#so it might end up looking completely different

[r-o-s-e-f-i-r-e]

THANK YOU i have been thinking about this constantly. buck says he “”knows a great place”” and takes Gen Z Landlord Ravi to what is aesthetically speaking i’m assuming the worst boston irish knock-off of the bar from cheers bar that exists in los angeles. LOOK at this place. this place is called o’shaughnessy’s. it’s been exactly the same since 1984. the leather booths. one single tiny television playing wrestling. exposed brick. the most disgusting beer-drenched wall-to-wall carpet you’ve ever been stuck to in your life. smoking inside hasn’t been legal in 20 years and it still smells like nicotine because it’s basically soaked into the wood. a framed jersey over buck’s head. and yet it’s full of YOUNG PEOPLE in PATTERNED SWEATERS and LEATHER JACKETS???????? A PONYTAILED DYKE BARTENDER IN A BASEBALL SHIRT???? WHAT IS GOING ON HERE!!!!!!!!

like this is absolutely Tommy’s Local. buck “knows a great bar” ahshdhshdbdhdj ITS TOMMYS BAR!!!!!!!! this is tommy’s Sad Old Man Drinking Alone At The Bar Watching Wrestling And Longing For the Intricate Rituals Bar because he hasn’t been touched outside of a fistbump or a backslap at work in months!!!!!!!!!!

ok after meditating on it i think this is tommy’s local in tommy’s neighborhood that tommy discovered when he bought his little bungalow in 2008 when the market crashed and then trying to get the lay of his new neighborhood he was wandering around one night and heard the dulcet tones of steely dan and glasses breaking and was immediately hit over the head with a miserable and agonizing sense of being Home, because this sad old dive bar smelled and looked exactly like the sad old dive bar his father had dragged him into as soon as tommy was old enough to stand upright on his own two feet - the one right down the street from the first house he’d grown up in, the one where he’d spent long, empty afternoons playing hide and seek with his sister under the booths and eating maraschino cherries plucked carefully out of drinks by women with long nails and too much eyeshadow with names like Wanda and Tootsie and trying to make himself useful by emptying ash trays and offering to fill up the ice. tommy stumbles blindly into Johnny Malone’s and orders whiskey on the rocks, which he doesn’t even like!!!!!!! at all!!!!!!! but if he’s going to be punted back in time to the most miserable days of his childhood he might as well complete the whole picture. also probably The Harp and Hound has like five beers on the menu, ranging from Guinness to Coors Light and everything in between is Heineken.

and THEN! old johnny finally retires after running the bar for five decades and his young nephew Mark is moving from pasadena to take over the operation, and when tommy is hears about it one night in 2019 while nursing his bi-monthly The Ancient Loneliness Is Going To Consume Me This Time he’s like HAHA GREAT! FUCK! can’t even have ONE THING IN THIS WORLD!!!! he stews and sulks and thinks they’re going to landlord special the place and it makes him unimaginably sad and angry. and pissed at himself because he doesn’t even LIKE the bar it’s HIDEOUS and reminds him of all of the worst parts of himself!!!! he ends up at the muay thai studio four days in a row and imagines he’s slamming his fist into the brick behind the bar just like his father had when tommy was thirteen years old instead of his sparring partner donny’s pads. he doesn’t even — it shouldn’t MATTER if it’s different, or gone, it SUCKS, that’s the whole POINT —

but mark from pasadena is a gay visionary and has a preternatural ability to see into the future and leaves the bar literally exactly the same except he rips out the carpet and hires only competent lesbian bartenders and knocks out a wall in the back in order to put an actual kitchen in and spends months carefully, obsessively curating the most beautiful beer list tommy has ever seen in his life. it makes tommy so, SO mad. it’s almost exclusively microbreweries and brewpubs from the west coast, a couple places from the southwest, one place in upstate new york. the first night tommy sits at the same old sticky bar and drinks an organic amber ale from humboldt county elbow to elbow with a group of septum-pierced kids that are pleading with jess the best bartender in the world to please please turn the wrestling to drag race, he feels so dizzy with cognitive dissonance he has to go outside and bum a cigarette from shawn the doorman. he smokes his first cigarette in two decades and he pretends his eyes are stinging from the smoke and thinks about — just — maybe — maybe you don’t have to gut a place down to the studs. maybe you bring in someone with fresh eyes. a little optimism. elbow grease. a new carpet.

“a cara cara orange lager? that’s insane, i’m getting it,” evan says five years later, slapping the menu shut and pushing it aside. tommy nods at jess the bartender briefly, his usual whenever you get a chance eyebrows, barely managing to take his eyes off evan, who’s already on to the history of citrus cultivation.

“this place is great,” evan says, looking around, after he takes a sip of his orange lager and makes a face and remembers he doesn’t like orange and pouts at tommy to share his belgian draft with him. “do you come here a lot?”

they’ve been dating for three weeks. tommy could tell him. all of it. or part of it. the feeling of rugburn on his sister’s hands. watching obama getting sworn in, the second time, three seats down and a dozen years ago. old johnny. mark. walking out into the blazing sunlight of a summer afternoon after hours in the dark, feeling like his whole life was slipping away at eleven years old.

he could. or.

“couple times a month,” tommy shrugs, taking a sip of his beer, watching evan watch the way his throat works. “great neighborhood place.”

“yeah, you don’t really get a lot of those anymore,” evan agrees absently, hooking his foot around the leg of tommy’s stool and leaning in.

has anyone mentioned the invisible string that brought them to the same bar at the same time yet?

[aliciastarkeyy]

Fools gold

Summary ᯓ★ uncool, typically 'nerdy' and unseen by most, your life on the island is pretty simple. Until Rafe Cameron begins to pay attention to you.

Warnings ᯓ★ swearing, the motions of a 'bet' being made, wagers, fake love, one sided love, fighting, eventual smut. ! not proofread!

Word count ᯓ★ 4,234

part1⟡ part3⟡ part4⟡

The walk to the bookshop the next morning is refreshing. After a terrible night of sleep, you’re glad to be going to the store and enjoying some time alone with the books. And willow.

There’s a subtle breeze sweeping along the almost empty boardwalk, the only people out the one’s grabbing breakfast, or using the shops that open before nine.

Surfers are out on the water, like they are every morning. The waves are quite violent, thrashing against the shore, and you know they’re having a good time.

Willow purrs when you open the door to the bookshop, sliding through the gap and taking her sleeping position straight on one of the bottom shelves of one of the bookshelves. You know you won’t see her for a few hours now.

Once setting up the music and the cash register, you unlock the front door and begin browsing the shelves to pick something for yourself to read.

Your mind slips away to Rafe Cameron. He seemed to want to talk to you- despite his polar opposite behaviour in high school. Back then, you never existed to him. Now, he’d come into your work and then gone out of his way to talk to you at Maysi’s party.

Alas, you hadn’t seen him for six years. He could have changed. Maybe he just wanted to be friends. Maybe.

Maybe seemed like a longshot. He didn’t look like the type.

The morning sails by, especially when you’re reading pride and prejudice to pass the time. You’ve had a few more customers today, figuring it must be nicer weather than yesterday and all the rich folk of the island are suddenly interested in reading.

The afternoon does not go so fast. It slows dramatically, in fact, to the point that you put down the book and begin to clear some of the shelves, reorganising.

You’re so into what you’re doing that you barely hear to bell above the door chime, or the footfall that stops shortly beside you. When you drop a book out of the stack you’re holding, and another hand reaches out to pick it up for you- you almost jump.

Rafe. He’s holding the book out, a smirk seemingly carved into his face. You set the pile of books down and take the singular one from him.

“Thanks,”

“It’s no problem, just here to save the day.” He straightens up as you place the final book on the knee high tower you’ve got going. After a Quick Look around, Rafe addresses you again.

“Having a move about?” He smiles, something genuine that almost meets his eyes. Almost. It puts you off.

“Yeah, slow day. Might as well.” He nods, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“So, back for that book for my uh, sister.”

You purse your lips. “What book?”

It dawns on you now that he took a complete gamble on whether those previous books would have actually been in here or not. You didn’t particularly choose what books ended up here. Unless he just picked the first two he saw?

Rafe looks deep in thought before he meets your own eyes. “I’m not sure of the name. Something to do with wardrobes and lions, I think.”

“Ah! I actually know what you mean! Such a classic, we have one somewhere.” You beckon with one finger for him to follow you to the isle over, where there’s a sort of theme of children’s and young adult books.

You begin to hum along to the beat of the music as your fingers slide over the different spines and names of books, until it comes into view. Triumphant, you pull the book from its place and hold it out to show Rafe.

He looks utterly puzzled.

“The lion,” you point to the cover. “The witch,” another point. “Anddddd, the wardrobe.”

You see the moment it clicks in his eyes. You also breathe a silent sigh of relief. Your earlier theory had been disproved- that he’d come in here and picked up two random books to excuse why he was here. He came with intent this time.

“Okay, okay. I’ll take this one.” You take it back from him and veer round his frame to the counter, where you scan the books barcode.

“Your total is six dollars.” Like yesterday, he passes you more than he needs to. A ten dollar bill, again, crisp as the day it was made.

“Keep the change.” He smiles as you pass him over the book, but doesn’t move. You wonder if you’ve forgotten something, and he’s waiting.

“So uh,” he brings a finger up to rub his eye. “I’m gonna be at the country club tonight with a few friends, if you’d wanna come?”

The inside of your cheek finds its way inbetween your teeth, and suddenly you’d rather be anywhere but here. Is he asking you on a date? Why would he ask you?

“Not in a weird way or anything- Maysi will be there too, she’s uh, she’s seeing one of my friends and I just thought-”

“It’s okay Rafe. Thank you, really, but I’m okay. I don’t like that sort of stuff.” He nods, looking away to the side. Somewhere in the shop, willow meows and begins to patter towards you.

Rafe’s jaw clenches. Like he’s mad.

“Okay. Worth the ask. Have a good day.” He turns on his heel and walks straight out of the door.

“Wow.” You mutter. What the fuck was up his ass?

You phone rings an hour later. You’re finishing the last of closing duties, willow hanging by the front door waiting to be let out.

Maysilee.

“Hello?” You answer, pressing the phone between your ear and shoulder as you scramble for the keys in your bag.

“You turned down Rafe Cameron?” She sounds incredulous. You can tell she’s somewhere loud, the background noise buzzing through the phone. She mutters something to someone else and turns her attention back to you.

“You’d better have the best excuse ever woman. The poor boy looks grief stricken,” you fight the urge to roll your eyes, locking the door to the shop and walking along the board walk with willow.

“Maysi, I’ve had about three short conversations with him. He could be a serial killer.”

She scoffs. Loudly. You pull the phone away from your ear for a second. “- genuinely interested in getting to know you, why do you always shoot down potential men who’re interested?”

The back end of what she’s saying makes you pause for a brief moment. How could he be genuinely interested in you? He knew nothing about you. Nothing at all.

He didn’t exactly seem like the type to want anything other than a fuck either, as much as it made you cringe to think that. Just the way he looked.

“Maysi, I barely know him.”

“That’s how it starts though no? You barely know someone and then you get to know them.” She’s got you there. You bite the inside of your cheek, contemplating his earlier offer again, as you turn onto your street. You can see your parents cars in the driveway, and a third one that you don’t recognise.

“That doesn’t matter anyway because you’re coming to the country club whether you like it or not. For me.” Her tone is final. You have no choice in the matter, much like last night.

“May-”

“No. I know you’re almost home now so get changed and I’ll come pick you up.” She’s cute you off and you sigh, small enough so she can’t hear it.

“Okay.”

Maysilee squeals. She bids you goodbye with loads of kissy noises down the phone, happy now she’s got her own way. The promise to pick you up in an hour scars into the back of your brain.

As you open the front door, you can hear your parents talking away with some other voice you don’t quite recognise. You don’t bother to investigate, slipping up the stairs straight into your room where you throw open your closet and debate your options.

Exactly like last night, you can’t wear anything that Maysi will disapprove of.

You land on a white off the shoulder jumper, black skirt, tights and your knee high boots. Hopefully it would pass for Maysilee, despite her obvious distaste to your entire wardrobe.

Showering and getting ready takes up the majority of the hour, and soon you’re sat on your bed waiting for Maysi to text you saying she’s here.

When the text does come through you spare one last look in the mirror, and a longing one towards your bed, before closing your bedroom door and climbing down the steps. Your mother emerges from the kitchen as you reach the bottom step.

“Is that Rafe’s truck outside?” The third voice asks, and your father along with the third man join you and your mother in the foyer.

Is it? You were going to kill Maysi if she’s done exactly what you think she’s done.

Your mother smiles at you, pretending to be warm. “You know Ward, yes? Ward Cameron?”

What the fuck. Too many coincidences were happening. All at once. In the last two days.

“No, mom, I don’t.” Her smile falters. She turns away, effectively dismissing you and you use it as your excuse to slip out of the front door and down your drive. The passenger side window rolls down and you see Rafe sat in the truck, face puzzled.

“Is that my father’s car?” You nod. He leans over, opening the door for you.

Maysilee is nowhere to be found. You curse her- but your options are slim to none right now. You either go back into the house with your parents, or you get in the car with Rafe.

You know which you’d prefer out of the two as you place a boot on the rail underneath his car and hoist up into the seat. You slam the door behind you, placing your bag on your lap.

“Hello again,” rafe grins as he turns the truck on, taking off down the street before you’ve even put your seatbelt on. “I thought these weren’t your type of things,” he adds.

“They’re not. I’m being forced because you gave Maysi a heartbroken sob story.” You bite the words out, looking out the window.

Rafe raises one of his hands in self defence. “I did no such thing. Your friend is very stubborn.”

You scoff, gripping your bag tighter as he swings his truck round a corner without even looking. You sure as hell were not not getting in this death trap again.

“You’re telling me. I don’t want to be here.” You can see him stealing glances over at you every so often and it makes your cheeks flush. It’s embarrassing how little you can get nervous from.

“Well, I think you look very pretty today.” He pulls up into a spot at the country club, turning his engine off. You don’t say anything back, because what do you say?

Instead, you opt for clambering out of the truck and walking towards the entrance of the club, grabbing your mother’s admission card out of your bag to show the girl at reception.

She nods you through and you do so, not waiting for Rafe. You can spot Maysi from a mile off, sat at a table with some guys arm slung over her shoulder.

“Hiiiii!” She squeals when she sees you, proceeding to quirk an eyebrow when she notices Rafe catching up. She doesn’t much about the situation, allowing Rafe to scoot in and pull a seat out for you.

You take the seat, crossing your legs as he takes the one next to you. There’s now five people sat at the table. You, Rafe, Maysi, the guy with his arm around her shoulder and another guy who’s grinning like the Cheshire Cat at you. Weird.

“So, this is topper, my boyfriend, and Kelce, their other friend. Obviously you know Rafe,” Maysi says, taking a sip from her fruity coloured drink. There’s a glint of something behind her eyes as she looks at you and Rafe and you notice how close he’s sat. She tells them all your name but based on the way they react, they already know you.

“Well uh, I’m gonna go get a drink.” You mumble, standing from the chair.

“Me too,” rafe taps the table, standing and following you to the bar. You’re sure you feel the ghost of his hand on your back but it never makes contact.

“What’re you having?” He asks, when you stand bar side. You shrug, looking at all the options for softer drinks. Not a lot. Water or juice.

The cocktail that Maysi had did look quite funky.

“Hey, yeah man, not too bad,” rafe shakes the hand of the bartender who’s come over and spoken to Rafe while you were thinking. He looks back down at you before looking back up and smiling.

“I’ll have a coors and she’ll have a daiquiri, please.” Butterflies settle in your stomach at how he orders for you.

What? No. Ew.

Maybe not ew. You weren’t sure. Maybe he was growing on you. If only you’d hold a conversation with him for longer than five minutes, maybe you’d know. Lots of maybes.

The bartender places a bright red drink in front of you and you grasp it with both hands. “Put it on my tab man, thanks.”

You look up at Rafe. “You don’t need to do that,”

He grins down at you, grasping a bottle of beer in his own hand. “You know what they say, ‘buy me a drink first’,” this time, his hand finds your back and stays planted there as he leads you back to the table. Heavy and thick. He was laying it on pretty hard.

You take your seat again, Maysi busy laughing at something one of the other guys had said. Her eyes flutter down to your drink and she gasps.

“You’re telling me he managed to get you to drink?” Betrayal. Utterly terrifying, betrayal. Laced right into her tone. She points a manicured finger at Rafe who grins lazily back, raising his hands in self defence.

“What can I say? I have charm,” Maysi reaches over the table to swat him but he leans back, laughing when she can’t reach him. She huffs and falls back into her seat, arms crossed over her chest, she turns back to you.

“How was the ride?” It’s her turn to smirk at you, knowing eyes fluttering between you and Rafe. His arm is now slung over the back of your chair, eyes glinting as his friends talk to him.

“He doesn’t know how to drive,” you whisper back, leaning over your drink. You take a sip and can immediately see why she loves them so much. Your comment makes her cackle, clapping her hands.

“Really? That’s pretty funny,” Rafe leans forward, arm still over your chair. He’s all in your space, shoulder touching your own at he stares you down. “We got here didn’t we, that’s all that counts.”

You nod your head, cheeks burning bright red at being caught and Rafe leans back, engaging in his own conversation with his friends again. Maysi is smiling at you behind her hand.

“He so likes you,” she whispers, smile almost stretching to her ears. She reaches over and squeezes your arm as you shake your head.

“He does not. He doesn’t know me.”

“Well, let him know you then. He’s interested in you, it’s so obvious.” Her boyfriend, topper, leans over grinning.

“He does like you.”

You don’t respond, shaking your head and leaning into your drink, cheeks blushing when Rafe’s hand slides down the back of your chair and begins to circle on your back.

Two hours pass when you excuse yourself to go to the toilet. You’ve had a few more drinks than you’d like to admit, and after a few flirty comments from Rafe, you decided it was time for a refresh.

Until someone calls your name, a step away from the toilet door.

“Oh no,” you mumble, turning with a fake, small smile on your face. Tyler stands two steps away from you, arms raised out like he’s coming in for a hug. You dodge, standing with your back against the door.

“Hey, how’ve you been?” You watch his eyes swallow your figure down whole, and you suddenly regret wearing what you’re wearing. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Yeah, I’ve been better.” He nods, hair slicked back but he still runs a had through it. He’s looks the exact same. Tall, lanky, dressed like he’s trying to fit in somewhere he doesn’t belong.

“Good, good. I’ve been okay, missed you though.” Bile rises in your throat and you’re pretty sure you can feel tears pricking the corners of your eyes. There’s no one else here you can ask for help.

He raises a hand and you flinch.

“Look, I’m sorry. What I did was shitty but I know you’ve missed me too.” He reaches a hand to your shoulder and grips, harder than he should. You can feel a tear crest over and roll down your cheek.

“What the fuck you doing man?” You’ve never been more relived to hear Rafe Cameron’s voice. Ever. Tyler lets go of your shoulder and swings around in time to be met with Rafe’s fist, straight to the cheek. Tyler’s head swings to the side and he stumbles back a few steps, laughing as his hand comes up to his jaw.

Rafe’s heaving, face flushed red from what you presume is anger, which only intensifies when he takes a look at you. You must look petrified.

You are. Rafe steps around Tyler and to you, taking your shoulder in his hands. This time when he looks at you he looks like he cares. Genuinely.

“Are you okay?” You shake your head and he pulls you into his chest. He wraps around you just right, smelling like woods and leaves and just everything nice that you’d thought he smelled like.

You didn’t realise you’d thought that until you were here. He pulls back, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and walking you past Tyler.

“Good luck with that man, really. Couldn’t get anything out of her and I had that bitch for two years. Might have to look elsewhere if you want a fuck.” Tyler is grinning when you look over your shoulder, cheek red and nose bent. Rafe pauses, hand tightening on your shoulder for a second before he releases you, turning around.

Another crack sounds from behind you but you don’t turn. You hear Tyler stumble back before hitting the wall, mumbling something to Rafe who chuckles.

“She loves sex man, I don’t know what you’re on about. Maybe it was just you.”

Rafe’s arm wraps around you again and he leads you to the foyer. You’re silently crying now, wiping each tear with the sleeves of your jumper. He reaches into his pocket, passing you the keys to his truck.

“I’m just gonna go say bye okay, you go wait in my truck.”

His kindness stills you. He had no need to step in and defend you then, especially not with Tyler. But he did. In a weird way, it warms your heart. He defended you.

Maybe he wasn’t so bad afterall.

You find Rafe’s truck in the car park and unlock it, climbing up into the seat and shitting the door behind you. The silence is defending but doesn’t last long before the drivers door is opening, and Rafe is climbing into the seat. You pass him the keys and he starts the truck.

“Did he, you know?” He asks, voice rough like he doesn’t want to think about it. Rafe’s jaw is locked tight as he pulls out of the spot, turning his full brights on when he joins into the sunlight road.

You sniffle. “He didn’t always control his anger when I said no. I don’t know why I stayed with him.”

Rafe nods, eyes on the road. His hand shifts from the center console to grasp your knee. “I’m sorry. I’m not sorry I showed him what’s up though.” He smiles over at you and you giggle, a little. You notice the way he’s going isn’t the way to your house.

Maybe he is nice. There’s this tinge to him that you’ve seen little bits of that makes you want to know more, and it scares you. Rafe did not look like the type to ever want anything other than a fuck.

He turns off the main road onto a small side street, which soon turns to a dirt track. When you reach the end of it, you’re on the beach. You’d never known this road had existed.

The beach is dark, but you can still see flutters of waves crashing against the sand, and can hear them too. The breeze sways the trees around you, and there’s a little shack off to the left, allowing a little light to sweep out across the sand.

The truck rumbles to sleep when Rafe switches it off. He turns in the seat to look at you.

“I thought this would be better than the club.”

You nod, tears stopping. “Thank you Rafe. You didn’t need to do this.”

He immediately shakes his head, curtains bouncing across his forehead. He looks softer under the light of his truck, lips pressed firm.

“You don’t need to thank me. I physically couldn’t stop myself.” He looks down at his hands in his lap, chest rising and falling rapidly. Almost as if it’s on instinct, you reach over at take one of his hands into your own.

“I’m glad you were there Rafe. I didn’t think I’d be able to do anything.” You look out the window as another wave crashes on the beach.

“He’ll never come near you again.” Rafe sounds firm, and he glances over at you before joining you at looking at the waves.

“I can’t thank you enough Rafe, really. You’ve been so nice to me.” He smiles at you now, eyes locked within the silence. And then you see him leaning closer.

Like he’s going to kiss you. Do you want this? You’re not sure. You still feel like you barely know him. But god damn, if it didn’t make you swell with butterflies when he defended you. Even if you didn’t notice, it did.

But still, you don’t think you want to kiss him. Not yet. You need to know him more. You think. You’d be lying if his lips don’t look really good right now. Full, pink lips that are now inches away from your own.

His blue eyes full are of stars as he closes the gap. And you let him. He kisses like the world’s ending- and the shock of being unsure leaves you stumped for a few seconds before you begin to kiss back.

And god, do his lips feel as good as they look. His had reached around the back of your neck, threading into the hair there as he pulls you closer, your own hands creeping across the centre console.

When his other hand comes up to cup your cheek, you whimper. Quiet but embarrassing, it makes Rafe pull back and search your eyes.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, looking away, bottom lip between his teeth. He’s heaving, lips swollen and eyes glossy as he stares out the window.

You can only imagine what you look like. He turns back, eyes searching your face again, and you’re sure you can see a debate sparking to life behind them.

“You’re so soft,” he mumbles, pulling you back for another kiss. This one is feverishly fast, hand on the back of your neck pulling you further towards him. When his tongue swipes across your bottom lip and you gasp, he pulls back again.

“Tell me to stop. Now.” His hands withdraw and you sit there, blissed but confused. Your heart is beating so far out your ribcage.

“What- I don’t-” you begin, but Rafe just scoffs, turning back round in his seat and starting the car.

“I can’t do this to you. Not here, not now. I’m taking you home.” You pull back over the console, taking your original position on the passenger seat. Rafe’s jaw is clenched, and the few glances you do steal his way he’s still the exact same. He speeds towards your house, not once looking at you.

Your brain is running a thousand miles an hour. You’d been the one who hadn’t wanted to kiss him- and now that you had, he was the one regretting it? He showed interest first. Maysilee had literally said it herself.

The breaks squeal as Rafe pulls up outside your house. No surprise your parents cars are once again gone.

“Thanks, Rafe.” You unbuckle your seatbelt and open the door, climbing out. Rafe doesn’t even properly wait for you to shut the door before speeding off down the street, leaving you just as confused as you were in the car.

Authors note ᯓ★ whew! Rafe might be having second thoughts after seeing what she went through with her ex?? Who knows <3 let me know what you thinkkkk (also I picture Maysilee as maddie from euphoria!!)

[velvetvexations]

I feel like people who “society accepts when women wear pants” forget

1. Basically immediately forgetting that there are still pretty prominent cultures were this is not true. Not even just like in the “Middle East” or “Third World”(fuck I hate those terms), like I mean in the states, did you guys know that the Mormon church only recently let women start wearing pants on their mission? Though they tend not to like when you bring up religious communities, because those are exceptions, for some reason. And then get upset with you when you bring up other examples such as countries and cultures that have laws/rules against it or other such stuff.

2. Forget that there was created an entire new gender category of pants called “women’s pants”, “women” can’t just wear pants, they have to wear “women’s pants”. I assure you when that little girl is shopping in the men’s section, they aren’t praising her, they’re giving her some of the filthiest looks that she’s seen. Like just back in the 2016 election people were mocking Hillary Clinton(damn her soul) for her dressing to masculinity. Sure most people averagely walking down the street won’t be able to tell the difference, but acting like there’s still isn’t barriers for women wearing “masculine” clothing is kind of insane to me, because it’s much more than just pants. And what might be acceptable for one person in one situation might not be for another, this planet is very big with lots of different people.

3. What is culturally acceptable for men and women to wear, is not consistent worldwide. There were/are cultures where dresses and skirts were men dressing in these things are completely socially acceptable, even encourage. And the opposite is true there is one culture that I’m thinking about where very short shorts were worn by women to do their jobs on the fields. I feel like so many of these people come at it with such an American point of view, for a lack of a better word. Also, all of this is time depend, this shit changes constantly. I beg of these people to go research fashion history.

4. That was something people fought for, within my parents lifetime. I’m 18, My parents aren’t that fucking old. And people are still very much actively fighting for the right for everybody to wear skirts(as they should be to). The fight for clothes to have no gender will continue on forever, until we somehow get the schemers of boxing certain things into certain gender categories ends. That’s the true fight, dismantling the idea that clothes have gender and that one gender should wear one type of specific clothing.

5. This rhetoric often leads to a denial of crucial aspects of Butchphobia.

And the thing is people turn this into a competition, some how. It doesn’t matter how much women get punished for wearing pants. The fact that anyone is getting punished for the clothes that they are wearing is a problem, and this definitely applies to men in skirts.

Also a small addition to the women’s pants thing Something being society accepted, even one that is conditional, such as women wear pants. Might not be true interpersonally or in certain organizations. Again to use the example it’s only relatively recently that Mormon women on missions were allowed to wear pants, even though out of the temple and when the women are not on mission they are allowed as long as they are not “revealing”, which is also a major caveat to women wearing pants. See a big reason on why women bring pants was not society accepted is not only because they were a man’s “thing”, but also because it was revealing for women just to have legs. To be able to see the individual pant legs was considered revealing. Maybe a better statement that one could say is “in most places within the western world many people find it more socially acceptable for women to wear women’s pants, then for a man to wear a skirt or a dress, in this case* because of the fact we are still fighting for the right of anybody wear anything, the concession by the patriarchy has not been made yet for men to wear dresses or skirts, we must continue to fight not only for this concession, but until patriarchy is dismantled. Performing performing masculinity is conditionally accepted if only if that woman is not seen as enough threat to the patriarchy, this is mostly because of the work done by feminist, there are many situations and places for this is not conditionally, accepted, and both are equally punished or is punished the other is not fully.” These people also don’t like nuance so, mmmmmm

It truly doesn't take much to simply think before they say these things. They really have no sense of other people's perspectives.

[fandomfluffandfuck]

I must expand on this 😏

I'm thinking, thinking, thinking about their penchant for clinging kissing.

Steve, of course--Captain America with his shining, golden propaganda stars and all--was called out on mission first. No one was sure how long it would be. A week, at least, though. Then, naturally, with the unlucky yet so lucky pattern of their lives, Bucky was called out for avenging on a different mission. A completely different fucking continent.

Each of them without the time to steal more than single word, encrypted text messages. Quick heart emojis or "missing!" as a shortened version of "I miss you so fucking much you don't even knowww!" Mostly, the messages are fkr letting the other know they're still alive but not yet safe enough to be contacted. It's grueling for them both--being apart as well as being on missions that drag on for unknowable amounts of time split between heart-pounding action and boredom so mind melting it might kill them before the gun- and knife- and fist-fights can.

As unlucky as it is to be split by missions, it's also kind of lucky in a way, too, after all, if you're so busy fighting adrenaline or fighting to hurry-up-and-wait, you're not so able to chew down your fingernails to the quick in worry for your partner. They're also lucky, though, when the divorcing missions come to a close. Steve receives his "coming home!!" text at the very moment he's sliding his phone from his pocket, unlocking it with his thumbprint, and intending to type out exactly the same message to Bucky.

Coincidences run so deep between the sentences of their story it is the story.

Coincidences... fate... or whatever you want to call it. It doesn't matter to Steve, just so long as it's there. It's always there.

Knowing that, Steve rushes through tying up loose ends, cleaning, and buckling into the quinjet so by the time his boots hit the tarmac, touching down, Bucky is already standing there.

Right there.

A wispy halo of wind-blown, chocolate hair wips around Bucky's head, as beckoning to Steve as the foamy, grey-turquoise waves of the ocean shot through with the darker silhouettes of kelp forests. Bucky is a force of nature. He is poetry in motion.

He stands there. His neck strained. His eyes toward the sky as if he alone can ensure Steve's safe return, he lifts one hand to shade his eyes from the sun (and perhaps also to keep the loose ends of his hair from sweeping into his nose and mouth). Leather, shiny and inky black in the sun, clings to every curve of Bucky's body, glimmering in the natural light and leaving Steve's heart with no choice but to stop. Completely. Entirely. His heart stills in his chest at the same time that it begins to beat so fast it can't be contained, galloping in a way no amount of strenuous, drawn-out battle can ever make it.

Bucky is gorgeous.

Steve knows it from the time he spots him. He is gorgeous even when he appears as a tiny ant below the quinjet all the way to the time Steve's boots land heavily on the ground and Bucky looks so large before him--an alter for Steve to worship at.

Pulled by the strings of electric, bright-red fate between them, Steve's hands shoot forward, shaking, finding peace only once he's gripping Bucky's biceps with all ten points of his fingers and laying over his body every inch of his chest and hips and thighs. They press together tightly. Bodily. Even their foreheads thunk against one another.

Tipping his head up, the tip of Steve's nose flirts over the soft skin yet scratchy days-old stubble of Bucky's cheek. He doesn't have to say anything. Neither of them do. It's enough to sag, no, sink into each other, their weight blending into a single balance. Bucky's restless feet and muted tongue from weeks alone, his mission that in need of a sharp shooter, meet Steve's heavy body and drained mind from weeks of commanding a team, every decision filtered through him.

Bucky or Steve or both of them sigh heavily, exhaling everything polluting their lungs and replacing that breath with the intimate scent of their lover's sweat and exhaustion.

The rest of the world falls away. It doesn't not melt. It falls. It drops like a lead weight; it falls like a compromised building in a war-ravaged city; it crashes like sheets of a glacier peeling off from the main body, calving into the ocean, reborn. There is nothing else. Just them.

So close, basking in the heat of Bucky's serum-hot body, Steve can hear every pulse of his heart and the blood rushing through his veins. Even over the cooling engines of the quinjet and the slowing whir of the helicopters blades. All of Steve is so completely attuned to Bucky--he has to be. And, Jesus, the need to slot Bucky's lips against his own is upon Steve so suddenly that he doesn't even recognize the urge. There's not a before and after realizing he wants to kiss Bucky. He just does. He has to.

He kisses him. Because he has to.

Steve stretches onto his exhausted toes to angle in for the perfect lip lock, tilting his head back, aching for the kind of swept-off-his-feet, wholly-enveloping, dipped-like-they're-dancing kind of kiss they shared away from prying eyes when Steve was only half Bucky's size.

He's yearning for that.

And it is.

It's exactly that kind of kiss.

Crashing their mouths together with the subtly of a tree collapsing in the middle of a forest but holding it with the serenity of a flower unfolding to rays of light breaking through the opened canopy, they kiss. It is harsh and gentle. They're kissing. Kissing. Kissing.

Nothing else matters.

Mouth-to-mouth, they devour each other. Holding their lips against each other's, pressed tight, then parting, opening up, cracked wide, and sharing everything. Steve knows every part of Bucky, and there isn't one part of him that he doesn't crave to hold inside him. Steve kisses and swallows. He wants to have every part of Bucky. He wants to be had, too.

And he is had when Bucky's teeth tenderly drag over the pillow of his bottom lip, teasing his buzzing nerves. Steve has to moan. His knees turn to mush beneath the flaring sensation of static rushing through his veins to fill him, head to toe.

Bucky's wicked, curling tongue is next, sliding against Steve's buzzing bottom lip just to enter his mouth, slipping against his teeth, then gliding over Steve's tongue. It's wet, filthy, and raw. Kissing so fucking deep. Lip locked hard. Swapping spit and noises as they each let go of their reservations... as if either of them had any to begin with.

About to burst, his lungs screaming for oxygen, Steve splits their embrace, lunging in just once more to kiss that drunk, glassy-eyed look off his face--tasting it on his tongue and dripping down his throat--and puts zero thought into murmuring, "Bucky-"

"Steve," Bucky responds as if he's only half-awake, all dreamy and slow.

A delicate silk string of saliva connects their raw, red mouths. Unbroken despite the space between their flushed faces. Steve can't help the quiver that threatens to bring him to his knees.

"Buck," there is nothing else Steve can think to say. His name feels so good in his mouth, exhaled with his puffing, humid breaths. Why would he ever want to say anything else?

"Steve," his lover parrots back, his chest heaving just as hard, his body shaking just as badly, his hunger just as ravenous.

They are drawn to each other like magnets with the short distance between them disappearing rapidly. Their breathing only gets faster and shallower, anticipating the pleasure of entangling again. Lips swollen, wet, and still begging for more. Another round. Please.

"Bucky."

"Steve."

"Buh--" Steve starts to moan again, so fucking hot with a fever, flushed from hairline to the neckline of his suit, so ready to taste him more, so, so...

Sounding unimpressed, Natasha's voice filters into their lone world, asking, "do you think they'd starve to death if we left them here to suck face?"

Sam snickers, somewhere next to her, his words becoming more clear as he probably turns around from politely averting his gaze to taking in an eyeful, "probably," he grumbles, displeased, "and I think I stand to find out. What about you, baby?"

Natasha cackles, "not today, Samuel. Not today." Then, she claps her hands or maybe smacks Sam on the ass, "okay, lovebirds, c'mon, inside, inside--"

**obsessed** with Steve and Bucky having no chill about pda

Ob-fucking-sessed

I am also obsessed with the idea of Steve and Bucky having no chill when it comes to PDA. It's to the point where they're so lovey-dovey in public it's gross.

I am also, also obsessed with the idea of Steve as a clingy kisser, and I feel like this plays beautifully into that. I can't find the exact original post I'm thinking of 🙃 (I think I either reblogged it and it won't show up now searching for it or it's somewhere in my queue, lol), but you understand.

This is the idea of Steve having no fucking chill, and actually, Bucky and Steve don't do PDA because if they kiss, it's not a simple peck on the lips. No. It's an endeavor. They end up liplocked for at least a few minutes. It's making out. It's Steve's legs curling around Bucky's waist. It's moaning. And so--

Consider, exactly that concept, of clingy-kisser Steve, but paired with Bucky, who encourages it.

Bucky, who has no shame and insists that they always kiss like they're never gonna see each other again.

Oh my god, imagine, it's new years eve, and they kiss as the ball drops but, because they have no chill and no regard for what's an appropriate level of PDA and what isn't, so they get sucked into their own little private world. Kissing and kissing and kissing, on and on. It's to the point where people are starting not to count down but count up, betting on when the fuck are they gonna stop? And also, they ain't gonna fuck nasty? Right here? No one kisses like that and doesn't, just, fuck.

Idiots.

I love them.

[thedorkdionysia]

man i know i haven't been a part of the homestuck community for long (i only finished the epilogues later last year) but like. just from talking to friends who are homestuck veterans it is CRAZY how much people who do not like the idea of June Egbert move the goalposts about it every time we get closer to it happening. like it's just been like:

the toblerone wish happens ---------> "oh it's just a dumb fan wish, it's probably not gonna be a major thing"

hs^2/hsbc happens ---------> "it hasn't happened yet so it probably won't at this point"

James Roach himself confirms that June is still happening AND that it was planned BEFORE THE TOBLERONE WISH EVEN HAPPENED ---------> "well ok it still hasn't happened lol"

and now we've finally gotten our first sneak peek at what June might look like in the comic and people are STILL trying to downplay it!!!! and now it seems like there's all kinds of excuses, from "it's probably a different character" (unlikely, from context clues I've been told it really seems like it has to be at least A VERSION of her if not the June we'll end up seeing by the end), to "well hsbc isn't even canon so it doesn't even count lol" (complete misunderstanding of how the homestuck "canon" vs. "dubiously canon" thing works), to "it's probably gonna be a transphobic gag/how they handle her is probably gonna be transphobic" which like... i understand the worry bc the original run of homestuck was not great in how it handled certain things all the time but unless I'm mistaken there are trans people working on the story the way it's currently progressing? i know the epilogues were a bit controversial (but iirc that was mostly because a character who was pretty popularly hc'ed as transfem was made transmasc so like. I'm not sure how upset the people who don't like June are over that lmao) but it seems like so far there's really no issue with that type of thing in the newest addition to homestuck, or at least, nothing that would be out of the bounds for how transphobic some of the characters would be about things (which wouldn't necessarily be a negative for the overall comic).

it's almost as if the idea that the protagonist of a webcomic that has influenced so many people and so much online culture in the past decade and a half might be a trans woman is silly to some people and outright blasphemy to others. and if that's the case, what makes their opinions so much more valuable than the current homestuck writing team's -- or even Hussie herself?

[charlottesolstice]

Walpurgis no Kaiten theory: Sayaka and Kyubey's roles in the movie

Started thinking about Sayaka's role in Walpurgis no Kaiten and i came up with a theory about what i think she will go through in the movie.

I think Sayaka will have two "arcs" in the movie: having to place the pieces together and remember her true role, but also acting naive and falling victim to Kyubey once again.

After Rebellion, Sayaka is now a "fallen angel" who can't return to the Law of Cycles, her memories and powers also got stripped away from her.

She could summon Oktavia thanks to being part of the Law of Cycles, but due to her connection to it being severed she can't summon her witch self anymore, the runes from her ring also disappeared (which i mean, COULD be a coincidence, but i don't think so..).

She has the lingering sensation of being part of something bigger, but she can't recall what it is. She, however, says that she'll never forget that Homura is a demon and Homucifer says that she shouldn't be confrontational with her all the time, or even Madoka might end up disliking Sayaka herself.

Then, in the movie trailer we can see Sayaka being all bandaged up and going on some kind of "journey": first in a big blue library and after that in a theatre.

We can also see her standing with OR against Mami and Kyoko (personally, i believe the latter).

What I think is happening here is that due to Homura's tomfoolery she lost complete access to her healing abilities, leaving her with only her basic magic (augmented strength and agility + her sword). We already know thanks to Kyoko that it's possible to lose your magical abilities and, while in her case the context is much different, I think this will be similar. After all it's not that Sayaka has a different ability altogether, it's just that she has AUGMENTED healing, so if she lost this she would lose healing in general (Kinda like Karin with her infusion magic: everyone can infuse objects, but she can do it way better than others due to her wish).

Her wounds will probably be a gradual thing because we can see that she has bandages in a scene, but it's nowhere near as bad as what she has while being in her magical girl form

Her sword alone won't be alone to fight all of the Wraiths and she'll eventually get hurt badly enough that it will make her want to understand what's going on with her.

This is what i think will be the first piece of the puzzle, she's very obviously in a theatre and something she sees reawakens Oktavia within her, prompting her to search more stuff.

Then, she goes to this blue "library" which has a massive collection of books about....

witches.

this whole library has all of the info Sayaka will need to understand what's going on with her, her true role and the fact that.. she's not even supposed to be alive. She's not supposed to spend time with Kyoko and the others and will have to leave them all behind eventually cause they're actually alive, unlike her. She already said her "goodbye" time ago and was supposed to go back to heaven, and yet she's still here unable to go back to it.

That's probably gonna hit her like a truck.

I think this library is directly connected to the Law of Cycles, kind of like an internal look at everything it has recorded about all the magical girls that are now part of it.

there is a line in the concept movie where Sayaka goes

"Why can i read these letters?"

And i think that's probably what she's gonna think about on here, she's gonna see a lot of witch runes and be confused about the fact that she's able to read them even though she has "never" seen them before.

At the start of the post i said that i think Kyubey will also play a role, and I'm gonna expand a little on this now.

In a scene we can see Kyubey with a big pile of books all around him

all of the books have walpurgis in their cover btw..

Next to him, though, is one of the new magical girls that got announced

Both her and the green haired girl probably work for Homucifer, but what i think is that won't remain this way forever.

Homura splitting herself with the Clara Dolls and making them control over the world is something that is reminiscent of Incubators.

I think that Kyubey won't contract girls in this world, because otherwise he might talk with Madoka (or maybe he will contract, but indirectly: the Clara Dolls talk with the girls and get their wish, which then gets forwarded to Kyubey and he has to make it come true. But it could also just be that it's all in Homura's hands instead).

The thing is, the Incubators having multiple versions of themselves works because they have no emotions, they're just a hive mind! But with Homura it's different: all of the Clara Dolls are a piece of her personality, which definitely also have their own desires, as seen by one dancing with Madoka.

Homura splitting herself will put enough chaos into the world that will make Kyubey be able to act in silence.

He doesn't like what Homura is doing, but to fix what is happening he must get the girls to remember and realize what is up with the world.

Obviously this is no "I wanna save the world cause Homura's bad and i want everyone to be happy", Kyubey just wants to go back to a state where he can gain the most, and that is EITHER with the witches existing again, or the Law of Cycles being studied to make them reappear. After all, that system of despair was the one that brought the best results for the Incubators.

So, what i think is that the two magical girls will initially work with Homura but eventually switch sides and start working with Kyubey instead.

Sayaka will be Kyubey's easiest target because he doesn't need to do much to pit her against Homura: she's so sick of her that she wants to take her out. I'm not saying that this will be 101 like when in the main series she acted as a hero who saw things in black and white, but i think it will be something like this.

Also, in the trailer there is a scene where Mami, Kyoko and Sayaka are all together, but I don't think that's a "magical girls meetup", but instead Sayaka AGAINST Kyoko and Mami.

Obviously I'm a big KyoSaya shipper, so I wanna believe that what will make Sayaka understand that she can't believe Kyubey is a moment between the two of them.

Just imagine that maybe this scene is Kyoko thinking about Sayaka/secretly watching her

Don't really know what else to add for now, really. I just think this is how Kyubey and Sayaka are gonna act in this movie, but we'll see obviously

[swampybogg]

[itzphynix]

Yeah, so while I was on my "I'm going to read into Vanny/Vanessa as much as possible" journey, I noticed an odd quirk in her animations in how she moves. At first, I thought it reminded me of a ballerina, 'cause she's kinda tip-toeing, & she has this way of keeping her head & chest in one place as she moves, but I looked again & realized --

That's not ballet! She's doing a tight-rope act. Like, look at this one:

This is like standing up on the wooden boards before you do the actual tight-rope walking, & the ring leader is hyping you up as you do some fun movement for the crowds. &, then, these:

These are all instances where she walks with one foot directly in front of the other. In that third, she's doing the "woaaah" wiggly-ass balance movements & everything, as if she's swaying up at the top of the tent, even though she's down on solid ground.

Idk, I feel like the way her feet are placed isn't accurate (pretty sure they should be pointed left & right, not both forwards...) doesn't make this 100% correct, but I like it. It also connects back with her first SB teaser, wherein she's up in the rafters.

[keekity]

fashion designer & her freelance programmer gf

[pocketramblr]

do not think about evenly distributed chapter length, evenly distributed chapter length is the little death that brings about total writer's block, uneven length in chapters can't hurt you, do not think about evenly distri

[rubys-domain]

is it just me or... are the reputation rewards for fontaine underwhelming as hell?

[crystalkitty1220]

Might have to scrap a fic idea because I thought the panic that came with time moving too slowly or too quickly was a universal thing, but now I'm realizing I probably have chronophobia and the fic might not feel the same to other people. Don't want it to drag on or feel rushed if readers won't get the same kind of anxiety the character's getting.

[tapakah0]

(runout of tags again I hate it here gotta bite the max ammount) #Also. I feel like Ward's perception of Oscar will be changing from now on #Yep. a bastard. a smart bastard. But let's be real. He can survive and get you out, follow him # Mhm. Cass I think I did mention that I was up for the story, because of what could possibly be in this story later # We reached the point where I open the door, close it from inside and throw the key in the window from 10th floor

Part 13 ;)

Oh no, they're roommates now?? Hope you're ready for the fluff, family dynamics, and chaos that follows~

Previous

Masterpost

[runawayfuture]

my progress on @batmanisagatewaydrug's book bingo so far!

Sequel: Snuff (by Terry Pratchett)

This is one of the later instalments in the Watch series, a subsection of Pratchett's massive Discworld. It focuses on Sam Vimes, beloved by many readers on Tumblr and off; in this one he he's pressured to go on a vacation to relax, but finds it highly un-relaxing... until he discovers some extremely suspicious activity, and is once again in his element - solving crimes! A really terrific read - definitely check out the earlier Watch books first to get some context though, otherwise you'll be pretty lost.

Published in the aughts (2000-2009): Night Watch (by Terry Pratchett); copyright 2002

A reread for me, and another banger from Pratchett! This one is earlier in the Watch series, but still requires familiarity with previous instalments. A classic time-travel "make sure the past happened the right way" story, with lots of emotional moments and insightful commentary.

Animal on the cover: Pet Sematary (by Stephen King)

I've been meaning to read some of King's novels for a while. Looking back though, this was... not a good one for me to start with. I honestly should have put it down after reading the author's introduction. It's well-written, for sure, and compelling (though the old "creepy ancient Native American burial grounds" horror trope is definitely strong with this one) but it really hit some trauma and anxiety triggers for me. I ended up having a bit of a breakdown over it; if you're sensitive to graphic descriptions of child death, car accidents, head injuries, and/or animal death in fiction, probably do some hard reflection before picking this one up.

Next up:

The Three-Body Problem (by Cixin Liu, translated by Ken Liu) which will fill the "librarian recommendation" box!

Elantris (by Brandon Sanderson) which will fill the "fantasy" box!

Probably another Stephen King novel (filling the "horror" box) so I can see what his writing is like when I'm not feeling the consequences of vastly overestimating my ability to be okay while reading about certain things :)

[rumisgf]

“ YOUR BEST EATER ! ” (MHA EDITION)

ꕥ summary: rating how well mha men would eat you out ! (this is canon cause i said so)

ꕥ includes: keigo takami, mirio togata, touya todoroki, shota aizawa, katsuki bakugou, denki kaminari, enji todoroki

ꕥ warnings: dom/sub implications, oral f!recieving, dirty talk, crack ofc this is for fun, slander (sorry lol), black!reader as always, timeskip chargebolt and dynamight

KEIGO TAKAMI - ♾️/10

⊗ he’s a REAL eater.

⊗ you have to cry and beg for him to pop his mouth off you because he has an addiction

⊗ he thinks you taste so good

⊗ there’s not one morning his head doesn’t end up between your thighs

⊗ and at events, he’ll find a way to pull you to the nearest bathroom and get a quick one out because you just looked too good

⊗ he loves having you sit on his face

⊗ “imma eat it. AHHHHH”

⊗ he doesn’t care if you just got off of work or if you’re tired he needs your pussy on his tongue stat.

⊗ he’s such a slut.

“please- ‘s too much~!”

“c‘mon i know you got one more, i got you~”

TOUYA TODOROKI - 3/10

⊗ you thought he was an eater…?

⊗ you’re funny.

⊗ yeah unfortunately mr. long dick over here doesn’t like eating pussy

⊗ his ego is bigger than his dick

⊗ however,

⊗ on the rare occasion that he’s feeling extra nice, he’ll do more than plunge his fingers into you before he makes you take him from the back

“o-oh~..!”

“couldn’t help myself…too fuckin’ wet…”

ENJI TODORKI - 0/10

⊗ like father like son (he’s much worse)

⊗ he’s not particularly a…. giver

⊗ he’s a meanie he’d rather manhandle you instead

⊗ he don’t even like his wife and kids so what makes you think he likes you enough to eat you out

⊗ besides….even if he tried…it wouldn’t be…well…good.

⊗ he’s too rough he might bite your shit i don’t know pookie

⊗ if you beg him enough he’ll do it for like a split second

⊗ you immediately regret your decision

⊗ help him.

“wait- it’s ok it’s o-ok. nevermind…”

“what’s wrong?”

SHOTA AIZAWA - 7/10

⊗ he likes to pretend he doesn’t like giving head

⊗ but you catch him on one of those days….

⊗ he becomes a different man

⊗ and he’s mean with it, too

⊗ your thighs will have bruises from the way he forces your legs open

⊗ he likes eating you out before just because he feels satisfied having you weak before he even fucks you

⊗ he’ll edge you and tease you just to have you begging him to cum

“stay fuckin’ still, or you’re not cummin’. understand?”

MIRIO TOGATA - 10/10

⊗ yes i’m sneaking my man in here. i do not care.

⊗ he’s a certified munch y’all hate to say it

⊗ he gets it from fatgum.

⊗ (i would put him in here but then imma get nasty)

⊗ please just sit on his face and give him three minutes you will be dripping before he even puts it in

⊗ he massages your thighs and kisses your clit ‘cause he really is just so in love with you

⊗ not only will he shove his head between your thighs before he fucks you just to get a quick taste

⊗ he’ll clean you up after he fucks you, tastes himself and you

⊗ he’s a huge giver

⊗ please marry him

“such a pretty pussy, baby…’m gonna clean you right up~”

BAKUGOU KATSUKI - 9/10

⊗ oh give him five minutes

⊗ put him between your legs and he’s done for

⊗ he’s a nasty FREAK and he cannot hide it in this predicament.

⊗ he swears up and down ‘he doesn’t eat pussy’ to all his friends and every girl who brings it up

⊗ but if it’s his baby? someone he’s really into?

⊗ you see a completely different side of him

⊗ and he makes everything so messy

⊗ he’s so focused when he does it and when he looks up at you… you are done for

⊗ he can make you cum quick to get you wet enough to just slip in– then he gets right to business

“kats~…”

“taste so good…so fucking good..”

DENKI KAMINARI - 11/10

⊗ y’all thought i wasn’t gonna put him here?

⊗ he refers to himself as an eater

⊗ he has no shame

⊗ he’ll eat it in the morning, for lunch, after dinner, for dessert- he really doesn’t care

⊗ he definitely can get off just from giving you head

⊗ the feeling of you dripping down his chin and the sound of your moans is enough to get him up

⊗ you will be orgasming more than once

⊗ and he can go on for hours if he really wanted to

“my messy baby…you sound so pretty~

©𝑹𝑼𝑴𝑰𝑺𝑮𝑭

[incognit0slut]

Champagne Kisses

A night involving champagne gives you the perfect excuse to end up naked after weeks of harmless flirting. Spencer thinks one night isn’t enough.

category: smut, fluff word count: around 8k content: softdom!spencer, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v (but no creampie he’s testing his pull-out game), alcohol consumption, food play (more like drink play), and i wanna say spit kink but they’re using champagne instead so does that count? a/n: merry 2025 please tell me you remember me or else i might actually cry

You’re doing it again.

You’ve been clawing at his face for the past hour, stealing fleeting glances and looking away just as quickly, because every time you do, you find the same thing.

Brown eyes. Chocolate, marbled in hazel with tiny golden speckles. Pinning you in place. Dismantling you layer by layer. And somewhere in the quiet heat behind them, in the barely-there twitch of his jaw, you’re pretty sure he’s already mapping out the fastest way to get you out of your clothes.

It’s nerve-racking. Smart Spencer you can handle, awkward Spencer you can charm. But flirtatious Spencer? Flirtatious Spencer is dangerous.

Even more so when you’re squashed between Penelope and Luke at the overcrowded booth of O'Keefe's, who are mid-argument over something you can’t even muster the energy to care. Not when long legs stretch in front of you, and strips of neon lights slice across the table in a glow that crosses his form, curving around handsome features that make him look far too inviting.

Because that’s what your mind keeps drifting to. Taking him back to your place, where the only thing glowing would be the dim light of your bedroom.

Or maybe the pale light from the hallway.

Perhaps the soft flicker of the lamp in your living room.

Either way, your mind is already drawing images of him doing whatever it is he’s picturing in his own head. The location doesn’t matter.

“Don’t you agree?”

Your gaze fall over him once more before you force yourself to look away, catching Penelope staring at you expectantly. “Agree to what?”

“That margaritas are objectively the most fun drink and clearly better than boring beer.”

This is the argument they’ve been debating for the last five minutes?

Luke scoffs from your left. He doesn’t look angry though, his expression is more amused than irritated, lips formed in a cheeky smirk. “I can tolerate margaritas if we’re on a beach. But beers are solid all year round, pop a cap and you're good to go."

“You’re such a guy."

“I'm telling you, you don't need fancy ingredients or a blender. No little umbrellas."

“Literally proving my point. Beer has no personality.”

“Are you saying I have no personality?”

Bright pink-framed glasses shift as Penelope tips her head. “If the shoe fits.”

You’re at the point where you’re no longer surprised by their arguments. Loud and pointless, is how you'd describe them. You suspect Luke does it to get a reaction, and normally you’d add fuel to the fire, because Penelope is a pretty fire-cracker when her nostrils flare in absolute indignation. But your attention is elsewhere tonight.

Knees brushing yours under the table. A small smile curled at the corner of his lips. Deep set of eyes dragging over your face, your neck, the spot between your collarbone and shoulder where the pulse of your heartbeat seems to echo louder each second.

You slide with your back against the chair, thighs clamping shut. 

You feel him imprinted on you, heated gaze traveling beneath your skin. You wonder if he realizes what he’s doing, if he’s even aware of the effect all the time his eyes fall on you. Since the moment he walked in the room, since he took that seat directly across from you, and if you’re being completely honest, that glint in his eyes has been there probably for weeks now. The when of it all is a bit fuzzy.

Tonight feels adamantly different though, and you feel like you might just need a little extra something to quiet the nervous hum beneath your ribs.

But you’re not entirely sure whether it’s nerves or something far more indulgent that has your mind secretly leading you to a very unholy place. A place where you wonder if the rough, scruffy drag of his jaw feels the same below his navel.

You’re a hundred percent certain that it does.

“You know what’s a better drink?” your voice cracks, desperately needing that extra little something. “Champagne.”

Penelope’s head whips toward you. “Champagne? Here?”

You glance around the bar and raise a hand, trying to flag down the bartender.

The wood-paneled walls are covered with vintage beer advertisements, and the sticky floor is dotted with peanut shells from the complimentary bowls on every table. It’s the kind of place where the closest thing to champagne is probably prosecco poured into a plastic flute for a wedding after-party.

“What’s wrong with champagne? It’s a classic drink, great for celebration.” You order a bottle and four tall glasses before fixing her with a look. “It’s the New Year.”

She snorts. “We’re already halfway through January.”

“Penelope, we had to work on Christmas and New Year’s. We finally have this night to breathe, let me have this.”

There’s a beat of silence before she sighs dramatically. “Fine. But it still feels weird drinking champagne in a bar where the most sophisticated cocktail is a rum and coke.”

“Which is exactly why we’re elevating the night,” you reply, watching as the bartender sets the bottle down with (thank god) proper crystal flutes. You pour the first glass, the golden bubbles racing upward like tiny fireworks as you pass it to her.

Luke accepts the next glass without the same hesitation, but when you offer one to Spencer, the curly-haired man shakes his head.

“Right. I forgot you don’t really drink alcohol.”

The faintest smile tugs at his lips. “I don’t have anything against alcohol, just not in large amounts.” His gaze shifts to the bottle on the table. “I also happen not to like champagne.”

Penelope looks mildly offended. “Why not?”

“Because the carbonation overpowers the flavor. It’s hard to enjoy a drink when it’s constantly popping on your tongue.” You stifle a laugh before you can stop yourself. He looks at you. “What?”

“I think you’re overthinking it,” you reply with a grin. “Here, maybe this will change your mind.”

You pour him a glass and nudge it toward him. He simply looks from the glass to you.

“Come on,” you coax. “We’re celebrating the New Year.”

“Seventeen days late."

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes.

"Do not ruin the fun. We’re still celebrating, and you can’t toast with water. That’s practically begging for bad luck.”

He exhales sharply, lips twitching in what might be defeat or mild amusement, before reaching across the table. Everyone raises their glasses. The instant the bubbles hit his tongue, his nose scrunches in subtle distaste, and the sound of your laughter flies through the small space.

“It’s not that bad,” you insist.

“I still don’t understand the appeal.”

Champagne isn’t exactly your first choice either. You’ve always been more of a wine person. A good wine. A rich Burgundy that makes you close your eyes on the first sip to taste the faint of autumn in a glass. But champagne feels right for the occasion.

This taste blooms on your tongue, crisp and bright with hints of green apple and citrus and that faint yeasty richness at back of your throat. They dance across your palate, leaving a lingering sweetness through your veins that doesn’t soothe your nerves so much as ignite something beneath them, something warmer, deeper, curling into your bloodstream.

It makes you very bold.

Bold enough to hold his gaze without flinching. Bold enough to let your tongue flick across your lips. Bold enough to let your foot glide slowly up the length of his long, long leg.

You’ll have him taste his own medicine.

You, too, can play with fire.

“Maybe you’re drinking it wrong,” you hum, feeling him tense for the briefest, tiniest moment before he relaxes. “There’s another way to make champagne better.”

He grips the stem of his glass. “Something tells me you have a suggestion.”

“I do.”

He tilts his head. The din of conversation around you slowly fades into a muffled hum, the clinking of glasses and Penelope’s laughter barely registering as you notice the curve of his smile, the question lingering in his eyes.

Will you show me?

And that’s how you find yourself naked between his thighs two hours later.

It started innocently enough—or at least that’s the lie you fed yourself when you watched Penelope and Luke stumble their way to the dance floor, giggling as they poured yet another round of sparkling wine. But the champagne didn’t keep your attention for long. A few more stolen glances later, you found your hand wrapping around his arm, the other clutching a half-full bottle of champagne like some reckless lifeline.

It is reckless. Even you can’t deny that. You’ve always been cautious when it comes to bringing a man home. But this isn’t just anyone. This is Spencer. Someone who already knows too many pieces of you, someone who doesn’t need to be deciphered or explained.

And maybe that’s why you couldn’t stop yourself from dragging him out of the bar.

The ride in the stuffy cab felt like an eternity and a blink at the same time that the moment your apartment door clicked shut behind you, his mouth was already on yours. You barely had time to process how surprisingly good he tasted before your clothes started to disappear.

It’s a dizzying rush of hands and heat, and you’re now standing over him, knees brushing his as he sinks into your couch.

Yes, your couch. The soft, slate-blue one you’ve spent countless evenings curled up on, legs tucked under a blanket, flipping through books or half-watching shows you never finish. But now it cradles a completely different weight—the heavy heat of him radiating with tension-laced curiosity and a barely contained lust that seems to bleed right into the fabric.

“I can’t believe I’m kissing you,” he mutters dazedly, trailing his lips along your jaw with a hand resting on your naked back.

“I can’t believe you can unhook my bra that fast.”

He catches the sheer black fabric now hanging haphazardly over your lamp where he’d tossed it aside moments ago. “It wasn’t that hard.”

“Should I be concerned about how much practice you’ve had?”

“Not really. I’m a fast learner.”

That, you believe. But you’re not entirely sure if it’s his innate skill or the way your body seems to respond to him so effortlessly that leaves your lungs feeling like they’ve forgotten how to work. Breathing is no longer instinctive now. It’s a function you have to remind yourself to do as his tongue dances along the curve of your breast, and by the time he takes the achingly hard tip into his mouth, your chest tightens.

You suck in a desperate need of oxygen while he sucks the last thread of composure from you.

“Sweet.”

“Huh?”

“You—” He pulls back just enough to let his teeth graze the delicate skin before soothing it with a slow drag of his tongue, “taste sweet.”

Your hand slides to the back of his neck with a sigh. “You’re exaggerating.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bodies don’t taste like anything, it’s skin.”

Spencer shakes his head as he cups the weight of your other breast with the same care you’ve come to expect from him. Taut nipple rolls under his thumb. “How do you explain this then?”

You don’t respond. Not with words, anyway. Your body speaks first as you arch into his touch, chasing the warmth of his hands before you can form any thoughts.

“How do you explain,” he continues, his lips trailing down the slope of your stomach, “why I can’t get enough of how sweet you taste?”

Your mind finally catches up, and the words settle over you like honey itself.

“You think so?”

“It’s not a thought, it’s a fact.” He presses a kiss to the soft skin just below your navel. “I don’t know how you can taste better than this.”

Your laugh is breathless, barely steady enough to be called one. “You’re laying it on thick now.”

“I’m just being honest.”

It’s cute how he says it with such conviction, like it’s the simplest truth in the world and not a line that’s turning your legs to liquid. Your knees threaten to buckle as you step away, reaching for the half-empty champagne bottle perched on the coffee table. The glass feels cool against your overheated skin as you twist the cork free.

“What are you doing?”

“Considering your words.” You hold up the bottle, the champagne fizzing invitingly at its neck. “What do you say we make this even sweeter?”

His eyes light up with interest. “Is this where you show me the right way to drink champagne?”

You nod and sink back between his thighs. “I know you’re not big on sharing food, but I think you’re gonna like this.”

“You do realize I’ll share anything with you.”

Your lips curl into a soft smile. You’ve already learned that kissing Spencer feels deliciously messy. It’s sloppy in the way passion tends to be when control is the last thing on either of your minds, with tongues and teeth colliding in an unpolished rhythm that’s as raw as it is consuming. Adding champagne to the equation doesn’t feel like much of a stretch.

You step forward at the same time his hands fall to your hips. “There’s a trick to drinking champagne.”

“I’m listening.”

The bottle’s rim grazes your lips as you take in his appearance. His shirt is wrinkled, hanging just a little more loosely around his chest with two buttons undone. He’s the very definition of disheveled that’s entirely your doing. He looks absolutely irresistible.

“You need to linger on the taste,” you start, your voice dipping into something softer as your eyes meet his again. “Be patient. Let it sit and overwhelm your senses before you swallow.”

“You mean marinate it in my mouth?”

A giggle burst out of you. “Exactly. The longer you let it linger, the more it softens, and the sweeter it gets.”

You tilt the bottle to your lips. The sweetness starts to bloom on your tongue, subtle at first, but then richer, fuller against the roof of your mouth. There's a flicker of recognition in his eyes when you pull him closer by the nape of his neck, the exact moment he realizes what you’re about to do.

Your lips meld seamlessly with his as the Champagne slips from your mouth.

His lashes flutter briefly. There’s a soft flush spreading across his pale cheeks, and you feel the faint hum of pleasure, vibrating against the delicate curve of his skin as a liquid thread drips down your chin.

And then you’re kissing him. Or he’s kissing you. It’s hard to tell who moved first, but it doesn’t matter. His lips part further, and you swear you can taste every nuance of the champagne in a way you've never experienced before. Sharp citrus, a whisper of honeyed sweetness, and beneath it all, something clean and cool that reminds you of first snowfalls.

His lips are swollen and wet and perfectly shiny when you finally pull back.

“What do you think?”

“I think we should drink champagne every day.”

Your hand drifts to the side of his neck with a smile, thumb brushing lightly against his pulse. “Even when we’re working?”

“Especially when we’re working,” he counters, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, tasting what’s left of you. His gaze flickers to the bottle in your hand. “Can I try it?”

You pass it to him, your eyes fixed on the way he tilts it to his mouth. You’re sure the bubbles in your system aren’t the reason your pulse races as he sets the bottle aside and rises to his feet. You’re also sure that no amount of champagne is responsible for the way your lips part eagerly when his hands cradle your cheeks.

There it is again—that sweetness. It hits you the moment his mouth captures yours, but it fully overwhelms you when he tilts his head and gently coaxes the champagne from his lips to yours.

You’re not surprised at how quickly he picks this up. It’s common knowledge that he’s a very diligent person, but it’s still a bit astonishing how he’s taken to playing with a drink he supposedly doesn’t even like. This is nothing like solving cases or flexing his impossibly sharp brain, nor the crosswords you’re used to seeing him hunched over at his desk at lunch.

This requires a different kind of finesse that involves his lips and tongue rather than a pen and paper.

It also seems like he might be enjoying this even more. He leans back just enough to let his tongue sweep across the seam of your lips, collecting the last trace of sweetness clinging to you.

A thumb swipes over the wet trail under chin. “I could get used to this.”

“Champagne or me?”

“Both.”

Satisfied with his answer, your fingers trail down to undo the last few buttons of his shirt. “Do you wanna try something else?”

He quirks an eyebrow as you push down the fabric down his shoulders. You don’t say anything all the while you start to unbuckle his belt, peeling every layer of his clothing until you’ve stripped him completely bare—and would you look at that? The faint trail of hair down his belly matches the scruff shadowing his jaw.

There’s a brief pause as your eyes travel down his body, lingering on his surprisingly impressive size, and a comment sits at the edge of your tongue. You decide to let your actions speak for you.

Your delicate fingers wrap around his delicious thickness. You swipe the first signs of precum glistening over his tip with your thumb, and a low sound of pleasure rumbles in his chest.

“Is this what you had in mind?”

He sounds like he’s in pain, and you shake your head with a playful smile curling at your lips. “Sit back on the couch.”

Spencer sinks into the cushion.

“This might get a little messy.”

His brow furrows slightly, and for a moment, he looks genuinely intrigued. What he doesn’t expect is the way you slowly pour the remaining liquid down your chest. His mouth parts in surprise, and then his gaze follows every single drop like it’s gravity itself pulling him in.

You’re mesmerizing. Always have been, actually. There is no doubt in Spencer’s mind that you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever met in his life. Your mind is brilliant. Your heart is kind. But watching the champagne mix with the sheen of sweat on your skin, you’re something else entirely. You look lethal. A different kind of captivating.

He’s already pulling you by the waist, and you’re a mass of giggles as you twist out of his grip to set the bottle safely aside. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Can you blame me?”

Honestly, you can’t. If the roles were reversed, you’d probably look at him the same way.

When his hands finally find your hips again, there’s no point in pretending you don’t want to be caught. You bend your knees and shift on the couch. He helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap.

Desperate is a good enough word to depict for him because as soon as you're close enough, he’s tasting you all over again. His tongue drags slow over the curve of your shoulder, across the hollow of your throat, and down to the soft swell of your breasts. Goosebumps ripple across your skin with every pass, every flick of his tongue, his touch leaving a trail of heat that you swear you can feel seeping into your bones.

You don’t even realize when you start to move until you feel the slow, unintentional rock of your hips into him. His cock fits snugly between your folds that you start grinding as the words fall from your lips without much thought, “What do you think of sex without a condom?”

His pupils dilated, lips parting, but no sound comes out right away.

"Spence?"

His gaze flickers to where your wet bodies are pressed together. Damp moisture from his tip smeared erotically between puffy lips, clear liquid coating his hard length.

“I think… it’s very intimate."

“Too intimate?”

"No." His fingers trail along your skin before his thumb settles just under your breast, in the delicate curve where your rib meets, and finally looks at you. "Is that what you want?"

You're bobbing your head up and down.

“Then I'd really, really like that.”

You shift your weight on your knees. “So you trust me?"

"More than anyone."

“I trust you too,” you say, your voice dipping low as your fingers wrap around his cock, guiding him to your entrance. “Can I request something, though?"

"Anything."

You pause just long enough for your words to land. “I don’t want you to come inside me.”

He exhales a soft laugh. “That can be arranged.”

His answer makes your lips twitch, but as you start to sink down, your body seems to have other ideas. There’s a resistance you didn’t expect, a sudden tautness that refuses to give.

Your eyes widen in surprise.

Oh my.

“What’s wrong?”

When you first wrapped your hand around him and took in the full reality of his size, you’d been impressed. Now you wonder if maybe you underestimated just how much he has to offer.

You bite the insides of your cheeks and try again.

“It’s been a while,” you confess quietly. You can’t even recall the last time you were this intimate with someone that the hesitation feels foreign, like a hiccup in a moment you’ve been eagerly anticipating.

And you are eager. Maybe a little too much. It feels almost ironic, considering how much you’ve thought about this, how your imagination has filled in the blanks a hundred times over. Now that it’s real, your body seems to be having second thoughts your mind absolutely isn’t entertaining.

You shift your hips, determination flaring as you take a slow breath. Left, right, up, down. But then a sharp sting shoots through you. Your face quickly twists into a grimace.

"Hey,” he calls gently, thumbs brushing gentle circles against your hip. “We can stop. You don’t have to push yourself.”

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? You want him to push past whatever invisible barrier your body is putting up. The idea of stopping now feels more unbearable than the sting itself.

Your lips press into a stubborn frown. “No,” you say firmly. “We are not stopping.”

"Are you sure?"

"Mhm. I think my body's just being weird. I'm sorry."

His brows knits together almost immediately. “I should be the one apologizing.”

Frustration suddenly wells up in your chest, and this time your teeth sinks into your lip, unsure whether it’s the tension in the muscles between your legs or the ache of wanting him that feels stronger.

And you want him. So fucking bad.

“You need to relax,” he soothes, running his hands up your waist, past your ribs, across your back.

“I am relaxed,” you huff.

“I don’t think you’re relaxed enough.”

Before you can respond, he carefully lifts you from his lap and settles you back onto the couch. The cushions dips under your weight, and you barely have time to process the change before he gracefully drops to the floor.

“Should we move to your bed?”

He grips one of your ankles, his thumb brushing along the soft curve of your bone before he leans down, pressing warm lips to the skin above it.

“After this,” you reply, glancing at the sticky champagne trail still glistening faintly on your skin. “Don’t want my sheets getting sticky.”

There’s a flicker of amusement on his handsome face. “After this?”

“Did you think we’d be stopping after one round?”

His laughter vibrates against your calf. “How many times are we talking then?”

“Until I can’t feel my legs.”

The smile he gives you is slow and warm. It curves one corner of his mouth first, almost shy, before spreading fully, lighting up his face in a way that steals the breath right from your lungs.

“You’d let me have my way with you all night?”

“I’d probably let you have me anytime you want.”

His grin is almost blinding that you can’t help but give him a pleased smile of your own.

“Let’s focus on tonight first.” He moves to your other the leg. Delicate bone and tendon brushes against his lips. “I need to get you ready for me. Would you let me do that?"

Words fail you as his mouth moves closer, and the heat of his breath against your skin makes your entire body tense in anticipation. He presses another open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

"You're still tense."

Kiss. Kiss.

“Really need you to relax.”

You try, but then again, it's impossible when his lips are so close, yet still not where you need them the most.

His name slips in a desperate whisper.

"Hm?"

"Stop teasing."

His lips quirk in response, but he doesn't argue.

He dips his head and finally— finally! —drags his tongue along your achingly wet folds. Your eyes almost roll to the back of your head.

"Better?"

The question is entirely rhetorical.

You don’t bother answering. Words seem sparse when his actions are spelling out everything you need to know in bold, underlined strokes. His touch is distinctly different from the playful, champagne-dampened kisses he had gifted your skin.

Now he’s utterly focused. He’s researching, and it appears his diligence isn’t confined to his academic when the same focus he applies to his studies is translated so flawlessly into reading your body like a favorite book. One he’s intent on memorizing every line of, delighting in every pause and whisper between the chapters of your sighs.

It’s this thought that tickles the back of your mind when he slips a finger in. He’s always been about comprehensive understanding, and well, you’re all about empirical evidence. Right now is proof of a hypothesis you’re too pleased to confirm that Spencer Reid might just be a genius in more ways than one.

Especially in how his steady thrust of his finger syncs perfectly with the hot, wet pull of his mouth, scratching such a carnal itch that it resonates deep in your brain. You sigh in pleasure when he adds another finger, and he lifts his head then, lips shiny and pink from his ministration.

"Do you think you can take a third?"

Your heart gives a few extra thuds in your chest cavity. “Please, please.”

Look at you, reducing yourself into begging, but really, how could you resist? Who could withstand the intensity of his gaze, the way his voice dips low like velvet wrapping around your senses?

Your head tips back against the couch, a soft whimper lashing out as he adds that third finger. The stretch is almost overwhelming but oh so good.

"Does it hurt?"

You let out a loud exhale. "No."

"Tell me if it hurts."

"Feels good." Your legs fall apart even further. "Don't stop."

He smiles, and then he's doing things to your body that have you questioning how you're even still breathing. The wet, sticky slosh of your arousal fills the room, a sound so explicit it should mortify you. But then three knuckles press deeper, stroking against that rougher patch of nerves and all rational thought dissolves.

A sound you didn't even know you could make escapes your throat. You're gasping, moaning, a little bit squealing as his free hand slides up your plush thigh before finding your puffy clit. And dear god, you’re choking on the breath that lodges in your throat. You're so close it's almost unbearable. A hand shoots out, and you’re gripping his forearm with a desperation you can't even pretend to hide.

You need him inside you.

“I'm ready," you gasp harshly, your lips parting in quick, desperate puffs. "I'm ready. I’m ready.”

He has the audacity to shake his head.

"I'll decide when you're ready."

Your breath stutters even more.

Why does that sound so hot? Why does that simple, infuriatingly calm statement make your thighs clench, your pulse race, and a fresh wave of heat roll through your body?

Before you know it, he’s coaxing your orgasm from you with just the right pressure, and every movement feels like it’s designed to bring you right to the edge. You’re not surprised by how wet you are, you’ve been dripping for what feels like hours. But what does surprise you is just how much your body can take. The intensity that doesn’t wane, that keeps pushing you higher, drawing out gasp after gasp until hot syrup gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his fingers, down to the couch.

It’s endless, relentless, and you can’t even tell where one orgasm ends and the next begins. Your hand claw at his wrist.

“Spencer,” you whine, your voice breaking on the syllables. “Sensitive.”

He stops immediately, his fingers still inside you, his other hand slipping from your clit to rest on your thigh. “Too much?”

“A little,” you smile breathlessly. “C’mere.”

He crawls towards you as you lay on your back, relaxing your thighs.

His eyes trail over you, scanning your sweat-slicked skin, lingering on your perky breasts, moving down to where your legs are fallen apart, waiting for him. The sight is so overwhelmingly enticing that he finds himself wrapping a hand around his cock, muttering a low praise under his breath, “I don’t think I’ve told you how beautiful you are.”

Your eyes flick downward, and a spark of confidence—or maybe pure desperation—pushes your reply out without hesitation.

“Tell me again while you fuck me.”

You’re so blunt and shameless that a part of you might have blushed if you weren’t so far gone. Spencer doesn’t seem fazed, though. If anything, his eyes flash with a knowing sparkle that only deepens as he presses his bulbous head right at the shy of your entrance.

“I think I’m going to enjoy telling you,” he muses.

And Spencer is one to keep his promises.

He thinks you’re devastatingly pretty when he’s sinking into you. There’s a dazed look in your glossy eyes, and the sweetest sound coming from your lips as he stretches you in a way that leaves no part of you untouched.

He sings praises under his breath when the heavy weight of him finally settles deep inside your body. He patiently waits as your walls flutter around him, all the while his lips brushes the delicate curve of your collarbone, between low, broken whispers of how perfect you are.

Although perfection might not even capture the essence of what he sees in you at this moment. You’re a breathtaking array of contradictions. Powerful and vulnerable, fierce yet tender. You’re nothing short of divine as he gives another smooth, long thrust that pulls a sound from your lips that he knows will echo in his mind long after.

The heat of you surrounds him completely, and he swears he feels every pulse of your body welcoming him deeper. You’re slathering his entire cock with your slippery slick, and the dampness imprinting against his pelvis only seems to spur him on. He moves in steady, languid strokes, and your toes curl at the sensation burning in your belly.

He’s hitting you so good your ankles find themselves running down his back.

“Spence,” your voice is raspy and wet. “Fuck me harder.”

His quiet groan harmonizes with the rhythm of your heart. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t—”

You stop, and he looks through the mist of bliss you've shrouded him in. Your face twists, eyes going wide, lips parted to take in sharp breaths. He panics for a moment.

“You’re in pain,” he decides, reading the way your brows knit together, the way your breath stutters in your chest. It seems the most logical conclusion—until he realizes how wrong he is.

Because you’re writhing under his weight when he pushes in deeper, and your mouth trembles, not with discomfort, but with something devastatingly good.

“Oh,” he exhales. His smile is uncharacteristically smug. “It’s not pain, is it?”

You shake your head.

“You want it rough.”

It’s more of a statement than it is a question, but you’re nodding vigorously.

His restraint snaps like a frayed thread.

The next thrust is sharper, it pounds into you with enough force to shift your body slightly back against the cushions. Your lips mouth around another shaky breath he drinks dry with a wet kiss.

Still. Not. Enough.

“Harder,” you slur against his tongue.

What’s a hot-blooded man to do when asked so sweetly? He answers in the only way he can.

A hand curls around the back of your knee to pull you open just enough for him to drive deeper. The angle makes you feel impossibly full, how the folds of your vulva hugs around his shaft greedily, letting him claim all the space you didn’t even know existed. You can even feel the wet drag of his cock against your swollen clit with each hard thrust, a sensation so piercing it rips a gasp from your throat and a plethora of groans wailing from the couch.

“Like this?”

The relentless thwack-thwack-thwack of skins colliding is making you delirious.

“Yes,” you cry out. “Fuck—Yes. Yes.”

Your vision blurs as you blink, and—god, you think you might actually cry. And honestly, with how full you feel, with how every nerve is sparking to life under his loud rhythm, it wouldn’t even surprise you.

Your lashes feel wet as you squeeze your eyes shut, but you force them back open, unwilling to miss the way he looks above you. Jaw tight, sweat beading at his temples, eyes locked on you like nothing else exists.

Nothing probably does, not when he moves with a rhythm that feels both gentle and crude, like he’s savoring every second so sweetly while simultaneously chasing the most carnal kind of pleasure known to mankind.

Pleasure that has you melting, pleasure that has your body fully acclimating to his size. And now you’re teetering on the edge of another intense orgasm that begins its ascent from the tips of your toes and fingertips, spiraling a tingling rush up through your legs and arms, gathering force at the pit of your stomach, and exploding into the point where you’re intimately connected.

It happens all at once.

You’re trembling.

You’re shattering.

You’re pathetically whining.

Euphoria floods every inch of your body until you’re drowning in it. A liquid fire in your veins. Your cunt clenches around him, so tight you swear you feel every ridge and vein of his cock as keeps pressing you into the couch. Again and again and again, until you’re nothing but an incoherent mess, your words blabbered in a breathless rush of pleasure-induced nonsense.

One heartbeat stretches into two, then the muscles in his arms flexes as his pace falters. He’s shaking now, his pelvis moving in hurried, shallow thrusts as though he’s chasing something he can’t quite reach before the heat of him presses into you one last time.

He abruptly pulls out, his cock visibly pulsing in his hand and strokes himself with a stuttering groan as thick, pearly ropes splutters across your stomach. His fingers dig deeper into the back of your thigh while he continues to paint your skin in messy streaks, and you watch in fascination the moment his head tilts back in pure, unfiltered pleasure.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him quite this beautiful.

His brows pinches in concentration for a few more seconds before his gaze slowly meets yours again, and a faint, blissful pink colors his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly, looking a little out of breath. Devastatingly handsome and sweaty. Flustered in the best way.

You brush the damp hair sticking to his skin with a small, satisfied smile. “Are you kidding? That was extremely hot.”

His laughter fills every corner in the room. Then his hand drift down a comforting path down your thigh as he leans to capture the giggle tumbling from your lips with his own. It’s then you realize that kissing Spencer isn’t just enjoyable, it’s downright addictive.

You’re beginning to think he’s just as addicted to you too, because when he pulls away, it’s reluctant, his lips leaving yours with a faint, wet sound that lingers as sweetly as the kiss itself.

“Will you really let me have my way with you all night?” he asks gently, and you can’t help but wonder why he even feels the need to ask.

“Was I not obvious enough?”

You feel his smile before you see it. “Bedroom now?”

To tangle your naked limbs with his again sounds pretty close to heaven. Absolute, indulgent heaven, except for the distinct stickiness of champagne, sweat, and a cocktail of other body fluids clinging to your skin. The thought of sinking into cool clean sheets in this state makes your nose scrunch.

“We need to make a stop to the bathroom first,” you say, running a hand up his arm to squeeze his bicep. “Have you ever tried shower sex?”

“Can’t say that I have,” he admits truthfully.

You make a sound of disapproval.

“We definitely need to change that.”

-

Spencer realizes a lot of things can change in one night.

He also discovers how much he’s capable of learning in such a short period of time. Granted, he’s always been a quick study, but this is different. The hours between midnight and sunrise completely upend his understanding of things he’d only ever read about—sex, intimacy, the intricacies of how touch can feel as much like a language as words.

But beyond the newfound knowledge (and let’s face it, an entirely new appreciation for his muscles), there’s something else. Something that surprises him even more.

He likes waking up with another warm body beside him. More than likes it. There’s a strange kind of peace in the way your leg drapes over his, your hair a tousled mess against the pillow. Peace that makes him wonder if this, too, is something he could get used to.

Even if you’re hogging the blanket. He can feel the cool air on his back while you’re wrapped in most of the covers, leaving him to soak up whatever body heat he can steal by staying pressed against you. Not that he’s complaining. He’d happily stay like this for hours, but the sun is already creeping higher through your window, and your phone has been vibrating nonstop ever since he opened his eyes.

The sheets rustle as he shifts closer, mouth puffing warmly on your cheek with a breath of your name folding into your skin. You blink through heavy eyelids, and Spencer thinks you look adorable all wrapped up like a cocoon in the tangled linens.

“Hey," you croak, then clear your throat. “Morning.”

The soft rasp of your voice is even as endearing as the sight of you.

“I think we’ve already passed morning,” he says, slipping a hand under the covers, finding the goosebumps prickling on your upper arm.

“We slept in?”

“My guess is it’s almost noon.” There’s another buzz vibrating from the bedside table that stops him from pressing you against his chest. “Someone keeps calling you.”

He wonders if you can sense the slight annoyance in his voice. He wonders if he even has the right to be annoyed. It's Saturday. You clearly have plans—or at least someone thinks you do based on how persistent they've been.

If you catch the flicker of irritation in his voice, you don’t acknowledge it. You stretch lazily for your phone instead, and his attention is momentarily snagged by the way the sheet slips down your shoulder, revealing the constellation of freckles and moles he’s spent the entire night memorizing with his lips.

"Nobody’s calling.” Your thumb scrolls through the notifications. "Penelope just doesn't understand the concept of personal space when she texts."

Spencer feels the tightness in his shoulders ease, though he doesn't miss the way your eyes narrow into sleepy slits at the screen.

"Oh."

That one syllable is enough to set his mind buzzing.

"What?"

"Um."

It’s the subtle crack in your voice that hooks him. He’s never been good at sitting with unanswered questions, especially not when your expression shifts just enough to make him wonder what could possibly warrant that little noise.

He finally curls an arm around your waist, and the faint trace of your scent fills his lungs as he gently draws you back against his chest. A relentless stream of messages glares up at him over your shoulder.

Penelope [Sent 23:37]: Where are you?? Penelope [Sent 23:45]: Is reid with you? Penelope [Sent 00:05]: Did you leave? WITH HIM?? Penelope [Sent 00:17]: You did, didn't you? Penelope [Sent 00:33]: You can’t just vanish like this, you know I have questions!!!

Spencer barely registers the way his hand drifts down to rest against your stomach. He pulls you in unconsciously as his eyes scan over the flood of texts that started piling up this morning.

Penelope [Sent 09:19]: Good morning. Penelope [Sent 09:25]: Answer me. Penelope [Sent 10:24]: Seriously, are you alive? Penelope [Sent 10:39]: YOU OWE ME DETAILS. Penelope [Sent 10:48]: Last chance. Calling you in ten.

"I think she's onto us."

It’s not so much a matter of thought as it is a fact. Your words are less a theory and more a confirmation of reality, as undeniable as the relentless stream of texts lighting up your phone.

"What should I tell her?"

Spencer leans in closer. The soft scent of your shampoo drifts up, clean and faintly sweet, wrapping itself around him in a way that makes his chest ache, though he’s not sure why. He’s inhaling everything—your warmth, the curve of your shoulder brushing his chest, the way your voice carries an edge of hesitation that feels so out of place for someone like you.

And that’s what truly catches him off guard. Not the fact that Penelope is practically banging on a metaphorical door with her texts, but that you’re hesitating. You, who rarely second-guess yourself, now unsure about sharing the details of last night with one of closest people in your life.

Or maybe the surprise lies closer to home. How easily the words form in his own mind, bypassing the overthinking that usually rules him.

He has ten minutes to think before Penelope supposedly calls, but he doesn’t need ten minutes, or even ten seconds, because the answer is already there, so obvious it practically tumbles out of him.

"The truth," he hums against the crown of your hair. "You should tell her the truth."

You’re quiet for a while.

“Are you sure?"

For someone who invited him into your home, who let him press you into the couch cushions, spread you out on the cool tiles of the bathroom, and pull every sound he wanted from you on the soft give of your mattress—on your back, your front, even sideways—you seem awfully uncertain now. Very out of character.

So what’s changed this morning? Is it the stale morning breath he’s sure he hasn’t fixed yet? The mess of his curls sticking up in every direction from a night spent pressed into your pillows?

Or is it something much deeper that he hasn’t quite put his finger on?

The thought clings to him as his thumb brushes your stomach. "I’m sure," he says. "Are you?"

You hesitate for a beat too long, and that tiny pause lands heavy on his chest.

"This is going to change everything," you finally say, sounding somewhat like a warning.

He frowns. "Didn’t you want it to?"

"I did. I do." You pull in a breath that shakes on the way out. "Maybe we should discuss this before we say anything to anyone."

Your phone slips quietly onto the bed as you twist in his arms. Face to face.

"Do you like me?"

What kind of question is that?

"Did I seem not to like you last night?"

"No, Spencer, I need to hear it. Do you like me?"

He studies the delicate fold between your brows. He watches the quiver on your parted lips. And your eyes—watery and glossy and wide. Soft lashes framing the quiet expanse of irises that shimmer like glass.

He knows what you need. Spencer has spent most of his entire life reading people, pulling truths out of their silences and decoding what they can’t (or won’t) say. And even though he hates applying that skill to you, he knows this isn’t just about reassurance. You’re not only questioning what happened between you last night. You’re questioning what comes next.

The time glares from your phone over your shoulder: six minutes. That’s all he has to convince you that his feelings go far beyond fleeting lust or the heady haze of alcohol. Six minutes before Penelope inevitably interrupts.

But he’s not the greatest with words, is he?

Sure, he’s read more books than most people will touch in a lifetime. He can recite Edgar Allan Poe by heart and dissect layers of meaning in Dostoevsky’s prose like it’s second nature. But his own feelings don’t come wrapped in poetic declarations. That’s not who he is.

What he can do, though, is tell you the truth.

“You know how you told me I could have you anytime I want?”

A strand of hair brushes against your cheek as you nod.

“You’ve already had me from the very beginning.”

Your gaze softens, then you sigh sweetly, and he knows without a doubt that the truth is exactly what you need. “Before all the sex?”

“Before we even kissed.”

The distance between you slowly becomes nonexistent. You slot your knee between his thighs, a lick of smile curling at the corner of your lips.

“So… when I ran my foot up your leg?”

His lopsided smile is no different from yours. “No.”

“Last week when I wore your cardigan because the AC got too cold?”

“You looked really pretty in it, but no.”

“Last month?”

“Even before that.”

You click your tongue. “Give me a clue. A hint.”

But you don’t need clues. Clues are for puzzles, for cases that demand solving. This has never been a mystery. He’s known it for longer than he cares to admit, and he wonders if you’re asking because you genuinely don’t see it or because you just want to hear him say it.

Either way, he’ll happily say the truth as plainly as it exists in his mind.

“From the moment you joined the team.” You pause for just a heartbeat, and he reaches out to brush away the stray of hair slipping down into your eyes. “You probably didn't notice, but I couldn't stop staring at you.”

“You’re lying,” you accuse softly.

“I’m a terrible liar.”

He watches as you mull over his words. He knows you’re trying to decide whether to believe him, though he doesn’t think it’s really a question of if. You already know he’s telling the truth.

Your voice is awfully quiet that he has to perk his ears for it.

“What took you so long then?”

Because while he’s a terrible liar, he’s always been painfully good at keeping his heart to himself. Years of compartmentalizing, of burying emotions under layers of logic and detachment, have made it almost second nature. And maybe that’s why it took him so long.

That, and bad timing.

Countless abductions.

A never-ending chase after unsubs.

Death of a team mate.

And prison.

God, prison.

He wonders if these are valid reasons or just excuses. Had there ever been a perfect moment? Or had he let his fears and the chaotic nature of his job push his personal happiness to the sidelines too often?

The words knot in his throat, and in the end, all he can muster is an apology.

“I’m sorry.”

For waiting so long.

For not saying this sooner.

For only finding the courage to make a move under the guise of flirtation and champagne.

He’s selfish. He is. Because he's reaching for you based on his time, his terms, waiting until he was ready to fit you neatly into his schedule. But you simply shake your head. Because that's what you are, isn't it?

You’re selfless, and so profoundly lovely that you offered yourself to him last night without reservation. And now you’re even more radiant, wrapped in the soft light of vulnerability, tinged with doubt, yet always so giving. Pulling him closer to your chest with a hand on his back. Fingers splay across his skin, nails dragging idly along his spine.

“Don’t be,” you reply, feeling his body expand and deflate under your palm when he breathes. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

See? Selfless. The least he can do now is give you back the words you need to hear, the assurance you deserve to hear. Your foreheads press together, and he reverently lays his hand on your cheek, spreading lean fingers into your hair.

“If you must know, I do like you.”

But the word feels so inadequate for what he’s finally trying to tell you. Like doesn't even scratch the surface of how much space you take up in his mind.

"I more than like you,” he decides to add.

It doesn’t take long before you kiss him. Soft petals bloom warmly against his mouth, puffing humid breath he tastes on his tongue. A blissful moan he swallows greedily, lets it settle deep in his chest, his bones, his veins, filling every corner of him with the sweetest weight of you.

A flutter of lashes skims against his cheekbone when you tilt your head, pulling back by the barest inch. “You’ve made a huge mistake, by the way.”

The pad of his fingers presses gently on your scalp. “Why?”

“You’re never getting rid of me now.”

His thumb moves against your hairline as he takes in your words. For a moment, all he can do is absorb them, replay them, savor them. Then his eyes soften, the corners crinkling with genuine delight, and he lets out a soft huff of laughter that melts right into the narrow space between you.

He scoots impossibly closer, hoping your skin will somehow mold with his. Because after all the surprisingly creative positions he discovered with you last night, it’s the only conclusion he can come to: you fit into him. Perfectly. Soft curves finding their place against the lines of his frame, every piece of you adhering like glue to his skin.

Chest to chest, nose to nose, and lips so maddeningly close to yours that he can still taste the warmth of your breath, sweet and intoxicating in its nearness. It’s enough to drive him a little insane, though he’d argue he’s always been slightly off-center where you’re concerned.

His fingers twitch, ready to close that infinitesimal gap when the sharp buzz of your phone suddenly slices through the moment.

Six minutes.

That’s all the time the universe has granted him, and it’s woefully too short.

"Might need to block her number," you mutter under your breath as you shift slightly to reach for your phone. He watches the way your fingers fly over the screen rapidly before placing the device back on the side table.

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth." Then you drop on him like a dead weight, limbs tangling in the most inconvenient ways until your head is tucked in the crook of his neck. "Also sent her an eggplant and water emoji.”

A crease forms between his brows. “What does that mean?”

You fail to keep in your laughter. “You don’t want to know.”

He’s fairly certain he does want to know. In fact, he’s starting to realize he wants to know everything about you now that you’ve given him the chance. Beyond the pull of bodies and the way they slot together so seamlessly, beyond the electricity of skin against skin.

Though he can’t deny his curiosity at one precise moment, the way you’d slightly gasped when his fingers accidentally brush around the base of your throat. He wouldn’t mind knowing what that meant for you, and, surprisingly, what that even implied for himself.

But as intriguing as that is, it’s not what lingers the most. It’s the subtleties he wants to unravel, the pieces of you he hadn’t even realized he’d been aching to explore.

Your wit, your thoughts, your mind—that lovely, intricate thing he’s admired for so long. Full of nuances and depths he hadn’t even realized he’d only been skimming the surface of. He’s sure there’s something far greater than even his endless mind could have imagined that ties to the beautiful shape of you.

And you’re so beautiful. He’s known that for years, but mere hours ago, he learned it in an entirely new language. Even when he understands seven different ways the world chooses to communicate and speaks four fluently, yours is his favorite.

Yours doesn’t need words or perfect pronunciation. It’s instinctive and warm, written in every sigh, every glance, every unspoken verse that linger in the subtle shift of your body. In every nuance of your taste.

God, your taste.

He knows you’re right, skin can’t be sweet. The dichotomy isn’t lost in him. Yet it doesn’t matter, because not even the crisp, effervescent bite of champagne compares to the warmth of you. Not even sugar, and he basically lives on sugar. In chocolate-sprinkled donuts that he grabs on the way to work, in the endless cups of coffee that fuel his day.

You’re something else entirely, beyond comprehension.

And if one night was enough to saccharine his senses with you, he can only imagine what forever could do.