever I want,” Spencer corrects cooly in a way that pisses you off beyond belief because he’s right. It triggers some adolescent immaturity within you—a desire to get back at him, so to speak. He wants intentionally provocative? He can have it. 

“Fine. Then so can I. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it even if I could.”

“Spencer,” you warn. “If you don’t tell me what you were thinking I’m gonna—” you look around the room for ammo. “I’m gonna look through your nightstand!”

“Go ahead. I’ll warn you, it’s not very interesting.”

“Sounds like what someone who has something hide would say,” you mumble, crawling across the mattress through tangled sheets and using your phone flashlight to open the drawer. 

Spencer is patient and silent as you take in its contents—a small blue leather-bound notebook (full of what looks like Russian), a fountain pen, a glasses case, various kinds of vitamins, and—

“Spencer Reid,” you say, dragging out his name and pretending nothing is fluttering in your stomach, “what are these?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see what you’re referring to.”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Oh, I have one. But I’d like to hear you say it.”

You realize you may have gotten yourself in deeper than you meant to by going through his stuff. Well—they don’t say karma is a bitch for nothing. 

“What are you doing with a box of condoms?” 

He chuckles and you feel it in your whole body, warm as you stretch across his mattress and eye the box like it might jump out at you. 

“Those are years old. I’ve used three since I bought them.”

“Don’t tell me that,” you whine. “I don’t wanna think about all the other women you’ve seduced.”

“You wanted them to be for you, huh?” 

You flush. Honestly you hadn’t even thought about that. 

“I… I don’t know. I kind of just assumed…”

It’s silent for a second and you frown, realizing you hadn’t even considered protection when you’d imagined sleeping with him before. 

“You assumed what, honey?” he asks, voice soft. 

“It’s dumb. I can’t tell you.”

“You can tell me anything. I’m not going to think it’s dumb, I promise.”

You chew on your lip, letting your eyes unfocus on the box as you muster the courage to be honest. 

“Whenever I imagined it… we didn’t… use anything.”

The words make you cringe even as you’re saying them. So does the quiet that follows. 

“When you imagine us sleeping together, we don’t use a condom?”

“Ah!” The phone drops to the mattress as you cover your ears and roll onto your side, curling into yourself once more. “You didn’t have to say it! You make me sound so weird!”

“It’s not weird,” he laughs, because he can probably imagine exactly what you just did, “I just wanted to make sure I was understanding you. That said… we would definitely use protection.”

“Do we have to?”

The quiet words take even you by surprise—and they seem to stun Spencer as well. Several false starts are punctuated by a sigh as he gathers his thoughts. 

“We really should, baby. That’s the kind of thing we need to take seriously.”

“But you’re… you’re good, right?”

Thankfully he picks up on your meaning. 

“I am. I wouldn’t touch you if I weren’t.”

“And I’m good. So...”

“Hm. And has anyone ever explained to you where babies come from?”

You groan in frustration. 

“Spencer, I’m being serious! There are ways to negate that.”

“Honey,” he murmurs, “I understand that. But it would be irresponsible of me to say yes. We can talk about it in the future, but—”

“I’m telling you it’s already dealt with. The chances of an accidental pregnancy are slim to none.”

The new information hangs in the air for a moment until Spencer speaks—to your surprise, his voice is low and humorous. 

“That is… good to know. But even so—I’m setting a dangerous precedent if I always let you get exactly what you want.”

“Is it such a bad thing that I just wanna—I wanna know what it feels like? You don’t want that?”

“That’s not what I said. I want to know exactly what you feel like. I’m just hesitant to give in so quickly because it makes me look weak.”

You laugh breathlessly, caught between being turned on by the first part of his sentence and amused by the sarcastic second half. Your thighs clench and your hand absentmindedly wanders between them. 

“You know what I was thinking about?” you ask. Spencer hums curiously. “I was thinking about when you let me, um… when you let me touch you how you touch me.” He hums again, but you can hear the amused curve of a smile in it now.

“When you had your mouth all full of me and you looked so pretty?”

“When I—yeah,” you agree, too caught up to deny his compliment as your fingers brush your most sensitive spot through clothing. “And  how you got me all messy after. And I was wondering what it would feel like… inside me.”

He sucks in a breath. Your legs brush against each other and you twist slightly as you pretend like you’re not touching yourself just a little bit. 

“You want me to come inside you?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, brain short-circuiting at the way those words sound in his voice. 

—

On the other side of the line, Spencer isn’t doing a fantastic job of thinking clearly either. His dick is half-hard already and it’s only getting worse with each little noise you make that you don’t seem to realize you’re making. 

“Really? That would be very messy, baby. I’m surprised that’s what you want.”

“But I really want it,” you breathe. He’s not even looking as he slips his hand under the waistband of his pajamas and palms himself, his other hand rubbing tiredly over his face as his phone rests on his chest. This was not how he intended for this call to go, believe it or not—but he’s here now. 

“Yeah? Is that why you’re touching yourself right now?”

You go silent—which is more or less exactly the reaction Spencer had been expecting. Patiently he waits for you to deny it, in three, two—

“’M not.”

Now, he could explain how he knows that’s a lie. How your breathing pattern changed, and your voice got softer and airier, and how you started speaking with smaller words in fragmented sentences. But he doesn’t feel like explaining any of that. 

“I know that’s not true,” he murmurs. “You know what? It wasn’t fair to get you all worked up last night and then leave. I don’t want you frustrated, honey. I want you to do whatever you need to do.”

You make a little gasping noise, and Spencer can imagine the way your back would arch when you did it. His own hips buck slightly as his dick twitches under his fingers. 

“Where are you touching?”

“Um—over my clothes.”

Cute. 

“Go under them for me. Tell me how it feels when you’re touching yourself like that.”

It takes a moment, in which all he hears is the rustling of fabric, until you’re whispering, “feels… it feels good. I wish you were here.”

He inhales, freeing his cock and squeezing the base. 

“I know. Just listen to my voice, pretty. I’m right here.”

Spencer allows himself a few slow tugs as he imagines what’s happening in his bed. You make a squeaking noise, like a held-back moan, and his eyes screw shut. 

“I need them inside,” you whine, and he knows you’re referring to his fingers—the ones currently stroking his own leaking cock. 

“You can use your own, just give yourself a minute first. Remember what I said about needing to be ready?”

“I am ready—” judging by the surprised chirp you interrupt yourself with, you’ve proven yourself right. What surprises Spencer is the weak sound of disappointment you make next. “Spence, it doesn’t feel the same.”

“We’re different sizes, honey. Your hands aren’t as big as mine. But you can still make it feel good.” 

He almost says, 90% of the nerves in the vaginal canal are located in the lower third—in other words, within approximately 2.36 inches from the opening, which you can most certainly reach—but he refrains. He’s not sure if that’s good dirty talk. 

“You have a really sensitive spot about three inches up, right in front. It’s going to feel a little different than the rest of you when you touch it. I want you to try and find it for me, okay?”

“Okay,” you breathe, ever-eager to please even from a great distance. There’s a quiet moment. “I can’t—I don’t think I can r—oh,”

The moan is so pretty Spencer can’t help speeding up the motion of his hand, hissing slightly as his fingers brush against the angry tip with every pump. 

“Did you find it?”

“Yeah,” you whine, a weak, high-pitched thing. “Oh my god.”

“Be gentle,” he warns with some effort as his own hips jump slightly. “You’re really sensitive there. If you’re not careful you’ll make yourself sore.”

“I don’t care—holy shit—” the way your voice rises and tightens to a squeak at the end has Spencer moaning as he fucks his fist. A black hole forms and warps time, turning every minute into a second and every second into an infinity until he has no idea how much time is going by. He drags his thumb over the tip, smearing precum over his cock and whining as his jaw drops at the feeling. “Oh my god, Spencer,” in that same strained, high voice. “’M gonna—ah!”

He gets the general sentiment. 

“What, baby? You’re gonna make yourself come all over your fingers? Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

“Mhm!”

“Yeah, I bet you are. It feels good, huh?”

“Yes,” you cry. 

“See? You don’t need my fingers to feel good. Mine barely fit, you know that? I have to hold your fucking hips down whenever I put my fingers in you because you can’t stop squirming. I don’t know how you think you’re going to take my cock.”

“Spencer!” 

He knows. 

“Come, baby. Let me hear you.”

The delicate sounds you make as you bring yourself to orgasm tip him over the edge of his own—grunting as he comes all over his fist. 

“Jesus,” he strains under his breath, the word dragging out into two long syllables as his hips buck involuntarily and cum drips down his knuckles. He’s lightheaded and he’s created a mess and it all happened so quickly. “Fuck,” he breathes, a rasping chuckle as he reaches for the towel he’d dropped on the bed after his shower earlier. “You conscious over there?”

“I’m conscious,” you slur, breathing heavily. “I’ve never had an orgasm by myself before.”

“Are you proud of yourself?” Spencer smiles, wiping his hand off and making sure he’s otherwise clean. “You should be. I am.”

He’s barely kidding. 

“I’ll be proud when I can do it without your help,” you tease. 

“But I’ll always want to help you with that.” His already warm face flushes further as he goes over what he’d said. “Sorry I was so vulgar.”

You laugh. He blushes even more. 

“Are you? I think you secretly love being vulgar.”

“I don’t know why! I have no idea where it comes from. I would never speak that way in any other context. I should probably work on that. Sometimes I look back on the things I say and I’m genuinely appalled.”

“Well, don’t stop on my account. Personally I enjoy it.”

“Yeah, I think I’m corrupting you. You probably shouldn’t enjoy it.”

The truth of it weighs heavy on his mind, but he’s pretty sure his voice alone doesn’t betray that and you can’t sense it through the phone. 

“Oh, my god. Do not do that falling on your sword shit. I like being corrupted by you. If you stop I’ll be very upset.”

“Well god forbid you get upset,” he teases gently. Idly he wonders if the reason he’s suddenly feeling so depressed is because his cortisol levels were already high from the case, and then he jarred his system with an orgasm, spiking his dopamine and ultimately causing it to plummet without the oxytocin release that post-coital physical contact would usually provide. 

Or if it was something else. It could also be something else. 

For the millionth time, he wishes he was with you. Part of him also wants to go to sleep. But mostly he wishes he was with you. 

—

A comfortable silence settles over the conversation. In the ditch between words, you’re mapping constellations in the texture of Spencer’s ceiling. If you squeeze your eyes almost shut, you can imagine it really is the night sky. You can imagine he’s really here. 

You think about what he said—his apparently mindless vulgarity. Did it mean anything? Or was he just rambling to get you off?

“Spencer?” you murmur. 

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

He sounds earnest, perhaps a little tired, as he replies, “always,” through the little metal rectangle on your chest. He likes me and my questions are important to him, you repeat to yourself silently as you work up the strength. 

“If Penelope hadn’t called, last night… were you going to have sex with me?” 

Your lip tastes like his toothpaste as you chew it. Spencer sucks in a breath of air like he’s about to speak—and lets it fizzle out like foam on a carbonated drink. 

“I don’t know,” he finally admits, lamely. “That wasn’t my plan, but you can be extremely convincing when you want to be.”

“But why can’t it be your plan?” It’s an almost whine, pouty and childish—but the next words are quiet and pained. “Is it something I’m doing wrong?”

“No, no! It’s not you. You’re perfect. It’s—it’s complicated. It’s a me thing.”

Such trite words—such a ubiquitous, simple excuse sounds almost comical from his mouth when you know he’s capable of all the eloquence in the world. It’s not you, it’s me. It’s ridiculous. 

“Okay. Let me simplify this for you,” you begin with an uncharacteristic assertiveness that surprises even you. “I want to have sex with you. Either we are going to have sex or we’re not. So your future branches in two diverging paths. In one, we have sex, and then we keep having sex. In the other we never have sex ever. If you want to ever have the privilege of fucking me, then we just have to do it. Otherwise it simply will never happen. And I’m not eternally patient, Reid.”

Go me, you think, slightly breathless from your monologue. 

“Watch your mouth,” he says dryly. Something about the chastisement makes your stomach flip and your whole body tingle. “When you talk to me you call me Spencer. I will also accept Doctor Reid.” You wrestle down a smile, refusing to let him change the subject. A delayed sigh from him sobers up the conversation. “You know what I want. I’ve been very clear with you about that. But…”

“But…?”

Another sigh. A deeper, shuddering sigh, like his breath is searching for balance. Like Spencer is in a precarious position for which he was unprepared. 

“But—but to be completely honest… I worry that you’ll regret choosing me. And I know virginity is a social construct and I’m not implying that your worth will somehow be diminished if we have sex but regardless of my views on virginity as a construct, having sex for the first time can be weird and scary and it’s incredibly intimate and I don’t want you to regret your first time like I regret mine because you chose the wrong person.”

The words come at you so rapid-fire it takes you a moment to process them. And aside from all the ways you want to reassure him that you will not regret choosing him—that you could never, ever regret anything about him—one thing stands out. 

“You regret your first time?” 

Something between a scoff and a sigh travels through the line. You can tell he’s not annoyed at you for asking so much as he’s flustered himself with all his own words as he occasionally does. 

“Yeah. Yes. Sometimes I do. The person—she didn’t… like me as much as I liked her. And I was really, really in love with her, and she knew that and she knew she wasn’t in love with me—or maybe she was, I don’t know—but my point is, when one person likes the other more than the other person like them, things get complicated. And however you feel about me—that’s fine. It’s fine. I don’t want you to feel bad if we don’t feel exactly the same way about each other. I understand that this is newer for you, it’s different, I—I just don’t want us to do something we can’t undo because I don’t want to relive that. And I’m not saying it will never happen but I just don’t want you to make this choice when… when right now, I think we’re in different places emotionally. Regardless of that, I want you to choose the right person. I don’t want you to choose me and then find out that we feel differently after we sleep together and leave you feeling like you signed up for something you didn’t understand. I’m sorry. Maybe telling you this is selfish. But I’ve been thinking about it and trying to ignore it and I think I just have to be completely honest.”

Your ears ring like Spencer just fired a blank right into the microphone. Like you just got backhanded across the face and now you have the world’s worst case of whiplash. 

Every finger is numb and your blood is so cold it feels blue as it slithers thick through your veins. 

What you want to do is scream. What you want to do is go back to last night and stop yourself from almost telling him I love you, slap yourself and keep your cards a little closer to your chest. Because now he knows, and he doesn’t feel the same. 

You want to scream bloody murder. 

But when you try, when you unhinge your jaw and part your chapped lips and expect a bellow to come hurdling up the corridor of your throat with so much force it rattles your bones, all that falls out is a small, “oh.”

Maybe that’s worse. 

Spencer doesn’t reply. You hate yourself for feeling obliged to fill the silence. 

“I didn’t realize you…”

I didn’t realize that you don’t love me back. 

I didn’t realize I like you more than you like me. 

I didn’t realize you’d tell me to masturbate in your fucking bed and then drop this not even five minutes later. 

If Spencer Reid was able to talk to you over the phone with the same amount of affection and familiarity as always, like everything was still okay, knowing you love him and he doesn’t love you the whole time, he is not who you thought he was. 

“I’m sorry,” he lamely says again, like it could ever help. 

More silence. Now you can’t bring yourself to speak, so Spencer does. 

“I realize how awkward this is. I really didn’t mean to put you in this position. Especially not over the phone when I—god, I’m stupid. I’m sorry. But can we—can we talk about this in person when I get back? Please?”

Is that what grownups do? Is the proper etiquette for him to take you out to dinner and explain why he’s not in love with you? Is he going to break up with you?

What does one even wear to a breakup date?

“Okay,” you whisper. Your eyes sting, your everything stings, like you’ve been wrapped in a shroud of briar. Sheets that were soft a moment ago feel like sandpaper on open wounds. You feel like an open wound. 

Spencer sighs. It’s a sound of relief that confuses and hurts you even more. 

“Okay. I—okay. Thank you. Um—I’ll let you go back to sleep, now.”

“Okay,” you repeat—as if any of this were okay. But you can’t keep being that stupid girl who feels it all so much harder, who loves easily and begs to be loved in return, too naive to assume that someone who treats her so kindly might not reciprocate her feelings. It has to be okay, because if it’s not, you’re silly and dramatic and you’re just proving him right. 

“Goodnight,” Spencer whispers, and you can’t help but feeling that it’s the last time you’ll ever hear those words from his mouth while you’re in his bed. And he’s not even fucking here.

So you pull the blanket a little higher. You let your tears stain his pillow because they’ll be invisible by the morning. It will be like they were never here. Like you were never here. 

“Goodnight.”

-

part five

[h-c-u]

No handlebars

Summary: A brat being a brat by finding a loophole in the rule. 

Pairing: Toto Wolff x fem!reader

W/C: 4.1k

Rating: +18, age gap, dom/sub, oral sex (male receiving), cumplay, slight humiliation kink, dry-humping, tiny bit of aftercare

A/N: No plot. Pure filthy smut, so obligatory you are responsible for the media you consume. It's literally just a blowjob with some humping, nothing else. You have been warned <3

Masterlist | List of tags

You hated waking up alone, but you accepted it due to how different your sleep schedule was from Toto's, and you loved him, so it was a small sacrifice. While he was often up with the first rays of the sun, you could kill someone if they woke you up before 10 AM. And even that was pushing it if they didn't have a fresh coffee or something sweet as a bribe. So you weren't exactly happy when the loud sound of the doorbell ripped you from the blissful arms of Morpheus and plunged you into a much too cold and too empty bed. Usually, you would just go back to sleep, but today was one of those days when your need to touch and to be held was just too high. 

Even though there was no one there to hear it, the loud, annoyed groan left your mouth. You kicked your feet to throw the duvet from your body, exposing yourself to the cold air, because of course his damn Austrian ass just had to open the window. You could almost hear "Lüften is healthy for you, Schatzi" in his voice when you were closing it. Your bare feet on the hardwood floor didn't help your mood. Your face was donning a sour look when you came downstairs in search of the attention you craved, so when you saw an opened laptop and the cell phone in Toto's hand, you weren't exactly pleased.

He was fully dressed, even though it was well before noon on the weekend, which meant that he had already left the house, but now he was back, and it was all that mattered. With making as little sound as possible, so the microphone in his phone wouldn't pick it up, you stepped behind the couch, first making sure he wasn't in any sort of virtual meeting.

You gently grabbed his attention by rubbing your cheek on the top of his head and placing a soft kiss on his temple. He hummed, acknowledging your presence, but his focus was still on the many, many graphs on the screen. But today you were feeling bratty, so instead of leaving him alone, you playfully bit his ear, which resulted in him giving you a warning look. However, in your head, it was a success, because he turned around from the laptop, so not only you did do it again, this time a little bit harder, but you also pulled the neckline of his shirt down and slithered your hands under the blue material in search of more skin-to-skin contact. When you did that, Toto roughly grabbed your wrists and pulled you by them over the backrest of the sofa. With a quiet yelp, you landed on the seat on your back, with your legs draped over the pillows. But despite his abrupt reaction, there was no anger or even annoyance on his face, so you knew you could push back even more. 

You stayed still for a moment, letting him think that you were subdued, and his grip on your wrists loosened, which was exactly what you were waiting for. With a devilish smile (which he, fortunately, didn't notice), you quickly parted your wrists, forcing his fingers apart and freeing yourself. His gaze instantly snapped to you, but you were already conducting your sneaky attack. You rolled down the couch, landing on his lap, essentially straddling him. You smushed your face against his chest and wrapped your arms under his shoulders, pinning him to the couch with your body. He could easily overpower you, but instead, he just sighed with resignation, leaned back, and put his free hand in between your shoulder blades, keeping you where you were, while he continued talking over the phone. You didn't even pay attention to his words, focusing on the low timbre of his voice and how it vibrated deep in his chest. 

You were absorbing his warmth like a sponge, and you could feel your body relaxing against his, the annoyance and frustration from before melting away and slowly being replaced by something else because the heat you were stealing from him seemed to be pooling in your abdomen. Without looking at Toto's face, you experimentally rolled your hips over his. He quickly moved his hand to the back of your neck, where he gave you a warning squeeze, but your brattiness won, so instead of behaving, you slowly moved your hands down in between your bodies and started gently pulling out his shirt from his trousers. When there was enough space to slither under the material, you did just that and ran your fingernails over his stomach. And that was enough for him. 

He grabbed you stronger by your neck and pushed you from his lap to the floor, so you were kneeling in between his legs. 

- Keep. Your hands. To yourself. - he growled, covering the microphone in his phone with his hand and you pouted in response. You wanted to touch him, to have his skin rubbing against yours, but instead, he was mean and refused to give you that. Well, maybe if you asked nicely for it, he would be more lenient, but now... Now you couldn't do anything with your hands.

But he didn't say anything about other parts of your body... With an almost theatrical flair, you moved your hands behind your back, where you crossed your wrists, indicating that you were planning on following the rule he just established. You remained still for a good moment, yet again lulling him into a false sense of security, and when you realized he was about to make a longer comment about something he heard on the other side of the line, you finally made your move. 

Still kneeling in between his legs, you shifted up and forward, so your face was getting closer to his crotch, but he didn't stop you, even though he definitely could. Instead, he just raised his eyebrow, curious about how you will proceed. With your teeth, you grabbed the thick leather of his belt and with very small moves at first, you started pulling it out of the buckle. It took you a good minute to achieve that, but you did it without breaking a rule, so it was worth it. And if by keeping your hands to yourself, you rubbed even more against the material of his trousers with your cheeks and chin... Well... You were just abiding by his words.

With a smug smile, you finally pulled the leather out of the metal bar, but there was still a long way ahead of you, and you could already feel him growing because of the additional stimulation. Now it was time to pull the prong out of the hole it was nested in. You knew it would be much harder, so you adjusted your position a little and moved even closer, sliding your head in such a way that the freed part of the belt was resting on your cheek, giving you more access. You tried to dislodge the prong with your tongue, but there was too much pressure on it and even though you could do wonderful things with your tongue, it wasn't strong enough to completely unbuckle the belt, so you tried again, this time with your teeth, but there was not enough space for you to properly grab that stubborn spike. You huffed with annoyance and retreated for a moment, trying to come up with the best strategy.

Eventually, you got as close as possible to the buckle and grabbed the leather there with your teeth and pulled; it put more pressure around his waist, but less on the prong, to the point, that when you angled it correctly, you were able to dislodge the spike with your nose. You instantly let go of the belt, grabbed the prong with your teeth, and started pulling, eventually freeing the belt from the buckle. You would lie if you said that you weren't pleased with yourself, but you were far from done. 

When you looked up to see his reaction, there was a very tiny smile in the corner of his mouth, which meant that he was enjoying your struggles and desperation, so you dove right back in, this time giving your full attention to the button. You grabbed the material just next to it with your teeth and tried to pull it back on an angle to see if the button would be able to slip out on its own, but unfortunately, it didn't, so you pulled in the other direction, putting your tongue to good use. It took you a few tries, but eventually, you were able to push the button through and get to the zipper, which was the easiest part of the whole challenge. 

With your teeth you moved the now redundant material down and to the sides, exposing his pants, but you didn't remove it right away. Instead, you rubbed your cheeks over it, exposing a small wet patch of precum, over which you almost immediately closed your mouth, and started sucking, not caring that you were soaking his underwear. You chased his faint taste for over a minute, feeling him grow and harden under his pants, until the band was no longer flush with his abdomen, which almost instantly made you grin, but you didn't move it just yet. Instead, you traveled with your mouth down his shaft, until you got to the base. With the material already stretched around his length, it was hard to close your mouth around his balls, but after some maneuvering with your tongue, you were able to do so, and you started running your tongue over them, soaking the thin cotton even more. 

You chose this moment to look up again... Toto was lazily leaning back on the sofa, resting his head on the pillows. Even from this angle, you were able to tell that his lips were parted, and his breathing was much shallower than it was around fifteen minutes ago, but he still had full control over his reactions. His voice was steady, his thoughts were clear, and he was simply enjoying the ride you were taking him on. So, you slowly moved back up, grabbed the edge of the material with your teeth, and pulled it down, fully exposing his cock. 

Only now he reacted. He held the phone to his ear with his shoulder, and with both hands started gathering your hair into a ponytail, which he tied with a hairband that was permanently on his wrist just for this reason. He loved getting you messy, but he also knew that you hated when your hair was sticking to your face, so he was happy to compromise if that meant more blowjobs. With an innocent smile, he ran his thumb around your mouth, gathering the excess saliva you managed to smear, brought his finger to his lips, and licked it clean without breaking eye contact. You truly didn't know how the hell he managed to stay so collected, composed, and able to carry a conversation about the aerodynamics of the front wing, and you just knew it would take a while, so there was no reason for you to hurry. 

His pretty dark pink tip was almost begging you to close your lips around it and lick a drop of precum that already managed to gather on the top since you freed him, but instead of focusing on it, you placed a row of wet, sloppy kisses down the whole length until you reached the balls again. This time without any barrier, taking care of them was easy. With his cock pressed against your cheek, you focused on each one individually gently taking them in your mouth and slowly running your flattened tongue over them. You took your time carefully licking them, softly sucking, running your pointed tongue in the especially sensitive places. You even lifted them with your nose at one point and sucked on that soft spot just underneath. But as much as you loved playing with them, they weren't the main attraction, so you gave a few long licks from the base back to the tip, where you gathered the precum with your tongue and swallowed those few drops, enjoying the slightly salty and sweet taste. 

With your hands still behind your back, you loosely closed your mouth around the head. Without using much pressure, you ran your tongue over the tip, trying to scoop as much of the white fluid as you could, and only when there was nothing left, you started sucking. Gently at first, but soon it wasn't enough, so you closed your lips tighter and ran your tongue around the whole head in chase of his taste, flicking a few times on that specific sensitive spot. Careful not to accidentally scratch him with your teeth, you started moving a little bit lower, but not much; you wanted to have some fun too, after all. You could easily get him off much quicker, but that was not the point of this whole ordeal. It was about finding fun and pleasure within the rules. Well... Maybe pushing them just a little bit... 

You let your saliva run down his shaft, but you quickly followed and smeared it around, so your lips could slide easier up and down when you eventually decided that it was time for that. But for now, you came back up and let him slip out of your mouth for a moment, allowing the tip to catch on your lower lip and roll it down a little. And when you looked further up, the head of his cock slid over your chin. You couldn't help but smile when you saw the way he was looking at you, because there was no more powerful feeling than the knowledge you were being desired by the person your whole heart belonged to. 

Without breaking eye contact you gave a few short licks under the tip, tracing the edge of the head with your pointed tongue and then you finally dove down. You let his cock slide down your tongue only closing your lips around it in about half of the length. As much as you wanted to swallow it whole in one go, you knew your skills well enough to know that you still needed some preparation, especially without your hands acting as a buffer as you were getting more comfortable with him deeper. So, for now, you took your sweet time giving him a slow and sloppy blowjob, careful not to put too much pressure, because you didn't want your playtime to end too early. 

You knew Toto loved getting you messy, so besides taking him as deep as you currently could, you were also placing rows of wet kisses down his length letting the top part of his shaft smear your own saliva mixed with his precum around your mouth, cheeks, and chin. You knew you must have been a sight like that... With pure desperation and want in your beautiful doe eyes, face glistening from the wetness of your own doing, lips stretched around his girth and around three-quarters of his length buried in your throat. He just couldn't help himself and put his big hand on the back of your head. His touch made you inhale sharply, which with his cock breaching your throat made you choke, so you quickly retreated and gasped for air; you were just hoping that the microphone in his phone wasn't sensitive enough to catch it, because up until now, you managed to keep all the noises to the minimum. 

There were strings of drool connecting your lower lip to the tip of his cock, and you followed them, catching everything on your tongue and diving back in. This time you were prepared for his hand guiding you deeper than you would have gone on your own, so you timed your breathing accordingly, but then he pushed your head harder until your nose was smushed against his abdomen, and he kept you there. At first, you didn't mind, but with every passing second your heart started beating faster, because you realized that it was only a matter of time before you start to gag. You did your best to hold your breath for as long as possible. The tears slowly gathered in your eyes while you wordlessly begged him to let you go up for air, but he continued the conversation as if you weren't getting lightheaded with his dick completely sheathed in your throat. 

You were losing a battle with your own body, but you still didn't use your safety gesture, having complete trust that he wouldn't put you in any true danger. But eventually, your body lost and gasped for air. Only there was a foreign object blocking your airways, so you immediately started choking and gagging, producing a river of saliva that ran down your chin and soaked in the material of his trousers. After about five seconds of this torture, he pulled on your head roughly and when you looked at him all messed up, your face read, tears streaming from your eyes and covered in your own drool, he just smirked and raised an eyebrow in a silent question.

And just for a second, you hated yourself for how your body was reacting, because now not only your face was wet. You groaned and nodded, answering the unasked question. In response, he pointed his chin towards his foot, glanced at it for a very short moment, and you understood immediately what he meant, so you shimmied closer until you were able to grind on that place where his ankle met his shin, and when you rolled your hips for the first time, you just couldn't stop the breathy moan that left your mouth.

Instead of scolding you, he just guided you toward his cock again to silence you. This time he let you keep control over the tempo because you already got what he wanted from the previous interaction, but he didn't move his hand from your head; its heavy weight was weirdly giving you comfort. This time muscle memory took over and you instinctively relaxed your jaw and throat when slowly taking him deeper, but you were too horny and too greedy to toy with him, so you quickly picked up speed. It took you a good minute to find a good rhythm between moving your head and grinding your hips, but when you did, you started moving even quicker, not even realizing that Toto ended his phone call and threw his head back, fully enjoying what you were doing. Your hands were still behind your back, which he secretly admired and cataloged in his head for future use. 

You were so focused on chasing your own release, that you lost your balance for a second, which resulted in you gagging again, but you were so close that you didn't care and allowed your throat to spasm around his cock and buried your face in his pubic hair, now focusing only on grinding your hips in erratic movements. You were so desperate to cum that you didn't care that you couldn't breathe and that you were in pain, so when Toto grabbed you roughly by the hair and pulled you back, you cried out loud, because you wanted... no, needed that to cum. You wanted to protest, to argue that you were a good girl, that you followed instructions just so he could let you finish with your mouth closed around his beautiful cock, but before you managed to say a word, you felt the first load of his cum landing on your cheek. And then another... And another. Until almost your whole face was painted with his sticky, warm release. 

You didn't realize that you closed your eyes, so completely lost this near the edge so you yelped in surprise when he angled his foot up, putting more pressure on your clit, and you resumed grinding almost instantly, now focusing only on chasing your own orgasm. You didn't even know when, but you wrapped your arms around his leg as you were helplessly humping it like an animal in heat, without a drop of care about what others would think if they saw you like that. Because all that mattered was what Toto thought, and the adoration in his eyes when you were so broken and vulnerable, with all the inhibition thrown out the window told you everything you needed to know. 

He leaned down and started gathering his own cum from your face with his tongue, and when he got enough, his hand traveled from the back of your head to your throat, where he put pressure on your artery, cutting the supply of oxygenated blood to your brain. He didn't have to tell you to open your mouth, because you were breathing heavily so close to orgasm, so he was able to latch onto them and through a sloppy kiss, feed you the first portion of his load, but you barely registered the familiar taste. He didn't even wait for you to swallow before he went back to gather more. And then again. Until there was nothing left on your face, and you were able to look at him without fear of cum dripping into your eyes. Your pupils were blown wide open from the arousal and the lack of oxygen; you were so close... You just needed...

- You can cum... - he said just as he released the grip on your throat, allowing a fresh wave of oxygen to flood and overload your brain. You came almost immediately after he said those words. Your eyes rolled back into your skull when a wave of intense pleasure rushed through your body and pulled you under the surface, but your hips rolled a few more times without your control until you drenched Toto's food and the carpet underneath with your release. His low chuckle reached you in the darkness of the semi-consciousness you were currently wrapped in. Your still twitching body was leaning on his leg, with your arms tightly wrapped around his knee, your torso bent and your head resting on his clothed thigh. You were breathing heavily, and you had to close your eyes again, still processing what just happened.

The first thing you consciously registered was a familiar, slightly salty taste on your tongue and a faint smile crawled onto your lips, while you gently rubbed your cheek over the material of his trousers, grounding yourself back in reality. And when you eventually did, you looked up at the love of your life with a silent request in your eyes. You didn't have to say anything more, because just as you relaxed your arms and reached for him, he was already reaching to pull you up onto his lap, not caring about the mess you made from his clothes, the couch, and the carpet. In the end, it didn't matter, it all could be cleaned or replaced, but you... There was not a chance there was another creature in this world so perfectly made for him. 

You rested your head on his chest, right under his chin, while his hands were tracing unrecognizable shapes over your body. Eventually, your breathing calmed down and you could no longer feel your heartbeat in the tiniest parts of your body, so you closed your eyes just for a moment, allowing yourself to enjoy his closeness, his touch, his scent, which was what kept you awake in the first place. So, when that need was satisfied, it wasn't long before your exhausted and pushed to an extreme body drifted right back to sleep, in the environment your mind considered as the safest in the world. 

Your consciousness resurfaced just once, when no part of him was touching you, and you groaned in protest, slowly realizing that he carried you back to bed and laid you in it.

- Don't leave me... - you whispered so quietly, that in your still fogged-up mind, you weren't sure if he heard it. But the shifting weight on the mattress behind you told you that he did.

- Never... - he placed a soft kiss right behind your ear, as he got closer, so his now naked torso pressed against your back, and his arms wrapped tightly around you. - I love you. - you heard just before you drifted away again, but it was too late for you to reply. 

Normally he wouldn't be caught dead in bed this late in the morning, but it was what you required, and he would always take care of you in any and every way you needed, no matter how twisted or soft. 

A/N 2: Please don’t feel obligated/pressured to reblog, because I write mostly for myself. A comment would be appreciated though :) Love, G.

[tokiwarcube]

Could I request general dating headcanons for skwisgaar and/or pickles? (What they're like in a relationship, ect) I'm literally so in love with them it's not even funny (Especially Skwisgaar)

Absolutely!! <3 Skwisgaar below the cut, with Pickles to follow sometime this week <3 enjoy!

Nathan HERE ; Pickles HERE ; Toki HERE ; Murderface HERE ; Charles HERE

I feel like Skwisgaar is a little guarded at first, but beneath it all he really craves love and affection. Some of it comes from a difficulty to express himself; part of it comes from a deep-rooted fear of rejection; and yet another part of it comes from a disbelief in the concept of love itself. It’s tricky.

This is all to say that does indeed fall first, but he won’t actually realize that himself until he’s in too deep to get out.

There’s these little things that you do that just send his brain haywire, and for a while, he just can’t wrap his head around it all. Like how reach for his hand beyond the purview of flashing cameras; how you press fleeting kisses against his temple over afternoon coffee; how you laugh so openly at his jokes; how you compliment him on things other than his guitar skills or prowess in bed… it absolutely boggles his mind, and he can’t get enough of it.

Once he’s really and truly comfortable though, he settles back into his suave and flirty self. If you disregard the general headassery, that is.

He really does have a fantastic sense of humor. Whenever he cracks a joke his eyes will dart over to you to take in your reaction. He also likes to murmur jokes against your lips when you kiss, just to feel you smile and laugh under your breath.

He also likes to lean down to murmur things in your ear at the fancier, obligatory parties. Sometimes its jokes, sometimes its snarky remarks about the venue and attendees, sometimes it’s flirts about how damn hot you look, and how the two of you should bail.

He loves to press smiling kisses to your wrist, and will take almost any excuse to touch you. Straightening your clothes, brushing away stray eyelashes, etc. He also very much enjoys having you in his lap, and will pull you into him at any opportunity. Yes, he can play like that.

He also just likes being near you. He can and will tell people to move so he can sit next to you, and he’ll contort himself through crowds to stand at your side when out on the town. It’s not an uncommon sight for reporters to catch you two in public, with his hand on the small of your back, or around your shoulders.

Skwisgaar is a total fucking diva as well, if that wasn’t obvious. He takes immaculate, and I mean immaculate, care of his hair. Do not take up his offers for shower sex, because there will never be enough hot water for him to do his hair routine afterwards. He says that he’s “not affecteds by the colds,” but it’s a complete lie, and he will be complaining about it afterwards.

In that same vein though… he loves having his hair played with. He’ll never admit it — especially not in front of anyone but you — but it’s one of his favorite things. You can tell in the way that his shoulders droop, eyes fluttering as he leans into you. How he’ll grab your hand and put it back if you stop. At some point or another the two of you form this habit, where he’ll lay his head in your lap at night so you can run your fingers through his locks. There’s very few times where Skwisgaar isn’t stressing himself out over his skills or an upcoming album, and this? This is one of those moments of reprieve. It also helps a lot with the insomnia that stems from all the stressors in his life.

(He has, however, woken up with a few braids in his hair that go unnoticed… until one of the boys points it out and makes fun of him. He still crawls into your lap at the end of the night, anyways.)

You’re the only one he’ll let do his corpsepaint before shows. If you ask he’ll always tell you something to the effect of how “these dildos amns’t know what they’re doings,” and that he “can’t risk injurings his hands” before he goes on stage, but you know he just likes having your undivided attention. You might have to kiss him a few times to get him to stop talking, though.

(No, he does not tell you when the paint smears onto your lips. Yes, he does grin when he sees paparazzi photos of you two at the after-party, paint still clinging to your lips. No, he will not apologize. Yes, it will happen again.)

He is indeed a jealous man, and it takes a lot of reassurance to sate him. It stems from that aforementioned fear of rejection, and subsequent abandonment. It’s not that he doesn’t trust you, it’s was just such a trend growing up with his mother that it’s hard to push it to the side. And unfortunately, for the few few months — if not years— he… doesn’t really want to talk about it. He will vehemently deny any jealousy the moment it’s even implied, but his angsty huffs and rapid sweep picking gives him away. Instead, show him how much you love him. He gets better about it with time, but for now, this is enough to put him back on the level.

Similarly, Skwisgaar tends to beat himself up pretty bad about his performance at shows. If a single note was flubbed, regardless of whether or not anyone caught it, he will be beating himself up about it for the rest of the night. Please reassure him, and do not let him get drunk at the afterparty. He will be the saddest drunk you’ve ever seen in your life, and carrying such a tall man back into bed is no easy feat, even if he does weigh 5lbs soaking wet.

On a happier note…

He’s usually a very clingy drunk. He’s already a bit handsy as is, but under the influence? He’s a limp noodle, slurring words of adoration between upturned lips.

He remembers all of your favorites, and the way you take your drinks. He always brings a matching mug over to you when he gets himself a new cup of coffee in the afternoon morning, and always seems to know exactly what you want whenever you’re hungry.

He does indeed write songs for you, and you catch little glimpses of them in progress when he’s “practicing.” Scales and string skips give rise to quiet melodies, changing just a fraction with each run through. When he finally plays the whole song for you, there’s no words, but the emotion in the chords say more than lyrics — more than an endless novel — ever could. Every song that follows the first is just as meaningful, too. But when the lights are low and you’re resting in each-others hold those same notes always come to the forefront of your mind, plucking I love you from the strings.

[gremlin-girly]

Kinktober Day 11

Kink: Manhandling, enemies AND lovers

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Captain America x Villain!f!Reader

warnings: SMUT, p-in-v, mahandling, a smidge of fluff, praise + pet names (good girl), mentions of rough sex, biting/marking, a little bit of a confession if you squint, creampie

Not beta'd and obligatory on mobile!

summary: You and Steve have played this game before; you go about your hero/villain duties and then in the dark of the night you scratch the itch that only the other can soothe. However, this time it's a slightly different.

word count:

A/N: I have a WIP for a villain series underway but I just love a good hero x villain dynamic (they're also so sassy and angsty I just melt). No one speak to me as I have 10 + Kinktober drafts that I'm trying to edit haha - Love, Grem x

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“I knew you’d come.” You don’t even have to look up from your perch to know that Captain America, or as you so deftly nicknamed him Little Stevie, was standing in your doorway. It had only been a matter of time before he’d appear to arrest you and you had planned for it. You sipped at your red wine precariously, ensuring not to spill a drop over your expensive, white, silk and lace camisole.

You didn’t even look up from the book you were reading and you knew it irked him when you didn’t pay attention to him.

“the authorities are on their way.” He says stoically, statuesque in the golden light of your table lamp.

You click your tongue and huff, still not looking up. “And we both know I won’t spend a night in jail.”

“Maybe so. But you’ll be arrested.”

Now you look over at him. Raised eyebrow and a charismatic smirk that would make any other man melt but Steve stands in the doorway, hands on his belt and frowning slightly. It makes you want him all the more.

“really now?” You  tease, tilting your head mockingly. “and what are you doing here then? If the cops are on their way, as you so say, there’s no need for you. Unless...”

Your eyes narrow, smirk growing as you shift in your seat. Steve’s eyes flicker downward towards your cleavage ever so briefly you’re almost sure you’ve imagined it. He clears his throat.

“I didn’t want you to get away.”

“Again.” You smile.

Steve smiles wryly back. “Yeah, again.”

You chuckle softly. His voice carries a deeper meaning that you both know to be true; you both want to fuck each other again. The first time it happened was an accident; as accidental as two people on opposite sides having sex can be.

 You’d been celebrating at a hotel after a recent skirmish with the Avengers and Steve had tracked you, all by his lonesome, to try and be the hero and save the day. It had worked, in a way. He’d barged into your room. You’d thrown one of the stupidly tiny coffee mugs at him but he dodged it – lucky bastard – and grabbed your wrists before turning you around and holding them firmly against your back. You’d wriggled and kicked and – in fairness to Steve – he had warned you before he pinned you face down onto the bed. You both just didn’t expect to like it so much.

Perhaps the exhaustive, tense day you’d both had made you want to let off some steam; baseline instinct taking over when he’d flipped you over and kissed you roughly. Or when you chewed at his bottom lip and wrapped your legs around his waist.  Maybe it was that instinct that made him pick you up and hook his strong arms under your knees while he fucked into you and maybe it was that instinct that had made you come so hard over his cock you saw stars.

Regardless of whatever it was, it became a repeating occurrence.

Oh, the Avengers were coming to stop your goons? You’d make plans to be there at the same time as your favourite Captain. To smile and wink as you got off scot free and to irritate Steve knowing full well you’d both meet at a hotel somewhere incognito later in the night to fuck your brains out; rougher if you’d teased him in front of the team.

However, coming to your house was... new. And you can’t not comment on it.

“This is your first time at my home,” you say, setting down your wine and closing over your book. “You never come here.”

Steve’s jaw tenses and you smirk.

“Ah. So, what, you missed me, little Stevie?” you coo at him, hoping to get a rise. “Want one last ride before I go on my merry little way?”

Steve grumbles low in his throat; half way between a growl of frustration and a sigh of resignation. So he had missed you. You get to your feet, discarding your book without a care. Lace frills tickled at your thighs as you stood before Steve, leaning back against the sofa and folding your arms under your chest, making Steve’s eyes drift again. You grin.

“Well?” you press, secretly hoping that this time he’ll admit that he likes you, not just fucking you senseless. Because, let’s face it, he’s Steve Rogers; he could have anyone he wanted and he wants you. The one person he should stay away from. He’d put others down like dogs when he had to, but you? Never you. It almost made you want to be good. In more ways than one – just for him.

Steve doesn’t respond verbally. He sighs, shoulders sagging and strides towards you. He picks you up effortlessly, throwing you over his shoulder , something you’ve come to expect so you don’t squeak or yelp only giggle; giggling like you’ve won the best damn prize at the fairground and Steve loves to hate it. You appreciatively oggle his ass in his tac gear as he moves into the hallway; another sight you’ve come to love. He stops.

“Bedroom.” He states lowly. “Where?”

“Woah there Captain Caveman,” you tease, opening your mouth to continue when Steve’s rough hand grips at your asscheek hard, making you gasp.

“where?” He asks again.

“up the stairs, first door on the left.” You say breathily, squeaking and clawing your nails into Steve’s back as he ascends the stairs at a ridiculously inhuman pace. Your bedroom door swings open as Steve kicks it and your half sure a hinge has snapped. Steve hurls you onto your bed and you bounce roughly across your satin sheets. Steve’s on top of you before you even have a chance to draw in a breath, kissing you hungrily and trailing down your throat.

“How long until the cops arrive?” You manage to get out, eyes fluttering closed as Steve’s lips tease at the swell of your right breast, just above the lace frill.

“Long enough,” is his gruff reply. Steve makes little work tugging down the front of the camisole. He knows better than to rip your expensive lingerie but only after you sent the bill for the Venetian panties he ruined to the Avengers compound. That was a long week for Steve. He still hadn't lived it down - thankfully, you'd left the note anonymous.

When your breasts are exposed Steve's mouth is all over them; kissing and sucking at the flesh in the way you like it. Your hands rake his soft hair from his face to better watch as he rolls his tongue around a nipple. Your back arches when you moan and Steve nips at your skin, chasing kisses all the way back up to your lips. Your lips greet his passionately, desperately. Both of your moans muffled by the other.

"Stevie," You pant, cupping his cheeks in your palms as you both look at eachother's eyes and lips. "I need you."

Steve sits back, undoing his belt hurriedly as you shuffle out of your panties. Something about the race against the clock, had you both running hotter than usual. Once Steve's belt is undone, he doesn't bother removing it, immediately getting to work on the zipper and buttons. Your hand is already reaching through the opening he's created, palming his heated length through his boxers. Steve's head tilts down with a soft curse, watching your hand gently free his cock and pump it a few times before lining him up with your needy core.

Steve shuffles closer, letting you guide him into you, palms splaying either side of your head onto the silky satin pillowcases. Your legs hook over his hips, pulling him closer, further into you. You take in a shaky inhale as he fills you to the brim and you watch Steve’s eyes flutter with a smug smirk.

"We're against the clock, Stevie." You murmur to him, wrapping an arm around his neck as his elbows buckle. "As much as I would love to take my time here - I think you should fuck me senseless."

"Fuck," Steve huffs into your ear. His cock twitches inside of you before his hips start to move. It's erratic at first; desperate and wild thrusts that have you tearing at his tactical gear, your legs squeezing him closer and closer. Steve raises his head to kiss you, slowly finding a rythymn with his thrusts that make you keen into his mouth.

The tip of his cock smacks that sweet spot that makes your cunt clench around him. You heave breaths as you break from another passionate kiss, holding onto Steve's shoulders tightly as you cum. You see Steve looking down at you, watching your half-lidded expression closely.

It’s if something changes, his usually stoic and rough demeanour is replaced with something softer.

“You are so beautiful,” He huffs between thrusts, cheeks growing red. He seems almost bashful, not like the cold, hard Captain you’d been fucking for almost two months. Your expression is equally soft and flustered both from your orgasm and the compliment.

Steve had never complimented you. He'd be dominant, rough and you'd be coy and teasing. Sleepovers weren't common either. You had assumed that this was stress relief for Steve. You had hoped it was just stress relief for you.

Steve doesn't say anything unless he means it and you know he means it. You can see he means it. And it makes your pussy clench around his cock harder as you blush beneath him. He continues to pound into you, guiding you from one orgasm to the next quickly.

"So are you, Stevie." You manage to tell him sincerely, pecking at his lips. "My golden boy."

“Shit, why- why do you have to feel so good?” Steve curses, his head resting against yours, panting gently.

You smirk against his lips. “Are you really complaining about how good my pussy feels, Stevie?”

Steve growls in response and you giggle. Teasing him would never not be fun for you. But when Steve’s teeth graze the nape of your neck you melt, muffling a whimper into the hard chest of his suit. Steve hears it and it drives him wild, his thrusts becoming hard again, driving into you as he gently bites at your flesh.

You cum over his cock as he marks you, the thought of being marked by your so-called enemy; especially with one with so much valour and a representative of good like Captain America, made you insatiable.

"Oh, you like that?" Steve murmurs, kissing the shell of your ear. "You like being marked by me?"

The sounds of your moans intermingle with his thrusts and your eyes roll. You're on cloud nine, maybe even ten, you would let him get away with anything. Then, a thought occurs to you. Steve continues with praises, scolding you for being a brat but you realise something that would push him over the edge.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to look deeply into his eyes as he fucks you before murmuring,

“You want me to be a good girl for you, Stevie?”

Steve's eyes almost turn black and there's a stutter to his thrusting. You smirk up at him, but there's a look in your eyes that say there's a sliver of something more; like you're offering something else entirely.

"Yes." Steve pants. "Yes I want that."

There's a beat of silence and you're both watching eachother, trying to decipher what kind of moment you've just had.

"Maybe we can talk about it over dinner." You suggest, pressing your lips against his; this time more slowly, savouring the taste of him. Steve hums, covering his mouth with yours and exploring your mouth with his tongue. There's a definite shift in how his hips roll into yours languidly; no more scolding, no more marking.

No more Captain.

You're fucking Steve Rogers - and you're adoring every sweet kiss he peppers against your skin, the tenderness of his gaze and how softly he murmurs compliments to you. You adore it so much, you don't realise you're about to cum until it crashes over you, your pussy grasping his cock tightly when you call out his name. Your hands move to the back of his head, pulling him closer to your lips.

"I love how you look when you cum over my cock," He murmurs to you, his thrusts speeding up. You struggle to keep your legs tight over his hips, his ridiculous utility belt digging into your calf painfully, but his words make you whine into his neck.

"You should see how you look when I'm on top," You quip, nipping at his ear to making him growl. "Your cheeks go such a nice shade of pink."

As if on cue, Steve's face flushes and you chuckle. "Just like that," You whisper, kissing him again.

His thrusts don't become wild and erratic like they usually do before he cums. This time they're hard but precise, finding that sweet spot that makes your cunt squeeze him tight.

"Oh fuck - oh, Steve," you moan in warning as you feel yourself on the edge of cumming again.

Steve muffles you yet again with another kiss, hitching an arm under your thigh and drawing it back giving a deeper angle to your cunt. You cry out, the pleasure overwhelming. Steve feels it too, the new angle allowing him somehow deeper into your tight, wet hole makes him shudder and after a few deep thrusts and you cumming over his cock again, he's spent his load inside of you with a gasp of your name.

"Fuck, sweetheart," Steve groans, his cock twitching as he stills inside of you. Steve pants, giving himself all but thirty seconds to recover before tucking himself back into his suit, and checking his watch. He gives you a half apologetic - half cheeky smile.

"Two minutes to spare," He says, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he climbs from the bed. You lie sprawled, flushed, and fucked-out on the bed. You hadn't been expecting this tonight.

"Ooh, how lucky." You say sarcastically, rolling onto your side, watching him stand in front of you with his hands on his stupid belt again. Your one arm is supporting your head, the other lazily resting across your waist, and you don't need Steve to tell you that you look like a damn succubus waiting for him again.

"Shouldn't you be getting dressed?" He asks, raising an eyebrow. "Uh... cleaned up?"

You smirk back at him, pretending to look at something under your nails. "Oh I didn't tell you? The warrant was voided."

Steve looks aghast and you smile wider. You tap your temple before he can begin to form a response.

"My lawyers called about an hour before you got here. Something about evidence being lost or whatever." You wave a hand dismissively, knowing damn well that that you had paid handsomely for the pigs on your payroll; and for once they had done something right. The evidence of your involvement in a high profile was all but lost, but you knew Steve couldn't resist bringing you in or warning you about some big case. You thought it might have just been a good-bye blow out; not something that had you considering a change in career.

"Now, dinner first or shall we start round two?"

[tadpolesonalgae]

Dark!Eris x reader: Bruises and Burn Marks[***]

Summary: you and your husband own a small flower shop that also sells some baked goods on the weekends.

Warnings: Noncon, spitting, degradation, spanking, light bondage, heavy sexual assault.

The bell rings as someone enters your shop, and you go to greet them, grabbing the bouquet of dried plants you were attempting to tie together as you bring them into the front. Your eyes pick him out immediately. He looks a little out of place in the worn and comfy shop.

The male wears tailored corduroy trousers, the colour of the autumn maple leaves in the back garden. Over his torso is a crisp linen shirt, hardly a fold to be seen, absolutely immaculate. Over top that, is a dusty red waistcoat sewn from jacquard fabric, the subtle indentation of curled leaves splaying across the beautifully elegant material. It fits him perfectly, clothes tailored down to his ankles and wrists. Pristine.

“Welcome!” You greet, cataloguing the fine clothes, the lone ring that sets his thumb—an heirloom, perhaps?—his perfectly coiffed hair looking silky as it cascades over his broad shoulders. “Is there anything in particular I can help you with today, sir?” You offer a small curtsy, dipping your head as you place him as a probable member of the aristocracy. He’ll likely be searching for a courting gift, or an obligatory present for an evening soirée.

“I shall summon you if necessary.” Is all he replies, whiskey and caramel eyes skating over your figure and returning to the menagerie of mostly dried plants. You swallow down a sigh. Males like him can be…tricky. You clear your throat, plastering on a bright smile, “either I or my husband, Wilbur, will be happy to aid you, sir.” And with that you return to your counter, tying the dried stems together before wrapping them in some brown paper.

When you’ve finished, your eyes flick to the clock on the wall, marking the hour as noon, making you smile. Lunch time. You pull out the cloth from beneath your desk, taking it with you as you head for the back door that will take you to the garden. You hesitate, before turning over your shoulder to peer at the male. You steel your spine as you walk over to him, stopping an appropriate distance away, and wait for him to take notice of you.

Seconds tick by, and he continues perusing. You inhale a calming breath, praying your stomach doesn’t rumble in the silence. When he reaches forward to lift up a pre-wrapped bouquet, you clear your throat. Only after he’s examined it, and returned it to it’s place do his whiskey eyes cut to your figure. You paste on a polite smile that he doesn’t return—not that you expected someone like him to. “I thought you might like to know we also have an assortment of pastries on the floor above, if it takes your fancy, sir.”

“Is that all?” He replies, his tone sharp, displaying his irritation. You smile, dipping your head as you take your exit, understanding the dismissal.

You ease a sigh of relief as you close the back door behind you, the crisp autumn air clearing your mind as it breezes through the garden. You inhale deeply before walking across to the maple near the back, a delightful splash of colour beneath the cloudy sky. It looks like it’ll rain later. You can smell it in the air.

Taking a seat beneath the maple, positioning yourself on one of the large roots that protrudes from the earth, you open up your lunch: some crackers, an apple, and some cheese. Perfect snack. You pull out your pocket knife, and begin slicing the fruit, laying it atop the cheese to avoid softening the cracker.

You’ve finished preparing your meal, raising the first to your mouth, when a series of knocks are landed on your ears. You flinch, dropping the cracker, startled. Another rap of knuckles sounds, and you twist, panicked in case it’s Wilbur. Instead you’re met with the sharp whisky eyes of the aristocrat from earlier. His brows are narrowed in distaste as he takes in you clearly un-working form. You beam up at him, gesturing to your lunch, informing him you’re temporarily off the clock. He’ll know to seek out your husband instead. He should be downstairs anyway.

The male disappears from the window and you smile to yourself, glad you won’t have to deal with him. Yet not even a minute later, the back door is opening, creaking loudly on its hinges, and you wince. You’ve told Wilbur countless times he needs to be careful with that door or else it’s snap off one day. You huff, turning to scold him, but your breath catches. The aristocrat is highlighted in the doorway, appearing to be scowling at the earth, considering the trouble of dirtying his shoes.

His clearly displeased gaze lowers to yours, and the hairs at the back of your neck rise—something integral warning you from him. But you sigh, fold up your untouched lunch and hurriedly make your way over to him. He’s stood atop the step that leads back inside, so you have to crane your neck to look at him. “This area is off limits to customers, I’m afraid, sir.” You offer him an apologetic smile as you move to guide him back inside, but he remains locked where he is.

“You’re being paid to work. Not to take breaks.”

You blink, startled at the affront. It’s pretty clear you’re having lunch. You swallow the words down, again giving him a sweet smile, “was my husband not around?”

“It’s your job to serve me, as the customer.” He emphasises the last word, eyes piercing down at you. You clear your throat, a little annoyed. “I take my lunch break at noon,” you supply, “I assumed that would be clear, and that my husband would be perfectly capable of attending to you, sir. Could you not locate him?” His brow narrows in distaste, and he sighs as if the conversation is a waste of precious time. “It is not my job to seek out your husband. Neither you, for that matter.” His eyes flick over your shoulder, to where your garden lays behind you.

To your astonishment, he brushes past you, pushing you aside as if you were a curtain. You splutter, turning on your feet as you stumble after him, caught off guard. “Sir,” you call, “sir, this section is not accessible to customers. If you will allow me to serve you, we can go back inside and—” He continues walking, coming to a stop by your flower bed.

“These will do.” He gestures to the rose bush. You shake your head, “they aren’t for sale.” His eyes blaze with ire, but his expression remains bland. “I will take seven.” Your lips part in surprise. Then you steel your spine, straightening as you stare the aristocrat down, “kindly take your leave. This area is off limits to you, and if you refuse I will have to call my husband.” Males take other males more seriously. It’s what you resent about those aristocrats, how unfair it is, but he’ll leave at the reminder that Wilbur is inside the shop.

“If your husband so much as touches me, I will have him beheaded.” You fight against the urge to roll your eyes at his arrogant narcissism. “That is not within your power as an aristocrat.” You fail in keeping the bite out of your voice. “…Sir.”

His lip curls at the edge, “I aid in ruling over this kingdom. It is well within my jurisdiction.” You scoff, folding your arms over your chest in indignation, “you certainly aren’t the High Lord. So unless you expect me to believe you’re his eldest son, I will ask you one final time to leave.” You don’t bother with his title at the end.

Something flashes in his whiskey eyes as he extends his hand toward you. Showing his ring, you realise.

Shit.

You recognise the Autumn Court insignia engraved into the precious stone. The heirloom of the royal family.

“That’s better,” he drawls, pulling his hand back to him is you stare. You’re certain the blood has drained from your face. He could have you killed if he wants to. He could have your shop disassembled. He could have Wilbur murdered. You hurriedly dip into a deep curtsy, “I’m sorry, my Lord. I had no idea—”

“Do you even know my name?” You stare at the tips of his polished shoes, hurriedly scrambling through your memory for— “look at me.”

You raise your eyes from the ground, resuming an ordinary standing position. His darkened eyes cut into yours, and you fight against the urge to take a step back. He waits, expectantly, as the silence draws out.

Eventually, you have to say something, if only to ease the tension in your chest. “I’m afraid I cannot summon it at the current moment,” you try. His brow narrows in displeasure that borders on anger as he holds out his hand, expectantly. You look at it, dumbfounded. His lip curls as he snatches up your wrist, pulling you a little too close for your liking.

Where’s Wilbur?

His fingers strangle the bone of your arm, painfully, making you wince. “Say it when you remember.”

You stare at him, a mix between horror and curiosity in your gaze. Then his palm starts warming. Your eyes dart to his fingers, and then you tug away as it begins to heat. You wince, beginning to struggle. His hand grows hotter and you hiss, thrashing. “Let go,” you panic, staring up at him with pleading eyes. His eyes narrow, “wrong.”

Horror unfurls in your chest, diving down into dread. You let out a yelp as his palm heats again, a stinging sensation beginning to set in.

You claw at his fingers, attempting to pry them away. A scream bursts from your lips as it feels like flame is licking against your skin. His name. What is his name?

“Vanserra!” You gasp, and his hold lessens a little, heat cooling. You breathe hard, vision blurring at the side. “And my name?” He asks, and you can practically see the spark in his eye at your stiffness. You can’t remember it. His palm begins heating again and you scream, moving to kick him but his free hand wraps around your throat. He doesn’t squeeze, but you can already feel the heat begin to build.

“Eris,” you gasp, eyes widening. “Eris Vanserra.”

He seems a little disappointed you remembered. The looks sends a shiver spider-walking down your spine. Nevertheless, he releases you, and you stumble back, collapsing into the ground, your ass hitting the floor as your hands land behind you. Small tears gather at the edge of your vision as pain sings through your wrist and you cup it.

The skin’s rougher where he touched you. No obvious marking, but enough you would always know where it lies, even if everyone else will be blind to it.

That was your first encounter with Eris Vanserra. Your future High Lord.

————

From then on, it’s seems like he’s making a point of stopping in every month to collect a bouquet. Each visit is just as unpleasant as the last, if not worse, and you begin dreading opening the store. Your dream shop, the one your husband had helped you pull together, supporting you all the way, learning about botany until he knew more than you, just so things would run smoothly when the time came.

And now you resent it. All because of him.

It’s been nearly a year since his first visit, and nearly a month since his most recent one. So he’ll be in any day now. It’s enough to make the usual smile fade from your lips, and you wrap your hand around your right wrist, cupping it to your chest self-consciously.

Now it’s nearly midday, and he hasn’t made an appearance. Maybe you’re safe for today. But then the bell rings and you stiffen. You ease a heavy breath when another male enters. It’s not the hateful Vanserra.

You pull a smile to your lips, delivering the usual greeting, “welcome! May I assist you in any way?” His eyes run over your form, then back up to your eyes. He nods. You flash him a bright smile, getting up from your stool as you make your way over to him. “What in particular are you looking for, sir?” He shifts to look at some of the dried flowers, sparked with colour. You debate taking a step back, but the male pulls away, seemingly sensing your discomfort.

“My father is throwing a celebration for his wife, as it’s their anniversary,” he elaborates. Warmth rushes your chest, “that’s marvellous! How long have they been together?” You inquire, already sifting through the possibilities that your small shop might offer. “It’s their second century. Though they both insist they’re one more day away from tearing each other apart.” He laughs, smiling back at you. You chuckle along with him, wondering at a love that could last for so long. You can only hope you and Wilbur share the same.

Something shifts in his features as he looks over you again. “Are you alone right now?” A hint of discomfort tugs in your gut at the question, and you remove your eyes from his intent gaze. You clear your throat, “actually, my husband and I have been married for about nine years. Our ten year anniversary will be a month from now in the following year.”

“I beg your pardon,” he laughs, dipping his head, “I meant do you have additional assistance in the shop. Or do you run this business by yourself?”

Oh. You relax a little.

“Ah! Sorry, my mistake. My husband is currently on his lunch break, so we’ll swap when he returns. He helps out a lot—more or less enabled the entire shop coming together.” You twist the golden band around your ring finger, a faint smile lifting the edges of your mouth. “Ah, so he gives you the financial support, and you repay him in bed,” he laughs, gently, chuckling to himself. Your brows dip as you blink, but the bell rings again, and his familiar scent breezes through the door.

You turn, forcing a smile to your lips. “Welcome! I can be with you in a moment.” You refuse to look at him a moment longer, even as you can feel his glare searing between your shoulder blades at possibly the rudest dismissal you’ve ever given him. You can picture the way his lip curls, before he ascends the stairs.

You panic slightly. Your husband isn’t there to serve at the small bakery, so you’ll need to wrap this up quick before he throws a tantrum as has one of you beheaded.

“Who was that?” Your attention returns to the male, his keen eyes dragging over your stiff shoulders. You sigh, heavily, “no one. Just a pompous, arrogant male who likes to bother this shop.”

“You’re scared of him.” You still, eyes flicking up to the male’s. “Please, your hands are trembling.” You look down, to find your fingers are indeed shaking. You tuck them behind yourself. “He’s…worrying.” You admit. “I feel like he’ll pounce at the first chance he gets to have me or my husband thrown in jail or beheaded.” You phrase it as joke, but it comes out with a bit too much sincerity.

You swallow, turning back to the male. “Anyway, I’m sorry about his gloomy presence. But I should really go and attend to him, before he…you know.” You make to walk away but the male holds you gently by your wrist. Your right wrist. You flinch, feeling that stinging sing beneath your skin.

And then he yanks you close, his mouth opening over your own, arm wrapping around your waist as he pulls you tight against his hips; walking you back to the counter. You freeze for a moment, stark shock splintering through you as his tongue pushes in.

He pulls away, and shoves his hand over your mouth to keep you from screaming. “I take it you don’t want me to repeat what I’ve heard back to him, then?” He hisses, so close you can feel his breath fan over your cheeks. You manage a weak shake of your head. “So you’ll be good, and do as I need, yes?”

Your legs nearly give out. Your eyes flicker to the clock. Wilbur should be back in ten minutes. Ten minutes. Suddenly it seems far too long. But if he leaves earlier to get back on time, it should be five. It’s still too long. He loosens his grip on your mouth. “My husband—”

“Will not be able to do anything about it,” he snarls softly. You open your mouth to protest but he spins you around, forcefully bending you over the counter.

His hands bury in your skirts as he hitches them up over your thighs, until he’s got a nice view of your ass, only a thin slip of fabric hiding you from him. “Please,” you hiss, “don’t do this.” His hand fists in your hair, yanking you up from the desk, straining on your throat.

But then he’s pulled away, and you slump down onto the counter. You push up quickly, shoving your skirts down as you hear the male snarl at the force he was ripped away from you with. Tears well at the edges of your eyes as you turn to see your husband—

Eris has his hand wrapped around the male’s throat. From the pained snarls, you know the flame that’s encasing the sensitive skin, fingers brushing over your wrist. “What were you doing?” Eris’ voice slices through the silence, commanding and authoritative. “Just a bit of fun,” the male rasps, eyes sliding to yours, “weren’t we?” You remember the threat he’d made, about repeating your foolishly careless words back to him.

Blades of ice cut into you as you meet Eris’ stony gaze. “It’s true,” you manage, voice cracking. You swallow, a neutral expression settling over your features, “a bit of fun.” The male nods along with you. And then they disappear. Like they’d never even been there in the first place.

You blink, looking around, as if they’ve moved to another part of the room, but it’s unnervingly silent. You don’t waste a second. You stumble forward, flipping the sign in the door, shifting it to Closed, before you’re wobbling hastily up the stairs, hardly keeping your tears in.

You pass the bakery, and head up the next flight of stairs, the ones that will lead you to you and your husband’s shared rooms. Your home. Wet droplets land on your hands as they fumble with the keys that will lead you to your safe space, managing to turn them and place them back inside your pocket.

A presence looms behind you.

You scream as you’re spun round, body on high alert. Eris glares down at you, eyes containing frozen fury. You smack your hands over your mouth, silencing yourself. His shadow spills onto you, casting you in slight darkness. “What was that?” He growls lowly, and you can feel the heat radiating from his palms, surely searing the door.

You’re rooted to the spot, trembling as your hands grapple for the handle. You manage to push it down, the door giving way behind you as you stumble backward, trying to escape him. He gives chase, entering your home as you desperately attempt to reach your bedroom, the only other door that has a lock.

He catches your right wrist, jerking you to a stop as you’re flung round, as if in the middle of a dance. You prepare to scream, to claw, to run from his burning hands, but he pulls you against him. He’s not gentle in his movements, though they’re refined and elegant even in the midst of his rage. “What the hell was that?” He snarls again, hand fisting in your hair as he forces you to look up at him. “Why did you let him put his hands on you? What the fuck were you thinking?”

Tears spill from your eyes as you try to pull away from him, and you don’t think twice about it when he lets you, quietly stalking behind you as you race to your bedroom. You slam the door shut, and slide the lock into place, backing away until you hit something hard.

You scream when you find him stood behind you, and he surges forward, slamming you against the door. “Get off me!” You shout, attempting to push at his chest. He snarls, the sound thundering through your room. “Answer the damned question. Why did you let him put his hands on you?”

“I didn’t!” You scream at him, tears rolling as you tremble beneath his piercing gaze. He ignores you, gripping your jaw in his large hand as you writhe under his iron hold.

“Liar,” he snarls, his mouth brushing over your own, “you let him bend you over. And you would have let him fuck you.” You shake your head in denial, refusing to think about what would have happened had he not—

He’d saved you.

You gulp down your tears, and his eyes track the roll of your throat hungrily. “Why did you do it?” You rasp, drawing his attention, “why did you save me?”

“Do I need a reason to be disgusted at him assaulting you?” He growls, and you can feel the hard press of his body against your own. “You hate me,” you breathe, managing to get your shaking under control. He snarls, “I most certainly do not.”

“Yes, you do,” you hiss, vision blurring despite your best attempts to keep them at bay. “You make my life hell whenever you come into the shop. You’re always taunting me, and belittling me, or saying something cruel to my husband. You abuse your power and use it against us when we’re struggling enough as it is.”

He snarls, “that is who I am, and I will not change. Not even for you. No matter how much you crave it, plead or beg for it, I am who I am and have survived because of it.” One arm wraps around your waist, pulling your chest flush against his. “If I was any less ruthless I would be dead. I did not make it to where I am now by being kind or merciful.”

“You’re cruel,” you cry, brow narrowing through your tears. He growls, and power thrums in the room, crackling and zapping through your skin. “Cruel?” He laughs, but it’s dark, and lacks amusement. “You think I’m cruel?” You can’t move, and it feels like every part of you is pressed against him in one way or another. “What’s cruel is you’re still fighting against me. That you’re not letting me have you after the other male had you bent over your own damned desk.”

You thrash against him, “I didn’t want want him to!” You scream, trembling beneath his iron grip. He snarls, and just like that, he’s pulling you from the door, turning you around as he shoves you onto the bed, bending you over just as the other male had. He pulls your skirts up over your thighs, and you whimper, struggling.

His large palm squeezes your ass, rubbing appreciatively as his hands land on your hips, dragging you over him. You whine but it’s drowned out by his groan of pleasure. He curses, and he thumbs at the thin slip of material, feeling the give as he finds your centre. You try to shrink away but he presses in slightly, delighted when a shiver slides down your spine. “You don’t want this?” He growls, rolling his hips against your own. You shake your head, but yelp when he pulls his hand back, smacking down on your ass.

“Crawl,” he demands.

As soon as he’s releasing you, you’re scrambling up the bed frantically, needing to escape his heated hands. Magic crackles and you still, body freezing while you’re in the middle of the mattress. “Wh—…What?” You scream when flame wraps around your wrists, tugging them from the bed until they’re above you, keeping you on your knees. You struggle against the bonds that are somehow not burning you.

He prowls around the side of the bed, settling down in front of you, cupping your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “Now, are you capable of disrobing yourself, or will I have to do it for you?” He drawls, staring into your eyes. You want to shrink away from him, but in a fit of anger, you spit at him. He blinks, raising his fingers to his cheek as he brushes the saliva.

You gasp in horror as his tongue laps over the skin, tasting you. His arousal smacks into you as though ice has frosted his hands instead of flame. “That’s disgusting,” you rasp weakly, managing to meet his hungry gaze. “What’s disgusting is that you’ve let your husband use your cunt instead of begging me to treat her right.” Your lips part in shock and he groans. Then his mouth is opening over your own, tongue lapping and flicking with practiced precision.

A whine is dragged from your throat as the kiss becomes rougher; more frenzied. Bordering on violent. He pulls away, and you’re panting, swallowing air into your lungs. “Hold still,” he commands, and you tremble as his fingers drop to the ties at the front of your dress. One by one, he loosens them, pulling them free.

You whimper as his hands drop to the hem of your dress, pulling it up and over your head, the material fazing through the bonds at your wrists. You’re nearly completely bare, save for the flimsy slip of fabric clinging to the sweep of your hips. Eris groans, and you can clearly see the effects of his arousal through his finely tailored trousers.

“How selfish can you possibly be?” He murmurs, his hands reaching for you reverently. He cups your breasts, thumbs flicking over your peeked nipples as his mouth returns to yours. It’s softer this time, slower as the pads of his fingers dance over your skin. “You’ve been keeping all this—” his teeth tug gently on your lower lip, hands curving down your spine, making you arch helplessly into his chest, “—to yourself?” He groans at the feel of your breasts dragging against his torso.

His fingers hook beneath your underwear and you squirm, despite knowing how pointless the effort is. “Stop,” you plead, staring up at him, “Eris—” He groans at the sound of his name on your lips. “Whatever I’ve done, please, just forgive me. You can’t— I can’t do this.” He shushes you, and with a crackle of magic, he removes the sole piece of fabric from your body.

Eris pulls away, taking in your naked body: the swell of your breasts, your perky nipples, the hair dusted between your thighs. He wants to drag his tongue across every inch of your skin, taste everywhere. “Please…” you pant, weakly, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. He palms himself, getting off to your beseeching cries. He curses beneath his breath, “beg me,” he growls, “beg me not to.”

“Eris,” you cry, “please, don’t!” Horror roils in your stomach as he moans, warmth flushing his cheeks. He sits up, moving to kneel before you, still towering over you, “so pretty, aren’t you?” He murmurs over your lips, “does your husband know what a pretty beggar you are?” You’re too shocked to respond to his quiet words.

The male’s lips quirk, “I’ll take that as a no, shall I?”

Shame flushes your cheeks.

But then he’s pulling away from you, and his flame twists your wrists, forcing you to move so your back is facing him. You protest weakly, but to no avail. Instead, you flinch when his front presses against you, his bare chest warm and strong. Already, he’s removed his shirt and waistcoat, left only in his trousers.

You whimper when you feel his hand snake round your front, fingers slipping between your thighs. “That’s it,” he soothes beside your ear, a lover’s caress, “keep making those sounds for me.” You gasp as his fingers roll over your clit and he moans in response. “Do you like that, hm?” His words are softer, vaguely romantic as his hips roll gently into your own.

His canines scrape your neck, tongue lapping over the erogenous area, “answer me.” You shake your head, refusing him again and again. He merely laughs, “you will.” Then he’s drawing away from you, lips attaching to the tip of your spine as he begins his descent. Heat raises beneath his mouth, following the pathway he trails until he’s between your legs.

You let out a startled whimper when he spits on you, pressing two fingers to your entrance. Your face heats when they slide in easily, and he groans, the sounds rumbling through you. “And here you were saying you didn’t want this,” he growls. “I think you’re as depraved as I am. Isn’t that right?” His fingers press deeper, and when they pull out, you feel the slick that dampens your inner thighs.

He returns to your ear, hand snaking round your front. You flinch, whimpering when he smacks between your legs. “Isn’t that right, hm?” He plays with your clit, fingers again dipping down to your entrance, pushing in, getting them nice and wet as he moans deeply. “You can’t deny me when you’re soaking me like this. Do you hear that?” He shoves his finger back in and you hear the wet squelch.

You involuntarily tighten around him, whimpering at the pleasure. “I’m going to fuck you so good you won’t even be able to beg me to stop.” Then he’s guiding his tip between your legs, slicking himself in your wetness, his head bumping into your clit. His cock presses against your entrance, and he pushes in slowly, allowing you to feel every inch of him. He slides in partially, then pulls out, only to push back in further, until you can feel him in your lower abdomen.

“Eris,” you whimper, his hands coming up your front to play with your nipples. “Say it again,” he murmurs, drawing his hips back as he pushes in, “say my name. Go on.” One hand drops to your clit, swiping over it. “Moan for me.” Then his hips snap against your own, and a startled moan spills from you.

He laughs darkly, picking up the pace. “That’s it,” he encourages, chuckling, “moan for me like the damn whore you are.” You whimper at the title, clamping down on him. “Fuck, you like that? Like when I call you my whore?” He doesn’t miss the wave of arousal that washes from you—it’s impossible.

“So damned dirty, huh?” He’s found the pace you like, beginning to pound into you, relentless snaps of his hips as he fucks your cunt. “Does your husband know what a slut you are? Does he know how much you enjoy the degradation?” Tears roll down your cheeks, lips parting as you pant, the breath being knocked from your lungs with each slam of his cock.

“Fuck. What would he say if he walked through that door, huh?” You freeze. It’s like ice has been dumped over you. He should be back any second now. He should already be back. Eris kisses along the slope of your neck, “does that excite you, hm? Knowing that handle could dip at any second and he would see how well you’re taking my cock? How desperate you are? How filthy you are?”

Eris laughs, as if it’s a game to him. “He won’t though. He’s had you to himself for long enough. Kept this pretty pussy hidden, mistreating her all these years, and now I’m going to give her so much you’ll never think of him again. Forget he even existed.” His cock presses against you so deliciously, fingers playing with your puffy clit with practiced ease. And you feel that traitorous high approaching.

The male feels you tighten around him, and groans. “You going to come on my cock, huh? Gonna take your pleasure like a good whore? My good whore.” He drives into you languidly, and you spiral. Eris swears as he feels you fluttering around him at last. “Oh, there you go. Just like that. So good. So filthy. Fuck, you’re just divine aren’t you?” His teeth sink into your neck as you come, his own high hitting him moments later. He moans softly beside your ear as you feel him spill into you, “you like that feeling? Like having my come stuffing you full?” He laughs darkly, “maybe I should tie you to the bed with my flames. Have you all spread out to let it slip down.”

You pant heavily, too dizzy with euphoria.

“How do you think your husband would react, hm? Seeing another male’s come dripping from your pretty pussy?”

Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020

[blueduplicity]

Oh, the White of a Red Rose (P2)

(Part 1)

WC: ~26k

CW: Incest, this is where all the smut happens, and it's a lot because even when I hit the designated ending, I just kept writing sex scenes for them, so it's a little absurd tbh. A lot of back-and-forth banter, control, subby kei again...unprotected sex, vaguely public sex (you're not caught) and more oral. Also more alcohol, petnames, dirty talk...

Blurb: Kei loves you in every way that he knows you, and he knows you in a lot of ways that he shouldn't.

It’s a short drive to the party, Hoshino doesn’t live as far away as you’d thought.

There are already people spilling into the yard, though the music isn’t as loud as you would have expected. Kei parks further down the road, and on the walk up he shocks you by slipping a firm hand around your waist, gripping you tight by the hip and dragging you in. 

“Tadashi is here.” He drawls, just as you see the familiar face of your friend poking out from the front door to greet you, waving with a cheery grin. 

Your jaw drops. “You are a fucking snitch.” You hiss, slapping his hand away and rearing back in surprise when he grabs you again, face dipped low so his forehead bumps yours. 

You swallow hard, and his voice is low and gravelly when he says– “eyes on your drinks at all times, don’t drink anything you didn’t pour yourself, and drink a full cup of water for every half cup of alcohol. Okay?” 

You hesitate before answering, if only because you’re surprised that he actually seems willing to let you drink here at all, but the brief silence has him holding you tighter. “Promise me.” 

“Oh, c’mon.” You breathe, patting him gently on the cheek and smiling soft. “I’ll be fine, I’m not here to get wasted and black out, ‘m here to make friends.” 

His eyes dip, lingering on the necklace glittering around your throat, and he softens, grip loose and easy now as you pull him along to meet Tadashi. Still clearly unhappy, but reminded that he has to get out of his own head, especially when it comes to you.

–

The party is…something. 

It’s not particularly late, only a little after nine, but most everyone you come across is already plastered. Kei and Tadashi had almost immediately been accosted by the volleyball team, determined to get answers, so you let yourself wander amidst the bodies in an attempt to find Hoshino. 

When you do find her, you’re ill prepared for her whole face to flush at the sight of you, glittery lashes fluttering and cheeks mottled red. 

“God, and I thought your brother was hot.” She breathes, fanning herself with a folded paper plate. 

You grin, trying not to swell too much with pride, drawn in when she beckons you over and passes you a cup full of something that smells way too sickly sweet. 

“Thanks, but no.” You shake your head with an apologetic smile, but her eyes glitter and she nods. 

“There are some coolers in the fridge, if you can uncap it yourself it’s yours.” 

Despite the playful lilt to her words, she passes you a bottle opener while you retrieve a chilly bottle of something purpley-blue from the fridge. You crack open the top and yelp when it fizzes over, dragging your tongue over your wrist to catch it before it drips. 

“Tastes like a gusher.” You take a sip, it burns a little on the way down but it’s sweet enough that it goes easily. 

“Right? Not enough alcohol for me personally, but I like the way they taste.” Hoshino sways a little, leaning into you with an appraising glance. “You look good.” 

You take another sip, hoping the pull of the bottle will stifle your bashful smile. Discreet praise is normal enough for you, your friends have always been too shy to say such things directly, and any compliments about your looks that you’ve gotten from family always felt obligatory. Even Kei has never told you that you’re pretty outright. 

So you aren’t very used to direct compliments, or flirting that wasn’t without ulterior motive.

“Thanks.” You manage after a long drink, the sticky burn thick at the back of your tongue. “Kei is here, by the way.” 

She doesn’t take the offer out, fingers curling around the neck of your bottle and pulling it from your grasp, lips that shimmer faintly parting as she tips it back for a drink of her own. 

“That’s nice.” The bottle is passed back, coy smile now glossy with what you know to be sugary sweet and the flavor of gushers. “I’m not very interested in him anymore.” 

You give her a wry look, swirling the liquid around and watching it splash up the sides, thin and glassy, a brighter blue than when it’s settled. “No? You should meet my oldest brother then, gotta view all your options y’know?” 

She pauses, a little caught off guard, maybe, before laughing. Light and airy, she squeezes your shoulder and tips her head. “Yeah, that does sound kind of bad, doesn’t it?” She giggles, shy for the first time. “I was only interested in him because he’s hot, though. You’re funny, cute, and hot. Probably a whole lot of other things that I’d like to find out, if you’d let me.” 

Nails clicking as they tap against cold, damp glass, you hum. “I just got out of a relationship, I don’t think I’m ready for anything romantic right now, I just moved here so I’m still settling in.” 

Another long drink, and her fingers curl against your elbow. “Then, as a friend?” 

You curl your smile against the glass rim, playful. “That’d be nice, so long as you don’t start flirting with my brother just because I said no.” 

Her laughter is bright and sharp, drawing the attention of nearby clusters of people, Kei included. He watches as you glow, as you share a bottle of alcohol with the glass painted a glossy color that does not match your lips. 

As Hoshino gives you eyes that she never gave him, as she touches you in a way she never touched him, he sees the want, the desire, the things that are softer, blooming affection that is new and buzzy in a way he knows intimately. It’s an expression he used to have to look at every day. 

His chest bleeds with it, the jealousy, the fear, the ache of longing that he’s sat with for years. 

How is he meant to last the rest of his life with it? 

– 

Despite some of the fuckery from other circles, you genuinely enjoy your time at the party. Hoshino introduces you to some of the few non-sober people who aren’t completely plastered, and you stay tucked away in their corner of the kitchen for most of the night. Sitting propped up on the counter, skirt high on your thighs, only leaving to fetch and open your own bottles from the fridge.

Drinking water becomes an afterthought, you definitely don’t drink as much as Kei would want, but it’s something. You feel good, comfortable, getting along easily with this new group of people. 

The topics of conversation range from things you’re familiar with, to things you aren’t. You’re able to chime in often when volleyball hits the table, feeling like you’ve gained some brownie points when you tell them your high school team went to nationals while you were the manager. 

You take a back seat when D&D comes up, listening as they talk amongst themselves about upcoming sessions and new characters. They seem pleased when you ask questions and offer to let you sit in one day if you’re curious, so you share your number with the lot of them and try not to look too happy at how the night is turning out. 

You’re having fun, trading jokes and quips and drinking until you feel flush and loose, too hot in the face and your lips sore from being bitten to stifle too-wide smiles. The best part is Kei has been watching. His attention something heavy, like a coat draped over your shoulders, in the back of your mind but always present. You’re aware of it through the whole night, how he barely looks away unless he’s forced to. 

You’re thriving. 

Eventually, though, you take pity on your tormented brother. Tired and cranky, he sours more and more with every attempt at conversation. Tadashi is no longer a suitable buffer, Kei has become beyond unpalatable at this point, so you say goodbye to your newfound friends and go to let him know you’re ready to leave. 

The moment he sees you cutting through the crowd towards him, he’s making a beeline to the door, leaving you to chase after him with a breathy trail of your laughter turning heads as you go by. 

The attention feels nice, in a way, but you’ve had your fun and now the only eyes you want on you are in a hurry to leave, so you don’t make him wait. 

Your hand finds his, just as you slip through the front door, and he pulls you across the yard. Your heels threaten to sink into wet dirt, so you hasten your steps to avoid ruining Hoshino’s lawn. 

“We could have just taken the sidewalk.” You point out, trying not to snicker when he grunts and squeezes your fingers tight. 

“We’re going home.” 

“I didn’t get to say bye to Tadashi!” 

“Text him, then.” 

He slows down once you hit concrete, mindful of the way you stumble in your heels, and loosens his grip. The short walk to his car is made longer as you linger, tipping your head back to feel the cold air against your flushed face, the click, click, click of your heels stuttering when he stops in front of you. 

A hand at your back, he gently nudges you along towards your side of the car, reaching around to open the door for you when you begin to sway. 

You lean into him, melting as his fingers curl into the material of your dress, the tension in him practically vibrating against your skin. “Kei, can we stop and get pancakes?” 

He sighs, patient, as you climb slowly into your seat. He reaches around to buckle your seatbelt for you, trying not to flinch away when you reach up to touch his face, swiping the hair from his eyes while he’s leaned over you. 

“No.” He cups the back of your hand, weak as he turns to press a kiss to your palm. Your breath hitches, and he hopes against hope that you’re too drunk to realize what he’s done, what he’s doing. 

He’s spiraling all over the place, losing control of himself. 

“Will you make me pancakes tomorrow?” 

God, he can’t help it. “Sure.” He breathes, so wistful. “Whatever you want.” 

You coo, fingertips pressing into his cheek and shaking him by the jaw, watching his eyes narrow. “You’re bein’ all sweet on me ‘cause I’m drunk, aren’t you, Kei?” 

He jerks back, embarrassed and defensive. “So what? Not like you’ll remember it anyway.” He scoffs, ears burning as shame sickens his gut. 

“Oh?” You tease, stretching your legs out languidly, waiting until his eyes drop to your thighs to murmur– “what are you gonna do to me, then?”

“What am I–” He stops, then just stares at you, wearing the most honest expression of shock you’ve ever seen on his face. Your legs part, and he sucks in a quiet breath that hisses between his teeth, staring with naked anticipation before he physically recoils, shaking his head and slamming the door shut. You watch with a grin as he rounds the front of the car, burning red, hands shoved deep into his pockets to pull the material away from his crotch. 

He’s silent when he gets into the driver’s seat, pointedly avoiding your stare as he shuts the door and straps himself in with hands that shake, cursing to himself as he misses the buckle four times before it finally clicks in place. 

“Why won’t you look at me?” You ask, making a slow show of spreading your thighs wide, knowing he can hear the rustle of your dress, the shift of you moving in your seat, but he still won’t look. 

“Are you always like this when you’re drunk?” He seethes, trying so hard not to stare but catching a glimpse anyway when your fingers begin to drift, frozen as they glide along your inner thighs, and they widen even further as they go.  

He watches, open-mouthed, as the bunched up skirt of your dress is pushed higher, higher, and you’re exposed more than enough that he can see–

Blue. Dark blue, familiar, soft cotton that had just that morning been wrapped around his cock.

Kei makes a sound so raw and agonized that you’d think he was in actual pain, head falling back and the heels of his hands pressing into his eyes, glasses pushed up and shoving his bangs out of his face.  His hips grind up against nothing, uncontrolled, the outline of him visible through his jeans.

He turns to look at you, finally, properly, unabashed in the way he watches as you drag your fingertips up the length of your clothed slit, pressing in just enough that he can see the dips and folds of you as they stick to slick fabric. 

“Fuck, that’s–” 

There’s a knock at the window, and your legs snap shut on instinct, Kei nearly smacking his head against the steering wheel as he surges forward in a panic to block the view of you from his side.

It’s Tadashi, a guilty smile on his lips, a little flushed. He waits to speak until Kei has rolled down the window, though he’s only given an inch to talk through. “Sorry, I realized you were leaving and wanted to make sure everything was okay.” His eyes shift to you, softening, voice something sweet when he talks to you next. “Take it easy, okay? You drank a lot, let Tsukki take care of you.” 

You lean forward, hands squeezing Kei’s arm as you rest your head on his shoulder. “I will!” You chirp, all oozing sugar and honey. “Get home safe, text me so I know when you’re back!” 

He waves goodbye and leaves before Kei’s death glare can start to actually do damage, jogging back up to the house and laughing when an arm hooks him by the neck to drag him inside. 

You tilt your face a little, nose to his neck, voice a purr when you tease– “You heard him. Are you gonna take care of me, Kei?”

He breathes in slow through his nose, white knuckled hands gripping the steering wheel hard enough that the leather creaks. 

“Take care of yourself.” He grits out, instinctive, reactive, only realizing the mistake he’s made a second too late as you immediately begin to withdraw, your lips curled into a smirk that is pleased, like he’s just walked into a very obvious trap.  

“Okay.” You sigh, a sultry little thing as you lean back in your seat, heels propping your legs up enough that when you spread them, he can see you clearly. Expecting a protest, you’re almost too gleeful when he offers none, watching as you slip a steady hand beneath the waistband of your panties. 

He swallows hard, turning on the car and turning down the music, slowly, when you let out a soft little puff of breath. Through the fabric stretched taut over your knuckles, he can see your fingers working, can even hear the sound of you if he holds his breath and pays close enough attention.

His jeans are so fucking tight, he’s aching, can feel each pulse of blood pumping through his veins to between his legs, overly self aware as his head begins to buzz and fill with cottony clouds. He realizes slowly that it’s because he’s so focused on you that he’s still holding his breath. 

Hooking your thumbs beneath the thin strip of elastic and lifting your hips, you shimmy in your seat a little so you can pull your panties to your knees, and he makes a pained noise at the strings of slick that come away as they go down. 

“Oh god.” He groans, palming the hard swell of his cock through his jeans and grinding his teeth so hard that his jaw clicks. “This is–fuck.” 

“I thought you wanted to get home?” You goad him, just a little, though the effect is lessened when your lashes flutter and your back arches, when you mewl at a particularly sensitive swipe of your fingers as they move back between your legs. Kei nearly whines.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He breathes, though your taunting has the opposite desired effect, as he begrudgingly returns both hands to the wheel and starts to back out of his makeshift parking spot. It’s slow, painfully, because he keeps stopping to watch you, how you’re writhing in his seat as you give yourself over to the pleasure. 

It’s a show more than anything, but the alcohol makes it easy to focus on just how good it feels. His eyes on you make it better, sweeter, everything a little more intense because you know just how badly he wants you. 

The first time you moan, Kei nearly cracks. It’s a quiet sound, unintentional, but he groans aloud when he hears it and the car jerks to a stop, the brakes hit too quickly. The glare he gives you is intense, a fury you don’t recognize, but it melts when you smile pretty and arch your back for him, when you spread your fingers apart and let him see the way your slick stretches glassy between them. 

He doesn’t stop the car again after that. Speeding up when he can, and every red light and stop sign only seems to add to his agony if not for the few precious moments where he can watch you with no interruptions, the vivid crimson glow illuminating your pretty cunt, so shiny with arousal that he can see the shimmer on the insides of your thighs. 

“Faster.” He breathes, unbidden, a secret let slip. Now a willful participant, no longer a passive bystander. 

He’s almost horrified when you obey, when your voice cracks as it pitches higher, your face screwed up in a way he’s never seen, a way he’s never supposed to know. 

He knows what you look like when you’re pleasing yourself, now. That’s not knowledge he should have, not a face he should ever get to see. He wants to go further, wants to know what you look like when you cum, he wants to see the face you’ll make when he buries his cock in you, when he gets his mouth on you, he aches to know you in those ways.

Your whole body tenses, he watches how you go rigid, a gasp catching in your throat and coming out choked. “Gonna–fuck– gonna cum!” You whine, free hand clapped over your mouth, squeezing because you need to brace against something. 

Kei’s hand snaps to your wrist, like iron, prying it away from your face just as you tip over the edge. You fall apart, crying out in a voice that breaks on the sharp syllable of his name, legs quivering as you shudder in the aftershocks, lazy circles prolonging the pleasure, heightening it, until you squirm and whimper with sensitivity but do not stop. 

You’re lost in it, pushed so far beyond the brink, watching him through murky eyes as he cradles your wrist and presses a kiss to your racing pulse. It’d be sweet if not for the hawkish way his eyes were glued to the sticky mess of your cunt, he watches the way you twist beneath his stare before you finally have to tear your fingers away as it becomes too much. 

He pets you as you lay there panting, collecting yourself, and once you seem to have managed to regain even a modicum of coherence he’s reaching past you to pop out the handle of your door and push it open. 

“Get out.” 

You blink at him, owl-eyed and dazed, too many seconds taken to piece together that you’ve been sitting in the driveway at home, you have no idea for how long. 

It takes you a minute to slide your panties back on, and by the time you’ve unbuckled your seatbelt, Kei has come to your side of the car and is leaning down to reach for you. While part of you expects him to simply drag you around after your little show, you’re relieved when he helps you up slowly, keeping you steady with hands at your waist while you stumble on shaky legs in painful heels. 

He waits until you’re both inside, door shut and locked twice, to advance on you. 

You’re on the couch, trying to get your heels off with fingers that are trembling, when his shadow looms over you. Your head tips back, slurry question on the tip of your tongue, only to choke on it when he drops to his knees and wedges himself between your thighs. 

“I’m sorry.” He breathes, flushed, hooking your legs up over his shoulders and pressing his face into the apex, squeezing the plush of your hips and muffling the most wanton noise of relief you’ve ever heard against you. He mouths at you through slick cotton, tongue wet as it presses against your swollen clit, lapping until you whimper. 

Your fingers twist into his hair, pulling, blissed when you find that doing so makes him moan into your sex, his hips bucking against nothing. 

“Kei.” You whine, writhing against the steel of his grip, his hands pressing down on your stomach to keep you from shying away. “Kei, it’s sensitive…” 

He pulls away, breathless, mouth shiny, glasses fogged as he peers up at you through thick lashes. “I’m sorry.” He repeats, fingers curling beneath the elastic of your waistband, wrapping the fabric around them twice, and pulling until it splits apart, popped seams and thin cotton completely shredded. 

The sound of fabric tearing makes you choke, but you aren’t given the chance to even snap at him for it. He buries himself into you with a thick, hot stripe licked along the length of your slit, the taste of you thicker now on his tongue, heavy like honey, and god he’s greedy for it. 

He shouldn’t know what you taste like, what his name sounds like on your lips as he makes you feel good. 

But he does, and now that he’s had it, he’s not willing to stop. He can’t. Squeezing your thighs against the sides of his face, fingers bruising your skin, marking you in a way he shouldn’t. He laps at you, suckles on your clit until you cry and push at him, slow to work gentle fingers inside until you’re molten beneath his hands. He’s so careful, sweet with you, but he’s so mean too. 

“Who knew you were this greedy?” He breathes, cheek against your thigh while he curls his fingers into you. “Was I not giving you enough attention, that why you had to act out?” 

He fucks into you harder, then, abusing the gummy spot in your cunt that has you sobbing and clenching so tight around him that it nearly forces his fingers out of you, but he’s stronger, determined, and bullies his way back in.

“Shut up!” You groan, hands fisting in his hair and yanking, hard enough that his head is briefly forced back. “God you’re such a fucking–” 

Whatever insult you’d been building up to is cut off as he sucks hard on your clit again, a pointed punishment, brows climbing in mock surprise as you let out a hoarse cry. 

“What was that?” He taunts, lips swollen and glossy with you, somehow he still manages to look cocky. “Couldn’t hear you over all the noise you’re making, so sensitive.” 

It sounds like an insult, but he means it as anything but. You’re so responsive to his touch, twitching at every little thing, and it makes it so easy for him to learn what you like, what you don’t. 

You’re being so good for him, even if you aren’t trying to be. 

“You’re one to talk.” You rasp, whimpering when he nips at you once in warning. “Bet if it had gone on any longer in the car you woulda jus’ cum in your pants, you–fuck!” 

He groans like he knows, and his hips grind weakly into the couch in a feeble attempt at relief, cock painfully hard in the tight confines of his jeans. He bows over you, your knees pushed back and forced wide with your ankles locked behind his head, suddenly desperate. 

“Please.” He groans, ashamed and wanting. “God, fuck, I swear I’ll never ask for anything again, just–please.” 

Quieter, he whispers, muffled as he can’t seem to pry himself away from you for long. “This is so wrong.”

Your body quivers in protest, the stretch in your thighs burning, hips aching as you buck against his face with a whine. You claw at his back, fisting your hands tight in his shirt as your orgasm begins to peak, something hot and sharp surging up in your lower belly. 

He finally reaches to palm himself with a rough groan, one of your legs falling without his hand to support it, He laps at your clit, holding the flat of his tongue steady for you to grind against when that seems to work better. He lets you ride his mouth until you cum, feeling the way you tighten up around his fingers as he drives them into you, relentless, the heavy mixture of drool and you dripping down his chin, his hand, and the sounds of it would make you shudder if you were present enough to listen. 

As it is, you’re trembling, covering your face as if to hide from him while you struggle to catch your breath. He wipes his hand off on his jeans, eyes wide with alarm as he pulls at your wrists. “Fuck, wait, are you okay? Baby, I’m–” 

You kiss him. The taste of your slick on his lips, you curve your hands around the cut of his jaw and guide him how you want, tilting his head until you can kiss him harder, licking into him when he lets out a soft little sigh. 

He grabs at the back of your neck, crowding you against the back of the couch and leaning over you, forcing your legs to bend wide around the width of him. 

“You called me baby.” You murmur against him, chasing when he tries to pull back, and keeping him close by his hair. He whines when you pull on it, and you want to bite him when he does that. The cutest little noise from one of the most un-cute people you know. 

“What, would you rather I call you ‘sister’ instead?”  He sneers, face flushed red, always so sharp when he feels embarrassed. 

You bite back, just as edged. “Why not? You seem like the type to wanna be reminded of it. I mean–” Yanking him in by a fistful of hair, you murmur low in his ear– “After all, doesn’t my favorite big brother wanna be the first one to fuck this pretty pussy?” 

Something in that makes him break. 

He shoves you down hard, crawling up on top of you and parting your thighs with his knees, glasses snapped closed and tossed carelessly aside. He pulls at your dress, pushing it up, up, sliding his fingers beneath the middle of your bra and pulling. “The only one.” He grits, hips rolling into you, hard enough that it burns. “Not just the first, the only one to fuck your pretty pussy.”  He spits the words back at you like venom, something a little wild, a little feral in his eyes. 

But he doesn’t do what you expect. He doesn’t pry apart the zipper to his jeans, doesn’t take his cock out and line it up with your dripping cunt, doesn’t fuck into you with all the fervor and desperation that he’s clearly been stifling. 

Kei kisses you, muffles the sharp edge of your attitude and sucks at your lower lip, swallowing the sound of you whining his name. You lean into it, cupping his cheeks and murmuring into his mouth when he sighs into you, his hands gliding up over your rib cage and feeling how you arch into him, molten. 

“So sweet when I do what you like.” He murmurs, curving one hand around to press into your lower back, helping you grind against him, watching to see how you want him. “I spoiled you too much.” 

You pull at his shirt, rolling your hips up with a needy, hoarse kind of noise that makes him shiver, makes him rock into you too. 

“How do you always get me so worked up?” His mouth moves lower, sucking at the skin just above where your necklace rests in the dip of your throat, tasting the salt there and feeling it against his tongue when you moan. “Just let me be nice to you, stop trying to piss me off, okay?” 

“You don’t know how to be nice.” You huff, shivering when a quick cut of teeth scrapes over your skin, fingers tightening in his hair and twisting. 

He just lets out a quiet puff of laughter, grinding hard between your legs for a few stuttered thrusts, his voice cracking. Then he slows, gentle, barely giving himself any friction until he can’t stand it anymore and he has to grind again. Like he’s torturing himself, teasing, edging. 

“Oh, Kei.” You coo, tightening your legs to squeeze the sides of his waist, arching up off of the couch to rut harder against him, disturbing his rhythm. “What, don’t wanna cum so soon?” 

His eyes flicker wide, breathing out a quiet protest as you press against the swell of his cock, and even through the thick denim he can feel you, so fucking hot that it burns. “Stop.” He squeezes you by the hips, bracing himself on an elbow leaned above your head, looming over you and watching as you smile sweet up at him and reach for his zipper, pulling it down despite the way he jerks his hips back to get away. 

He can’t get far, though, and he’s left to choke back a strangled cry when your fist wraps tight around his cock, he’s so hard that it hurts with the way he pulses against your fingers, wet at the tip and dripping already. 

“Fuck, no please–” He buries his face in your neck, his body absolutely quivering as you stroke him once from base to tip, rubbing your thumb over the slit and tightening up when his hips snap forward in response, a moan spilled against your neck that has you doing the same thing again, and again, twisting your wrist a little at the head and gripping it tight as you do, each minute thrust squeezing out just a bit more prespend. 

Kei is vocal, broken moans muffled as he covers your neck in open-mouthed kisses, having to brace both of his arms over your head to keep himself upright, his knees are barely able to support his weight with how hard he fucks into your fist. 

Despite that, he’s trying so hard to resist it. “Stop.” He groans, ragged, panting with the exertion, face faintly red and sweaty. “Gonna–stop! Fuck!” 

“C’mon, Kei.” You tease, enamored of the sight of him bent over you, eyes screwed shut, jaw gritted while he struggles to fight off his orgasm. “Wanna cum for me, don’t you? Why’re you fightin’ it?” 

His lashes flutter a little, half-lidded while he looks down at you, eyes drawn to the space between your bodies where your hand is wrapped around his cock, legs still spread around his knees with your glistening cunt on display. 

He twitches hard against your palm, and he lets out a higher-pitched, needy noise. “No!” He gasps, trying to buck away, but you chase him, leaning up and squeezing him tighter, fucking him faster, completely lost in how hard he has to struggle to pull away from you. 

“Come on, Kei.” You pant, lips wetted with a flick of your tongue. “Let me have it?” 

“Don’t say that–” 

“I’ll beg.” You whine, softening your voice, sweet in the way you know he likes, when you’re playing with him. “Please? Wanna make you cum, wanna see you cum again–” 

His eyes pitch wide, a choke of air caught as he curls in on himself, twitching, knees hiking a little higher as he shuffles closer, one of his hands snapping down to catch at your wrist and squeeze it. “Again?” He interrupts, hoarse as you smile up at him, knowing, and god if he didn’t feel so good right now he thinks he’d be crying. 

You’ve never seen Kei like this, wanton and needing. At your mercy even while he looms over you, trembling as you stroke him off. His hold on your wrist is iron, but he doesn’t try to control  the pace, he lets you touch him as you want, it’s sweet. Cute. 

So you go faster, cooing about how good he is as his hips jerk wildly, uncoordinated as he blindly seeks your hand, soft in a way that his own is not. He spills against you, voice cracking sharp and then his eyes are rolling back, mouth parting around an airy, high gasp of your name, so different from before, so much more personal. He cries your name the same way one might say ‘I love you.’ 

His cock drips hot against your thighs, the thick dribble of his cum seeping from your lower belly to mix with the spit and arousal between your legs. He stares down at the mess, brows pulled low, chest heaving hard. 

Slowly, he lowers himself to it, the head of his cock splitting your folds apart as he ruts against you. Soft, oversensitive, he grinds into the heady mixture of your cum, watching as you squirm, your hands reaching for his shoulders and digging your nails in until he hisses between his teeth. 

“Easy with the claws, Koganegawa definitely won’t shut up if he sees that.” He mutters, kissing you, craning his neck down to reach as you tilt your chin up for him, coming down from his high slowly. 

“Yeah? How do you think I feel?” You gesture with one hand at your throat, not needing to look to know that it’s been covered in hickeys and bruises in the shape of his teeth. 

He looks, then grins, a smug little thing that makes you want to hit him, even buzzy and sated as you are. “I’ll just get you a scarf.” 

“Absolutely not.” You run your hands towards the back of his neck, sliding up to grasp at the hair near his nape and pull him back in, his hips twitching as he bucks against you. 

“And you called me sensitive.” You tease, killing the sharp retort on his tongue by curling your fingers inwards towards his scalp and pulling hard on his hair there, your legs tightening when he grinds his hips forward into the sticky folds of your cunt, panting heavy against your cheek as he thickens out, heavier with each pass over your clit. 

You think he’s going to fuck you, this time. Bracing for it, you lift yourself from the cushions so the head of him catches at your entrance, your head falling back with a whine and a curse tumbling from his lips, but he just squeezes you by the waist and continues his slow, steady  grinding. 

“Kei?” You breathe, reaching for him, cupping his jaw and feeling your cheeks warm when he turns to kiss your palm. 

“Hmm?” Low, barely audible, eyes focused on watching as he makes even more of a mess on you, glassy threads of slick catching and stretching every time he draws back. 

“Are you not gonna fuck me?”

His cock kicks against you weakly, and his eyes screw shut like he has to hold himself back instinctively, so used to blocking against these thoughts that it comes natural to him. He squeezes the base of his cock tight, and you’re amazed that just the thought was almost enough to push him to the edge. 

“I can’t.” He rasps, broken. “This is...This has to be as far as we go.” 

It’s guilt laden, the tone of his voice. A rough cadence that belies his need, his conviction. So fragile. He keeps rubbing it against you, the flushed and pretty head of his cock, muscles in his thighs bunching up every time it threatens to push inside, when it catches and you roll your hips and he dips just the tip in and has to recoil before he can reflexively thrust into you.

“C’mon, Kei.” You breathe, aching. “Want you so bad, want you to make me feel good.” 

His face pinches, it’d almost be an unpleasant expression if not for the way you can feel him twitching, now circling his hips slow to rock himself into you, not quite pushing in but close. 

“We can’t.” He insists, but it’s weak, and you both know it. “Don’t act stupid, you know why we can’t do this, we should never have gone this far.” 

Even still, his eyes follow as you bring one hand low in the space between the cradle of your bodies, sticky like his cum that you swirl into your clit. He whines again, hips stuttering. 

“You know that’s not gonna last.” You counter, watching the torment on his face, relishing in the thrill of the control you have over him. Even with his protests, he still doesn’t move away from you. “You could barely keep your eyes off of me all night, there’s no way you don’t cave eventually.” Your mouth at his neck, you suck a mark just beneath his jaw, a vibration thrumming through your lips when he moans and snaps his hips up, grinding hard against the full length of you with a cracking whine. Like he can’t control it, flimsy vestiges of restraint snapping beneath the pressure.  

He chokes when you reach for his cock, his hand dropping immediately to squeeze the base of it before your fingers touch him, like he has to steel himself first. Your thumb teases over the slit, gathering the prespend to ease the glide of your fist while you stroke him, though it’s already plenty easy with how wet you’ve made him.

He squirms over you, gasping for breath that refuses to come, hips rocking between shying away and thrusting forward, voice pitching higher, whinier in a way that you never could have imagined him sounding like. 

“You’ll break, y’know.” You breathe, tipping your face back in blatant invitation for a kiss, the struggle, the war plastered all over his face. “So why not just save us both the trouble and do it now?”

He groans, dropping down to rest his forehead against your shoulder, trying in vain to fight back when you bring him back down to your cunt, when you grind shamelessly against him. “I have better self control than you do.” He spits, even as he ruts into the tight fist you’ve given him, the head of his cock pushing into you with every forward thrust as he uses you without an ounce of thanks. The worst thing, though, is that you think he really believes what he says. 

He truly does, until you remind him– “Then why were you jerking off with my panties this morning?” 

The memory makes him weak, the shame so thick it chokes him, worsened when he feels thick drops of his pre smearing along the entrance to your cunt, so sticky and making the tentative press inside even easier. He’s sick with it, how good you feel, how it doesn’t even compare to what he imagined, and then he’s reminded that he was imagining it. 

He had just wanted to help, when he saw a load of your laundry waiting to be done, it seemed like a quiet thing he could do for you to make your life easier. 

But then he saw those fucking panties, blue against a plethora of neutrals, and as he walked by the glint of light hit the shine of them and he realized they were still wet and he just– 

“I’m sorry.” He gasps, face hot against your neck, hips bearing down hard as his cock splits your sticky cunt with a stuttered thrust, he bats your hand away so it’s just you cradling the weight of him. There’s no pace, no rhythm, just a mindless grind as he pants and moans little grated sighs of your name, drowning in the knowledge that you know, that you saw him in his weakest moment. 

The one time he had ever given in to those urges, and of course you caught him. 

“That was the only time.” He squeezes your thighs, pushes them up, forcing you wider apart as he thrusts against you. “I promise, it was the only time, I’ve never–” He chokes, watching with glassy eyes as you arch high off of the couch, peeling off your dress with a sort of strained grunt. Your bra is skewed, pulled to the side by his greedy hands, and he whines. “Oh, so fucking pretty.” 

The praise makes you lightheaded, fuzzy, a bashful smile curling at your lips as you cover your face before he can see, and he’s amazed that you can look so cute even while fucking yourself up against the raw of his cock. The balance tips, seeing you flustered bringing back a little of his confidence, the sight of you taking him like this, letting him make a mess of you. 

“You like when I’m sweet to you?” He croons, breathy and almost mocking, testing how you like it. “You always get so snippy when I am, complain so much when I’m nice.” He grinds the heel of his hand against you, watching with a twisted sense of glee as your eyes roll back, lips falling open. 

“Want me to tell you how pretty you are, baby?” He nearly breaks when you nod before he’s even finished asking, twitching hard as he hastily tears himself away from you to keep from spilling, awed at how you lift yourself higher in an attempt to chase him. “So fucking pretty.” He breathes, no longer mocking, watching as you quiver. 

“Ohh, that’s it.” He starts slow, rolling his hips until the head catches at your clit, dragging it back and forth with little half-thrusts to make you writhe. “There we go, that’s my girl. So sweet.” 

You claw at him, at his chest, nails raking down to his abdomen through his shirt. Disregarding his earlier complaints about leaving marks, he’s quick to yank it off, wanting to see the remnants of your desire in his skin, needing, again, to learn you in every way. 

“Close.” You whimper, torn between wanting to crawl away and wanting more. It’s so much, so sensitive, he’s so warm and right. 

He learns quick. “My good girl.” Another hard, sharp thrust, and when you whine at the deviation in his rhythm, he doesn’t do it again, staying steady as he talks to you. “C’mon, cum again for me, let me see that pretty face.” 

Your nails rake over his chest, crimson that bubbles bright to the surface, and he feels the sting of it and grins. “That’s it.” He’s encouraging, pleading, fighting the urge to go faster, wanting to make you squeal but wanting to make you cum even more. “Touch me however you want, scratch me up, let your favorite big brother make you feel good.” 

You know it’s meant to be mocking, taunting you for your own words, but he says it so nice, it sounds so good on his lips that you’re hurtled over the edge almost immediately after. 

His laugh is a little breathless, disbelieving at the gripping squeeze of you tightening up beneath him, cupping a hand beneath your chin to keep you in place so he can watch you cum. You cling to him, thighs shaking and squeezed tight around his middle, hiked up high where he wants you as he leans his weight into the backs of your legs. 

“You feel so good.” He murmurs, nosing into your jaw. “Even like this, can feel the way you’re gonna squeeze me when I fuck you.” 

“When?” You pant, breathy, fingers curled tight in his hair to keep him close, wanting the warmth of him against you while you try to coast through the tail end of your orgasm, the peak of it dragged out as he continues his slow, even pace. 

He goes rigid though, arms straining above you, and you almost whine when he starts to pull away. You follow him, hips rising from the cushions until your pussy kisses his tip, relieved when he presses you back down with a quiet groan.  

“Were you serious, earlier?” He asks, still leaning over you but not so close, hovering with the languid roll of his hips in the space between you. 

“About what?” You try to pull him back down, needing him, but he’s unmoving, unyielding. There’s a serious set to his brow, something like concern that simmers beneath the surface of his lust.

“Are you a virgin?” 

You blink, settling back against the arm of the couch and trying to think back on the brief experiences you’ve had. “I’ve never been with a man, if that’s what you mean.”

His gaze dips, half-lidded, locked once more onto your shiny cunt. You grin, reaching down to gently spread yourself apart, and your voice is a little teasing as you ask– “Did you like it? When I said you’re gonna be the first one to fuck me?”

His eyes sharpen, narrowed with a dangerous glint. “That’s not what you said.” 

“Oh.” You coo, “my mistake, let me try again.” 

He shivers when you sit up, when you’re pushing him back on his knees while you straddle his thighs, his cock is pressed heavy between yours. At his ear, you drawl out “what was it, that you’re the first and only one to fuck this pretty pussy?” 

He clutches hard at your hips, twitching as a thick bead of prespend wells at his tip, a rough noise locked behind his gritted teeth. You toy with him with both of your hands, rolling the head of his cock against your palms and squeezing, fingers swiping over the slit to collect whatever dribbles out, and he nearly loses it when you lick a drop that had spilled over your knuckles. 

“You’re a fucking terror.” He whispers, no real heat behind his words, he’s not sure he could muster any feigned vitriol right now while you’re stroking his cock and you’re practically naked in his lap. 

“You like it.” You shoot back, pumping him slowly with both of your hands, trying not to grin when his thighs begin to shake. You twist with a curling motion on the upstroke, squeezing at the tip before it slips out with a wet little schlik as you release it, and then you start at the base just to do it again.

“Oh fuck not like that, it’s too–” a groan, hard and punched out. “ –too good, stop, stop for fucks sake.” 

But you don’t, watching him squirm, the way he’s torn between bucking you off and letting you finish him.

He’s so angry about it too, that twitch to his upper lip that only happens when he’s fuming but can’t do anything. A testament, you think, to how willing he actually is to submit to you. So you slow down, just as he starts to twitch and convulse and pulse against your palms, he whines as the hard edge of his orgasm fades but doesn’t fight it, he takes it willingly. 

“You really like that?” You murmur, rubbing the tip gently with your thumb, dipping into the small pool of slick and spreading it around. He writhes when you do. 

“Shut up.” He wants to look away, jaw ticking, red creeping up his neck. “Stop–fucking with it like that, it’s not a toy.” 

You drag your hands upwards slow, watching his eyes roll back and one of his legs twitch, calf tensing with the urge to kick out and spread for you. “It’s not?” You ask, feigned innocence that is as translucent as sugar glass. 

He says your name like a warning, already close, hips rocking weakly beneath your weight to push into your hands. You coo quietly in a mean taunt, disrupting your rhythm to roll the head of his cock against your palm, slick and shiny and sticky against your skin, the sounds of it obscene and he’s much more embarrassed about it than you were. 

“Slow down.” He whispers, eyes heavy, his hands sliding up from your waist to cup your breasts, featherlight as he ghosts his thumbs over your nipples ‘till they peak. It makes you squirm, makes you go faster, and he heaves out a rough exhale that hitches in the middle, his nose a little scrunched up as he tries to wrest control away from you, to buck away even though there’s nowhere he can go.

“Why would I do that when I could just put it in instead?” You lean in close, just a breath apart. Loosening your grip a little, you go to spread your fingers but he groans and chases your touch when you start to pull away.

“I’ll cum.” He warns you, spits it like it’s bitter, wanting to have you soft and sweet and spread around him again, but inexplicably drawn to this side of you he doesn’t know, wanting you in all ways. 

You cup his chin, lifting it up as you settle yourself high on your knees, braced over him. His head falls back, going with you, bending easily as you shape him to your whim. Mesmerized by the way you kiss him, sweet, opening him with a warm glide of your tongue and he tastes the slick on your lips, it makes him dizzy with the thought that he put it there in the first place. 

So lost in it, he almost misses when you kiss the head of his cock with your cunt. Different than before, when you were just teasing him with it, taunting him with the promise of you wrapped around him. You sink down slow, and every muscle in his abdomen tightens at the heat that begins to part around him, deeper, and it’s only the head, it’s only the head, and it’s so much of not enough and too much I’m gonna– 

He’s cumming, thrusting up with a silent scream that pitches high and cracks in his throat when you move with him, denying him the bliss of sheathing fully within you while he spills. He fucks up into you fervently, nearly sobbing when every thrust is only taken as deep as you allow before he can’t go any higher and is forced to pull back just to try again. 

You work him through it with your hand to make up for it, stroking near the base as he tries to bully himself into you, hot and wet and thick inside and dribbling out to smear all over the tip with every messy thrust. He can’t fill you completely, but every time his cum drips out, he’s shoving it back in with another shallow buck of his hips.

He could force you onto it, you know. Could lock a thick arm around your waist and drag you onto his cock, could make you take it.

But he takes, he takes only what you give, trying for more but ultimately caving to your desires and letting you continue to deny him. 

It makes you soft, covering his face in kisses, rocking your hips a little even when he hisses with sensitivity, eyes screwed shut as his face flushes to the ears, skin shiny with sweat and muscles still rippling with the aftershocks. You don’t pull away until he goes soft beneath you, twitching hips pushing the heat of it against you even when it makes him shudder. You press down slowly, crooning as he pulls you against his chest and buries his face into your neck. 

You play with the ends of his hair, then trail your fingertips lower to follow the dark red scratches you’ve left on him. Some still bleeding, most of them already dried, you wince a little at the angry red of inflamed, irritated skin. 

When you start to kiss them, he cups the back of your head and pulls you up, lips meeting yours with such a reverence that it almost makes you shy, warm in the affections of a Kei who, at least right now, doesn’t feel he has to hide. 

Quietly, beneath his breath, he murmurs– “your lipstick is messed up.” 

You hum softly, rubbing your thumb against his bottom lip where a dark smudge of color stains his skin. “Yeah, I noticed.” 

“Buy a better one.” 

You give him a slow, coy smile, tracing the tips of your fingers back down his chest, etching invisible lines that pull shivers from him as you go. “Why? Am I gonna be doing a lot more kissing all of a sudden?” 

He answers you with his mouth, muffling your laughter, clinging to his shoulders when he hikes your legs up to stand, though his legs buckle when you suckle gently at his lip to weaken his knees. Fingers pinch hard at the skin of your hip in retribution, and he stifles the sharp yelp you let out with another hard kiss. 

Somehow, he does manage to carry you into the bathroom, though he stops to push you against the wall once or twice, just holding you, keeping you braced so he can cup your face and feel your lips curl into a smile against his hands.

You’re lowered carefully to the sink, pressed down on cold tile that makes you hiss in discomfort, a sound that is largely ignored as he withdraws from your side. 

He opens the glass door to the shower, reaching inside to turn on the water and soften the setting of the showerhead. You perk up, fumbling hands moving to unhook your bra and toss it carelessly into the hallway, earning you a sharp glare that you only smile innocently at. 

“You’re picking that up later.” 

“Sure, sure.” You hop down from the sink and slip past him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder as you go, and he melts at the casual display of affection. Fond honey eyes watch as you step beneath the water, amusement creeping along the edges when you hiss at how cold it still is. 

He strips down quick, sighing quietly as he listens to you sort through the bottles of soap on the inlaid shelves, trying not to be too exasperated when you mutter to yourself about how disorganized he is. As he moves to join you beneath the warming spray, though, he falters on the first step inside, a breath catching in his throat.

Your head is tilted back, throat bared, water running in thick rivulets over the contours of your body, the flow only interrupted by the passing of a loofah lathered with soap. He can see the outline of his teeth in your skin, the petal-shaped marks he’d sucked into it too. He tries not to feel too much pride at the claim he’s laid, he tries not to think about how he should be ashamed. 

He feels like you should hide from him, like you should shy away and curl in on yourself, like it would be safer for you to brace against how much he loves you, because it’s wrong. 

You open your eyes, tilt your head up and grin at him through the water, a soapy hand stretched out to beckon him towards you, and he goes. 

Crowding against you, tucking you close so that you’re still beneath the showerhead, and he stares at you with such a lovesick expression that you’re sure he doesn’t know he’s making it. 

“Hi.” You murmur, hands against his chest, feeling the rough texture of your scratches beneath your palms as they move over his skin. 

He kisses you, muffling your complaint of ‘you never play along with me,’ and opening your mouth to the thin trails of water dripping from his face. 

His hands glide down your slippery back, pressing you in at the base of it until his cock is rubbed between you, and you shiver as it pulses, already beginning to thicken. “Look at you,” you tease, reaching down to wrap your fingers around it. “What’s this, still not done even after four in one day?”

“It’s your fault.” He grunts, grabbing your wrist to keep you still, though the intensity he’s trying for is ruined by the way his hips jut forward in protest of his denial. 

“What a good toy.” You coo, playful, but it becomes a whole lot less playful when he bucks hard against you, when he gasps and squeezes you tight and fucks his cock into your loose fist. His fingers wrap around yours, tightening, and the moan he lets out after is needy. 

He doesn’t even have the chance to regret his reaction before you’re taking advantage of it. 

“Yeah, Kei?” Your voice is too bright, crystalline candy that cuts. “You wanna be my toy? Want me to fuck you how I want?” 

He nods, helpless, hating it and needing it. 

“Say it.” 

“Holy fuck.” He hisses, pushing you against the cold glass door and rutting hard into your hand, forcing you to keep it tight. “Shut up, just–fuck, how do you wind me up so much?” 

“I’ve had years to learn what makes you tick.” You’re a little too smug, maybe, but he looks so nice like this, so out of control, and you think he might like your attitude a little too much. “Now, are you gonna tell me what I wanna hear?” 

His lips are at your throat, nipping, teeth scraping over the heavy thrum of your pulse. He whispers it, inaudible beneath the shower, and you start to pull your hand away, his fingers slackening with surprise before squeezing harder than before to keep you there. 

“No, no wait I–” He swallows, a choked out groan before he tucks his face close and rounds his shoulders in, pressed around you and unintentionally blocking you from the water’s spray. “I’m yours, your toy.” Saying it out loud does something horrible to him, his cock filling out so much against your fingers and forcing him to loosen his grip on you, just a little. Then, like a secret, he breathes– “I want you to use me.” 

You don’t have to say anything in reply, the confession is enough to bring him to the edge. He gasps, hips jerking to his own rhythm, and this time when he cums it's nearly dry. He lets you fuck him through it, even when he buckles and tries to push you away, it’s weak, half-hearted as he twitches and writhes. Kissing his chest, you finally let him slip from your grasp, with him pressing his face into your hair and clinging to you, a shocking sense of vulnerability that coaxes him to you. 

Floating, a little, fuzzy like cotton in his head, he comes down from it slowly with you stroking his back and cooing into his ear. Praising him, and he’s too fucked out to even notice it. For the best, probably, you don’t need his ego getting too out of control after this. 

You wash his hair while he slumps over you, murmuring to him to keep his eyes closed until you’re done, the water carrying soap down the sides of his face. He follows with you when you move him around, tilting his head back to wash out the lather, twisting so his back is to the water so you can rub conditioner into the ends of his hair. Docile, letting you do with him as you see fit. You never would have thought Kei had a side like this. 

While the conditioner sits for a minute, he watches with heavy eyes as you wash your own, hands touching you, petting you sweetly while letting you soak up the spray by yourself, helping curve your spine into an arch so you can crane your head back, the wash of warm water rinsing the soap from your hair. 

“You’re being so sweet.” You murmur, watching as a shiver rolls through him at your praise, he’s all flushed and happy, with a little smile that makes you weak.

Seeing Kei in a subspace makes you mushy, syrupy saccharine as you cup his face and kiss him, pleased when he leans into you with parted lips and a quiet sigh. 

Between kisses, you rinse his hair out a final time before turning off the water and stepping out to grab him a towel. The cold plume of air that hits him wakes him up,  pulls him from whatever cloudy comfort that he’d been immersed in. By the time you turn around, he’s wearing a frown again and following you out onto the bath mat. 

When you pass him the towel, he loops it around your shoulders to pull you in, keeping you trapped with a wicked little grin. 

“Kei!” You whine, pressing in and locking your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering. “Cold!” 

“Baby.” He muses, not affectionately, and lets you go. 

Out of habit, you begin to drag yourself to your room, towel held tight while you dry yourself off on the way. After a brief pause, you decide to sneak into Kei’s room instead while he’s still in the backroom. You rifle through his clothes guiltlessly, finding your favorite shirt of his and taking it without hesitation. 

Soft, long-sleeved and a dark purple, you eagerly pull it over your head to welcome the warmth. When you tuck your nose against the collar, it smells like him, and he walks in to find you with a happy little smile and your nose buried into his shirt. 

His heart stops, face forming an angry scowl as if that will diminish the way it burns red. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“Aw, Kei, you don’t gotta be shy. What we just did is way worse than seeing me in your clothes.” You watch with a shark-like glee as he groans loud and covers his face with one hand, the other keeping his towel knotted around his waist. 

Throwing yours in his laundry basket, you settle on his bed, cross-legged and tucked far into the corner against a pillow while you watch him get ready. 

When he realizes you’re just staring, he hesitates, something almost shy on his face. You’re about to look away, to snuggle beneath the blankets and give him his privacy, but as you slip beneath them that look dissolves, he shrugs with one arm and starts pushing closed the drawers you left open. Careless, one might think, but his ears are dusted with pink and he’s trying too hard to pretend he’s not watching you too, curled up in his shirt. 

A pair of boxers and a quick trip to the living room to fetch his glasses later, and he’s kneeling onto the mattress and lowering himself into your arms. You smile as he wraps around you, kissing your throat, tucking one of his knees between your legs while you draw the blanket up over his shoulders. 

You stay like that, for a little while, just cuddling and basking in his warmth. You stroke down the curve of his spine, and he smooths wide palms up from the small of your back, in opposite to each other but still in sync. 

“...Are you in any pain?” So faint, you almost don’t hear it, the tentative whisper of his voice. 

You murmur quietly and nuzzle into his cheek, feeling his lips twitch into a smile at the corners. “Mm, my thighs are sore, gonna hurt like a bitch tomorrow.” 

His head tilts, mouth catching yours, where he muffles an apology. Pulling away, he sighs– “I’ll take care of anything you need tomorrow, so don’t try to move too much.” 

You immediately open your mouth to tease him, already something sly and mocking on your tongue, so he clamps his hand over it and presses his lips to your temple. 

“Good night.” Clipped, curt, he settles down and drags you close in a clear indication that the conversation is over. You snicker, quietly, and acquiesce for now. 

Kei falls asleep surprisingly quickly, and you drop a kiss to the curve of his jaw and let yourself steep in your newfound sweetness, knowing inherently that things will be different when you wake up. Harder in some ways, easier in others. 

–

You wake up with him between your legs, his face against your neck, hands shoved beneath the small arch in your back to hold you like you’re a body pillow. His breath is warm against your chest, even, still deeply asleep. 

Your hand goes to his hair, fingers combing through it, thick and wavy since he went to sleep with it still wet. Scratching his scalp, he makes a soft noise and rolls his hips into the bed. 

With a grin too full of mischief for so early in the morning, you scratch a little harder, tug on it how he likes, and his pace kicks up, harder, rubbing his thickening cock against the mattress even in his sleep. He moans against you, wanton, mouth open and hot against your skin. 

Then his alarm goes off, shocking you into stillness and jolting him awake. 

He gasps and his hips come to a quick stop, tense, like he’s waiting for you to wake up and scream at him. You can feel him twitching, though, feel the way his thighs tense, abdomen clenching in anticipation. He had sounded so close. Worked up so quickly, so sensitive while sleeping against you. 

“Let me.” You murmur, pushing yourself down the bed, ignoring his choked whine when you settle beneath him, hands braced on his thighs to keep him leaning over you. You give him as sweet a smile as you can manage, tipping your head back so you can look at him. “Be gentle though, ‘kay? Never done this to a guy before.” 

You smooth your hands up from his thighs first, fingers pushing beneath the fabric of his boxers, feeling how warm he is against you even though Kei has always run a little colder. He watches you, still mired in sleep and a little dazed, as you gently pull his cock free and let it hang in the air just inches from your mouth. He swallows, throat too dry for the motion, neck craned forward to see you clearly.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He husks, throbbing heavy with a thick drop of prespend already threatening to drip onto your face. He has to brace himself over you once again with his arms, torn between watching what you’re going to do and knowing that if he does he’s going to lose it way too quickly.

You drag one of his pillows down to prop your head up, so you can lay flat on your back with your neck lifted to make the slide of him easier. It’s not an efficient position, by any means, with his legs parted around your shoulders, but if you brace on your elbows to keep yourself up then he has room to go. You slick a wet stripe from base to the tip, he moans pretty for you and tries not to immediately buck into your mouth. 

“There we go.” You croon, voice raspy with sleep and about to be made much worse. “Keep an eye on the time, don’t want you to be late.” 

He hisses low, muffled by cotton, and shuffles up onto his knees, higher until they bracket the sides of your head. You think you might die when the head of his cock prods at your lips, sticky, and the noise he makes when you part around him and let it hit your tongue is agonizing.

He rocks into you so slowly, carefully, and you let your jaw fall slack so he can move as he pleases. He can feel it, the way you let yourself lay loose beneath him, and he bites into his pillow to muffle the ragged ‘please,’ that threatens to slip out, begging for something you’ve already given. 

He slides deep, humping at your mouth with short little thrusts that grow longer as he grows comfortable, more sure that you won’t choke if he’s careful, and then he grows less careful the closer he gets. 

It won’t all fit this way, he’s barely getting much friction with the way he’s grinding against your tongue to be as mindful of you as he can. You press a hand to his hip, coaxing, leaning up and pushing higher, room to bend so that when he slides home, it goes. 

It’s a pretty, whiny sound he makes when you swallow his cock, eyes watery and breaths stuttered, choked, caught as you struggle to inhale through your nose, but he sounds so wrecked that when he tries to slide out, you pull him back, sucking him in and swallowing around him again. 

That makes it easier. With every swallow it’s less of a struggle to take a breath, the muscles in your throat less repulsed at the foreign intrusion. 

For Kei, though, it gets worse. He whimpers high and higher each time, feeling you contract around him and trying so hard not to fuck into it, but you keep moving his hips for him and trying to bob your head despite the awkwardness of the angle, and somehow the struggle of you learning to accommodate him in your throat makes it all the sweeter, sicker for it. 

“I’m gonna cum.” He hisses, weak, shoving one hand down to fist at your hair, either to drag you off or push you closer, he doesn’t know. 

You moan, something encouraging, garbled, and the whole fucking vibration makes him see stars. 

He spills, you choke, and god despite how warm and wet and tight you are he pulls back with a cry and drops his grip on your hair to reach for his cock instead, fisted tight at the head and jerking himself through it. He nearly shatters when you dip forward to catch him with your tongue, the tail end of his orgasm peaking sharply as you suck him back into the heat of your mouth, drawing it out, forcing more from even though he swears he’s already spent. 

“How the fuck?” He wheezes, gasping, staring down at you with wild eyes that have little hearts in them. You smile, and your voice when you talk is so hoarse that it makes his abdomen squeeze.  

“Has a lesbian ever made you suck her strap before?” 

He shakes his head, dazed. 

“Well, that’s how.” 

He lets out a loud, incredulous bark of laughter, then he crawls down to your level and kisses you, cupping you by the jaw and pulling you up against him. You make him taste himself with the expectation that he’ll recoil, intending to tease him after, but he only kisses you harder and lets out a quiet grunt when a second alarm goes off. 

“Ooh, good timing.” 

He rolls off of you, leaving you to curl back up beneath his sheets and snuggle into his pillows, throat sore and feeling incredibly satisfied. You ache a little, muscles squeezing around nothing with the temptation to make him come back and fuck you properly this time. You’re comfortable though, wrapped in his scent and his blankets, so it’s easy for you to begin dozing off. You miss the tiny glances he throws your way while getting ready, his heart doing funny things in his chest at how sweet the sight of you is, tucked away in his bed and wearing his sweatshirt.

Fully dressed, school bag slung over his shoulder, he kneels at his bedside and reaches for your hand. Bringing it to his mouth to press your knuckles there, he watches as your eyes blink slowly open. 

“Leaving?” You ask, tracing the shape of his lips with your thumb, shy when he kisses it. 

“For a few hours.” Your wrist, next, ghosting over the lines of your veins. “Then I’ll be back, I don’t have time to cook you anything so I ordered breakfast from that cafe down the road.” Another kiss, at the crook of your elbow. “It’ll be here in twenty minutes, make sure you don’t fall asleep until you get it.” 

You catch the next one with your mouth, molten when his arms come around your shoulders and he leans into the bed with you, rolling you onto your back and pressing down on your chest with his. He kisses you silly, over and over, soft little pecks that make you whine between each one. 

“I love you.” He breathes, a soft sigh like he just can’t help but let it out, like it took up too much space inside of him and had nowhere else to go. 

Your heart constricts, breath expelled from your lungs in a rush because you knew but he’s never told you. You try to say it back, to tell him so he knows too but he stifles you, muffles the words with his tongue and steals the breath that would fuel them. 

Too raw, then. Something so sweet it hurts. 

Kei eventually manages to drag himself away from his bedside, though he fidgets in his way, fingers tightening the strap of his backpack and then loosening it, over and over, before he finally steps out into the hallway. It’s like he’s nervous, unable to leave you alone. You wonder if he’s worried that giving you space will make you change your mind about him, about this. 

No need for him to worry, you’re content as a cat, stretched out amongst his sheets with the taste of him still on your tongue and his love on your skin. 

You feel it when you twist, the bruises in the shapes of his fingers on your hips, your thighs, the deep aches in your neck from how he sucked your skin into his mouth just to bite. You roll around and practically purr your satisfaction, pleasantly sore even without the brutal fucking you’d thought you could goad him into giving you. 

Your tune changes a little when mom calls, though. Still in Kei’s bed, you answer the phone with mild trepidation, unease, guilty in a way like you stole a cookie but haven’t been caught for it yet. 

She worries at the sound of your voice, and something bitter and cold swells in your stomach, the mental image of Kei’s cock shoved deep in your throat staggering, cutting your voice mid-sentence as you try to tell her you’re just feeling a little unwell. 

You hear Akiteru in the background, muttering aloud to himself about how he should get onto Kei about taking better care of you, lamenting that he must be so caught up in his studies and volleyball that he’s neglecting you. 

It feels almost like karma, cutting sharper because of the unintentional double meanings, the things that they don’t know they’re dancing around. 

But still, as you cut the call and lay there, you find that you don’t really regret it. 

–

You thank him for the strawberry pancakes with a picture. 

Truthfully, you think it was sweet of him, and he even remembered that you wanted pancakes for breakfast. Still, the thought of being a little mean when he can’t do anything to retaliate is enticing. 

Sprawled back on his bed, his shirt hiked up high over your breasts, thighs parted with your fingers buried deep in slick, you send him a picture without your face in it, letting him see you pleasuring yourself, a little blurred around the hips in a clear indication of movement. 

Kei 10:34 AM

Can you not say thank you like a normal person 

You 10:35 AM

do you not like it? i can just not send pictures anymore idc 

It takes him a comically long time to swallow his pride enough to reply. 

Kei 12:42 AM 

I didn’t say that.

You’re snacking in the living room when he gets home, wrapped up with one of his blankets and half-way through a documentary that you’re actually invested in. With a half-eaten snack cake in hand, you yelp when he bends over the back of the couch to kiss you, cupping your cheek to twist your face towards him so he can reach. 

He licks the frosting from your lips, bold and brazen, and you’re a little pleased to see that distance hasn’t built his walls back up. 

“Welcome home.” You breathe, pressing the rest of your cake to his lips. His tongue flicks out to catch the lingering sweetness on your fingertips, and he kisses them after. “Oh wow, someone’s clingy. Miss me today?” 

“Yes.” 

Your mouth dries up, shoulders hiking to your ears in an attempt to hide your face, and he smirks down at you with a playful gleam hidden behind his glasses. “So shy.” He mocks, pecking you once more before straightening and carrying his bag over to the kitchen counter.

You roll over onto your stomach to watch him, chin propped up on the couch arm. “Practice tonight?” 

He grimaces, nodding once. “I have to leave soon, only stopped by to get my gym bag.” 

You pout, purposefully softening your voice to play up a wounded act. “You didn’t just stop by to give me kisses? How rude, Kei. I don’t think you deserve to be my favorite brother anymore.” 

He scowls at you, sweetness melting in the wake of your taunts. “Who the hell else could be?”

Your face is wry, a cheshire grin tossed his way that his eyes narrow at. “Do not even try to joke about Akiteru being better than me.” He warns, and your head tips in blatant invitation. 

“Who’s joking?” You drawl, ankles crossed as you kick them up into the air, swaying back and forth. 

He takes the bait with a growl, rounding the kitchen counter so quickly that you sit up straight, alarmed as he crosses the distance between you in few stilted strides. “Hey, wait hold on–” 

Once more, he falls to his knees, dragging you close by the hips with a quick glare. “After all of this?” He murmurs, low and a little dangerous and not at all soft. “I don’t get to be your favorite?” 

He shoulders your thighs apart and pushes your shirt up, finding you still bare beneath it and exhaling hard through his teeth. “What, is Akiteru going to do this for you?”

He doesn’t ease you into it, nothing soft and sweet about the way he latches onto your clit, sucking too hard and too fast as you curl around his head with a wail, clutching at his hair in tight fists and yanking, but he only moans against you and braces you with a hand holding you up by your lower back. 

“I don’t deserve to be your favorite?” He rasps, looking up at you through piercing eyes, a glint of gold that burns you like a brand. “Who the fuck else is going to eat you like this? Who else is going to even get close with me here?” 

“Oh god.” You croak, blinking back tears as your pleasure sharpens, rising so quickly into nearly a crest that you can’t help but squirm and try to buck him away. 

He holds you down, arms locked tight, forcing you to take his pace instead of letting you fuck his tongue how you want. His face is messy with the shine of your slick, up to his cheeks and nose, even smearing over his glasses as he loses himself between your thighs. 

“Hey,” He grits out, mouthing at you with the faintest bite of teeth to get your attention, to distract from the way he eases you open with slick fingers. “Where’s my sweet girl from last night? I’m her favorite, what happened?” His voice sweetens, hot honey that cuts while he taunts you. “Was I not good enough to you? Are you mad at me for not making you cum before I left this morning? I’m sorry, baby.” 

His eyes are narrowed thin and sharp behind his smudged glasses, and he coos against the sticky mess of your pussy with– “let your big brother make it up to you right now, okay?” 

“Kei fuck don’t be such a bitch!” You groan, fingers curled tight near his scalp, twisting, knotting in his hair to pull until his hips grind into the couch, shoving it across the floor a couple of inches. He chases you with his mouth, dragging you back, fingers fucking into you to drive you higher and pull you apart. 

He doesn’t waste the breath to retort, mouth glued to your clit, palm facing upwards as he crooks his fingers hard along your walls, with you squeezed tight around him and your face all scrunched up at the brow. 

You fall apart at the seams, his name on your lips in a way that makes him glow with a smug kind of pride, coaxing you through each pulse of pleasure with gentle, languid laps of his tongue, and you quiver when he kisses your twitching pussy a few times before drawing away. 

Somehow, it’s him doing that that embarrasses you the most. 

“So?” 

You stare at him, weak-kneed and a little dumb. “What?”

He scowls, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and then leaning towards you, pushing your legs apart a little further to make room. “Don’t joke about that again, I won’t be late to practice just to prove you wrong.”

Even tired and still twitching from the afterglow, you can’t resist a sly grin. “Aww, you’re not gonna skip for me?” You pull him in, hands cupped at the back of his neck. “What if I wanted to fuck you this time?” 

He rips away from you with a pained groan, flustered and wanting as your laughter follows him down the halls. While picking up and slinging his gym bag over his shoulder, he swallows down a weak noise when he palms his cock, so fucking hard even though he’s raw from everything you put him through in the last twenty-four hours. He can’t imagine anything better. 

And he’s wearing such a stupid fucking grin, too. The sight of you fucked out on his tongue burned into his mind, puffing him up as he makes back to the living room to tell you goodbye. 

On the way out, he swings by and crouches down to give you one more kiss, softer and sweeter, full, and you wipe at a stray sheen that glistens on his chin. “Make sure to wash your face before you get there.” You murmur, watching his tongue dart out to wet his lips, chasing your taste.

He swears quietly and leaves to do just that, with you once more cuddled up and blissfully satiated, feeling like you’re going to become way too spoiled if you both don't slow down. 

–

You’re already asleep by the time he gets home, preparing to be forced to attend an early morning class that you had once thought was a good idea. He finds you in his bed, phone plugged in on his charger, still wearing his shirt, and he wants nothing more than to just fall into you and wake you up to suffer the aggressive burst of affection in his chest. 

Instead, he takes a shower, eats the plate of curry you’d left in the fridge for him, then finally allows himself to crawl in beside you once he’s relaxed and doesn’t feel like he’s suffering from cute aggression. 

In your sleep, you curl into him, barely giving him time to settle before he has to pull you into his arms just so you stop moving around. Small puffs of breath against his chest, your cheek smushed into his collar, palm splayed over his stomach with his own at your back, he feels disgustingly happy. 

Even with the guilt, even with the hard and heavy weight of whatever sins he’s accumulated by indulging in you, loving you, he’s happier than he’s ever been allowed to be. 

– 

Unsurprisingly, your alarm wakes the both of you, even though Kei doesn’t have to be up for another few hours. 

You try to slip away quick, shutting off the looping chime and detaching yourself from his arms, though you don’t make it far before he’s dragging you back. 

“Where are you going?” He murmurs into the nape of your neck, tucking his knees behind yours and resting his hand over your stomach. 

“Gotta get ready for class, lemme go.” You pull at his wrist, but even half-asleep he’s immovable unless he wants to be. 

When that fails, you change tactics. You wriggle in his arms, his grip only loosening when you make it clear you’re trying to turn around and face him. He welcomes it then, accepting your quick, close-mouthed kisses and growing slack with each one, lazy, fingers tracing loose circles from the base of your spine to the top of it. 

“I’ll pick up lunch on my way back.” You kiss the furrow in his brow just as it forms, already anticipating the way he begins to protest. 

But you twist away before he can tighten his arms around you, ignoring his grumpy complaints while you head back to your room to get dressed. The person you would look nice for is currently waiting half-naked for you in bed, so you throw on something comfortable, brush your teeth, and return to his side to get as much charge for your affection battery as you can before leaving. 

“You look nice.” He murmurs as you lean with your knee pressed into the mattress over him, his hand coming up to guide you down by the back of your head. 

“You’re just sayin’ that cause you’re half asleep.” Still, you smile against his lips when he grunts in clear disagreement. “Gotta go now, baby.” 

He preens, all lowered lashes and a smile he tries to tuck away by stealing one more kiss, but you hold him in place to watch the way his face shifts at the pet name. 

“Oh,” you breathe, enamored. “You really like that, huh?” 

The moment is ruined, embarrassment sharpened into annoyance. “Go.” He mutters, shooing you away. “Let me go back to sleep.” 

“Fine, fine.” You grab your phone on the way out, plugging in his so it doesn’t die while you’re gone. “Don’t sleep too late, you get grouchy when you wake up past ten.” 

His pissy, heatless complaint chases you down the hall, and your smile lingers far past that, as does his. 

– 

There’s a fine line you have to walk, going to the same college as Kei. 

You can’t get too comfortable around him in public, always analyzing every little thing, hoping nobody reads into it. Even something as simple as a wave could be taken wrong if you think too much about it. 

So you try not to. 

Kei does enough of the overthinking for you, constantly jittery and on edge when you seek him out anywhere that isn’t home. It’s worse with Tadashi, someone who’s known you both for nearly your entire lives, but a half-truth conversation in which you tell him that the party had led to a big heart-to-heart between you is enough to explain any odd behavior, he knows personally how strangely Kei handles intense emotional confrontation.

The hardest part is everyone else. 

You’re sociable, approachable, made known to the campus by Hoshino, who is popular, pretty, and kind. Kei starts to endure what you have since highschool, but for the first time. 

People seek him out to ask after you, your relationship status, your number. He hates it. 

He takes it out on you late at night, face buried between your legs until you’re nearly sobbing with the oversensitivity, but he doesn’t stop. Possessiveness is ugly in him, a volatile creature that sits on his shoulder and watches you with greedy eyes. 

He teases you, plays with you, works you open and stretches you to take his cock, but he never gives it to you.

You pay him back in kind, edging him until he’s openly begging, barriers ripped down, teasing him with the slick of your cunt as you taunt him, tease him for being too sensitive to fuck you properly, so fucking mean to him until he cums all over your hands. 

A constant back and forth, each upping the other but neither of you really taking the lead. It turns into a game, a challenge to see who will finally break first. 

In a way, neither of you win in the end. 

–

It comes after a hard loss. 

All of them are hard, of course, but this was a match against Kageyama, and Kei burns with it. Raw and wounded, sensitive, you curl around him in the shower and wash his hair while he grits his jaw and tries to work himself out of it, too afraid to touch you like this. Angry, hurting, needing. 

He doesn’t fight when you lay him back on the bed, lost in his own head, only coming back to you when you sit on his thighs, your hands on his face. 

“I’m sorry.” He seethes it, not angry at you but struggling. 

“I know, baby.” You soothe, a balm to his wounds. “Let me take care of you, okay? I’ve got you.” 

He fights against it, pushing back against the comfort you offer, wanting but not deserving. 

But all it takes is the faintest pressure from your fingertips to his chest, and he settles against the pillows you’d piled up for him, glasses low on his face. He starts to protest when you take them off, but quiets with a kiss, his hands on your thighs while you set the frames aside. His fingertips stroke leftover bruises in your skin, finding the deep-set hickeys on the insides and breathing out like it calms him.

You take him gently in hand, already thickening against your fingers, muscles in his thighs bunching up with tension, anticipation, eased with a stroke of your knuckles over his skin. A touch to make him pliant, all it takes, but he still fights you on instinct, resisting. 

“Close your eyes, Kei.” You coax him, brushing the tip of your nose against his. “Let me make you feel good, please?” 

His defense cracks, so much harder for him to push against you when you’re sweet. 

His eyes fall shut, head tilted back to bare his throat, you kiss along the column of it and rub the  drooling, pliable heat of your pussy against his cock. A slow, steady grind to ease the buzz of his tension, your fingers kneading into the sore muscles of his shoulders to leave him malleable in your hands.

He shudders at first, already moving along you, guided by your push and pull as you cradle the weight of his cock with the velvet between your thighs. He sighs, a slow exhale that’s thick with relief, but it catches and comes out a little wheezy when you lift yourself with a hand braced against his abdomen, and he watches with something akin to a mix of horror and need when you begin to sink down onto him.  

And it’s slow. Every inch drawn out as much as you can manage, trembling as your body melts to accommodate the stretch of him. His fingers are bruising as they curl into you, lips a little shiny as they fall open on a hoarse sigh of your name. For a moment, he’s completely blissed, his hands sliding down along your ribcage as if to guide you onto him, but he applies no pressure.

Then you sigh against him, breathy and warm as the sound ghosts over his skin, and he shudders with it and realizes that he has to stop you, and he’s never regretted something more.

“Fuck, baby wait–hold on, I–” He pulls weakly at your hips, trying to lift you, but you take him so easily that your ass is flush with his thighs before he can even really muster the effort to try. 

He’s pulsing so hard, throbbing in time with the angry rhythm of his heart, holding his breath as if that will make keeping himself in check any easier. He stares at where you meet, the spread of your cunt around him, stretched to make him fit. He twitches, and sees it, the pulse as you flutter around him. 

“I’m about to cum.” He says it quietly, hands twitching as he squeezes and drags you down, grinding forward into you like he just can’t help it, even as he groans and mutters to himself that he needs to pull out but then you squeeze around him again and he’s gone.  

“I just put it in, Kei.” You tease, but it’s breathless, enamored because you don’t even have to move, he’s just rocking into you and that’s enough, he’s so close already. 

He wants you to be quiet, to stop mocking him, but all he can do is push his face into your neck and clench his jaw in an effort to hold back, even as he makes it all the worse for himself by continuously rolling his hips into you. Small, barely-there circles, slow, pressing himself in and feeling how you twitch and tighten around him when he does other things you like. He wants to stay in it longer, wants to just slide into you and feel it but he’s already on the edge and he’s not even–

He panics, then, as he remembers that he’s your fucking brother and he’s not wearing a condom. “Fuck, fuck I’m gonna cum, baby, you have to get off I’m gonna cum!”

You lift yourself on steady legs, watching relief and regret paint his face, but it falls to bliss just as quick when you drop back down, the tight squeeze of your sex taking him back in greedily. 

“Aw, do you want permission or something?” You tease gently, stroking his red-mottled cheeks with your thumbs and kissing the pinch in his brow, enamored with the pitch of his voice when he moans against your neck, breaths ragged and panting as you fuck yourself onto him again, slow thrusts, heavy slaps of your skin against his. 

He hisses your name, a plea, a warning, curling into you with shaky hands grabbing at your back, gripping your shoulders from behind and dragging you onto him, lost to it. He fucks up into you, pulls you down on the same beat, and he only manages to do that a few more times before he buries himself as deep in you as he can go, holding you around the waist with his face in your neck, choking out your name while he cums. 

You shiver at the heat of it, the pressure, and his eyes go hazy when he sees you pressing a hand low on your abdomen. 

Kei is molten when you run your hands over him, when you brush the hair out of his face and kiss his forehead, when you keep him snug within you so the trickle of his release doesn’t drip out onto the sheets.

It’s that that pulls him out of it, some sort of inherent sickness that has him already pulsing with want at the thought of you being full of him. He can feel it, the way you’re already rearing back to tease him, but he’s too laser focused on the feeling of you made even wetter by the load of his cum. He pushes up into you once, testing, and the squelch that emits between your bodies makes you physically recoil, but he holds you tight around the waist before you can escape. 

“Oh.” He breathes, rolling his hips in tiny circles. “Listen to that, fuck.” 

The sound makes you shy, flushed as he uses his cock to play with your insides, fucking the drip of his cum back into you and groaning when he can see as it coats the base. 

You whine, hands plastered over your face, forced along with the push and pull of his rocking hips as he pushes up against your weight. “Kei, god c’mon don’t be gross…” 

“Gross?” He echoes, prying your hands away and giving you a hard stare, even as blissed out as he is.“You think this is gross?” 

He doesn’t give you the chance to answer, an arm locked tight around your waist so he can lift you, bracing against the mattress so he can fuck up into you, dragging you along with every hard thrust that punches a tiny breath from your lungs. 

You’re helpless but to take it, like this. Kei rarely has to be rough with you, but he gives you no chances to pull away from him now. He fucks you like he’s mad at you, bullies his way into you and batters your sensitive pussy with hard, choppy thrusts that force a little of your voice out every time. 

But, oh it’s like you make him drunk. The longer he stays buried thick within you, the harder it is for him to keep control. His pace stutters too often, swept up in it and chasing his orgasm when you squeeze around him a few times, until he groans quietly and remembers that he’s trying to punish you. Then you start to play with him. 

“You’re so good, Kei.” You breathe, his face tucked to your chest, holding the back of his head as he sucks a wealth of hickeys into your breasts. His cock twitches hard against the hot squeeze of your cunt, you can feel him instinctively bury deep with the intent to cum, but he holds himself back. You don’t, though. “So good at filling your baby sister up.”

You have to try so hard not to tease him when that immediately pushes him over the edge. He groans loud and angry, holding you down on his lap with iron arms that tighten up when you try to move, and he fucks into you with jagged, shallow thrusts to ride it out. 

Like he knows you’re seconds away from a smart comment, he works a hand between your bodies to find your clit, hips rolling slowly to push you up and help you grind against his fingers. 

He frowns when you bat his hand away, then makes a strangled sort of sound when you plant your hands against his chest and start to slowly ride him again, more of a grind while he’s soft and then fucking him properly when he’s hard. He kicks out beneath you, gasping and trying to haul you off, but you whine pretty at him and give him needy eyes that make him grit his teeth and take it. 

But you don’t let him make you cum, and he’s too busy trying to keep himself from bucking you off to fight you much on it. He can feel it though, how you deny yourself, disrupting your pace to stave off your orgasm. Edging yourself while using the heat of your pussy to finish him off again and again and again until he can’t anymore. Slow grinding, rolls of your hips that make him shudder, rubbing against him while he’s soft and dragging hoarse little noises from his raw throat, and then you come to a stop. 

He lets you pepper him with kisses, fingers squeezing sporadically at your thighs, holding you while you check him over. The both of you tired, sore, you’re still throbbing desperately with need but Kei is sleepy and reluctantly satiated, holding you against his chest while he curls himself around you, lazy kisses trailing down the side of your neck to your shoulder, and he’s asleep before he’s done. 

You clean him up after that, then yourself, feeling the thrum of your ache in your thighs when you walk, pleasant like a good workout. Crawling in beside him and pulling the sheets up, you drift off almost the second you finally settle against his pillows. 

–

That morning, he’s on you almost the moment you wake up. 

You’d at least made it to the bathroom to attempt your morning routine before he realizes you’re awake, but he’s waiting outside the door when you go to step into the hallway. 

“Holy fuck.” You wheeze, a hand over your fluttering heart. “What the fuck, why are you so creepy?”

He frowns, and you soften, apologetic as you press a kiss to his pouty lips. “Sorry, still waking up.” 

“Do you have class today?” 

He shadows you as you walk back into his bedroom, standing at the edge of the bed as you climb back onto it. In a way, this answers his question, but he waits for your response anyway. 

“Nope, thank god I had the foresight to leave Wednesdays open.” You reach for one of his pillows, hugging it to your chest with the intent of curling up and going back to sleep. 

Instead, Kei drags you over to the edge of the bed, hooking your legs around his hips and bending low to grind into you. “Good.” He drawls, dragging the single syllable out. “Then nothing is going to get in the way of me fucking you.” 

You choke on his name, braced on your elbows as you try to lean up, but he presses you back down with a hand on your chest. “Kei, hold on–” 

“No.” He grinds harder, the swell of him dragging over your clit, the material of his sweats rough against your sensitive skin. It makes you squirm, and he gives a mean little grin that makes your throat squeeze. “Be good for me, let me fuck your pretty pussy a little.” 

Your first instinct is to cover your face, but he’s ready for that, catching you by the wrists and pinning them above your head, leaning over you until the tip of his nose brushes against yours. 

“You felt so fucking good last night.” He murmurs, nuzzling into you. “Can’t wait to be inside you again, can’t wait to feel you cum on me.”

Then his grip tightens, squeezing your hands and leaning more of his weight into them with a low, frustrated noise. “Can’t believe you wouldn’t let me get you off for our first fucking time.” 

Your eyes blink wide, jaw loosened. “Is that why you’re upset?” 

You’d be tempted to laugh, thinking that it’s a little silly that he’d worry about something like that when he’s made you cum so many other times, but his eyes go dark and you find yourself biting your tongue. 

“Yeah.” He shoves the waistband of his sweatpants down, low on his hips, fisting his cock tight and pumping it a few times, eyes locked onto you with a hard, impassioned stare. “Yeah, that’s why I’m upset. So, to make up for it–” 

He finds you still warm, still loosened up a little for him, and he sinks in slow as you take him. Your eyes roll back, almost feeling betrayed at how you suck him in. Your pussy makes it too easy for him to fuck you, slow and testing, finding the way you like it since you wouldn’t let him find out last night. 

Once the head of his cock finds that spot, and your whole body quakes and you let out a noise he’s never heard before, he grins. “ –I’m going to make you beg to cum for me, since my sweet girl apparently forgot what it’s like to be greedy.” 

His hips snap forward, knocking the breath out from behind your locked jaw, forcing a moan out of you that you were trying desperately to swallow. 

He talks so fucking much on top, it drives you insane. 

“C’mon,” He taunts, your knees hiked up high. “I’m your big brother, who else can you be so fucking needy with if not me?”

“Shut up!” The bite in your voice is lost, drowned out by a whimper when he circles your clit, close but not enough, teasing you. “God you’re so fucking weird about it!” 

His laugh is jagged, cruel, too sharp as he leans in with a wild grin. “Yeah?” He coos, sweet like treacle. “I’m weird? Not the princess riding my fucking cock? Making me fucking cum in her?” 

Just saying it out loud cracks him, a quick little “oh, fuck” before he has to slow down. 

Against all better judgement, common sense thoroughly fucked out of your brain, you taunt him in return. “Yeah you’re fucking weird, you’re the one who keeps talking shit about being my brother.” 

He groans then, with hard, punched out thrusts knocking you higher up onto the bed until he grabs you by the shoulders and pulls you back down. “I fucking love your shitty attitude.” He hisses, dropping to his elbows, bracketing you in on the sides of your head. Even without his glasses, he can see you clearly like this, and to him it must be worth the pain in your hips to bend so he can reach you. “Can’t wait to fuck it out of you. My sweet girl, pretty girl, c’mon, soften up for me.” 

He taps at your cheek with a condescending twist to his smile, watching the clear way you fight against your subspace harder than he ever has. You hiss at him and jerk your head to the side, but that only gives him access to your neck. 

You’ve complained before about the sheer amount of concealer and foundation you have to use to cover up his marks, but if anything that only encourages him to leave more. He sucks another one into you, just at the juncture where your shoulder meets your neck, and it muffles the way he moans when you start to tighten up. Your breaths come out gasping, hands squeezing at his shoulders with your nails digging in, trying to find some sort of purchase as you shove back the first tremors of your orgasm. 

“There we go.” He breathes, pulling back so he can see you, so he can watch your face as you fight it. Knowing he’s going to edge you, you try to stave it off as long as you can. “That’s my girl, c’mon, tell me what I want to hear.” 

“Fuck you.” You spit, then whimper when his hips drive up sharply, grinding his pelvis against your clit to make you choke on a sob. 

“I am.” He points out, slowing to a near stop just as you begin to crest, almost feeling guilty when your eyes turn wet with tears, big and watery and he fights back the need to give in to you, to make you cum all over him just like he wants. 

But, even twisted, Kei is your brother, he’s used to dealing with your tantrums. 

He kisses the tears away as they fall, then you so you can taste the salt of them. “Just say please, baby.” He whispers, grinding slow into you when staying still begins to make him ache. “Come on, I want to give it to you, you just have to play nice.” 

Wry, then, he melts once more into something mocking. “Are you too spoiled for even that much? Have to have it your way or not at all? Won’t even let me make you cum because I’m making you ask for it?” 

You claw at him, nails dragging down his chest and reopening old scratches, crisscrossing with new ones, and god he shudders with it, pace picked up even though he wants to keep forcing you to take it slow, wanting to drive you crazy, but then you gasp and wrap your arms around him so he goes even faster in the hopes that you’ll finally give in. 

“What a good, selfless girl you turned out to be.” He smiles when you whine, too sharp as your cunt grips him tight, keeping you on the brink even with tears spilling down the sides of your face. You don’t beg him, though, you keep your lips pressed thin unless it’s to spit poison, but the attitude only gives him a reason to go harder. 

You are your own worst enemy. 

But he’s just as high on the list, taunting you, plucking at your sensitive spots with teeth and practiced fingers, like he’s already become used to coaxing your body to do what he wants. 

“Kei.” You rasp, watery eyes blinking up at him, your lips dotted with beads of crimson from the cut of your teeth, or his. 

He falters, hastily snapping his gaze away, ignoring the way you pout up at him and pull on his hair to get his attention. 

You’ve learned that Kei is good at edging himself. He does it often, always wanting to hold back a little longer, to drag it out, so this isn’t as difficult for him as it is for you. 

But he is not good at edging you, he’s realized.  

When you give him that face, kiss-bruised and bitten lips, wearing his marks with ease, like they were always there. How you quiver around him no matter how much he bullies his way into you, welcoming him in even though you know by now he’s just going to torment you. You’re so fucking good and all he wants is to make you feel as good as you deserve.

“Fuck.” He groans, higher near the end as his thrusts turn sloppy and quick, feeling you squeeze all around him again and just wanting to feel it. “Please, please let me make you cum, just fucking ask me to make you cum already.” 

You laugh, weak and husky, the pinprick point of your nails digging into his back to feel him arch into you, wanting to quip back but fearing that if you say a word you’ll give him exactly what he wants. 

He pulls out. A quick, fluid drag and you wriggle with anticipation of him putting it back in but he doesn’t. The shock of emptiness is so abrupt that you almost whine at it, but Kei shushes you and strokes down your spine while rolling you onto your stomach.

When he slides back in, it feels like more, thicker, his body pressed heavy on your back as he nudges your legs apart to fit himself behind you. “There we go.” He sighs, like finding home in you, and kisses your sweaty shoulder. Slow, deep, he rolls his hips until he finds the way you like it most, guided by how you contract hard around the shape of his cock, molded by it.

Then, when he’s found it, he goes faster. 

Kei only gets to fucks you like that for a few minutes before you’re babbling, clawing at his sheets until they’re pulled and bunched up in your hands. You’re sobbing while trying to roll your hips, trying your best to keep his pace but failing when he pushes you down and doesn’t let you move. Your voice peaks, crests high with the rising pressure of your orgasm, but you still don’t ask. 

“Close!” You whine, muffled into the sheets, pushing back against him and he meets you half-way, and then you can’t stop. “Oh god, oh fuck, ‘m close, don’t stop Kei fuck don’t–” his palm comes down firm on your lower back, forcing you further into the mattress, the angle making your eyes blur. “Kei!” 

“How are you still this fucking stubborn?” He snaps, breathless and flushed, shoving a hand beneath you to find your clit, and you squeal when he fucks into you at the same time. “Just–fucking–”

“Please!” You wail, grabbing at his wrist with both hands, burying your face as deep into the blankets as you can to stifle your voice as it rises into a scream. “Please, please, please make me cum Kei, pleasepleaseplease it’s so good, you feel so good–” then, just when he thinks you can’t do anything more that would convince him to give you what you want, you cum anyway, convulsing so hard around his cock that his knees tremble, but you keep going. 

“You’re the best one.” You whimper, voice high and wobbly. “The best brother, my favorite, love you so much please.”

His eyes blow wide, choking when you suck him in tight, god you’re milking him and the way your voice cracks when you say you love him, he’s completely helpless to give in to you. 

He has no choice but to fuck you through your orgasm to seek his own, not after hearing that. He whispers apologies against your shoulder while you cry from how raw and sensitive you are, when you claw at his arms until he bleeds, and he kisses your fingertips that are reddened now and then holds your hands pinned to his sheets while he cums as deep inside of you as he can get, you feel like he’s in your throat, he feels like he’s not far enough. 

After, long after, he stares down at you. Unmoving, fingers still locked with yours, eyes tracing the bites he’s left all over your shoulders, the hickeys he sucked into your spine, his cock soft and tucked between the press of your thighs. 

Eventually, he has the sense of mind to roll you onto your back, to check on you and make sure you didn’t smother yourself in his bed out of embarrassment or frustration. 

When he’s greeted with a lazy, satisfied smile and sleepy eyes, he falls in love with you in a whole new way. Kisses you sweet and gets you a cup of water, drags you to the bath and washes you down. You’re pliant, malleable, clingy in the way you drag him to your bed instead of his because you don’t want to wait for him to change the sheets, how you ignore his complaints about going back to bed so early in the morning with a half-hearted promise that it will just be a short nap. 

It’s like a dream, your body draped over his, the even puff of your breaths over his skin, things he shouldn’t know, things he can’t live without now. 

He kisses you in your sleep because he can, because he shouldn’t. 

–

Kei graduating is supposed to be a good thing. 

But he’s grumpy, muttering to himself about how annoying all of the parties will be, dreading even weeks in advance the long lineup of his plans, friends wanting to drag him to bars and family wanting you to come home and visit. 

You’re starting to get annoyed with it, the sigh he lets out every time his phone chimes, the perpetual heavy set to his brow, prickly like the cactus sitting in your windowsill. 

“Hoshino wants to get dinner tonight.” You drawl, leaning against the doorway with your arms loosely crossed. He’s at his desk, scowling at nothing, like it’s become his resting face ever since getting his degree and being accepted at his desired position at Sendai’s museum. 

“Have fun.” He mumbles, not even looking away from his screen. 

“With both of us.” You clarify, tugging your phone out of your–his– jacket pocket and sending a text that politely declines, vaguely amused when she immediately responds that she knew he’d say no. 

“Not going.” 

It’s not ideal, but he’s unintentionally given you a clear trump card for situations like this. Voice lilting high, you turn so your back is to him, carrying down the hall as you call back to him “Fine, then I’ll go on a date with her myself while you sit here and sulk. Alone.” 

The harsh screech of his chair as it rolls against lacquered wood might be enough to make you smile, if you didn’t know that you’re now seconds away from a very tall, angry man grabbing at you. 

You dart into the kitchen, but he’s quick behind you, and though you duck to the side to dodge his grip as he stumbles, his arm comes around your waist just before he falls back onto the couch, dragging you with him. 

“What's this?” He hisses, tucking you into his side and twisting, half leaned over you with his arm beneath your neck to keep you propped up. “Where’d that fucking attitude come from? Who pissed you off?” 

“You did, you idiot!” You snap, squirming beneath him even knowing there’s no way you get out, not unless he wants to let you go. 

His eyes flash, something dark, but it only lasts as long as it takes for him to hook one of your legs around his shoulder, splitting you wide as he yanks up the thick material of his hoodie, finding you bare and already a little slick. 

“Look at you.” He breathes, wanting to be mocking but wanton instead. “What did I tell you about walking around with nothing on underneath my clothes?” 

“You told me to stop.” You murmur, lifting your hips to make room for him as he settles between your thighs. “But it seemed contradictory when you fucked me over the counter because of it.” 

He bites at your hip once in warning, his eyes thinned with a dangerous glint that makes you bold, long since learned what he likes, when he likes it. 

He wants you sweet, but he doesn’t get sweet with the sulky way he’s been huffing and puffing ever since he was forced to be social for a change. 

You split easily around the heat of his tongue, a long and slow lick like he’s missed you, and with the way he sighs out his tension and melts, you coo and run your fingers through his hair. 

“Look at you.” You tease, echoing him. “What, was this all you wanted? So easy.” 

His eyes roll, toyed with by the cloying sugar of your voice, nose pressing into your clit while he fucks into you with his tongue. Frustrated, now, poked and prodded at until he’s raw and sensitive, the way you egg him on threatens to pull him from the sweetness he’d almost slipped to. You make it easy to be soft, he could almost lose himself like this if you would stop running your mouth long enough to let him. 

Until the sharp chime from your phone rings through the air, and he stills against you, eyes wide as you curse and tug it free from the pocket of his hoodie. 

He knows who it is by the way you choke, the way your knees instinctively attempt to snap shut around him like you’ve just been caught doing something bad. 

“Hey, mom.” Your voice is weak, surprisingly timid in a way he hasn’t heard in years, and the taste of you in his mouth suddenly feels stifling. 

“Hi, sweetie.” She sighs, a happy little noise that chips away at you. “Kei hasn’t texted me back yet, I just wanted to make sure you’re both still coming home for the weekend?” 

He moves, deeper, watching your face for careful signs that you’re about to get seriously mad, but you only flutter your lashes and bite on your lip to keep quiet, so he drags his tongue up to your clit and suckles on it, enamored with the way you try so hard to keep yourself composed. 

“He’s–” You choke, head falling back and he doesn’t like it, wants to see you, wants you both fully present in this sick moment where you’re crossing, even still, one more boundary that had been left unsullied. “ –being a brat, but yes we’re still coming.” You try to glare at him, but it’s diluted by the swell of your lips as they part, tempered with the molten desire in your eyes that only he gets to see. 

It’s wrong, so fucking wrong, but he pulls himself away from the inviting heat of your pussy and leans back on his knees, fingers fumbling with the button on his jeans as your eyes go wide. Your arm shoots out, fingers splayed wide over his abdomen to keep him pushed back, but he growls low in his throat and bats you aside to shuffle forward on his knees, keeping you spread around him.

“You’re both so alike.” She teases, playful, and it only makes what you’re doing even worse. “I’m glad you two have been getting along, Akiteru and I worried that putting you in the same space for more than a month would just cause another fight.” 

You nearly whimper when the head of his cock slips against your slit, grinding hard until it comes away sticky, shiny, and when you look up at him expecting something mean and cruel, you feel tilted on your axis at the love on his face. 

He lowers himself to you, mouth finding yours as he sinks home. 

“It’s ‘cause I keep him in line.” You croak against his lips, feeling them curve into a smile, like he knows better as he stirs you up from the inside. “He’s a mess without me here, can barely–” You choke on an airy moan when he lifts you up, the firm press his cock hitting you so right it almost makes you sob. Eyes on him, you breathe– “he can barely even function without me, you should see him mom, grumpy all the time just like when he was a teenager.” 

His eyes shadow, mean little smile on his lips that lets you know you have a very short window to end this call before something happens that you can’t come back from, though you’re already well past that precipice. 

She laughs, a pretty sound that makes you tighten up with guilt, and he stifles a moan against your shoulder because even your guilt feels good for him. “He’s there with you right now, isn’t he?” She sighs, fond and wistful. “You only talk like that when you’re trying to make him mad, I’m glad to see the city hasn’t changed you too much.” 

He covers your mouth with his palm, taking the phone from you with the other and leaning back, fucking into you with hard bucks of his hips that make your eyes shine, slow enough though that the sound of your skin on his can’t be heard through the phone. 

“She’s just mad that I don’t want to go to dinner with her friends.” He huffs, dismissive, almost, if not for the wild way he watches you, fingers digging into your cheeks to squeeze at your mouth, though it does little in the way of actually keeping you quiet. 

Your eyes roll back, nails clawing at the hand keeping you covered, and he watches with a twisted sense of awe at how you writhe so nice beneath him even knowing that your mom is on the other end of the line.

Though, he’s no better with the way he batters your poor pussy with thrusts that get harder and harder as his composure slips. 

You can’t hear the rest of the conversation, it blurs, and you only realize that he’s hung up the phone when he tosses it carelessly on the coffee table and then lowers himself down to you once more, back bowed so he can kiss you and lick your mouth open, prying your lips apart to swallow down your first blissful cry. 

“There you are.” He coos, saccharine when you wind your arms around his neck and try to squeeze him closer. “That’s my girl, missed you so much, love when you’re sweet for me like this.” 

He wants to tease you, to play with you, to take his frustrations out on you with all of his pent up stress accumulating over each forced social interaction. 

But then you whine at him, big watery eyes and kiss-bruised lips how he likes. “Love you.” You whimper, and his legs buckle. “Love you so much, Kei.” 

He hates you. 

His arms wrap around you, falling back to pull you into his lap so he can thrust up into you languidly, cupping the back of your head with a greedy palm. “I know, baby.” He breathes, honey in his eyes. “I love you too, fuck.” 

“My favorite?” You ask, like it’s not your decision, but he groans low with it and nods, the tip of your nose brushing over his. 

“Yeah, baby. I’m your favorite, who else are you gonna fuck on the phone like that?” He shouldn’t, he knows, shouldn’t use what just happened and make it even worse, even weirder, the thought of mom knowing what was going on makes him genuinely sick.

But, just as twisted as he is, your pretty little cunt tightens up around him so much that he knows you like it. 

He’s already going to hell, god he might as well at least make the trip worth it. 

“My pretty girl.” He murmurs, deceptively sweet, rolling his hips slow the way you like when he’s soft, like he’s loving you, and you take him so fucking well. Every time, no matter how he gives it to you, like you were made–

Kei groans loud, back arched as a traitorous thought flits across his mind and then burns itself there, unbidden, sticky. He squeezes you by the hips, plush, skin soft against his rough palms, and as he looks up at you to find you watching him with those glassy eyes and parted lips, he can’t help but tell you. 

“You were made for me.” He says it so softly, seriously, watching your face twist up as you cry out, but he keeps going. “Made for my cock, for me to fuck you, made for me to fucking love you like this. She made you for me.” 

It’s a shock to you both when you tip over the edge, so sudden that he’s left scrambling to fuck you through it, breathless and wide-eyed at how you sob for him. You cling to his neck, mewling and whimpering as you cover his cheeks and jaw and neck in wet, open-mouthed kisses, choking out his name and squeezing him so tight it almost forces him to cum along with you. 

“Oh, you like it that much?” He spreads his legs further apart, flushed to his chest with the force he pushes into each hard thrust, so fucking in love that it makes him sick. “Like hearing about how you were made to be fucked by me?” 

You claw at him, lips at his ear, voice so slurred and sweet that he feels dizzy. “You too.” You pant, red streaks left in the wake of your nails. “Made for me, made to make me feel good, you feel so good.” 

He flushes beautifully beneath your praise, more willing to accept it now than he used to be, now able to cling to you and fuck you how he likes, chasing his own pleasure with your name at the tip of his tongue. 

To help him through it, you continue to babble all sorts of sugar and sticky taffy-like things to push him over the edge, he hates it, he loves when you talk to him, loves even more when you try to talk around the feeling of his cock bullying into your drooling slit. 

“You’re in my fucking throat.” You croak out, raspy, swallowing the mouthful of saliva that nearly chokes you when he ducks down to nose his way beneath the bunched up fabric of your hoodie, his tongue dragging hot between your breasts. 

“Don’t tempt me.” He mutters, teeth in your skin, scraping raw until you gasp and arch further into him. “Just wanna stay here, right where I’m meant to be.” He circles his hips teasingly, the too-loud squelch of his cock as it fucks into you is obscene enough that you while, trying to cover your face while he laughs. Despite clearly being on the brink, he still finds the breadth of mind to taunt you. 

You crane your head back, panting hard as you ride the thick of him as best you can, fingers curling against his nape, clutching his head to your chest while he mouths at you, marks you. “Kei, fuck, c’mon.” You’re whining now, a little pathetic, but you’ve made him feel so good that he doesn’t mock you for it, doesn’t tease you, just curls his arm around your waist for better leverage with which to fuck you, lifting you and using your weight to shove you back down onto his cock, over and over, the muscles in his arms tense, sweat slick on his skin. Kei uses you shamelessly to get himself off, stroking with the clench of your pussy until he finally tips over the edge, and he groans your name with a touch of ardor while he spills. 

It always feels too hot inside of you, thick, made sweeter by the fact that it doesn’t belong, but he acts like it does. He’ll watch, heavy-lidded, as it seeps out, then use the head of his cock to shove it back in, or his fingers if he’s too sensitive to bear it. Every time. 

“Just like that, baby.” He murmurs, sleepy eyes glued to where his cum begins to drip down, hips rolling in stilted little circles to push it up into you before it gets too far. “There we go, shh, I’m almost done.” 

He lets you curl into him, rubbing your sweaty back beneath his hoodie, and then helping you pull it off when you still can’t cool down. Naked, sprawled in his lap, he kisses your shoulders and murmurs apologies for being so grouchy in between each one. 

You try not to feel too vindicated knowing he just needed to get his dick wet to chill out. 

After the high fades, though, you’re both left thinking about the phone call, shame curdled low and coiling nausea making you wince. 

He cups your face, thumb feathering over your lips. “We shouldn’t do that again.” He sighs, gritted and a little pained. “We can’t risk her finding out. That was dangerous.” 

You duck your head with a touch of something shy, spread wide and shockingly vulnerable, and his eyes widen at the uncertainty on your face. “Shouldn’t…do what? All of it?” You ask, hesitant, like you’re trying to give as little of yourself away as possible. 

But Kei is attentive, he’s paid more attention to you than anyone, knows you better than anyone. 

He laughs, playful, eyes gleaming gold as he kisses you on the mouth. “What, worried I won’t fuck you anymore?” He coos, as the familiar edge of defiance flares bright on your face. “Worried your favorite brother isn’t gonna stuff you with his cock every day?” 

“You are such a dick!” You push yourself off of his lap, shaky legs carrying you to the bathroom where he’s quick to follow. 

You let him drag you into the shower, chest to your back as he wraps his arms loose ‘round you and tucks his face in close, cradling you with his body blocking the cold spray from hitting you.

It’s hard to stifle your grin when he shudders, groaning quietly but suffering through it anyway while the water warms up, his hands stroking up and down your thighs, just touching you.

“Do you want it to stop?” He asks, lips against your throat, mouthing at your pulse to feel the way it jumps. “We will, if you want. No questions asked.” 

It would break him, god. To finally crack through all of those barriers and know you the way he does, it would kill him to have to pretend to love you any less, to love you differently than the way he feels he was made to. You shake your head, words locked in a tiny box between your lungs, heart aching at the thought of losing what you have with him.

“Good.” He sighs out, a heavy exhale so thick with relief it makes your cheeks burn. 

Once the water is warm, he turns so that you’re beneath the spray, tilting your head back so it doesn’t get in your eyes and letting it soak through your hair. You watch him through lashes tipped with crystalline droplets, the way he lathers your soap between his hands to scrub into your scalp, sliding down the back of your neck to squeeze, cupped palm dragging upwards in a slow stroke that makes you moan, soft and breathy. 

He’s obscene when he washes the rest of you, on his knees in front of you so that you keep the water from hitting his face, free to look up at you while he takes the loofah to your legs first, greedy hands gliding up your calves along the way as he presses his mouth to your cunt. 

You try to shy away, sensitive and still sticky with his cum, but he chases you. Gentle, though, barely any pressure as he moves to scrub down your other leg, then your thighs, and when he gets to your back he keeps both arms locked at the small of it to hold you in place while he laps at you with his tongue. 

His eyes flutter open when you move a hand down to cup around his cheek, your fingers brushing the wet hair from his face so you can see him better. 

He smiles up at you, a faint, drunken sort of thing, hearts in his eyes that he would surely be hiding if he knew they were there. When you pull, he goes, standing over you and letting you wash his hair before the water runs cold. 

But he’s clingier, after that. Dragging you half-dried into bed, back to grumbling about upcoming dinner plans but doing it with his face buried against your stomach while he lays sprawled between your legs, your arms draped over the backs of his shoulders so you can scroll through your phone while cuddling with him. 

When Akiteru calls later in the evening, you sit on opposite ends of the bed, flushed and prickly and defensive as you both simmer in the embarrassment of the earlier call with your mother. 

It’s hard, but you’ve already accepted the notion of being this way forever, you’ll adjust, you’ll learn to deal with it. 

It’s a decision made easy, next to no hesitation as Kei makes dinner with you tucked against his chest, ignoring the way you complain about personal space. You sway with him, and he lets you, sets the table with you and then eats with you in his lap because he’s sick with it and just wants to feel you close, so much so that he’s willing to endure the relentless brunt of your teasing. 

And that’s what makes it so easy, to choose him despite it all. The way he loves you is so unlike any other kind of love you’ve known, and you have no interest in trying to find anything like it in someone else. 

–

Still, sometimes you have to wonder at yourself, because your first visit back home is going terribly. 

Kaoruko had wanted to meet up when she heard you were back in town, which Kei was not happy about, so your first actual day of the visit consisted of you catching up with high-school friends that had stayed in Miyagi. Kei waits at home with Akiteru and mom, mildly irritated knowing who you’re with but ultimately just wanting you to come back. He’s used to this brand of jealousy thanks to the influx of your popularity at college, he can deal with it. 

What he can’t seem to deal with, however, is the way you hang off of Akiteru once you’re back home. 

In your defense, you always have, he just couldn’t complain about it before. You sit pressed against Akiteru’s side, tucked into his arm while you listen with bright and sparkly eyes as he  recounts how Saeko’s pregnancy is going, how she’s due in only a month and he gets all misty-eyed just at the thought of it. 

You tease him, bump him with your head, pinch his cheeks until he’s laughing and trying to shy away, only to be chased as you lean over him to continue your assault. 

Kei is livid, jaw gritted so hard his ears pop, that old, quiet monster back on his shoulder and seething. 

Then you make dinner with mom, and he has to watch as Akiteru catches you from behind in a hug, nuzzling your shoulder with a happy little sigh that makes him sick. 

He knows it’s not fair, knows that there’s no reason to be jealous when he’s the only brother fucked up enough to feel this way about you, he even knows that you don’t have a smidge of those fucked up feelings towards Akiteru. 

But it feels different. Seeing his brother, your brother, wrap himself around you like he does, tall and broad with arms looped around your waist to hold you the way he wants to. It’s making him crazy, irrational. 

It’s an effort to keep it contained, to mom and Akiteru he probably just looks normal, passively disinterested, even a little grumpy from the long car ride.

You know better, though, by now. 

So you really aren’t all that surprised when, late after everyone else has gone to bed, Kei sneaks into your room. 

You know it’s him by the click of your door, the type of quiet that's like he doesn’t want to get caught, not like he doesn’t want to wake you. You’re curled up on your side, facing the wall, tucked in beneath familiar sheets that are strange against your skin now. 

His hesitation is palpable, where he stands at the edge of your bed, resistance a physical thing holding him back. A knee presses down on your mattress, a hand hovering just above your shoulder. 

“Miss me that much?” You muse, featherlight in the cursed quiet of your childhood bedroom. 

It would be an unforgivable sin, to indulge in him here, to let him indulge in you. You’ve already racked up so many, and are sure to collect even more as you live the rest of your life with him, so you turn for him easily, a growl muffled against your lips when he kisses you so hard that your teeth click together. 

He doesn’t stretch you open on teasing fingers, tonight. Doesn’t stroke you with his tongue and build your arousal until you’re crying, instead he hurriedly fumbles with the waistband of his pants and shucks them down to his knees, dragging you to him by your hips and scowling when he sees that you’re still fully dressed. He’s gotten too used to you being half-naked for him at home nearly all the time. 

“Off.” He mutters, pulling at the buttons of your shirt while you shimmy out of your shorts. You tremble a little when his hands ghost up your ribcage, long fingers curving around your sides to touch as much of you as possible.

His cock hangs heavy between you, already sticky at the tip and dripping. After cursing quietly and rifling through his pockets, leaned over you with his head on your shoulder, you hear the small crack of a plastic container, and something cold drips down onto your cunt. 

Your back arches sharply, a heavy hand clamping over your mouth at the last second to stifle your yelp. 

“Shut up.” He knees your thighs further apart before his fingers slip into the slick pooling between your legs, working them into you with such little patience you can’t help but stutter out a disbelieving laugh. 

Kei really doesn’t like that. “Didn’t you hear me?” He hisses, a gritty whisper. “I said shut up, you want someone to hear you?” He spreads his fingers apart, wide, a stretch that burns. “Are you hoping Akiteru will come help you? Think he’s gonna fuck you better than I do?”

“No.” You rasp, rolling your hips and reaching to kiss along his throat, squeezing him tight. “Nobody can.” 

He’s clearly not expecting that. So used to your snark and attitude, the unabashed honesty throws him off. 

He slows, furrow in his brow loose, blinking down at you like he’s just now seeing you clearly. “Yeah?” He breathes. “Nobody?” 

You shake your head, hands curved around the sides of his neck, fingers interlaced over the nape. “Made for me.” You remind him, voice small. “Made to make me feel good, nobody fucks me like you.” 

He shudders, pulling his fingers out of you despite the way you wriggle and squirm in protest, tugging the pillow out from under your head and shoving it beneath your hips to prop you up. You whine, a muffled complaint that he knocks out of you by grinding the length of his cock against your pretty slit. “That’s right, baby.” He murmurs, softened by your sweetness. “You’re right, how could I forget?” 

He strokes your cheek with his knuckles, waiting until he hears you begin to exhale before pushing into you in time with your breath. 

You choke on it, squeezing and scratching at his back as you whine and writhe beneath him, feeling every inch push into you so rough it makes your eyes burn. 

“I was made to fuck your little cunt.” He sighs, buried to the hilt and lax, rolling his head back on his shoulders before letting it fall to take a look at you, the sight of you sprawled out over familiar sheets and glassy-eyed, lips parted like you want him to kiss you. “Go on, say it again, keep telling me how much you fucking love my cock.” 

“Kei.” You’re whining, twisting your head to the side to hide your face in your sheets, but he tsks softly and fucks his hips forward once, just to make your lashes flutter and watch how you try to focus on keeping quiet. 

Better than you focusing on trying to hide yourself from him. 

He wants to go faster, wants to fold you up and bury himself into you until you’re crying beneath him, but your fucking bed creaks if he moves too quickly. He’s forced to take it slow, to roll his hips steady between your parted thighs and hope he can keep up with his shitty self control. 

“I can’t wait to get home.” He groans, thumb pressing down on your clit, loose, sloppy circles that coax you into rocking up against him to make him hit it right. “Miss our bed, our shower, miss being able to touch and kiss you however I want.” You whine, squeeze him suddenly, tight, and he chokes on air when it nearly forces him clean out of you. 

His head lifts, finding you pouting at him with pretty, teary eyes, and he grins. “What?” He teases, shoving himself back in and ignoring the way it snaps your bed frame into the wall, a crack that makes you flinch. “Am I not fucking you good enough? Unless you want someone to wake up and hear you, this is all you’re getting tonight.” 

“More.” You murmur, velvety as a feather, bucking your hips up. “Not enough, need more, Kei.” 

“Oh.” He coos, hiking your legs up a little higher to help you grind against him. “So greedy, that’s my baby sister. Only greedy for me, right?” 

Your face screws up, flush with shame and sick at the way it makes you ripple with pleasure. He tries to give in, tries to go faster for you, but you both wince at the way your headboard smacks into the wall. 

“Fuck this.” He hisses, and you bite back a shocked little yelp when he pulls you off of the bed. Your knees hit the carpet and drag, pushed forward when he bends you down and leans your chest towards the floor. Hand heavy between your shoulder blades, you moan low and hoarse when he pushes back inside of you. 

Now he fucks you, free hand muffling his own mouth as he locks his jaw and squeezes his eyes shut, cock raw as he carves out its shape inside of you, branding you with it. Your knees burn, forced forward along the carpet with every angry thrust, until he has to brace his arms above your shoulders to keep you from getting too far away. He yanks you back onto him with a curse, like it isn’t his fault you were moving so much to begin with. 

“This better, baby?” He gasps, dropping one arm to wrap it around your waist, jerking you back against him when your knees start to spread too far. “Feel good? Got what you wanted?” 

“More.” You whine when he strokes at your clit, rolling it between slick fingers until he can feel you start to convulse around him, sucking him in so hard that he has to try to pull out. Your voice pitches higher, and he has to scramble for something to shove against your mouth. The corner of your blanket makes due, he pulls you back by your hair and presses the thick cotton over your mouth, stifling the ragged moan that breaks free from the bottom of your throat. 

“Holy fuck.” He breathes, slowed almost to a stop until you actually start to raise your voice, something desperate and keen and he groans as he fucks you back into the floor, pressing you down until only your hips are held up, bruising in his hands. “So noisy.” Mocking you, even though he’s losing control too, uncaring of how harshly loud the slap of his hips against your ass is. 

You sob into the blanket, bunching it up within your arms so you can bury your face into it solidly, hot and sweaty but blissful because you can finally stop choking on your own voice. 

Blindly, you try to reach for him, one hand patting at the floor until he notices, and he’s quick to lace his fingers with yours, trembling, his pace beginning to stutter. He loses his rhythm, bowed low over you to press in as close as he can, forcing your legs to spread just a little more around him.  

“Kei.” 

He squeezes you, muffling a ragged noise against the space between your shoulder blades. “I know, sweet girl.” He husks, thick and a little slurred, struggling to speak clearly through the promising swell of his orgasm. He twitches, throbs against the tight clench of your cunt and he starts to whine the closer he gets. Higher pitched, pretty. 

You’re all twisted up, bent to his whims and overwhelmed with all of the sensations. Carpet scorching your knees, desperate hands that grab at you, that stroke you until you’re blurry in the eyes and almost drooling. 

It’s too much, all of it. More than the position, the way he handles you, the way he uses you and makes you use him in return. It’s the bedroom, the memories that come along with it, the knowledge that a few rooms away your mother is asleep in her bed, blissfully–hopefully–unaware of what’s happening between her two youngest. 

“‘m gonna cum.” You whisper, a gravelly sound, forced out through the squeeze of your throat as you try to remember to breathe. 

Kei sighs at you, almost like you’re inconveniencing him with your stamina. “So?” He breathes, trying for cocky and failing, thrusting forward to meet you when you begin to rock back against him in earnest. “Wh–fuck–what do you want me to do about it? Want me to make you cum, baby?” 

You nod, desperately, almost unable to even open your mouth and try to plead for more. You’re wound so tightly, so close, so on the brink and focused on trying not to scream that you can’t hold it anymore. 

“Just this once.” He warns you, a lie. “To prove that I deserve this fucking cunt, I’ll make you cum without you having to beg for it. How nice am I?” 

Your mouth drops open, sucking in a cold breath that feels like frost against your tongue, and your ragged “so nice, Kei, the nicest,” makes him want to kiss you. 

“Again, baby.” He rasps, closer, hips snapping so hard into you that you’re sure someone will hear, and you just can’t even care about it anymore. “Say it again, tell me how fucking good I am to you.” 

“So good!” You sob, words choked out barely a second before you cum, and then you’re babbling with his hand hastily slapping over your mouth. “Kei, Kei! You’re so good, love you, love you please don’t stop feelssogood–”

He’s completely silent when he cums, battering the sore silk of your pussy with his cock as he fills you again, wrong that feels more than right, teeth gritted so hard that his head begins to hurt, but needing to keep his voice locked away or he’s sure he’s going to be just as bad as you are. He stays buried to the hilt, keeping you full of him and blanketing you with his weight, and you seem all the more pleased for it even though he must be blistering hot against your sweaty skin. 

You’re both panting heavily by the time he’s done, shaking, suddenly swallowed up by the pale colors of your old bedroom. Old pictures, stuffed animals lining shelves on the walls, a horrible dichotomy to the sin dripping between your thighs, the way it’s your brother who pushes it back into you with careful fingers, the way he pulls you into his arms to kiss you and whisper that he loves you.

Sheets sullied with you, you let him lift you up onto the bed, let him wipe you down and then crawl in beside you. He doesn’t stay the whole night, knowing that he can’t afford to be seen coming out of your room so early in the morning, but needing to hold you just a little while.

You kiss him goodbye and scoot far over to the other end of your bed, sore and sensitive legs pressed against your wall so the plaster can cool them down. You fall asleep like that, curled into the corner with the scent of Kei still heavy on your clothes, the taste of him still honey on your tongue. 

– 

Mom almost causes another quiet meltdown in Kei. 

When you go downstairs the next morning, she’s appalled at the raw and inflamed state of your knees. You wave her off, telling her you just skidded too hard over your carpet after slipping, but the severity of how agitated your skin is makes her worry. 

And if she’s worried, Akiteru is doubly worried. 

“Just let me do it!” He insists, kneeling on the floor in front of you with a bottle of burn cream in his hands. Kei is trying his absolute hardest not to look as murderous as he feels, and you’re trying to deescalate a situation that will end with your brother breaking your back once he gets you home. 

“It’s fine, Akiteru.” You try to take the bottle from him to do it yourself, but his arms are long and gangly and he holds it away from you with ease. “I can do it myself! You’re too rough with this kind of stuff!” You whine. “Remember when you wanted to clean the cut Kei got at the beach in Okinawa, and you just ripped off the band-aid?” 

“It’s better if it’s quick!” He insists, brown eyes wide and puppy-like. 

“Not for an open wound like that! He has a scar!” You try to stand up, to lean over him and snatch the bottle, but Kei gets to it first. 

“I’ll do it.” 

You and Akiteru freeze, your elbow pressing into his cheek to keep him down while you reach for his hand, the one that is now empty and still suspended in mid air. Kei looks at the bottle, disinterest clear on his face, and rolls it around in his palm. 

“What? No!” It slips out without thinking, a panicked rejection that barely manages to pass as normal.

His eyes narrow, and you try to muster up a scowl. “I can do it myself, Kei.” 

His brow ticks, a scowl that mirrors yours, but sharper. “Stop being stubborn, what if it gets infected?” 

And who’s fault would that be?

You don’t say it, chewing on the inside of your cheek to swallow the retort and lean back, straightening your leg out to point in his direction. “Fine.” You huff, arms crossed with a pillow held against your chest. “Hurry up, and don’t use too much! That stuff is really cakey.” 

It’s impossible to keep your face composed when Kei kneels in front of you, and despite the angry pinch to his face, his hands are tentative as they bring your leg up, a palm braced just at the bend of your knee to keep it suspended while he gently dabs a thick dollop of cream onto your ankle. 

He spreads it all the way up from there to your knee, he doesn’t touch where your skin is dry and is careful to keep the stroke of his fingertips light as he pats the ointment in. You try not to stare, amazed at how he can so easily appear disinterested when you can feel the tension in his hands, the way his touch lingers longer than it should. 

“You’re so gentle with her now.” Mom hums, leaning against the back of the couch to press a kiss to the crown of your head. 

“She’s hurt.” Is all he says, a shock to you and Akiteru more than her. Mom just smiles at him, pretty eyes sparkling like honey, before going back to the kitchen to finish breakfast and leaving you to your embarrassment. 

Akiteru stays until Kei is almost finished with your second leg, watching with a soft, doting smile, marveling at the way his little siblings have changed. You’re still shy, a little awkward in a way you only ever are with him, and he’s as grumpy as ever, but softened only when he’s with you.

He thinks it’s sweet that you’ve been like that since you were children, used to joke that you were Kei’s first love. A funny memory, something he’ll bring out at Christmas to tease him with, never knowing how deeply his words would cut, more and more every year. 

The moment Akiteru leaves, Kei is kissing you. 

Quick, chaste and a little regretful, his brow is furrowed when he pulls back and returns his attention to your knee. “Sorry, for this. I didn’t think it would be so bad.” 

“I don’t think you were thinking at all.” You muse, head tilted in feigned thoughtfulness. 

He glares at you, swatting at the back of your leg where it isn’t rubbed raw and jerking back when you try to kick him, a half-smirk curled at his lips that falls just as fast when the front door opens. 

You give him a wry smile at his heavy, exasperated sigh. Back to socializing, back to trying to be normal. 

–

You don’t make it onto the road until it’s already late, a last minute party put together by your mom with all of your old friends, though Kei is less excited to see his than you are to see yours. 

He can tell the moment you’re ready to go, though. When your usually boundless supply of energy is nearly fully tapped, he pulls aside Akiteru to let him know that he’s taking you home, and then you’re being crowded with hugs when the news is passed around. 

It’s sweet, but you’re tired, and feeling a little oversensitive with the pain in your knees and the abundance of noise over the course of the night. 

Your travel bag already tucked into his trunk, phone and charger in hand, you hug your mom and Akiteru goodbye before Kei finally manages to haul you into the passenger seat, your steps sluggish and your body weighed down with fatigue. 

He makes it about two blocks away before pulling over to the side of the road and kissing you, swallowing your laughter with a discontent noise, hands squeezing the sides of your neck with the faintest pressure, just needing to hold you, needing to have his hands on you. 

“You’re so fucked up, Kei.” You murmur against his lips, knowing you’re just as bad. “Told me the day we left that you weren’t gonna put hands on me while we were here, cause you didn’t wanna get caught.” 

“Shut up.” He nips at you with the gentle cut of teeth, drawing you in by your neck until you’re nearly leaning into his seat. “God, I can’t do that again.” Then, so much softer, “you spoiled me.”

He kisses you for several long, long minutes. Tilting your head as he wants, molding the shape of your mouth to his, a heat that simmers but does not boil over. 

During the rest of the drive, he keeps a hand steady on your thigh, your fingers curled in the spaces between his while you doze off against the window. Occasionally, during a red light, he’ll lean to the side and bring your knuckles to his lips, a ghost of a reverent touch that you miss in your sleep. 

You don’t really come to until you’re already back in bed, the mattress dipping beneath the added weight of Kei as he crawls in with you, hair still a little damp from a shower. 

“How long was I out?” You rasp, sliding your hands across the width of his shoulders to coax him into your arms, a position he takes eagerly with a relieved groan, wrapping himself around you and pressing his face into your chest. 

“A few hours.” He mumbles, nuzzling closer. “Shhh baby don’t move, go back to sleep.” His hand cups the back of your neck, cheek to your chest so he can peer up at you, eyes half-lidded and murky.

You whine out his name, but he presses a kiss to the hollow of your throat and shushes you again, stroking over the curve of your jaw with his knuckles, achingly tender even though he’d been so willing to be brutal just last night. 

But he’ll take care of you tomorrow, and every day after if you’d let him. 

Maybe it’s wrong. You’ll have to keep your relationship a secret and that will come with its own problems, and part of you dreads it, this place you’ve gone to that you’ll never come back from.

But then he ghosts his hand from your jaw down over your side, fingertips drawing a path down the length of your body to hook beneath your knee, gently hiking it up over his hip so you can tip forward, half on your stomach and leaning your weight into him. Comfortable, warm as he sighs and presses a kiss to whatever inch of skin he can reach. He’s just on the cusp of drifting off, and he’s pulled you into your favorite position to sleep as if it’s by habit. 

And so easily, Kei reminds you that he loves you. 

He loves you in every way that he knows you, and he knows you in so many ways that he shouldn’t. 

And as you cuddle close, you settle comfortably with the thought that you were never meant to be loved any other way. 

[wormtitty]

Kinktober Day 17: Soft and Sweet (Louis/Lestat)

obligatory new orleans reunion fic :)

on AO3 here.

It’s the trailing of fingertips down his spine that wakes him, soft and cool under the fabric of his sleep shirt. Louis nuzzles into the body beneath him, sleepily shuffling closer in the dark of the coffin. Lestat hums a soft little sound, muffled in his hair, pulling him in tighter.

He’d slept in a bed with Armand for seventy-seven years, the open expanse of a king-sized mattress allowing what felt like miles of distance between them at times. He could count off the top of his head the number of times they’d shared a coffin for any reason other than fucking. 

There wasn’t anything like sharing a coffin with Lestat. He’d always loved it, even when they had their own; it was a thrill and a joy to sneak into each other’s coffins to spend the entire day enclosed together, his head pillowed on Lestat’s chest. 

So it’s really no wonder that they found themselves in the same position, all these years later, safe from the hurricane in Louis’ hotel room. They’re not fixed. A few good day’s rest and a couple long-awaited and much needed conversations don’t make everything magically better. But there’s hope, and Louis sees promise in Lestat’s blue eyes. 

Missing Lestat felt like an ache at his side, like some piece of him was missing, and now that it’s back he almost doesn’t know what to do with it, where to put all of his emotions. 

Eighty-two years they’d spent apart, nearly a century gone by without his embrace. It feels somehow both new and the same in equal measure, the comfortable familiarity of an arm around his waist juxtaposed with fleeting touches over his shoulder, his elbow. The inside of his wrist. Lestat holds him like he’s afraid he’s not real.  

Louis is real, he’s here and present in this moment, and god damn it all what he wants to do more than anything is kiss him, prove how solid he is. So he does, pulling himself up and angling their faces just right. Lestat’s lips part on a surprised inhale.

Their lips slot together, and it’s like no time at all has passed. They know this, know how to make each other feel good. Lestat knows just how to poke his tongue at the seam of his lips, knows exactly what pressure to use with his thumb on the hinge of his jaw to get him to open up. Louis swipes at the back of his teeth, savoring the moan Lestat tries to hide. His tongue is a probing, nerve-tingling heat in his mouth. 

Hands wander over his body, gentle and unsure of where to land. Louis touches Lestat with purpose, relearning the shape of him again after all this time -  thumbs at the corner of his mouth, feeling the scar there, rubbing the palm of his hand over the broad stretch of his shoulders. Lestat smiles shakily into his mouth, noses bumping as they kiss. 

There’s a stinging prick to his lower lip and oh, yes Lestat’s fangs have dropped from his gums, drawing up a well of his blood, slow and sweet. Louis wrenches his mouth free on a sharp inhale, a full bodied twitch rocking through his core.

“Louis, do you want me - you have to - tell me,” Lestat pants, whisper close. His hand hovers low at his pelvis, knuckles just brushing at the waistband of his sleep pants. Louis grabs him at the wrist, shows him exactly where to put that hand, fingers tangled in the loose silk. 

It’s dry, friction a little rough on his cock, but it’s Lestat, and it’s perfect. Louis’ hips curl toward him on the first pump, his breath shuddering between their mouths. God, he never wants this to end, wants to stay like this forever; relearning each other’s bodies over and over again. 

The slight scratch of nails behind his ear has him clenching all over. Louis gives his body over to it, lets the pleasure wash over him, easy and free with Lestat cataloging every inhale, every twitch that takes him even higher. 

In no time at all he’s right on the edge, running his mouth as he always did when they fell into coffin together decades ago; saying “Yes, yes like that,” and “feel so good around me,” and all sorts of unintelligible sounds falling from his lips. 

The hand on him squeezes tighter around the head, swiping his thumb right across the slit and he’s done for, barely managing to warn “Honey, gonna make me -” before he’s coming all over Lestat’s fist. Drops of it land on his thigh, cooling uncomfortably on his skin. He can’t bring himself to care. 

Lestat kisses him through it, deep and sweet. When he’s recovered enough, fully back in his body, he opens his eyes just in time to see Lestat bringing his red hand up to his mouth and sucking each finger clean. And fuck, who is Louis to let that happen without kissing him again?

When they finally part, he’s got enough of a mind to notice that while Lestat’s pressed fully up along his side, there’s a distinct lack of one particular physical response from him. 

Louis eyes him quizzically. “You’re not -?”

Lestat looks up at him with a wobbly smile. “Ah.” He licks his lips, kiss swollen and wet. “I’m afraid rat’s blood offers inadequate nourishment in that regard. It’s alright, I’ve enjoyed just having you, mon cher.”

Well, that just won’t do. “Lestat, let me - I fed well, can spare enough to share. Want you to…” Louis’ gaze flickers down. “C’mere.” 

Gently, so gently, he urges Lestat to his throat, hand cradling the back of his head. “Go on,” he whispers, feeling the hesitation. “It’s alright, take what you need.”

Fangs pierce his skin, sharp and heady. Lestat gulps down his blood, all of a sudden ravenous for it. It was a miracle he’d lasted so long in restraint, his single focus on Louis and his pleasure. Now though, there’s nothing keeping him from sinking deeper, even his blunt lower teeth biting into the flesh. Lestat pulls and pulls, until he’s groaning and choking on the blood, too much to take all at once. 

“Easy, honey,” Louis soothes. Lestat slows his heaving breaths, swallowing down the last of what flows freely. 

The sounds he muffles into Louis’ skin are near purring, turned into a docile thing pressed along his body. Lestat shifts then, slides a leg between Louis’ and grinds his hips into him, gasping like he’s shocked by the pleasure of his own action. Louis wonders exactly how long it’s been since he’s had enough virile blood to get off. 

“Like this?” he asks. Lestat just nods, minimally as he’s able to, and continues the aborted little thrusts of his hips. He’s still latched onto Louis’ neck, no longer drinking but holding himself there, unwilling to extract his fangs. That’s fine, Louis had said he could take whatever he needed from him, and if that includes giving him something warm to sink his fangs into, he’ll gladly let Lestat have it.

Louis can feel his flesh trying to knit itself together around the penetration, ripping back open with every minute shift against him. He closes his eyes against the exquisite pleasurepain of it, feeling every wet puff of air that’s punched out of Lestat. 

Time passes like molasses as they lie there in the coffin. The slow grind of Lestat at his hip intensifies and wanes in waves, like he’s not got an end goal, just luxuriating in having Louis wrapped around him. The fangs retract into his mouth - a little trickle of blood follows. Lestat kisses at his throat, smearing it on his lips, a facsimile of lipstick staining his mouth. 

When he raises his head, Louis meets him in the middle with a bruising kiss, licking at his own blood, chasing the taste of it with his tongue. He swipes at the roof of Lestat’s mouth, reveling in his groan, the violent twitch of his hips. Oh, Louis remembers that sound. He’s close. 

Sliding his hand down Lestat’s back from where it had tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, Louis urges him on, pushing at the dip in his spine. Lestat writhes against him, a sob escaping through his open mouth. 

“Louis, Louislouislouis,” he slurs, vowels all blending together. One more shocky little circle of his lips and he’s gone, spilling warm and wet into his borrowed sleep clothes. The aftershocks linger, Lestat clinging tight to him as he comes down. 

His eyes go wide when he sees the little red marks he’d made in the throes of it, ten crescent shaped wounds dotting Louis’ arms where his nails had dug in. He kisses his apology into Louis’ waiting mouth.

[holllandtrash]

Running into Charles’ arms after his podium and telling him that he better not be too harsh on himself for not being p1

i took this and spun it but i hope its okay

“You did good,” you said, but it didn’t resonate with Charles the way you wanted it to. But you couldn’t blame him, you worked at Mercedes, you should have been the last person to congratulate him in the paddock. Especially as you were wearing the black Mercedes t-shirt, the teal hat, carrying Lewis’ backpack for fuck sakes.

Your relationship with Charles was…complicated to say the least. You met once at a bar last year and by the end of the night you were nothing but tangled limbs and a chorus of ‘oh fucks’ and ‘god, please’

And when he found out you worked for Mercedes, you expected this whole friends acquaintances(?) with benefits thing to end, but it didn't. He sought you out after his poor performances and his proud ones and you were always there, telling him you'll meet him in a few minutes or at least promising you'll go to his hotel room at the end of the night.

It wasn't supposed to be be anything more than sex, really.

So you weren't sure what came over you when you approached him in the paddock following his post-race interview. It wasn't like you could say 'come by my room around 10' in front of the dozens of people that were surrounding him, but the 'you did good' spoke volumes.

Of course you would root for Lewis and George, but seeing Charles cross that line and claiming that third place podium, it just ignited something in you.

And when you noticed that he was disappointed more than anything, god you felt that. You wished there was away to take that pain from him just so he could celebrate with his team for the remainder of the night.

"Could have been better," he muttered and something urged you to grab hold of his wrist and keep him from going anywhere,

"I mean it," you said, eyes locked on his. "Charles, the Red Bulls are in a league of their own, no one can challenge them. You should be proud of your podium, proud that you kept Alonso from another third place finish, hell be proud that your pace was better than a Mercedes today."

He laughed at that. He appreciated that you were able to remove yourself as a Mercedes team member to be his friend, or more than that possibly.

"You did good," you repeated. This time, he knew you meant it. They weren't just empty words. It wasn't an obligatory pity congrats that you had to give him in passing. You wanted him to know that you were cheering for him and was, ultimately, proud of his results.

"Thank you," this time, his gentle smile reached the green of his eyes. Even in the setting sun, even as his name was being called in all directions, even though he had about twelve other people he had to talk to after that race, he took a moment to really thank you.

And thank you, he did.

Charles' hand cupped the side of your face before you could register what he was doing. He pulled your lips to yours, something that was only ever reserved for the privacy of a hotel room. But god he didn't care.

The fact that you cared. That you went out of your way to show him that you cared. Charles couldn't help but ask himself why the hell he wasn't showing you the same courtesy in public.

So he kissed you. In front of fans. In front of the cameras. In front of crew members from various teams that just happened to be walking by. You in your black Mercedes shirt. Him in his red drivers suit.

You didn't want to separate, but you had to. You'd get an earful from Toto and everyone else in the garage regardless, but you knew to at least be a little respectful when it came to public displays of affection.

And if you were being honest, you weren't sure where to go from here. Charles crossed a line, one that he was more than welcome to cross, but now you were both in uncharted waters.

"I, um-" no words came to mind, but you still tried. "I don't know-"

"Let me take you out," Charles cut you off.

Now would have been the point where you would have said you'd meet him later for a quick fuck. But he was putting something new on the table, something public, something that would bring you from hook ups to maybe something more and you didn't hate it.

"You want to take me out? Like on a date?" You asked, totally aware of the prying eyes that surrounded you, but it didn't deter you in the slightest.

"Yeah," he was so sure of his choice. "There's no one else I want to celebrate this podium with but you."

And who were you to turn that down?

[writingforfishes]

(context:

*sees silly pictures of a lil bird on my dash*

braincell one: aw

braincell two: that face radiates otto energy

braincell one: wut)

atty doesn't seem the type to willingly go into nature (and, like, same) but like. silly birds. literary inspiration. etc

ottocus birdwatching just feels right for some reason. whether this is the most random concept or another accidental prediction. thought i should let u know. like as the seasons are changing and migration patterns are patterning, atty takes notice & after using birds n leaves n shi as a muse they drag their husband out to look at how pretty the scenery is. obligatory otto hiccuping n scaring the birds away lol

-🪱

Ask circa September 16.

Little ficlet (aka "hiclet")

A month after Atticus moved in, they were watching a bird nature film and got a sudden burst of inspiration.

"Hey, are there any good places for birdwatching around here that you know of?" they asked loudly to catch the ear of their partner who was hunched over a watch, eye loupe pulled down over one lens of his reading glasses.

"Uh..." Otto uttered, head poking up with a faraway look on his face while thinking. "I think there's a look out on a hiking trail that's fairly close by. Why?"

"You wanna go hiking? I want to see some birds," Atticus said matter-of-factly.

Otto considered it and shrugged, "Sure! I can dig out my grandma's picnic basket. Maybe we can have lunch there, too?"

"Cool," Atticus said. "Also...which grandma?"

"Oh, dad's side," Otto said with a meaningful nod.

"Yeah, that makes sense," Atticus said.

The maternal side of Otto's family were uptight prudes who wouldn't be caught dead on a patch of grass that wasn't imported and trimmed on a golf course.

Otto's dad's family, on the other hand, was from "the old country". Germany. At least part of them. That's where the whole clock thing came from. That was an abbreviated version of what Otto had told Atticus, at least.

The next day Otto, Atticus, a picnic basket full of vintage cutlery and food, and a backpack full of whatever Atty thought one would need on a hike made their way up the winding trail to the look out that promised a view of birds.

Atticus had hiked a few times. They enjoyed it for the most part. Despite their natural inclination to be inside and sedentary while writing, they did have a soft spot for brief jaunts in nature.

Otto had been a pretty physical person his entire life. It was only in the last few years that he'd settled down with his sobriety and settling into his profession of clock repair more.

But neither one of them were quite prepared for the "hard" rated trail that wound up and through the wooded mountain side over tree roots and rocks.

"Why...is this...so hard?!" Atticus exclaimed as they shifted the backpack of water, bug spray, first aid equipment, and medicines on their back. They panted a little as they stretched their legs to hoist over yet another upwards path of tree branches cut around to serve as natural stairsteps.

"I dunno," Otto said with a sniff. He realized now that he should've taken allergy medication before they started. He'd been sniffing for the last few miles, and he could feel the itchiness in his throat and eyes. He rubbed his nose aggressively with the back of his wrist.

"Do you want me to take the backpack for a little bit?" he asked.

"No!" Atticus said stubbornly. "I got this. I'm good. Just a little further. Point five miles. That's what the last little...little wooden sign said...right?"

"Yeah..." Otto said and then coughed a little. "Hey...what meds did you bring again?"

"Pretty much everything in the cabinet, why?"

"Did you get the...the Allegra and Flonase?" he asked, hopefully.

"Oh yeah. Totally did. Cause I'm awesome! The outside starting to try and murder you?" Atticus asked.

"Vehemently," he said and paused to grab a tree as he let loose three powerful sneezes into the crook of his arm.

Atticus watched as they wiped a sheen of oily sweat from their forehead.

"These birds better be the best birds ever," they lamented watching their boyfriend pull out a handkerchief and clear his sinuses into it before tucking it into his pants.

Otto laughed lightly, exhaustedly, in their direction.

If the birds weren't worth it, the clearing certainly was. It was more a field with picnic tables with the edge overlooking the mountain's edge than a traditional look out with a single location to stand and hope to see birds from.

Huffing and puffing the couple put their supplies down on one of the tables and sat heavily next to each other for a moment.

Atticus wordlessly slid the bottle of Allegra and spray bottle of Flonase over to Otto with the reusable water bottle they'd kept in the backpack. Otto took them gratefully.

When the clock maker started to spray the Flonase though Atticus grabbed his arm and pointed to a particularly pretty bird that had landed on the wooden rail beside them.

"Ooh look! It's a-a-a bird!" Atticus finished a little lamely. They suddenly realized that despite having watched an entire documentary about birds they had no idea how to identify the birds they were seeking out.

Otto sniffed the Flonase a little too powerfully and some ended up in his throat as he turned to look, suppressing coughs from the bitter fluid hitting the back of his throat.

His gift for the effort of looking was a...well it was a bird. And for all of the random facts, trivia, and history Otto had stashed in his noggin over the years he suddenly realized that, aside from a few clock specific birds (namely the Cuckoo), he possessed very little knowledge on taxonomy and identification of birds.

"Oh *koff* yeah it's *kuf kuf* pretty..." Otto said emitting more soft coughs as Atticus rubbed his back until, "HUP!-HUCK! Oh! HU'UCK!-HMK! Uh!"

The bird, which had been lingering for them to ogle a little while, flustered and took off at the sudden sounds.

Atticus would've been more flustered themselves if they hadn't already been treated by Otto's hiccups that morning. But they still felt the buzz of excitement at the loud interruptions and feelings of his body jolting next to them.

"Well, so much for the birds," Atticus teased as they widened their eyes at Otto pointedly.

Otto had his hand over his mouth in response, his body jumping with the barely muffled spasms, the bottom of his throat pulling in sharply as the hiccups kept volleying through him.

"I'm MMK'M! so-HMP!-sorry! I didn't HM'MMP!-didn't know I HMP!MK! waUHs gonna get HIMP! get them again to--today!" he said.

Atticus laughed giving him another rub to his back at his endearing apology.

"It's okay!" they assured him. "I'd rather have you and your diaphragm's loud opinions than birds any day!"

Otto gave his partner a soft smile, still muffling the hiccups as his body jerked dramatically every second or two. Hopefully they wouldn't last too long. However, he had started to be much more patient with them after learning of Atticus' reaction.

In the past, Otto felt anywhere from mildly annoyed with his hiccups to begrudging patience to apathy depending on the situation and how bad the case was. This new emotion, excitement and warmth, was something he'd never felt for the occasionally inconvenient bodily function he was prone to having. It was oddly comforting, in some ways, to know someone was not only patient with them but also appreciative of them.

Being this was before either of them had discovered a way to cure Otto's hiccups effectively, they both resolved to wait them out as Atticus started to unpack the basket.

"Shit, this thing is heavy! What...are these actual plates?" Atticus exclaimed as they slid the basket over from where Otto had put it.

They weren't able to keep their eyes off of Otto for long. They could see the side of his abdomen from beside them and feel the spasms if they leaned in a bit. The shirt he'd unbuttoned lower as they'd both continued to exert more energy in climbing showed his chest's movements in addition to the reflexive pooch that pushed out his stomach and expanded his ribs.

"Yeah the--they're part of HMP!HMK! the-HUP! the set!" he said and patted his chest a couple of times. "Ugh. HU'UCK! It was--It was very he-HIP!-heavy. Not exactly HM'MP! meant for h--hiking I don't think. HULMP'K!"

That last hiccup caught his throat, and he set off a chain of coughing and hiccuping, one right after the other, until he downed some water from his bottle to quell the coughing at least.

Atticus watched him in sympathy, hand becoming a constant present on his shoulder or back as the hiccups continued to jolt his body roughly even after the coughing fit.

"Those things are kinda owning your ass right now. You okay?" Atticus asked.

Otto nodded with a smile.

"Yeah, they HUCK! they'll go awa--y eventually. H'MUCK!-uh," he said rubbing his chest again. "You--you okay? HOCK! You're not HNK! not over sti-HUCK'NK! stimulated are UCK! are you?"

Atticus chuckled shyly ducking their head as they pushed their mustache up a little from their top lip in both preparation to eat as well as from nervousness.

"No, I--"

"CAAAW!"

"The fuck?!" Atticus exclaimed, that noise definitely not having come from Otto.

Otto startled as well and looked to the side of the table to see a large, black-feathered bird. In the sun the bird's inky black body sheened with purples, greens, and blues.

"HU'OCK!" Otto let slip in his shock.

"CAAAAAW!" said the bird.

Atticus and Otto exchanged wide-eyed looks to each other and back to the bird who was slowly stepping close, head bobbing with each step of its feet.

"What is HUUUCK! happening?" Otto asked, nervousness strengthening his hiccups a little.

"CAAAAW!!" the crow answered excitedly, its head turned a little to inspect the area and the source of the sound.

"I think you're communicating with it?" Atty hazarded a guess which seemed to be confirmed with the next double-hiccup from Otto followed by two caws from the crow.

The picnic became all the more amusing when Atty decided to throw the bird a little ham from one of the sandwiches. The crow gladly took it and within five minutes two more crows had arrived. All three of them chorused Otto when he hiccuped loudly.

The couple couldn't help but laugh. The distraction of the crows' antics was enough to keep Atticus' arousal from overwhelming them and also to ease Otto from feeling like he had to suppress his hiccups in order to not frighten away birds.

Much more ham was dispersed to the growing murder, a thought which still seemed wholly ridiculous despite it being an accurate word to define a collection of crows.

Atticus noticed and questioned why Otto had only eaten the inside of his sandwich, discarding the bread back into the basket.

"Bread makes the-NRK! them worse. They're already HUP!-uh, already kind of hu--URting a little! HOCK! HUCK!" he said.

His crow chorus echoed the hiccups discordantly. He chuckled.

"That is wi--ild!" he said, grinning around his bite of food.

Atticus looked out into the field which was now littered with the black birds.

"What're you gonna do with your new army?" Atticus asked with a grin as they popped a grape in their mouth.

"Well crows are pre-H'ULP! pretty good with tools. HMK! I think I cou--could teach them HMLK! how to wind cl-HUP'K! clocks!" he said.

"Well...I guess that would save you...time," Atticus said with a waggle of their eyebrows.

"Mmm. I see hmp!hmk! I see what you di-hip! did there!" Otto said waggling his finger at them.

"They finally calming down, now?" Atty asked, gesturing toward Otto.

"I thingk! so," he said. He splayed his hand chest and rode out another silent hiccup, chin tucking and shoulders jolting back. He sighed. "Didn't know Flo--Flonase could be s-hup! so dangerous."

"Never use while distracted, apparently," Atticus said.

Otto laughed silently with a shake of is head.

"Appare-hip!-ntly! Sorry about the hup! the other bird," Otto said.

"Are you kidding? This is so much better," Atticus said, grinning. "You, um, you want me to give you a chest and belly massage when we get home?"

The habit was still new, but Otto had warmed up to the physical touch and when they brought it up he smiled.

"Yeah that'd ngk---uh! That'd be nice, actual--ly!" he said.

Atty kissed him on the temple.

"Love you, Crow Mother," Atticus cooed.

This caused Otto and laugh out loud causing a "HUCK'A!" to echo out and a refrain of caws from his admirers.

"I'm glad you're here," he said, kissing Atticus' head in return as another hiccup shook him into their body.

"Me too," they replied and fed him a grape which he took with a smile as they leaned into his chest.

[gatitties]

the last fic you wrote is so great as an autistic ADHD person, i love you. That's it.

could you do similiar one and this time reader is strugling to share their feelings that they love their crew even thought th(Kid's crew)ey can be bastards ? So they give them gifts and still feel failing

─Strawhats, Heart Piartes & Kid Pirates x reader

─Summary: it seems that sharing your gratitude is getting more complicated than you thought

─Warnings: none

Part one

ty!! :') hope this one is good too and sorry if there is something wrong

─ You never seemed to choose the right moment to be able to express your gratitude, or if you finally managed to have the time and the decision to let your feelings out, your mind simply stopped working and you ended up talking about something else.

─ And sometimes it was difficult for you to express yourself correctly, your mouth seemed to seal when you tried to show affection for your friends, you simply played with your hands nervously without daring to talk about your feelings.

─ So you decided to start doing small acts, placing Robin's books or Nami's maps, organizing the medical supplies, helping Franky by collecting some junk, listening very carefully to Usopp's stories (although you tried not to show much that you got distracted by something) and little things that you added to your daily routine.

─ The problem is that they only interpreted it as a little additional help and not as an intention to express how you feel with them.

─ You began to stress over not being able to complete your task and you spent a lot of time alone in your room while doing a puzzle that you bought to de-stress from these situations.

─ And everyone noticed how every day you got a little more frustrated by doing your usual routine of small obligatory things of the day, so they thought that something was bothering you, although it was somewhat complicated because the things that bothered you could simply be that a knife was misplaced in the kitchen.

─ Everyone got worried when they saw you so down for not being able to speak openly and they wanted to ask you if everything was alright but then you just took out everything you had inside without even realizing it.

You were massaging your scalp, pulling a few strands of hair between your fingers, you had locked yourself in your room after having another attempt to talk to the crew and ended up rambling about other things that had nothing to do with what you really wanted to say.

"What do you think is happening?"

"I don't know, maybe it's stress for something, Sanji, did you check that the kitchen was ordered in that specific way?"

"Yes, there was nothing unusual."

Everyone was peeking as you started biting your nails, which was a bad sign, Nami was the one who stepped into your room, grabbing your wrists gently, making all your attention focus on her.

"Okay, you don't have to get anxious, what's bothering you?"

"Nothing- I just-"

The others began to enter slowly, surrounding you without getting too close so as not to overwhelm you with so many people around you, you began to open and close the palms of your hands, you began to ramble on about other things until you accidentally let all go.

"It's just- it's so frustrating because I don't know how to express my gratitude, I try to have little details but they aren't noticeable and when I try to talk I just get distracted, I want to show that I'm happy with you because you accept me and don't treat me badly like other people, just like that guy on that island, the one where I found these beautiful bracelets and…"

Robin covered her mouth so as not to laugh at your cute attitude, Chopper approached you to sit next to you and listen, the others smiled knowing now what had made you so nervous, feeling completely special for having you with them.

─ You tried everything to make your feelings of gratitude known, but all your attempts were unsuccessful because you ended up embarrassing yourself in the end and you chose to remain silent.

─ At least they did notice when you changed your established strict routine to do other things with them, normally you had a schedule to do certain things but now you're trying to break it to spend more time with everyone.

─ Law noticed that you also began to place a cup of coffee at the same hour on his door, you always gave three knocks rhythmically and left the hot drink on the floor late at night, time at that you normally liked to be resting.

─ The others may not notice your subtle actions, but Law made it known, he knew you wanted to say something, but he needed you to take the step so he made everyone not say or change their attitude towards you until you managed to speak for your own will.

─ Ikkaku clenching her fists not being able to say how cute you were trying hard to help her cook without needing her help to organize, you were struggling so hard to focus on a single task, but she didn't want to ruin your moment of internal struggle.

─ Shachi and Penguin partially ignored Law's orders, sometimes hinting that you had a 'secret' you had to share, but just narrowed your eyes because you didn't understand what they meant.

"So, when are you going to tell us about that, you know?"

"I still don't understand what you two mean."

You finished lining up the cutlery on the table that you took care to place symmetrically to the proportions of the table, slightly ignoring the little joke that Shachi and Penguin made with each other, the others started to enter, Law scolding the duo of idiots because he heard them hinting at you to talk about your concerns.

Ikkaku began to serve the dishes, being the last to be served and being deep in your thoughts you didn't realize it was your favorite dish until it was left in front of you, you smiled without waiting for anyone to start savoring it.

"This dish is so good...! Just as good as you guys, I'm so glad to be a part of this crew, I don't feel different and everyone treats me so well, I love you so much, thanks for everything."

You blurted everything out without meaning to and while your attention right now was only focused on devouring your favorite dish, Ikkaku laughed, patting your head while Law smiled proudly, he knew you would end up talking one way or another, you just needed some time and a little distraction.

Shachi and Penguin high-fived as if they had really been the ones who had helped you get what you had inside, Jean Bart looked at them with a raised eyebrow, eating slowly.

"And why are you proud? You didn't even do anything."

"What are you talking about, we help-"

"You didn't do shit, Ikkaku's plan worked better than your hints."

"She had a plan?!"

Ikkaku winked at both of them as she let you eat in peace, she knew that sometimes you liked to wander in your thoughts while eating and sometimes you just shared those thoughts out loud, so she just needed to cook your favorite food.

─ No one, absolutely no one seemed to notice your actions to express yourself.

─ You were trying so hard, breaking your schedule and your little hobbies to help the men on this crew, but they just seemed more focused on other things.

─ Maybe the only one who appreciated your small actions was Killer, but he was too busy to notice beyond your intentions behind your actions.

─ Which led you to have a stress episode because nobody seemed to notice your internal struggle, Heat had to help you calm down with one of those sensory objects that Kid made for you, you also did some relaxation methods that helped you.

─ These guys just don't appreciate even the extra help you give them, or maybe they do, but they won't bother to show that they're grateful, because you know, masculinity.

─ You decided to give it another approach when you tried to talk to Wire (being a disaster again), he doesn't usually talk much and sometimes he speaks by signing or writing, so you thought it would be easier to express yourself through paper.

─ You also added some small gifts as a detail, so maybe it's more meaningful to them, but you wouldn't be surprised if it doesn't cause any kind of effect.

You finished wrapping the last gift, before anything else you went back to check that everyone had the bow well done and there was nothing that bothered you with the organization of these, you also went back to reread the note that you had written with sweat and tears because it was hard to write and make the handwriting legible, you wanted everything to stay perfect.

You had to break your sleep schedules to be able to leave each gift in its respective place, since you did not intend to deliver them directly, just leave them in areas where you knew that person would find it, so you worked at night when most of them were resting.

But your mission got complicated when you entered Kid's workshop, he was there, although he seemed to have fallen asleep while building something, you took the opportunity to leave the gift on the construction table stealthily, but apparently you weren't good enough.

"What do you think you're doing, rat?"

"Aw man, I won't be able to give you the secret gift!"

"The secret… what?"

"Just take this and shut up!"

You hit him in the face with the wrapper, taking advantage of his confusion to get rid of his grip and run, Kid blinked a couple of times, still assimilating what had happened, he read the little letter trying not to smile at your words, although he finished letting out a small laugh as he opened the gift… which was just a few nuts and bolts, well, you were definitely something.

"So… do you also have a gift?"

Killer peeked through the door, holding a handmade mask, at least now he knew why you had been weirder than usual by not being so strict with certain habits and he understood better all the previous actions.

[prettyboyjohnny]

on the topic of torture...

long-ish post pointing out the victims' injuries

obligatory johnny quote to start things off because unfortunately i have a johnny url. above is a line probably in reference to the fact that the family decided to kidnap everyone instead of outright killing them. roughed them up a bit and then just left them in the basement, i guess.

[for those of you unaware, the victims ended up on the family's property in the first place because they set up camp out back behind the gas station, and the family snatched them up in the middle of the night. gun wants them to be responsible for the little campsite pam/kirk walk by in '74]

most of the victims have pretty bad neck bruising, which is interesting considering that johnny's thing is strangulation. most of the bruises look to be a result of blunt force rather than squeezing, but maybe he's responsible for a few.

also, i'm wondering what gun meant by tortured. physically, down in the basement while they were tied up? that's messed up. i wouldn't put it past them. at the same time though, these injuries could've easily been acquired when the family raided their campsite... depends on how brutal you think the family is, i suppose.

take a looksie. 90% of these images are from the cosplay guide.

first off is ana. like everyone else, she's got bruising from her restraints, as well as a few impact bruises. the cluster of cuts on the side of her face/neck suggest an encounter with sissy or nubbins. she's also got smaller scratches that could've been from sharp branches and the like.

connie seems to have it the worst out of all of them, but it might just be because everyone else's injuries are more hidden by their clothing. she's got a huge bruise on her side with a few smaller ones accompanying it, like she was kicked and then beat with a stick a little. she also seems to have been knocked on her knees and elbows, and hit over her doggone head. oh, connie...

sonny's injuries are simpler compared to connie's. he seems to have been grabbed roughly by the arm, and maybe by the throat too. (the throat bruising could've been from rope, though?) his hand is covered in blood, maybe from holding that wound in his side.

i do not have good pics of danny beyond this promo image. did he get hit in the neck or is that another ambiguous hand/rope bruise? who knows. his knuckles are bruised, but it doesn't look like he was punching anything.

jules has got a lot going on. tons of scratches and bruises. the scratches look like they're from fingernails or sharp branches since they're so minor. she's got a bunch of cuts/bruises down her right elbow, maybe from being dragged. look at those knuckles - if anyone tried to fight back, it was julie.

lastly, we have leland. I've never actually gotten to play him... does he start the match hanging from his ankles or something? why aren't his wrists bruised? they treated this guy like a princess compared to everyone else. i think they bit his adams apple a little and then called it a day.

end of post.

please tell me your thoughts

[krnsluvvie]

love at first, love at second, love at last

veintidós: rompiendo el hielo (+ wc: 1,6k)

SUMMARY: sae had chosen his career and that was shortly followed by his and y/n's separation. three years pass by and amongst all the lurking and stalking each other's socials, sae is suddenly found back in their hometown. old feelings are resurfaced, current ones are questioned and a whole load of future ones are found in a blur.

veintiuno | masterlist | veintitres

goodness.

what was sae even thinking when he posted that? does he not know what consequences not only he, but you, his manager and his pr team have to suffer? 

you're in your disorganized room, sitting at a desk. you lean your head back and inhale deeply. you were supposed to meet up with the older itoshi–or more like: he let the whole world know you were going to meet up. but now that it's come out, you don't really have to go, right? it would be the best option. for your safety, and his, too. 

you fiddle with the phone in your hands, contemplating. 

should you, should you not…

…ah, fuck it.

you open imessages and as you start typing, you see his icon doing the same. 

hold on. 

a few seconds pass before your phone dings with a new message.

well… it is your job in a sense. even if it feels obligatory (totally did not bring this upon yourself). you grab your bag with your textbooks in a hurry for, despite the social media stunt created by none other than your ex, this is a study session after all.

you rarely referred to him as such; it felt too personal. almost as if you didn't want to acknowledge that he was a part of your life at some point. everyone knew back then and they do now–always wary around you with the silent bubble that you create around yourself, ready to burst anytime at the mention of his name.

you hate how you feel. you could easily move on, right? so, why? why–?

you squeeze your eyes shut. you're thinking too much.

it takes you a while until you leave the house. but once you do, you swear to yourself that your work is going to get done today. if not, there will be repercussions in the form of bad grades and not graduating. 

that should be your motivation. is. must be. 

since it's nearby, you opted for walking there. it was a struggle enough having to maneuver through the insane traffic at this hour. you can only imagine parking in peace in such a populated area. no, thank you.

you had feared having to contact itoshi, asking about his whereabouts. your worries were erased when his frame entered your vision. he stood out among the crowd and you hated how quickly you noticed him despite the circumstances. 

he's on his phone, mindlessly scrolling away. he has a bag over his shoulder, some slacks on with an oversized t-shirt. his hair is fucked up as ever but you can't bring yourself to hate it because overall he looks…  he looks good.

in the same moment, he looks up, eyes meeting yours. they slightly widen in surprise but it takes almost a millisecond for them to go back to normal. he stuffs his phone in his pocket and points toward the entrance.

you nod. if he's seen it or not is not a concern for you as you cross the street, heading to him. 

you'd think he'd go ahead just to make this less awkward but alas, he stands by the entrance, his intention clear from his movements.

this motherfucker really–

“hi.” he starts but you grab his wrist, gently dragging him behind you as you check your library card at the receptionist.

“god, it's so busy today.” you mumble to yourself. by now, you've already let go of his hand yet you can feel his presence behind you.

you choose a remote spot in the back just to avoid everyone. there are already a few but you can manage.

you take a seat and sae follows your lead. 

“hey.” you let out lamely. your eye twitches at how haphazard you must have come off. “sorry about earlier, i didn't want your fans catching sight of you.”

sae only raises his eyebrows, arguments backing him up on the tip of his tongue yet he only forces his lips in a straight line in an attempt not to break into a huge smirk. “i appreciate it.”

your eyes hurt from how fake your smile must be. 

“do you have any school related things to do?” you ask just to accompany the otherwise uncomfortable silence. you open your textbook and laptop, word loading on your screen.

sae mimics your actions but shakes his head. “i'm done with school.”

you purse your lips. right. 

“okay,” you say before you definitely get to work. “how long are you planning to be here? for us, i suppose.” you wince at the poor wording of your question but you pay it no heed as you continue with typing on your keyboard, not sparing sae any glance.

“for as long as you need, i'm free all day.” his voice is so…unlike him that you have to steal a look over your laptop screen and you notice him squinting at the screen. it would've been endearing had it not been for it being sae.

a few hours pass by–much to your delight. you're halfway through your assignment. looking around, you notice you've been so focused on it that you never noticed how the shared space was slowly filtering out until it was just you… left.

sae's belongings are on the desk. along with his bag that's situated in his seat. surely he must've gone somewhere.

you stretch in your seat and push the laptop's screen down, closing it.

if sae's arrival is going to take a while, you might as well text your friends and see what they're up to.

you shove your phone in your pocket and head out. the library is big–too big for your liking–however, it is understandable why it operates the way it does. you haven't counted the floors nor do you plan to but the only place where you can find these exact glass doors is the room right next to yours.

you knock twice. nothing.

and so, you twist the doorknob, slowly enough so it doesn't make a sound. you gradually peek in and see sae in the corner, his arms nesting his head. there's a phone and a notebook next to his head and by the way his back slowly rises up and down, you can tell he's sleeping.

a deep sigh leaves past your lips as you close the door behind you, slowly walking up to him. your desire to straight up shake him awake disappears the moment he stirs in his sleep and you're forced to minimize the impact of your footsteps against the ground that creaks under every movement.

at this point, you might as well go on tiptoes. 

it takes you embarrassingly long to even get halfway through, but once you reach the destination–that is sae's table in the corner–you take a seat right across from him. 

would this be considered creepy? or is this completely normal considering it's only getting late and you're nice enough to wake him up normally?

you sit there, hands in your lap as you try to brainstorm how to wake him up without making a scene and without him being an ass about it. if there's a universal thing that everyone experiences, it's definitely being grumpy when you wake up. might turn even into amplified anger if one's woken up by someone else. hence, your case at the moment.

quick, do something. do something.

the next thing that happens is out of your control; perhaps you wanted to tap him on a shoulder or the table, or even on his forearm. but alas, your palm finds itself in his hair. it's surprisingly soft, considering how many times he’s had to bleach it and dye it subsequently.

you take a strand between your thumb and forefinger and slide along it. 

it doesn’t take long until you start stroking his hair.

the act is deliberate and you can’t bring yourself to stop. especially with the way he contentedly nuzzles into his arms. 

out of the blue, his phone dings with a message and you get startled, your hand instinctively flying to your side again. it would’ve been successful if sae hadn’t caught your wrist and in his groggy voice said, “don’t stop. it’s nice.”

you don’t even question it when you counter with, “but your phone—”

“later. just for a while.”

your hand doesn’t move because all you can feel is sae’s cold hands around your wrist. it’s not unusual but it’s also not expected. 

“your hands are cold.” you say, absentmindedly.

“hm?”

“let’s go home.”

sae’s head shoots up and his almost blood-shot sleepy eyes meet yours, unwavering. he doesn’t ask again just in case he might have heard wrong.

“yeah,” he exhales. “let’s.”

*

all dressed up in jackets and coats with your respective belongings, you reach a point where you have to part ways. normally, you’d be delighted to not see him again for the rest of the day. as of now, however, it feels almost… unfortunate that you couldn’t have spent some hours more together, even if it was in complete silence.

“thank you for keeping me company.” you hate how weakness weaves through your voice. though, you can be at rest knowing you meant every word.

“no, thank you for hanging out with me even if it was out of nowhere.”

the contract. it’s basically why we spend time together. dumbass. 

dumbasses. both you and him.

“see you then.” sae says as he turns around, ready to go the other way. you watch him go. he goes and goes until…

“sae!” you scream, loud enough for him to hear. the passersby send you a nasty look but you couldn’t care less. 

“come to my graduation.” you watch his face contort in various emotions. quickly, you add, “if you want… i guess.”

sae chuckles and then waves as he walks backwards, “see you, y/n.”

sigh.

you smile.

see you.

a/n: SHOCKED R U !!!! sorry ive been away for so long omg i was taking care of my parents' stuff that required me to drive everyday (i have a severe case of driving anxiety omg) and when i decided to take a break was when i did a stupid mistake and put the wrong fuel in the car (yes u may laugh) and then somethign else happened but its all resolved and i learnt lots:') i also bought a new phone and all my previous messages and twt data got deleted so it might take a while until i remake them all again (goodnessss)

tldr; life hit me like a truck.

i hope ur still enjoyign the story and thank u for support <3!!!

tag list: @kiopanxp @funtuki @silly-ez @asteroskoniiii @keijiqahara @pikibee @tamimemo @kaitfae @biaonww @y-sabell-a @kaiserkisser @winterpein @bloombb

[jjtheresidentbaby]

HELLO LOVE!!! @bebbie-bilinski AGAIN!!

ok like we discussed this is def gonna be a more hurt/comfort oriented request :P

as always regressor!stiles and cg!derek at the loft haha

ok i was wondering if you could maybe do something where stiles is upset -very upset- we're talking ugly crying inconsolable throwing pillows full speed at walls that sort of upset tho im not too sure as to why he could be upset maybe its all the stress of having near death experiences thanks to the supernatural world or maybe its due to thinking about past trauma too much (or take some creative liberties! u know i'll eat it up regardless) im thinking stiles will be big during this and derek tries frantically to help in whatever way he can and once hes calmed down hes just too exhausted to do anything else but regress and recuperate from all the big emotions :P then its all derek asking what stiles wants to get comfy and big ol clueless stares from stiles cus he has no idea what he wants lol im not sure if id rather they be alone when stiles regresses or maybe peters there too anyways theres obligatory cuddles in big comfy t shirts and!! itty-bitty-baby regressor stiles coded pretty please (´∀｀)♡ ! god im so sorry this is so long i hope that was detailed enough!

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ remembering ໒꒱ ⋆ﾟ⊹

|| stiles stilinski & derek hale & peter hale || read on ao3

notes: this got requested and hour ago and I’m already answering it & it’s midnight, someone pray for me

warnings: set after s3 before s4, mentions/talk of void stiles, crying, angst, hurt/comfort, pet names, Peter being referred to as “papa”

-

Derek watches in horror as Stiles scream sobs in the middle of the lofts living room, his hands are grabbing at his throat as though he can’t breathe, body halfway bent in on itself as he only grows louder. Derek doesn’t know what to do. Stiles had texted him asking if he could come over, saying he felt upset and maybe a slip coming, Derek of course replied immediately saying he’d be waiting.

What Derek didn’t expect was to open the loft door to Stiles already crying, thick tears staining his pale skin and hiccuping breaths leaving his chest. Derek had tried to pull Stiles into his arms, the little usually clings to Derek when upset, but he got pushed away from. There’s been no explanation as to why Stiles is so upset but that doesn’t seem to matter to Derek, he’s too heartbroken to think about it.

“Stiles, Stiles please breathe, it’s okay.” Whether or not Stiles can even hear Derek’s voice is really up for debate, Derek keeps trying anyways. His own tears threatening to spill when Stiles’ knees shake and he drops to the ground, Derek right by his side.

“I can’t- I can’t Der, I can’t!” Small red lines appear on Stiles’ throat where he scratches at the skin, Hale catching his wrists before it can get any worse. The last thing he needs is to try and preform first aid while Stiles is in this state.

“Can’t what? What is it baby? Talk to me.” It shakes coming out of Derek’s mouth, hating how Stiles cries even harder.

“It’s too much! I don’t want it!” Stiles sobs before falling into Derek’s chest, screaming as loud as he can get before another sob bubbles from his throat.

“What don’t you want? You gotta talk to me, let me help.” Derek’s voice is hoarse with desperation, allowing Stiles to hit at his sides after Derek releases his wrists.

“All of it! I- I remember it all Der, I don’t want it, please. Please make it go away.” The begging tone and pleading eyes sent Derek’s way is enough for his breath to catch. He suddenly knows what this is all about, void Stiles, the hell that happened last year and still haunts his little night and day. Hale can’t imagine what it felt like to have someone control Stiles’ mind like that, but he knows what Stiles tells him, and that alone is enough to make Derek nauseous.

“It wasn’t you, it wasn’t you baby. It’s okay.” He soothes the best he can despite knowing how little it really does. Nothing can fix what happened, or the results it left behind.

“I don’t want to remember, I hate it. I wanna go back, let me go back.” Stiles’ hands cling around Dereks neck, fingers pulling at the t shirt he has on so tightly the material could rip.

“Go back where?” If there’s a place Stiles wants to go that’ll comfort him Derek will move hell on earth to get him there.

“To before. When- when void didn’t exist, to before it all happened.” Oh.

“Oh honey…” Derek has no words to say, he can only pull Stiles up into his lap more and rub his hand down the brunettes back. There’s still small whimpers and tears spilling from Stiles, Derek hates that he can’t make it all feel better, that he can’t take this kind of hurt away. He wishes he could hold Stiles’ hand and watch his veins turn black as he drained Stiles of his pain, but this isn’t physical, and there’s no easy fix to it.

“I want papa.” There’s a tremble when Stiles talks, he’s obviously dropped into his regression, a younger headspace from what Derek can tell just by his voice. And he wants Peter. Derek knows Peter went out to the grocery store at least an hour ago, he hopes he’ll be getting back soon.

“I’ll text him, okay?” Stiles nods along, eyes already drooping with exhaustion from his overwhelmed state. The attire he has on can’t be comfortable, jeans and a t shirt is fine while big but Hale knows Stiles will want something softer in his regressed state.

With that, Derek decides Stiles should change and quickly picks him up to walk them over to Peters bedroom, knowing that Stiles will want to wear something of Peters if he’s not here. He always likes to have something of one of his caregivers on, whether it he Derek’s hoodie or Peters shirt all depends on who Stiles is feeling clinger towards.

“Which one do you wanna wear?” The top drawer of Peters dresser is open wide enough for Stiles to see each t shirt folded neatly, Peters always been a precise person and his organization never fails to portray that.

“Do you want me to pick for you?” After a long beat of silence where Stiles only stares blankly into the drawer Derek figures he’d have a better bet choosing himself. Stiles nods in approval before Hale grabs the cranberry red t shirt that he knows is oversized even for Peter so it should be hanging off of Stiles, how he likes his shirts to be when small.

“Alright buddy let me text your papa and then we’ll get you out of those clothes.” A quick text messily explaining everything that just happened gets sent out quickly to Peter, he replies immediately, assuring Derek he’d be home as soon as he could and that grocery shopping would have to wait.

-

Once Stiles is changed into a small pair of pajama shorts and Peters shirt, him and Derek curl into the couch together. There’s a kids show playing lowly but neither are paying attention. Stiles is chewing the collar of Peters shirt, having refused a tether or pacifier, and Derek’s busy focusing in on Stiles’ heartbeat. It’s normal, not spiking in anxiety or panic, he should be relaxing with that information. He can’t. His brain is too busy running through what possibly could’ve happened to trigger Stiles like that.

It could’ve been his own overthinking, that’s happened a couple times, but never lead to that intense of a reaction. Derek prays silently that it wasn’t somebody saying something to upset Stiles, or a random bout of flashbacks as that always leaves Stiles restless for at least a few days if not a full week.

“Munchkin! What happened?!” Peters booming voice cuts through Derek’s thoughts and he’s quickly met with Peter barreling over to where the two are on the couch. Stiles instantaneously climbs off of Derek to cling around Peter with a happy giggle at Peter hugging him in close. At least he’s calmed down now.

“Are you okay sweetheart?” Seconds pass where Stiles just stares at Peter, the older Hale obviously growing more concerned as his brow furrows and Derek swears his eyes couldn’t grow any wider.

“Papa!” Stiles finally bursts out and latches around Peter again, it makes both the caregivers give out a small sigh of relief and chuckle at Stiles’ endless need for affection and his lack of communication skills in baby space.

Derek knows he and Peter will have to talk about what happened once Stiles goes to sleep, which shouldn’t be too far away with how tired he looks. The questions buzzing in his head will have to wait to get answered, and Peter might genuinely never let Stiles leave the loft again, but for now Derek leans back into the couch and tries to relax. Peter gives him a knowing look, that one that says he can feel how much tension Derek still holds about the situation, he lets Peter knock his shoulder into Derek in support. They’ll figure it out.

[dyshonor]

Emma had already bought him a gift.

But Emma had not bought him a gift.

She didn't really know what he liked. She hardly knew him, in all honesty. With the frequency with which she saw him, most probably wouldn't judge her for not getting him a gift at all. But Emma would. Because that was Randal, even if it wasn't the Randal that she knew. It was the Randal that'd become her Randal, right? And a future friend is a friend all the same.

(it'd be lonely, wouldn't it? to not be acknowledged, for the crime of not yet being who you will be someday?)

She knows from their time in Valentia that he's not a fan of sweets. Did he like sweets when he was her age, and grow out of it? Or had that always been how he was? Randal as he was now was kind of the opposite of the Randal she knew—but not completely, not so thoroughly that she felt it an obvious assumption. Best not to risk it. That left cookies or cupcakes out of the question, though. Does she find somewhere that'll sell her a bottle of whisky if she asks with wide enough eyes?

...she's not sure she wants to encourage that.

"Randaaaal!"

The young trainee hadn't relied on her pegasus today, and so she'd resorted to searching for him on her own quick feet. She's quite lucky to have found him at a reasonable hour. Quite lucky to have found him at all, really. And yet it is carefree the way she rocks on the heels of her feet when she finally stops beside him.

"It's your birthday today! Did you forget?" Probably not, given how high and mighty he tried to act, but at the same time, she could hardly imagine how confused his sense of time must be. Emma herself had a hard time keeping track of it, now, and that was without the sort of complications Randal had dealt with. "I looked all over for a gift for you... but, um, I realized I don't actually know what you like."

And with complete familiarity, she grabs him by the wrist, pivoting on her heel to pull him along.

"So you're gonna come with me, and we're gonna hold a party with everyone!" She'd already asked Poe, Niamh never said no when Emma invited her to festivities, she bet she could swing Alice if she begged... "Then I'll get to know you better, and we can get you gifts next time. I got a cake for us and everything!"

She knows he's not a big of sweets—but it felt wrong to have a party without a cake.

"I hope thirty candles is enough."

-- RANDAL HEARS THE CRY from afar and feels his shoulders tense. It is with an incredible amount of self-control, cultivated after hours of meetings and handshakes with well-to-do usurpers, that he makes them ease when she rocks up besides him.

His birthday? Well he hadn't forgotten it- in times once-recent, it was an opportunity to force political rivals in front of you- but he had certainly not expected anything to come of it. It was a day to keep in mind, a day to procure fake, obligatory showcases of love.

He does not expect much. Emma loved that dastard, and she surely would have wanted to spend his 'birthday' with him. Knowing her, she'd likely been planning something for months. If this was some sort of scrambled coping mechanism, then he was far too miffed to let her down gently. No, before she's even finished stating her intentions, Randal has opened his mouth and-

A pause. "For... me?"

Well, she knows Randal- not him, that dastard, they were the very same but not him- but she still takes the time to clarify that she doesn't know what he likes.

What he likes.

He opens his mouth, closes it. The insults that come pre-baked with his tongue falter and wither. It is such an unabashed display of kindness that it leaves him without words.

By the time he finds himself, Emma has yanked his wrist and sent them spinning. "Wh- wait a second--"

The words coast over his head in near-numb fascination. A party, with 'everyone', whatever that meant. For him? As in, him? Surely at least some of them were there for the dastard, for that person they were surely waiting for him to slip back into, but it was being organized for the presentation of his sake...

He bites his lip. This is stupid to get excited over. No matter his age, he is an adult, and an adult that is seeking to strike out on his own and far away from this place that that dastard has brought them to.

(but is it wrong?)

Randal trips and catches his balance as Emma rambles on, full of promises of gifts for next time. Next time?

(he is not going to stick around forever. he is going to blink and that dastard will take his place back, as he has every right to. randal: the one who stands with a face clear of stubble, the one with hair still short enough to curl at the nape of his neck, the one granted a fresh nomer of 'wicked knight', will flash by with hardly anyone to remember him by.

he will be that dastard, that person actually worth being around, and he will be as good as dead. he is not so delusional as to think that he can actually keep him at bay forever- he does not know if he wants to.

so. if, like everything else that he has stumbled through, this doesn't matter anyway, why can't he indulge?)

His face twists into a pout.

"Thirty- I'm not that old!" he sputters. "I'm twenty! Something! Nowhere close to thirty, or if you're going for that old dastard's age, then--"

(maybe, if he's lucky, there really will be a next time. for him.)

[chicgeekgirl89]

Like I’m Gonna Lose You

Fandom: 911 Lone Star

Characters: T.K. Strand, Carlos Reyes, Gabriel Reyes, Andrea Reyes, Iris Blake

Summary: Bone cracks and gives way under his hands but can’t stop because Carlos still isn’t breathing and T.K. has to keep him alive, he has to keep his heart beating because if he doesn’t…if he doesn’t then his own heart is going to stop too and he doesn’t know where that will leave them.

A/N: Obligatory 4x04 coda fic that happily fills my @badthingshappenbingo​ CPR square! 

Read on AO3

“Can’t the officers who are there go in?” T.K. asks frantically as Gabriel presses the gas to the floor.

Gabriel shakes his head and swerves around the car in front of them, ignoring the loud honk it gets him. “They pulled out half an hour ago. We’ll make it there before they can get back.”

“I was right there,” T.K. says angrily. “I was practically in that house—“

“He might not be there T.K., Daryl may have taken him to a secondary location already,” Gabriel says.

“I heard a noise,” T.K. tells him, guilt forcing his tears to the surface. “That woman said it was her cat, but I should have known. Gabriel, if he was right there and we walked away—“

“Don’t,” Gabriel cuts him off gruffly, and T.K. can see that fatherhood is pushing to break through his stoic ranger exterior. “We cannot fall apart now.”

They careen into the neighborhood seconds later. They’re both out of the car almost before it’s in park and Gabriel already has his hand reaching for the gun at his waist.

“Stand back,” he orders, and then he kicks in the door and both of them go crashing into the house.

Carlos is on the floor, the woman from earlier hovering nearby, and another man, Daryl, is lying next to him.

T.K. goes to his knees and at first he thinks Carlos is just unconscious, knocked out from the apparent struggle, but his eyes are glassy, pupils down to pinpoints and T.K.’s stomach lurches when he finds the bottle of morphine next to Carlos’ thigh.

“No, no, no,” he says as Carlos’ pulse flutters once, then no more beneath his fingers and he screams at Gabriel to get them back-up, they need Narcan RIGHT GOD DAMN NOW.

The CPR is automatic, his body responding even when his mind is in a full blown panic because Carlos is dying and god he cannot, he cannot lose him, please god no, not Carlos too, not when they’re so close.

Bone cracks and gives way under his hands but can’t stop because Carlos still isn’t breathing and T.K. has to keep him alive, he has to keep his heart beating because if he doesn’t…if he doesn’t then his own heart is going to stop too and he doesn’t know where that will leave them.

Someone shoves Narcan into his hand and he stabs it into Carlos’ thigh and waits and waits and pleads and begs with whoever is listening and an eternity later Carlos sucks in an almighty breath and he rockets upward, fight or flight in full effect as he struggles to get away from them.

“You’re okay,” T.K. says over and over again, trying to believe that it’s true because nothing about this is okay, but it will be, it can be now that they’re together again.

Carlos’ eyes find him, exhausted and scared and he whimpers T.K.’s name, reaching out a trembling hand.

T.K. grabs on, pulls him close and holds him, holds him, holds him, as tightly as he dares. He buries his face in Carlos’ curls, presses a kiss to his head, and finally breathes a shaky breath of relief.

“Thank you,” Carlos wheezes out.

“Don’t try to talk,” Gabriel admonishes him immediately, patting him on the arm and looking completely spent. “Just take a breath.”

Carlos won’t though. He looks past them to the uniformed officers. “There’s a body,” he rasps. “In the kitchen.”

“We’re on it,” the officer assures him, directing a couple of other uniforms to head that way.

Now that T.K.’s heart rate has come down a little bit he finds himself inspecting Carlos for injuries. There’s the nasty gash on his head, blood everywhere, and his wrists are chafed and raw. T.K.’s throat constricts at the thought of Carlos tied up and helpless, at the mercy of these monsters.

Detective Grier wanders in just ahead of the paramedics and if T.K. wasn’t so exhausted he would snap right in her face and ask if she believes Carlos now that the evidence is incontrovertible. As it is he contents himself to watching like a hawk as paramedics examine Carlos, watching him for any signs of pain or exhaustion, ready to tell everyone to fuck off with their questions if it looks like he’s flagging at all.

But, true to form, Carlos handles it with grace and poise and just the occasional wince as the paramedics poke and prod at him and he gives a statement to the officers, answering their questions calmly and with his usual detailed professionalism.

T.K. doesn’t miss the way Carlos’ face changes as soon as the ambulance doors close behind them. No one else would notice, but T.K. sees the way his face goes too smooth, almost blank, besides the small furrow in his brow. The adrenaline is finally wearing off and Carlos is in for a world of hurt until they can get him some pain medication.

“You doing okay?” T.K. asks, toying gently with his curls in a way he knows Carlos finds soothing.

“I’m tired,” Carlos admits.

T.K. nods. He is too. 

The paramedic riding with them swipes an alcohol pad over Carlos’ arm and he flinches violently. “Sorry,” he says immediately. “I’m sorry.”

Carlos has been violated today for the second time in less than a year. It’s not surprising that he’s jumpy. T.K. feels a surge of anger toward the paramedic for not realizing this and has to bite down on his tongue to keep from lashing out. He’s just doing his job and he doesn’t know everything Carlos has been through.

“It’s okay,” the man says with a smile. “Just cleaning you up so I can insert an IV since you’re probably a little dehydrated.”

T.K. catches her paramedic’s eye. “Can you tell him please? Before you do anything?”

“Sure,” he says. “Of course.”

He gets the IV inserted, narrating quietly the entire time. T.K. keeps a hold on Carlos’ free hand, rubbing his thumb back and forth soothingly as he watches the paramedic work, ready to jump in if he even so much as looks like he’s having trouble finding a vein. 

When it’s done he looks up to find Carlos’ face has gone pale. “Carlos?” he asks quietly.

“I um, I don’t feel right,” Carlos tells him, eyes sliding shut.

“Temp is rising,” the paramedic tells him. “Probably a response to the Narcan.”

T.K. automatically reaches for an oxygen mask. “Babe I’m going to put this over your face to help you breathe okay?”

Carlos nods and T.K. carefully slips the mask into place. God this sucks. This sucks so bad.

The tests and scans at the hospital reveal two broken ribs (god T.K. is going to feel guilty about that forever), a mild concussion, moderate dehydration, and a myriad of bump and bruises. T.K. was worried that Carlos might require a second dose of Naloxone because of how much morphine was in his system, but he comes through without it. His fever breaks as the effects of the Narcan fade, and overall he’s doing well. Which means he’s not happy when the doctors decide to keep him overnight for observation.

“I’m fine,” Carlos protests as they wait for his parents and Iris to join them in his room. “I don’t need to stay here.”

“Yes, you do,” T.K. says. “You need medical care.”

“You can be my medical care.”

“I appreciate that you think so highly of my skills, but trust me, you don’t want to leave these IV’s behind.”

He’d been so relieved when they finally allowed Carlos some pain medication. The scans and tests had taken forever and they’d refused until they had all the results. Solid medical practice, but T.K. could see how much Carlos was hurting and he’d just wanted it to stop.

“Nothing even hurts anymore,” Carlos pouts.

“That’s the pain meds talking. Broken ribs are no joke Carlos. You want the good stuff while you can have it.”

“Ay Carlitos, we can hear you whining all the way down the hall,” Andrea says when she comes through the door seconds later, Gabriel and Iris right behind her. “You’re going to scare off all the nurses.”

“I think that’s the goal,” Gabriel says with a smile. “Scare everyone into letting him go home.”

“That’s stupid,” Iris says. “The hospital is where the drugs are.”

“See?” T.K. says. “That’s what I told him!”

“God I should have known the two of you would get along well,” Carlos sighs tragically.

“Yes, you should have,” Iris says. “We both agreed to marry you. It’s obvious we would have things in common.”

“Yeah I guess that’s true,” Carlos says with a laugh.

They don’t stay long. Andrea would probably stay all night if she could, but she seems to understand that Carlos and T.K. need some space. 

“I’ll stop by tomorrow and drop off some food,” Andrea tells them as she presses a final kiss to Carlos’ forehead. “How much room do you have in the freezer? Never mind, I’ll figure it out.”

“Mom you don’t have to do that,” Carlos protests.

She waves a hand. “It’s already done.” She wraps T.K. in a hug, the smell of her perfume making him feel at home. “You’ll text me when he’s released tomorrow?” 

“Of course,” T.K. says.

Gabriel bids Carlos good night with a gentle ruffle of his hair and then turns to T.K. “Good work today,” he says, shaking his hand. “Your dad should be proud. He’s got a firefighter, paramedic, and a burgeoning detective all in one.”

“I think I’ll stick to the firehouse for now,” T.K. says with a smile.

“Iris, do you need a ride?” Andrea asks.

“Yes,” she says. “I will not be getting into vehicles with strangers ever again.”

“That’s fair,” Carlos says.

She leans over and pats his arm. “It is. I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“I’m glad you’re not dead too,” Carlos tells her.

She leans in and whispers something in his ear that makes him smile, his eyes darting to T.K.’s.

She straightens up and then pulls T.K. into a hug. “Thank you for saving Carlos. He’s very important to me and I’d rather that he didn’t die now that we’re friends again.”

“Yeah, me too,” T.K. tells her with a smile.

When they’ve all gone out the door T.K. checks his watch and gets to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Carlos asks immediately.

T.K. smiles softly and pats his leg through the blankets. “I’m just going to sweet talk the nurses into letting me stay tonight. Raquel is on, it won’t be a problem. I’ll be right back.”

It’s as easy as he thinks it will be (Raquel is one of his favorite nurses), and he’s back in no time with a couple bags of chips from the vending machine and a cup of hospital coffee. He’ll probably regret all of it in a couple hours, but he’s starving and it’s going to be a long night.

Carlos has dozed off by the time he returns, but he rouses as soon as T.K. dims the lights. “Go back to sleep,” T.K. urges, moving his chair closer to the bed.

“I want to go home,” Carlos says softly.

“I know.” T.K.’s heart squeezes. “Tomorrow. As soon as they release you we’re out of here. I promise.”

“I want to go home now.”

“Carlos…”

“I want to take a shower,” Carlos pleads, his eyes soft and sad. “I want to sleep in our bed with you.”

T.K. wants nothing more than to give in. God his heart is breaking. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “Carlos, we can’t. You’re hurt and you need to stay here.”

“Why are you closing your eyes?”

“Because if I look at you right now I am going to cave and I know that would be the wrong choice.” T.K. swallows hard. “Because you died today and I’m still trying to process that and if I look at you I’m going to give you whatever you want.”

There’s a long silence and then a very quiet, “I’m sorry.”

T.K. opens his eyes. “You need to rest,” T.K. tells him, running a hand up and down his arm, careful to avoid the bandage that covers his wrist and the damage the zip ties did. “We can talk about it another time.”

Carlos opens his mouth, but T.K. squeezes his arm. “Another time,” he says firmly.

Carlos must be tired because he relents and T.K. feels relief that they can put this conversation off just a little longer. He’s not sure either one of them are ready for it.

He takes a breath and smiles. “Okay, now scooch over, you have to help me write this message to the 126 group text.” He squeezes into the hospital bed, getting as close as he possibly can without causing Carlos pain.

“What?”

“I have to update them on what’s going on. The last they knew I just hadn’t heard from you in like eighteen hours.”

“T.K.!” Carlos cries in horror. “You found me six hours ago!”

“Um yeah, and I was a little too busy saving your life to bother with giving everyone an update,” T.K. tells him. “I’m thinking ‘Carlos hostage. At hospital. All good now.’”

“Oh my god, you cannot send that to them.”

“Is hostage not the right word? What’s the preferred APD terminology for this? Abducted? Kidnapped?”

“Why don’t you just say, ‘Carlos is okay. Will fill you in later.’?”

“Because then they’re going to think something really bad happened.”

“Something worse than being almost murdered by a serial killer?” Carlos gives him a quizzical look.

“Yeah. Like you left me to hook up with some other hot paramedic from New York.”

“There are no other hot paramedics from New York besides you T.K.,” Carlos says seriously.

“Well there are lots of other hot cops from Austin around here, but fortunately you lived, so the rest of them will just have to wait in line,” T.K. tells him cheekily. “How about, ‘Carlos alive, wedding still on’?” 

“T.K.”

T.K. smiles. It’s good to hear that fondly exasperated tone again.