#this isn’t about your needs or about following your heart it’s about your morals

[lylaseb]

“The brain finishes developing and maturing in the mid-to-late 20s. The part of the brain behind the forehead, called the prefrontal cortex, is one of the last parts to mature. This area is responsible for skills like planning, prioritizing, and making good decisions.”

https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/publications/the-teen-brain-7-things-to-know#:~:text=The%20brain%20finishes%20developing%20and,prioritizing%2C%20and%20making%20good%20decisions.

[sharkenedfangs]

— ☆ “PRETTY BOY.”

— expect the worst when whitney has a stupidly, dumb puppy love crush on his upperclassman that happens to be you and even more so, when you predictably take notice of it. but, remember— he asked for it first, didn’t he? 3.5k w.

— warnings? yeah, mildly dub-con, handjob in broad fucking daylight, somewhat exhibitionism although no one gets to see the stupid, pretty boy squirm and upperclassman male reader who’s sort of.. a bitch. y’know the drill by now, plus a younger whitney (still an adult, no worries. I’m not into that sorta shit.)

Like a clueless moth instinctually drawn towards a burning flame, he’s no goddamn different than the clingy idiots who can’t seem to automatically take a hint when given so in their direction— y’know, the ones he’d audibly snicker and scoff at due to the sheer embarrassment, disgustingly obvious puppy love streaked along their flushed faces as they mindlessly follow the other’s every move. Innocently peer up in search of their crush’s approval like some sort of brain dead dog whose sole purpose is to joyfully please their master. Hell, it’s gross, and the blonde doesn’t make it any more difficult to showcase his wrongly placed dislike for it— yeah, by the repeated gagging noises spilling forth from his open maw.

“It’s nauseating to watch, stinks up the whole room with those big, puppy, doe eyes”— he’d openly say with an absent shrug of his broad shoulders, glinting, barely visible glimpse of the metallic barbell freshly pierced upon his curved tongue proving his judgemental statements to be otherwise.. fuckin’ hypocritical, no? ‘Cuz, isn’t that same piercing found in his mouth done due to one, single, stray comment you aimlessly made by chance?

Not like your liking of things plays a grand role in whatever he does, trouble he’s immediately roped into, fuck— no, definitely not! It’s a stupid, damn coincidence is what it is, nothing more and nothing less either. No need to uselessly pry any further in the meaning of his baseless actions. Just.. happened to have it done on the same consequential day you confidently expressed your idea that he’d get one because— y’a said it’d look good on him, didn’t you? And, look here, he fuckin’ did it like some cheap mutt. Obediently parted his rosy lips for your viewing pleasure to willingly prove to your pretty eyes that he truly went along with your absently made suggestion, for real. Gleefully hung upon your every important word like his life depended on it— god, it isn’t like that, okay?

An upperclassman he’s briefly looked up to is all you are, all you’ve ever been for that matter, and he’ll punch the shitty, fuckin’ lights out of any big mouthed idiot who dares to say so otherwise. Right in the guts for spouting out complete, nonsensical bullshit, alright?

Or is it time to reluctantly admit it with a bashful blush apparent upon his contorted features— accompanied by gritting teeth stubbornly grinding together in a futile refusal of his shoddy, unwanted sentiments burrowed deep within his stuttering heart? As if he’d ever would in your presence, which he possibly can’t help himself, to childishly imitate your gestures in the withering hopes that’d you scarcely notice his thinly veiled efforts, acts filled with meaning.

Well, well.. Whitney, the supposedly cold and untouchable bully here isn’t so unique nor different from those idiotic dumbasses he’d routinely poke fun at, huh? Time to face the embarrassingly evident reality set before him, whether his gaze dares to instinctively stray away or not from the unsettling truth— ah, good thing you’re here to seamlessly guide him on the right path, ain’t that right?

As for the so-called, morally ethical path he’s hopelessly talking about.. Perhaps, that’s a plain, ol’ lie he’ll repeatedly tell himself of so considering your shared reputations at hand. More likely than not, often referred to — as much as the nickname itself has the tip of his ears prickling scarlet, noisily yelling at the fuckers who cheekily name him that — your little, dumb puppy. Fuck, he’s not! The day he, himself, Whitney of all people, wordlessly bows down to the height of someone’s heel frustratingly grinding atop of his head, is the day one can loudly claim with unbridled conviction, that he’s officially lost his goddammit mind, that’s what.

Listen, you’re the one who faithfully promised and guaranteed your unwavering protection if he stuck to your sides like some fuzzy pet, so he did the obvious choice. Specially when met with the shitty conditions this rundown town, definitely shady for that matter, is. Rather be silently stamped as the ‘sly follower’ who went along with the smartest choice presented to ‘em— your offer, by the way — than some nobody seamlessly forgotten on the dirtied streets. Least, that’s what likely replays on and on in his mind like some cheap, broken record to dumbly convince his unmoving mind of what this annoyingly persistent feeling is deep within the pit of his quivering tummy. Annoying, ain’t it?

Speakin’ of tummy, you sure are touchy-feeling with him, aren’t ya? Not that he necessarily minds nor will outwardly admit the slightest shivers that comes to grace the entirety of his figure when met with the briefest grazes of your fingertips flush against his bare skin. Likes the physical contact intimately shared between you two? Fuck no— just keeping himself on your good side in case you were to suddenly discard him like you habitually do with your other.. nameless toys, which he doesn’t possess enough fucks to bother learning their names. As long as your flickering gaze doesn’t happen to stray too far from his, he’s actually, pretty content.

‘Course, it did progressively start off with the sorta things you’d absentmindedly do with your numerous friends. Brush of his golden strands glimmering against the gleaming sunlight— shit, even acted out like some cheesy rom-com at the way his face instantly heated up, glimpse of vulnerability you seem to so easily catch on with him and fuck, does he detests it— truly does like no other. Still, lets y’a carelessly stroke your fingers throughout the mess of a hairstyle the delinquent wears, even fucking.. tenderly pushed a single, stray strand of hair behind his burning ear. Shoulders instinctively drawn up in sheer defence at the tension residing within him because, really, how do y’a expect him to relax and ease up when it’s with you?

“What? What is it? Do I have shit in my hair or somethin’?” Oh yeah, nice goin’ on that fuckin’ stupid question of his, huh? Flush adorning the length of his face— god, even down towards his neck too— immediately deepening at the crude choice of words. Might casually speak so with anyone, but when it comes to you, he’s got this instinctual urge to not come off as some try-hard desperately trying to butter you up in hopes of your returned approval of him.

“Hm? It’s nothing, I just think you’d look cute if you grew out your hair a little bit. Don’t you think?” Ah, and there you go— with your surprising compliments spoken out of the blue like that.

“Cute?? Are you seriously tryna fuck with me right now?” Defensive mechanism or whatever to draw up that blank conclusion since this is just about the first time any sort of adjective resembling that of ‘adorable’ by the way, could’ve been made to plainly describe a rowdy, unrelenting boy such as Whitney.

“What? You don’t think so? I think you’re cute as shit, Ney-ney.” That fuckin’ nickname again, god. Quit it, will ya? And, don’t try to tentatively lean closer in his personal space when calmly making that stupid remark too! Your goddamn— ah, hot breath effortlessly heating up the shell of his ear, curled lips almost, insistently pressed against his cheek. “Real fucking cute, actually. Definitely cuter than the average boy that’s for sure— prettier too, but you’ve got too much of a stick up your ass to admit that, don’t you?”

At this point, you’re practically taunting him, and he would’ve unabashedly swung his fist if it weren’t for that said person being you. Grin cracking upon your lips at the doe, wide-eyed look he’s greeting you with, seemingly unable to utter so much as a word to that uncharacteristically depraved statement, or is that your idea of a damn compliment to another guy? Shit, that’s right! Both guys is what you two are— so, his cock hidden underneath the fabric of his ripped jeans, languish legs lazily stretched out along the creaking, wooden bench, shouldn’t be stirring up with peeked interest at the mind numbing prospect of endlessly being called ‘pretty’ by you. Nor profusely encouraging the alarming amount of translucent pre-cum dizzyingly forming at the swollen tip of his cock head, crudely staining the material sheer. Give the blonde a supportive head pat while you’re at it, too. Ah.. should be saying somethin’ right about now lest he wants to appear as some bashful fool.

“I don’t—“

“Yeah, yeah. You don’t swing that way, I know. I’m not hitting on you, I’m just telling the truth as it is. Got any idea how many guys would line up just to fuck your dirty mouth? Maybe your tits too, if they’re into that sorta stuff— shit, I think they’d go for the ass too, definitely. I could make a goddamn fortune just whoring out your pretty, slutty body to the old fucks at the pub, y’know that, Whit?” Endless chattering on and on, explicit details of how some grubby old men could be here, disgustingly groping his flesh instead. Yet, that lingering glimmer within your gaze, noticeably darkening in return at the mere idea of it as your thumb comes forth to idly tap at his blazing cheek.

“But, you know.. I don’t. I won’t. Not cuz’ I’m a nice guy or anything— hah, truthfully, I’m no better than them for wanting to ruin a pretty face like yours.” You’re.. god, he can’t keep up with whatever shit you’re nonchalantly spouting, gracing solely his ears to be the one to silently listen to this.. crap, can’t really say it— fluttering in his tensed stomach from your bold admission, depraved wants just as much as he does late at nights— wanting to fuck him too.

“Honestly, do you know why I don’t use your sorry fuckin’ ass, Whitney?”

If he’s meant to attentively keep up with your words by now, then his brain has happily shut off due to the dizzying amount of semi-insults, degration and somewhat praise shot in his way. Like he’d fucking know, shit!

“See, it’s cuz’ it’s real funny to watch you trotting ‘round my side like some dumb, fucking puppy begging for its owner’s attention. I give you just a bit of praise, and your doggy tail would start wagging if you even had one. You look so goddamn stupid that it’d hurt my conscience to sell you out like this. And, I don’t like it when other fucks touch what’s mine either. I’m not running some gracious charity, am I?” To be truthful, if you tirelessly keep up with that incessant spouting, he’s bound to boil over like some screeching, burning kettle considering.. the obscene amount of scorching heat riddled across his features currently, adorning his cheeks so stupidly — and prettily too, huh— crimson red for your unwavering gaze solely. Seems like you’re liking the rare show in front of you quite a bit, aren’t you?

Stunned would’ve been one of the few lacking words remaining in the thick, daunting dictionary to scarcely describe the absolutely idiotic expression he’s nicely sporting right about now.

“Shut up.. I’m not—“ Fuck, fuck, fuck!! And, how the simple concept of verbal speech dutifully fails the bully at a time like this. Great going there, fuckin’ dumbass! Visibly seething would’ve been the most reasonable reaction in face of this, but— but— fuck! Entirety of this crap is all too quick for his sluggish mind to steadily keep up with your unpredictable actions, pathetically keening with a drawled out curse— no, more like a high-pitched whine is what it truly sounds like, once your calloused palm gingerly strips him free from his relatively loose jeans in one fell swoop.

“What the fuck’re you doin’—?? Mmph, fuck.. don’t—“ Dumb question to be asking when the self-evident answer is plainly in front of him.

Weeping cock, flushed in the cooling, outside air, naturally springing forth out of its constricting confines to audibly slap against his bare rigid tummy. Aw, now ain’t that real pretty to witness? Timid, twitching cock profusely leaking out sticky pre to messily smear along the curve of the blonde’s stomach, which you promptly do the honours for him, unabashedly too.

Always been pretty confident in your audacity to joyfully serve people, haven’t you? By god, he’s half-hated ya for meddling with others private businesses to begin with, although his throbbing cock being so smoothly tended to can say otherwise, idly disagree with his withering logic. Shakily sighing, puffing out heated huffs of air as your so— fuck.. annoyingly warm and soft hand loosely tucks ‘round his fat cock, teasingly squeezes him down at the base. Meanly drawing out more pearly globs of his dribbling pre-cum with a resounding, wet squelch!, undeniable proof of his shared arousal at the newfound situation he’s unfortunately finding himself in.

‘Unfortunately’— one says, funny that you see right through that by the mocking nature of your barking laughter, sharply ringing within his ears.

“My, who’s the exact fucking pervert here, Whit? Y’seem pretty hard to me. Actually, you’re dripping wet down there, y’know that?” No fucking shit. Ready to single-handily cum from a single, measly stroke of your fist snugly wrapped around the veiny girth of his quivering length— fucking hell. Head instinctively thrown back to which you soon wistfully take advantage of, ‘course you would, wouldn’t you? Lazily pressing hot, heated kisses along the sharp edges of his jawline that soon has the same bully, known to be so very resistant, stifling wanton moans, firmly clasping a palm over his gaping mouth in a heedless effort to remain discreet as possible. Slithering, pink tongue laving and tracing over the heated shell of his ear, ushered snickering coupled by bouts of utter filth being so brazenly whispered towards him. And your canines— ah, are not helping at all either. Grazing the bobbing curve of his throat, delicately sucking a bruising mark upon the tanned skin to pridefully admire over later. “Nnh— no, fu— ah, uuckk! N-Not there, you bastard!!”

“Not here? What’s the matter, Ney-Ney? Can’t fucking speak properly when your pretty, pink cock is being stroked off like this?” Would’ve scornfully refuted you, barked out the meanest curses that would’ve had an elderly woman shockingly clutch her pearls if given the chance, but stealing a discreet glance down to humiliatingly witness how sticky and wet his tip has gotten, messily stained your palm in a string of creamy, white pre is not.. Possessing way too much pride to do so. “Y’see, you like this— hah, fuck— you like it when I actually take what I fucking want from you and ruin you down to this cute, little, slutty mess, yeah?”

“I-It’s not like that—“ Uncharacteristically meek protest on his part. Cat got his tongue, ‘s that it?

“No? Pretty boy. Use your words, will you?” Oh, fuuuuckkin’ god. Seeing sheer darkness as his eyes reflexively roll backwards to his skull from casually being called ‘pretty’ by your lulling voice.

Have any idea the way your hushed words dizzyingly affects his fuzzy brain? Renders him alarmingly stiff like a stoned statue, wobbling knees surely bound to buckle beneath the weight of your relentless taunting, all the while being boldly jerked off in broad, fucking daylight — hidden amongst the rustling bushes of the park, mind you — still, very much in an open space where one can be so easily seen by oncoming passerbys. And even then, the absolute control you possess over him, sneakily snaking your arm ‘round his middle, relishing in the little, heated gasps hurriedly rushed out of this dirty, fucking perverted bitch of a blonde’s mouth is too way goddamn much for him to precariously withstand another tortuously long second of this shit.

Yeah, one more minute? He’s fucking busting by then.

“What’s the matter? Can’t keep up? Gon’ shoot your filthy load soon, ‘s that it?” Mild disinterest lacing your very tone with a slight hint of, what’s that..? Actual anticipation? Hah, as if he can barely discern between the mind buzzing layer of reality set upon him when coupled by your soft— so fucking warm, shit.. hand relentlessly fisting him dry, milking every thick droplet steadily trickling forth. Uncaring for the accumulated mess below you both as his hips instinctually roll forward against the rewarding palm of your curled fist, sickeningly jolts at a noticeably harsh press of your padded thumb atop his oozing tip. “Well, then.. Go ahead, I’m not stopping you, am I?”

“Cmon, pretty. Paint my hand all sticky and nice for me, yeah?”

Predictably so, as the uttered rumours had notably confirmed— how downright desperate Whitney’s always apparently been for you to the damn point that he’s automatically cumming on command like a dog patiently withholding for its owner’s words and oh, was it fucking worth the extensive wait. Stifled whimper weakly slipping out, fingers immediately latching onto the comforting feel of your forearm lazily slung around his quivering figure for proper support. No use in making a fool out of himself by clumsily buckling down to his slacked knees— not that he hasn’t already, though too late to be thinking about it twice, huh? Thick, sticky strings of his hot seed directly shot out of his pulsing cock and into the air to, as expected, pervertedly dirty your open hand in a mess of his load which is kinda.. hot, no? Fuckin’ get ahold of yourself, shit! Minus the rest having uncontrollably splattered downwards onto the ground, pitifully traced in a puddled mess of droplets.

And somehow, the barely discernible hint of a relieved breath tumbling from between his parted lips. The natural conclusion that this is it, oncoming closure bound to take its place yet still— still, damn it; Always managed to keep the dirtied blonde on the edge of his toes, haven’t you?

So, truly, it shouldn’t have came off as an unexpected shock then, how you so brazenly mumble a stuttered curse beneath your puffed sighs at the melting sight. “Ah, fuck.” Swiftly freeing your fat— well, admittedly hefty cock for his following eyes to shamelessly gawk at in turn because, y’know.. fuck, he won’t outright voice it, but the sinful glimmer in his wide gaze says it all. Innate itch, unadulterated need— god, to merely sling down to his knees, sloppily drool all over your tasty-looking cock and coat it all shiny and wet with his spit. Although, too busy admiring the rare glimpse of your contorted features strained with pure, unrestrained concentration to bother paying much attention to the repeated, distinct fapping! noises of your cock being so hurriedly stroked raw, as if in a hurry, almost.

Furrowed brows deepening, lashes fluttering in their wake as your rosy lips that he’s known time and time again to be nonchalantly formed into a grin— now, so prettily stained crimson by the harsh press of your teeth against your puffy, bottom lip. “Don’t— ugh, fucking look at me like that.” You audibly groan out in the mix of a huffed chuckle. Slightest flush delicately dusting your cheeks a pink hue, so damn pretty too. “Hah, it makes things kinda awkward, y’know?” Ah, takes less than a stretched minute for his brain to acutely process what’s hit him before given the proper chance.

Something hot— and sticky too, actually it’s pretty evident what it should’ve been if he wasn’t so goddamn brain dead within this bleary moment. Splattering amongst the already present mess you’ve both collectively made of yourself, thick ropes of sweet cum landing right upon his rumpled uniform you’ve taken a gleeful joy of permanently ruining. Judging by the cackling laughter soon drawing forth outta ya thanks to the sheer, dizzying sight of the cum-stained mess he’s forced to pitifully endure for the time being.

Look what you’ve done, god— even if you manage to be one step ahead of him, as always, in such a predicament as the delinquent merely receives a thrown jacket straight in the face. “Sorry for ruining your nice shirt of yours, I couldn’t really help myself when you looked so dumb like that. Take it as an apology, alright?” Exhaling out shakily in the chilling air suddenly alarmingly cold without your warm weight shifted against his own, too deliriously fucked out of his mind to muster up a rightful remark to your cheaply made one. Dumb, little ol’ puppy is what he is to you, no?

And perhaps then, it’s the idiotic absurdity of your actions, swiftly turning away like the encounter itself hadn’t even taken place right at this very spot. Footsteps progressively fading amongst the rhythmic crunches of fallen leaves fluttering down from the withering trees, gaze tentatively flicking downwards to where your stupidly soft, discarded jacket rests within his arms. Meaningless gesture is what it should’ve been notably perceived as, though that doesn’t really help the gradual thump! of his swaying heart noisily beating against his chest nonetheless.

That’s not— oh.

Oh.

“..Fuck.”

Yeah, being wholly swallowed by the ground beneath his feet doesn’t sound so bad now, does it?

[vatelixx]

The visionary, the willing executor,

Spencer Reid x afab!UNSUB!reader (written with mid!seasons Spencer Reid in mind)

SMUT!! copious amounts of angst (there’s traces of fluff in there as well if u get out ur magnifying glass)

BASED ON THIS SONG (it got so stuck in my head that I had to write something that correlated):

──── autistic spencer (it’s not explored that much, but it’s always gonna be present in my oneshots), evil evil reader (im not being dramatic this time. she’s literally a serial killer. like her ‘body count’ is copious. but idk, she’s kinda sweet. if u squint and ignore the bodies). They were in love ur honour !!! they’re still in love ur honour !!!! She pays him a visit two years after he found out about her homicidal tendencies (they miss each other, Spencer might also hate her a little but it’s okay, don’t worry about that).

Warnings: sub spencer (aaaaaaalways), maybe perhaps some vague, very faint mentions of switch!spencer but idk i blacked out writing this, choking, mentions of death and general behaviour that would get you a life sentence, praise more than degradation surprisingly, coming untouched, crying (you’d think that was a kink or something?), she fucks the good out of him, hopeful ending (eh, kinda), mentions of dante’s inferno, copious amounts of religious imagery, greek mythology references, this isn’t dead dove at all i promise.

w.c: 5k

a/n: everything i write has been so angsty recently. i’m working on something softer for my next upload i swear (alongside the requests, I promise, they’re being written im just a die-hard perfectionist). aaaaanyway, happy (belated) halloween!! It’s Spencer’s favourite season so i thought i’d write him getting destroyed by a serial killer (god when is it my turn????)

────────────

Spencer would consider himself a good person, by default. It’s reasonable: a renowned member of the BAU, with intellect he’s weaponized for morality. The blood etched onto his hands is justified. Necessary evil for greater cause. He’s willing to blemish his skin for the virtue, for the lives of others.

He remembers naivety. He remembers being so fragile he could easily crack into fragmented pieces of wasted innocence. Maybe that’s been stolen from him now, maybe the ruins of his sacrifices are too sharp to touch upon still, but he’s good. He knows he will always be good.

And yet, there’s a bruise. Something ugly and distorted that stains his skin. Something that has the ability to crawl deep into his bones and leave behind a mess of pain. Something bad. Festering and tainted, it haunts him with every breath.

You.

You, who came into his life as an abundance of sunlight. Helios personified. Pretty and warm, and everything he needed. He wanted to kiss you: the moment he stumbled into the coffee shop, tousled hair, overworked and raw from a burdening case. When you took his order, marking constellations onto the styrofoam cup. Andromeda, Ursa Major, Cassiopeia. Later, much later, then when you became an indomitable presence to his apartment.

But for all the good he’s preserved, Spencer knows he’s not allowed to receive it.

“You shouldn’t be here,” is the first thing he says when he finds you waiting for him. He always knew you would come back; you’re bound to follow him indefinitely. Like his shadow, his guilty consciousness, his cracked past of addiction and pre-pubescent torment.

He let you go. When the act was over, the curtain drawn, when he saw you. Homicidal, the perpetrator of the case he was working on, malevolence packed into the frame of perfection, oh even still, he let you go. Free to continue the cycle of death, he was left to scramble in the mess of his own misguided heart.

There’s risk in reward, and reward in risk. You’re meticulous, hedonistic to the last detail. But Spencer? Well, he will always be the one loose end you could never quite force yourself to clean up. The thread that kept untangling, even as time passed. Cut it off, you should be rational, wash every bleeding trace of him from your skin.

But there’s irrationality in love.

Blood adorns your features; there’s no need to touch up your appearance, to return to the domesticated facade you once used on him. No, he’s been exposed to the ugly now. There can be no do overs, no back-tracking, game over try again doesn’t exist in real time.

“What are you going to do about it?” you ask, and god, hes just as beautiful as the day you left him. So perfectly real, with dragging exhaustion and pretty brown eyes to ease the sting of his tight-faced, troubled expression.

You didn’t cut the phone lines, nor move the gun he keeps stashed in his cabinet drawer. Down the hall, to the left. You know he won’t make any abrupt actions. Know, in an intuitive way, telepathic communication between past lovers.

“It was a gamble coming here, aren’t you pleased to see me pretty boy?”

Spencer has to fight every urge he has, every moral he believes in to not lunge at you; to not strangle your slender neck, crack you in half, destroy you the way you’ve destroyed his sanity.

Two years, 8 months, 11 days since you cataclysmically uprooted his routined life. He fell in love with softness, not the jagged edge of a blade.

“I let you go. Wasn’t that enough?” it feels too natural, fighting in his apartment, some sort of twisted lovers quarrel. There’s a definite list of everything he should do in this moment, and despite all logic, he just blanks at the sight of you.

“You had to come back. Rub salt in the wound. Do you get off on this?” a sigh falls from his pretty lips, “Actually, don’t— don’t answer that. We both know the answer.”

“I get off on you,” you correct.

It’s true. If he was to analyse you, profile your warped brain like his other unsubs, he’d find nothing but unyielding loyalty to him. For all the damage you’ve done, there’s always been one anomaly to your detachment.

He stands right before you.

And, sure, maybe you’ve got a leg up in this situation. Perhaps the distorted memory of you holds him back: lazy nights and tangled sheets, his body pressed up against yours. The way he’d talk, quantum physics, philosophy, rambles that dissolved into open admissions of feelings. There’s a lot that was fake, but to be a good liar, you have to add subsidiary details of truth.

God, he wishes the world would be cruel—a cosmic alignment of karmic righteousness that would grant him relief: some kind of justification for what he must do. But the universe is indifferent, nothing but a distant star, a fleeting speck of dust in the grand scheme of life. There’s no such thing as good or bad, only consequences.

Consequences. Consequences for his actions. Butterfly effect. He can comprehend it. But, there were many things he adored about you, while the illusion of love was tangible. The way your hair would curl just above your shoulders, your skin in the morning light. The way you’d laugh at one of his obscure Star Trek references, better yet his criticism on modern, inaccurate horror. He could stare at you for eons, as though he was trying to make out the secrets of the universe in the constellation lines of your scars.

The illusion of love, as it was. He sees you now with the clarity of reality, the same way a mirage fades away as you approach; a distortion of perception.

“And you get off on me. Even now. Don’t you?” you say, shifting forward to close gravitational space.

There’s no way to disregard this morbid connection. No psychological justification he can exploit to demean your feelings. You’re not a psychopath, nor anything that relates to a lack of empathy. You feel— you feel empathy for all of your victims, the line of bodies that mark your path. But it goes deeper than that. There was reasoning for your actions, just as there was for his.

“Say it,” you goad. And there’s satisfaction here, sure. Something mean and condescending. But there’s also hurt, because he was supposed to be a means to an end, and now, he might very well be your end.

“Say you miss me. C’mon boy genius, a few little words and i’ll have enough content to satisfy me for years. Don’t be mean— you know I hate being edged.”

He does miss you, every day that he wakes up, his bones too hollow and cold to leave his bed. The ache in his chest where his heart was supposed to be, too empty to function. No amount of caffeine can fill the void in his skull where thoughts of you used to reside. The longing, the desire for the past to rewrite itself.

“You’re sick,” he tries. But he’s not good at this. Not when the love remained after the inevitable fall out, not when the darkest parts of him still clung to want, even after he realised the truth.

“You’re sick, and..” he tries again, “and I hate how much I miss you. There? Is that enough? Are you happy? Got what you wanted?”

You let out an exasperated sigh, “No. If I ‘got what I wanted’, I would still have you.”

Spencer dies. Metaphorically, literally, what does it even matter? He dies, respawns, and then kisses the admittance from your lips.

Instinctively, just like the past, your hands tangle through his hair, and perhaps there’s a sense of ownership to the gesture. The knowledge that he will always be yours. Scarred from your touch, returning to your lips like a dog with a bird. There’s a mindless attempt at anger on his part, biting lips and rough teeth, but just like always, he quickly melts.

He melts, and you catch him. Because for all it’s worth, lies and deceit aside, you’ve always loved him.

There’s something powerful to the gesture; knowing you have someone wrapped around your finger. Even after you’ve bared the worst of you, the ugliness of man-kind. There’s someone out there that will wipe the blood from your cheek, and kiss you through it.

“Oh, even better,” you mutter against his lips, “Much, much better. C’mon Spence, show me just how much you’ve missed me.”

Two years, 8 months, 11 days since he felt like he could breathe.

It hurts, it hurts so much, because there’s a sense of coming home to the kiss, and he just wants you to stay. To ruin him forever. To leave behind a deformed version of him, something unrecognisable and equally scarring.

You’re too loyal and he’s too susceptible to any form of attention. Because you want him, and it’s easy to fall into a cyclical cycle of self-destruction when you’re the catalyst.

“I did miss you.” he admits again. “You— crazy, homicidal excuse of a person.”

Spencer’s hand comes up to touch your cheek, the rough texture of skin meeting something soft. His thumb traces down the curvature of your jawline, a silent hello that doesn’t linger long, too soon to be replaced with his lips.

You push him back against the wall, a painful groan escaping your lips when you feel his hips canting forward, searching aimlessly for a friction you’ve both been denied. Two years. His body still aches for you. It’s primal, something perverted and tainted and so very good.

You knew this would happen. There was not a doubt in your clouded mind that he would deny you. What you do to me, I do to you.

“There’s my boy.” you mutter when you grip said hips, fingers finding their natural, fated position against divine bone. When he begins to find a stable pace, bucking up to meet you with every kiss that you press to his lips.

He whimpers when you touch him, soft sounds of need slipping past his parted lips into the confines of his empty apartment. He’s trying so hard to maintain composure, but he can’t find it in him to fight the inevitable. The ache of separation between himself and you. So he lets it happen, like he always does.

My boy, the possession goes straight to his head. One simple phrase and he’s untangling, breaking to pieces because yes, he is yours. And yes, he will forever want to be reminded.

“Mhm, mhm. Oh— oh, fuck.” he’s so hard, clothed cock pushing up against you with every movement. He could get off on less of you. He has. Every night.

And yes, it certainly feels like home. It’s only the thing your body has been aimlessly yearning for, day in and day out. It’s not fair, not fair to you, that you’ve allowed your resolve to crumble, your strategic, one-track mind, for the fleeting body of a past lover.

But then again, demeaning him to a past lover doesn’t even begin to articulate this.

You’re fairly certain he was put on this earth, just to torment you.

And you’re fairly certain you’ll always let him.

“God, you’re such a slut for me.” you say, drawing back from the friction just to prove your point. The disintegrating whimpers that bleed out of his mouth in response are enough alone to confirm.

His head falls back against the wall, baring that lovely length of his neck and its pretty bruises. He wants you to kiss him there, to leave one last mark before he says ‘I won’t see you again’ and means it this time.

“Don’t— don’t stop—” even as he speaks, a mess of jumbled words and breathless sentences, you’re still teasing him. He hates how much it works, how much he’d rather fall into the pleasure of your hands.

“Fine. Whatever. Yes. What do you want to hear? That it’s whorish the way I want you. That you’re able to just… corrupt me with all these dirty words, even though I have an extensive vocabulary. Even though i’m supposed to be—“

He’s not even sure what he’s supposed to be anymore.

“You know the extent of my devotion.” he concedes.

There will always be sadistic pleasure in reducing him to such an ignominious version of himself. You’ve seen it before, back when you were trapped in an artificial, yet domesticated, haze of bliss. But to hear it now? Even after everything has been said and done?

That’s a new type of pleasure.

You know he still holds onto the facade of you, aimlessly reaching for something intangible, something that never truly existed. “You want me to be good for you, huh? Just pack up my shit, leave it all behind, get better? Think about it. White picket fence. Coffee every morning. God— it would be insufferable. Coming home to feed the dogs, talking every night over the phone, begging you to be safe on a case, or or—“

Spencer breaks. Silencing your words with a pained whimper.

Usually, he doesn’t allow himself to think about that fantastical hypothetic. He can’t afford to. Months after he let you go, when the truth had been exposed to his naive eyes, he’d spend hours in a mess of aching limbs, dreaming up alternative realities where your hands weren’t stained from blood, and the most despicable thing you could do was make his coffee bitter.

So when you force him to open old wounds, to rehash past hopes, he falls apart. A whine escapes his lips, hips bucking, once, twice and then he’s coming untouched. Making a mess out of himself— and it’s sick, so very sick to get off on the thought of you permanent, the epitome of good.

Something he could hold onto without slicing open skin.

It’s not a good orgasm, it never is without your direct help, but at least it’s some form of release. In the aftermath, he blinks away tears, vaguely aware of the cum staining his boxers, creating damp spots through fabric.

There’s something painful, cutting to your gaze when you look at him. At the debauched sight, corrupted from just a few words.

Give it all up? For what? Him?

All things considered, it’s tempting.

“Spencer,” you mutter in the serrated moments between. When he’s still nebulous, caught in the aftershocks of abrupt pleasure. When he’s just gotten off, untouched, on the notion of a domesticated life with you.

He’s struggling to breathe. He’s spent nights gasping for you, reduced to the most debasing version of himself. So out of touch, you drove a blade through his back, catching his heart on the way.

“Why are you— doing this?” he asks, but before you can even answer, provide him with an explanation that will devastate, he’s lunging forward, kissing the lies that cling to your lips. Kissing you because his mouth hurts when it’s not attached to yours.

“One last time.” he says; he’s too intelligent, too intellectually adept, to allow this swallowing cycle of humiliation to continue.

But, underneath it all, he’s also inherently selfish for you. He’s fairly certain you were engrained into his skin, long before he fell into your barbed trap, teeth and penetrative ruin.

“Then you leave. You actually leave, never contact me again. No showing up at my apartment unprovoked. I have a good life without you. Understood?”

You scoff. He presses forward, “Understood?”

You don’t protest when he elucidates his life as good. Even if it’s quite the contrary. Even if he has to bare witness to depravity every single day, scrutinise his way through the minds of the most perverse. Perhaps this is a social experiment to him, perhaps you are the guinea pig, Laika sentenced to space. You know he loved you once, but it’s hard to comprehend the feelings remained unscarred, it’s hard to imagine you’re anything but a test subject now.

You look at him. Look at that pretty face. Your undoing. He could be your achilles heel, hamartia in its rawest form, or maybe you willingly chose to do this. Maybe fate, and divine intervention played no part in your attachment to him. Maybe it’s just chemicals. The logics explanation. Imbalanced, skewed chemicals.

“Don’t worry, boy genius.” you respond, “You won’t get anything, not even a postcard, from me. It’ll be like I never even existed.” no trace. D.C has always been a monotone cesspit of nothing anyway.

It’s cruel. Because if you leave, truly leave. And he never hears from you again, never catches you in his kitchen, drinking coffee with an unadulterated smile, then he will begin to forget.

The curve of your spine, the scars beneath your chest, the way your fingers fit into his own. The way he was able to memorise your body until he could draw it in the dark, when your body was pressed to his, when there was nothing but a false establishment of safety.

He knows he can’t forget. Not technically. But it’ll grow distant, it’ll be replaced with new normals and routines. That, that, he can’t compute.

“Good,” he says, kissing you again, kissing you because this is it.

Spencer wants you. In every sense of the word, he wants you so badly it’s killing him.

His bedroom still holds traces of you. That, itself, is a crime. But he just falls into you. The way lovers do. Your hands against his skin— his hair threaded through your fingers, your lips at the base of his neck. He lets you leave another bruise, a mark, a confirmation of possession, because even if this is the last time, he is, and always will be yours.

“Still the prettiest person i’ve ever seen,” you admit when he’s flushed naked beneath you.

There’s something in those doe-eyes, brown irises blown out of proportion, that hooked you. Even at the worst, it was still soft with him.

Slender frame, slightly arched, you want to bite into his hips, mark every inch of him as yours. It’s greedy, gluttonous, his messy hair, fanning out like a halo, the tangled curls he never bothers to properly care for.

“God, fucking look at you,” you grip his jaw, tilt his head back to bare that blemished neck of his. To have and to own. He’s so inexplicably different to you, so good it runs down to the bone. And maybe you’ve always been insatiable for what you’ve lacked.

He can’t take this. He can’t, not again. The past, the future will have to dissolve with this moment, because there will never be another again.

You will never get this close to him. It’s a terrifying thought, that this’ll be the standard of intimacy, of love - because he knows it isn’t. But he can’t risk the reality he’s faced with, the reality of living without this. Of living without you.

Your words only make it worse. He wants to beg you to stop. To cease the torture.

“Shut up.” He kisses you, as if to remind you that your mouth is made for kissing, for his lips, for a litany of dirty words that he can’t bear to hear. Those words are for someone else. For someone similar. Not him. Never him.

Defying fate. He gets off on being something bad beneath the surface. No one would ever expect it; boyish maladroit Spencer, the youngest of the team, willingly allowing, condoning, a killer to sink into his skin.

“Don’t tell me to shut up,” you respond, muffled against his lips. “If this is the last time, i’m going to enjoy it. Going to enjoy the sight of you, all desperate for me alone.”

“You assume i’ve ever been desperate for anyone else—“ he counters.

“Oh, that’s it. Keep talking dirty to me.”

“It’s not dirty. It’s a factual statement.”

You pull away, a trail of saliva bridging the space between your mouths. If there is higher power at play here, you want to curse, to spite your creator. Because if ‘things’ had been different, if you had been born from the same rib, this could’ve ended differently.

Or for that matter, never ended at all.

“Sit there and watch me.” you say, and Spencer hates the way he obliges. Pushing himself up against the headboard, he stares at you, at the way you position yourself, standing by the foot of the bed.

“Do you even know what you do to me? Do you even understand the gravity your existence has on me?” you continue, unfastening the lace corset that clings to your frame. When it drops to the floor, breasts exposed, you run your hands across them, catching pierced nipples for a vindictive moment of pleasure.

“I— uh,” Spencer is admittedly a little distracted. Sex had always been something ruinous between you two. Something that conflicted his lack of experience, forced him to adapt.

He always wondered how someone so soft, the epitome of light, could be this obscene. Now he understands.

“Lost your words? Come on, pretty boy. I thought you had an ‘extensive vocabulary?’ Hm?”

He wants to touch himself, to ease the pulsing throb that centres in his cock. But he doesn’t, because despite the time that has passed, he still knows your rules. “Don’t use my words against me. I’m being tortured.”

“Tortured, huh?” your hands fumble over buttons until you’re reduced to a pair of panties, soaked throughly, leaving scarce to the imagination.

“So so tortured. Oh my god, who are you? Can I please have my soul back?” he’s joking, but not really.

“Well maybe if you beg for it,” your words fade into a mess of moans, fingers slipping beneath fabric to graze your clit. Spencer’s head spills back against the wall; he looks more affected by the movements than you.

It’s easy to fall back into old habits. Relapse.

“Come here, come here, i’m having an existential crisis.” he says, watching as you slip one finger, then two inside you, struggling to stand now. It’s strange how pleasure can reduce the most antagonising minds to vulnerability.

“Please— oh fuck, please. Please. Don’t make me watch, I can’t. Need you. Need you so bad.”

He thought he found the core of torture in you touching yourself, but he was wrong. Because when you crawl closer, when you slot yourself between his thighs, lips finding skin that only you have ever touched, he sees the root of evil in his brain. The ninth circle of hell.

It’s justified, he supposes. For all the good he’s done, he has betrayed. Himself, his friends, family, existence itself. There is not one thing he wouldn’t ruin, just to feel you. It’s incriminating, so yes, he deserves to freeze in Cocytus. He’ll willingly plead guilty, accept his entrapment in the ring of Caina.

“Poor baby, look at you.” you say, kissing his tip, catching the pre-cum on your tongue. Spencer responds: fisting bedsheets, fighting the restraint to buck forward, to find misplaced solace in the warmth of your mouth. He’s sprawled out across sheets now, lying back in a tangled heap of want. “Shh, it’s okay,” you continue, “I like my men desperate.”

“Desperate? Ah—,” he fights the urge to shut his eyes, too aware that this is the last memory he will ever retain of you.

You, painted into his mind. The final evidence left in the fire: mouth sinking down his length, taking him to the hilt, watery eyes and leaking mascara.

“This isn’t even desperation. You’re killing me. Just, oh oh— please, don’t. ‘M gonna cum. Gonna cum—“

Is it sick that he doesn’t want to? If only to prolong this transitory moment of destruction? Like the lotus eaters, he will always be mindless in the pursuit of more, more, more of you.

You draw back from his cock, only to press a soft kiss against the tip. The gesture alone has him reeling, has him begging to be saved, to atone for every sin he found in the comfort of your divinely crafted lips.

“Gonna let me sit on that pretty cock of yours, hm? Let me use you one last time? Promise i’ll be good,” a lie, “So so good.”

“God, yes. Yes, please. That would—“ You take him deep, deep enough that everything aches. He only feels alive when you’re wrapped around him, when there’s not an ounce of distance between your bodies, when he can touch the insides of you. Pry open the raw, unfiltered version of you.

He only feels alive when he’s sunk inside the harbinger of death. He’d laugh if it didn’t hurt.

You’ve got one hand tangled in your hair, the other pressed flat against his waist, supporting you through each bump of movement. Eyes like marbles, Spencer looks up, and wonders why this will never be enough for you.

You look back, meet his gaze, as if you’re Orpheus, predestined to turn around, to always return. Even if it’s just for one last second. Even if the fall-out is so much worse than pushing forward blindly.

Oh, hes certain you’re carving a hole inside him, something that will only grow and expand, imploring to be filled by it’s inventor. It’ll hurt, for the rest of time, he supposes.

When he finds your hand around his neck, he isn’t startled. Neither, when your thumb presses against his throat, applying pressure until the world cracks and fades, distorting his refined mind to the here and now. He floats, feeling transient in the curse of your touch.

“That’s it. Just let go. I’ve got you.”

He is a sacrificial lamb. The priests favourite. He will take the knife every time, and thank you for it after.

You release the tension, hand taking his instead. For all the cruelty you possess, you’d never think to harm him. Not physically at least. The emotional damage, however, finds you both. There can be no happiness in either of your worlds, not when the memory of each other festers. “Good boy— taking it so well. God, no one is ever gonna compare.”

He cries at the words. Pretty tears streaming down his face, because the reciprocation to his undying piety will forever trigger the warped chemicals in his brain. Will forever reduce him to something saccharine.

“Love you. Love you so much. Don’t go. Please,” he fractures, “please don’t go.” he begs, besmirched words he’ll regret in the wake of his pleasure. They don’t count, and yet, he knows, in the most depraved sections of his mind, they’re true.

You ride him harder. Back curved, finding god in the washed-out body of someone fatally destroyed. “Not going anywhere— fuck, fuckfuckfuck. That feels so good. You’re so good,” maybe it’s a kink to ruin something so perfectly spotless.

Maybe it’s a kink that he wants it.

“Say it. God, just say it. This once.” for old times sake, he almost adds. But that wouldn’t be objectively correct. For all the intimacy you shared, you never once articulated those three words. Perhaps it was to save your dignity, to hold pieces of yourself in the lies you beautifully crafted.

His thumb runs over your clit, and in the tangle of your orgasm, he almost thinks you forget about his demand. But after, when you’re still taking him, when you’re still clenching, unclenching, clenching around his cock, when you know you own every part of him, you answer.

“I love you.”

He falls apart. Hips canting, body squirming, whimper after whimper escaping his bruised lips as he releases inside of you. Pushed deep, defiled to the limit. For a moment, everything is okay, everything will be alright, because there’s pleasure, and it’s you. It’s always you.

How can he justify falling in love with you again? How can he, when he still clings onto the artificial love of the past? He’s not sure his heart can handle one set of feelings, nevermind two.

He takes you again, well… mostly you take him again. In ways that have him polluted with the remnants of your teeth. Canine marks, etched deep enough to bleed. He hopes the swelling leaves behind perennial scars, anything to remind him. Anything to hold onto when you’re gone and it’s cold.

After, when you lie together, he presses his forehead against yours and wishes he was in any other universe. One where you’re happy. Where everything is pure and simple, clean from sin.

There was always truth in what we shared before, you admit. Lazy nights spent draped over the couch, kissing him to silence convoluted rambles. Your presence in the morning, bathed in holy glow, sunlight bleeding over the pretty sight of you. The first night he touched you and saw god. And then the following night, when he ascended all over again.

He wakes to find no body. He wakes to find nothing. It feels like self-sabotage, the promise that you would leave, even if it’s quite the contrary.

In the absence, abstinence of your presence, he discovers traces of you in everything he sees, all of it, everything consumed, returning to the simple thought of you you you.

When the first postcard comes, Portland, dreary weather— beaches and ports, there’s no anger. No exasperation that you broke your word.

You love him, it’s morbid, but for someone like him, it overrules everything. Sanity, dignity, his own stable existence.

You overrule everything.

[notlongtolove]

empty my soul

they say the seven deadly sins are seven ways of mortal death, seven paths to eternal damnation, each a step away from redemption. but spencer knows that he would follow any path if it led him to you.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: fluff?

content: implied intimacy, religious mentions, you're intoxicating and spencer contemplates the pull of his desire and devotion toward you through the seven deadly sins

word count: 1.8k

note: ngl i wrote half of this on the plane and almost forgot ab it. i feel like this concept would have been better utilised if i could write smut but i dont think i am all that good at writing smut

a line: He’ll take the sins, the ungodly weight of them, without question, without hesitation. To keep you. Always you.

I would live in your love as the sea-grasses live in the sea, Borne up by each wave as it passes, drawn down by each wave that recedes; I would empty my soul of the dreams that have gathered in me, I would beat with your heart as it beats, I would follow your soul as it leads. - sara teasdale

Spencer Reid has never been religious. He doesn’t believe in a higher being, doesn’t think the universe bends to the will of anything greater than chance. He’s a man defined by facts, by logic, by what can be measured and proven. Still, with the nature of his job and the evils he’s seen, Spencer Reid tries to be a good person. He believes he is one, for the most part.

In the office, he pours the last of the coffee into Derek's mug first, even though he needs the caffeine just as badly. On the subway, he stands without hesitation to offer his seat to a pregnant lady juggling an oversized tote despite the exhaustion of his day. Climbing the stairs, he stops to smile at the old man on the landing who’s always surrounded by his cats—even if he’s never gotten a smile back.

He tells himself these things matter. That they tip the scale in his favor.

Because the seven deadly sins—those cardinal vices—are a map of human weakness.

It’s a moral compass he has never adhered to himself—Yet tonight, standing at his front door, key in hand, he wonders if he’s unwittingly broken them all.

The hallway is dim, but he can see the soft flicker of his bedside lamp through the cracked bedroom door. He opens it quietly, and there you are. He steps inside, careful not to disturb you. You’re sleeping, peaceful. You're in his shirt, curled up on his bed. Absolute perfection.

Spencer doesn’t believe in angels, but if they walked among mortals, he thinks you’d be the closest thing to one. 

It’s the sin of self-admiration, the opposite of humility. Pride. He knows it well. C.S. Lewis wrote that pride is the root of all sin, the ego in direct defiance of God. Spencer has always thought himself better than that. He doesn’t believe in claiming you, in reducing you to an extension of himself. But when the team goes out and you’re there, turning heads, earning glances that linger too long, he tells himself it’s admiration, not possession, that makes his chest swell. To think you’re his? The pride seeps in, unbidden.

He crosses the room slowly. Standing at the edge of the bed, he watches you. Right now, he’s certain of one thing—he’s not sure he’s capable of redemption. Not tonight. You need your rest, and he knows he should let you sleep. He knows it as surely as he knows the formulas that balance delicate equations, the weight of the gun on his hip.

But he doesn’t want to. It’s greed, plain and simple. Henry Edward Manning called avarice a mire that pulls a man deeper into the world, making it his god. Spencer’s greed is less tangible than wealth or power, but it consumes him all the same. It's not enough to watch you sleep, though the sight should be enough. It’s a sight he’s memorized, filed away for lonely nights away from you. But tonight, it just isn’t enough. 

Spencer kneels beside the bed, though not in prayer—No deity would grant absolution for the choices he’s about to make. It’s a desperate worship, a wordless plea. He presses a kiss to your shoulder. Light, reverent. Another one to your temple. Then to the corner of your mouth. And another. And another. He wants more. Needs more. Gluttony, he thinks. A thousand wouldn’t sate him. Even a million might not be enough.

Your lashes flutter, and for a moment, guilt flickers in his chest. You’ve had a long day, too. He should pull away, let you sleep. But your lips part in a quiet murmur of his name, and suddenly, the rest of the world is a distant, muted thing.

“Spencer,” you whisper, your voice soft and trusting, not even fully awake.

“Hey, honey,” he replies, just as softly, brushing his fingers gently through your hair.

“When’d you get back?”

“Just now,” he murmurs, his hand caressing the curve of your hair. “Go back to sleep, baby.”

“C’mere,” you say, your hand reaching out, fingers curling weakly at the fabric of his shirt, a silent plea. 

Usually, he’d shower first. Wash off the day—the grime, the weight of it all—but tonight has been long and harrowing, and you’re right here, pulling him closer. So instead, with careful, practiced movements, he undresses quietly, slipping into a fresh pair of clothes, careful not to disturb you.

By the time he slides under the covers, you’re already half-lost to sleep again. But your body shifts instinctively, finding his, limbs tangling in his as though your subconscious can’t bear to be apart. It’s muscle memory now, the way you fit against him. Your body stays nestled against his, and Spencer simply holds you. 

He remembers the first nights you stayed over, how you tossed and turned and barely managed a few restless hours of sleep. You’d told him about your insomnia, how it often robbed you of rest. And yet, months later, you sleep peacefully beside him, body curled into his sheets like you’ve always belonged here. Something stirs within his chest, spreading warmth through his ribs—a realization that you feel safe with him. Safe enough to rest, to let go, to sleep soundly in a world that’s often unforgiving. 

Sometimes, if he wasn’t so hopelessly in love with you, Spencer thinks he might envy you. For so long before he met you, he’d wondered what he was doing all this for. His intellect, his job—it always felt like a machine churning without any real purpose. But with you, lying here in his arms, he knows. 

It’s for the way you can sleep soundly, untouched by the ugliness of the world. For the way you can keep enough of your light to bring into places he thought would always remain dark. Bertrand Russell said that envy was one of the most potent causes of unhappiness. But when it comes to you, Spencer finds it doesn’t matter. Yes, he envies your innocence, your unbroken joy, the way you make him smile even after the hardest days. But it’s a quiet kind of envy, the kind that makes his purpose clear. Because he’s made it his job—his life’s work—to protect people like you. To keep you safe from the things he can’t unsee, from the shadows that haunt his own nights.

It awakens something deep and instinctual in him, something unyielding. A primal need to protect you, to keep you sheltered from every storm. Spencer has never been quick to anger, never one to let wrath consume him. The Catholic Church teaches that anger, when it evolves into a deliberate, lethal intent, becomes gravely sinful—a mortal sin.

Spencer has spent years dissecting the complexity of human nature, he’s seen enough of humanity’s darkness to understand the weight of wrath and how sharp it cuts. He’s always believed he was different, too rational, too objective to ever give in to that kind of furious violence. 

But then, you came along.

And now he knows, if it ever came to that—if the world dared to reach for you, to try and take you from him—he would not hesitate. Every choice, every principle, every shred of his reasoned sanity would be sacrificed without question. If and when it ever came to you, he’d burn the entire world down if it meant keeping you safe, to protect the very heart of you. 

He presses a kiss to your head in an effort to ground himself. His kisses are deeper now, still tender but lingering longer. His lips trail lower, brushing over your temple, the slope of your shoulder. You shift slightly in your sleep, a soft murmur escaping your lips, but you don’t wake. Spencer breathes you in. The scent of you—cinnamon and sandalwood—faint traces of the perfume he’d picked out for you two months ago. 

In the stillness of the room, a soft glow catches his attention. His phone lights up on the nightstand, screen down, casting a faint halo on the wood. A message, maybe two—something that could wait. Especially when you’re here. 

Sloth is a sin of omission. Spencer understands its meaning, shirking responsibilities, choosing complacency over action. Ignoring his buzzing phone, his waiting work. All reminders of what he should be doing, of what he could be, if he let himself. He decides that he’ll shoulder it all again tomorrow. Tonight, the choice is clear. Tonight, he chooses you. 

But then the buzz sharpens into a ring, cutting through the stillness. He watches you stir, your brow furrowing as the sound pulls you from sleep. With a sigh, Spencer picks up the phone, already regretting the intrusion.

“Yeah?” he says softly, careful not to wake you fully.

Morgan’s voice crackles on the other end, urgent but not life-threatening—a file, a lead, something work-related that Spencer should care about but can’t bring himself to fully process. He glances at you, watching as you sit up, rubbing sleep from your eyes.

“Sorry,” he mouths, guilt flickering across his face. But you only move closer, leaning into him, a silent reassurance that you’re not all that annoyed by the disruption. 

As Morgan keeps talking, your lips find the edge of Spencer’s jaw, pressing soft, deliberate kisses against his skin. The first kiss is soft, exploratory. The second lingers, deliberate. He swallows hard, his free hand instinctively moving to your waist, fingers splayed against your hip as if to anchor himself. 

Ah, the final sin.

Lust.

Defined as an intense longing, a surrender to physical desire. Even the earliest of men had been warned of its impurity, it's the act that binds one as “a slave of the devil”. But in this moment, Spencer can’t think of anything holier than the way your lips trail from his jaw to his neck, slow and deliberate.

He clears his throat, trying to focus on Morgan’s words, but his resolve is crumbling. The effort feels futile as your kisses deepen, trailing a slow, intoxicating path around his neck. Each one pulls him further from the conversation on the phone, as if to remind him where his attention truly belongs. 

“Uh, Morgan,” he interrupts, his voice strained. “Can we talk about this in the morning?”

There’s a pause, a low chuckle from the other end. “Yeah, man. Go get some sleep.”

“Thanks,” Spencer mutters, ending the call.

Before he can set the phone down, your hand finds his, taking it and placing it face down on the nightstand. The motion is deliberate, final. Then you’re pulling him back to you, your lips claiming his, his hands wandering with lazy, unhurried intent. There’s no hurry, no rush—just the quiet of this moment.

You’re intoxicating, the thought of resisting the pull you have on him, inconceivable.

They say the seven deadly sins are the seven ways of mortal death, seven paths to eternal damnation, each a step away from redemption. But Spencer knows that he would blindly and gladly follow any path if it led him to you.

If surrendering to sin means getting to hold you like this—then so be it. He’d forgo every cup of caffeine, every fleeting subway seat, every awkward, unreciprocated greeting, if it meant tipping the scales just enough to keep these moments. He’ll take the sins, the ungodly weight of them, without question, without hesitation. To keep you. Always you.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

ᯓ★ song recs if you feel like it: work song by hozier meet me in amsterdam by rini

[rs-hawk]

I'd love to see more yeti or Bigfoot dragging their mate off to their cave in the woods

They're just slightly smart enough to communicate with gestures but not enough to understand why you'd want to leave

Y’all fr making me lose my mind with this asks. Love it

You decided to go hiking with a group of coworkers. It’s supposed to be a team building experience, but you don’t care about that. You’re just glad that you’ll get paid to be outside. It’s better than being trapped inside all day, listening to people you don’t care about complain about things you also don’t care about.

You started to get a bit ahead, nor caring about the gossip and taunting that your other coworkers are exchanging. Your one work friend pulled out last minute, making you wish you’d stayed home today. That feeling wouldn’t last for too long though.

As you followed the path, you lost sight of the group behind you when you looked back. While you felt relieved by that, you also wondered if that would mean you wouldn’t get paid since technically you weren’t apart of any of the “team building” and “morale strengthening” going on behind you. You pushed that thought from your mind and decided to keep going on. They were lucky you came at all. Surely no one would be so petty as to not pay you because you got excited and got a little ahead.

When you heard a branch breaking just off the path, you didn’t think too much of it. Someone probably just was catching up to you. However, when you heard thumping on the trees, a shiver went down your spine. You remembered your Dad telling you about Big Foot and how he always made himself known by banging on trees, and that horrid smell. Luckily you didn’t smell anything, so you pressed forward.

Again, you heard the branch breaking. This time you froze, looking towards the sound of the breaking branch. Just as soon as you saw the flash of brown fur, you were scooped up by it. A scream ripped from your throat as you were carried away from the trail faster than you could comprehend.

You were taken to a cave, where the creature set you on a bed of moss and leaves. It was soft at least. The creature that loomed over you was a stereotypical Big Foot, making your heart leap into your throat. He gestured for you to lay down, but you shook your head.

He frowned, gesturing again. You shook your head. “What? No. I need to leave.”

You pointed to the opening of the cave, but this time, the creature shook his head. He lightly pushed you onto your back, burying his furry face into the crock of your neck. The feeling of his tongue, lips and teeth on your neck drew out an involuntary moan from your lips. He took that as a sign of invitation, moving his large, furry hands down your body.

You jerked away, moving slightly closer to the mouth of the cave. He drew you back to him, now pinning you under him. His huge cock was already leaking precum, which he smeared against your jeans as he grinded against you. You couldn’t believe how soaking wet this thing was making you.

He tried to pull off your jeans, but was clearly confused and agitated. After a moment, you decided that this wasn’t real. It was just a dream, right? Big Foot isn’t real. What could it hurt to have a little fun?

You slipped off your jeans, and he groaned, back to grinding his leaking cock against you. The tip of his cock pushed your panties into you, obviously not understanding the barrier at first. Just as you’re about to pull them off, instead, he ripped them off. Within a second, he slammed his giant cock inside of you. That mix of pain and pleasure made you realize that this wasn’t a dream. It was real. But you were too cock drunk to care at this point.

The furry creature abused your poor dripping cunt merciless. He bit and nipped at your neck, leaving deep bruises all over your neck and throat. His fat cock stretched you out with every thrust, the tip of his cock hitting your cervix repeatedly. You knew that if he was to cum in you that there was no way that you wouldn’t get pregnant. It was basically in your womb with every thrust. Again though, you couldn’t bring yourself to care too much.

Big Foot groaned and grunted, sounding animalistic and feral as he used your poor human cunt. He flipped you over, shoving your face into the moss so he could reach deeper into you. This drew tears from you as you gripped the moss. Tears ran down your face as your eyes rolled back into your head. Your cunt was wrapped around him, drawing him in deeper. You wanted to beg for him to keep going just like that because you were so close, but you couldn’t get any words out. Instead you just moaned and whined, pushing back against him.

Finally, as you felt him pulsing inside of him, so close to cumming, you clenched down around him. Your orgasm finally flowed, making you choke out a sob into the moss. Your mind was fuzzy. Your cunt was throbbing excitedly. He moaned loudly at the feeling of you clenched around him, and that was all it took for him to release inside of you.

His cum filled you up, extending your stomach, rounding it out. It gave you a precursor to what your stomach would soon look like, round with his child.

[thewritetofreespeech]

May I request Nanami and Gojo finding out their s/o got disowned by her father, who is one of the higher-ups, because she showed mercy and defended Yuuji?

Nanami Kento

It was late at night when he got the knock at the door. So late, in fact, that Nanami was just about to go to bed, already in his pajamas with his teeth brushed, when he heard it.

“[Y/N]?” He asked curiously when he saw them there. Standing in front of his door, looking a mixture of distraught, sad, and just hopeless. A strange case given that they were usually so confident and strong as a Special Grade Sorcerer. “What’s wrong? Has someone died?”

“No. No one has died. I guess that’s the problem.” Nanami arched a brow at their cryptic comment, before they let out a shaky sigh. “Can I stay here tonight?”

He of course let them in. Offering tea or some kind of comforting drink, although they don’t take him up on the offer. “Will you tell me what’s wrong, please?”

They eventually break down and tell him everything. About the boy that ate one of Sukuna’s fingers. How he was slated for execution, which was cruel but reasonable in their world, and how that idiot had them stick their neck out to vouch for the boy’s hold even though they didn’t know a thing about him. Of course, Nanami knew that they would speak up for him. They had an incredible sense of morality and standing up for the weak. ‘That’s the job, isn’t it?’ They had told him that more than once.

Apparently not everyone shared their noble heart, it seemed. Not even those in her own family. For standing up to the higher ups and ‘embarrassing’ the family her father kicked her out with threats of disownment and banishment. Whether or not he meant to follow through would be a problem for tomorrow, but right now she was out on the street. Which in his opinion was unforgiveable already.

“You can stay here as long as you like.” Nanami told them. Amending their original request from earlier to stay the night.

[Y/N] sniffle once, but seem hell bent on refusing to cry. Nanami told them to take a shower if they wanted and he would find them some clothes to sleep in. They literally had nothing on them. So they would have to make do.

Both of them now in pajamas with their teeth brushed, [Y/N] curled up beside him and tried to get some sleep. It seemed a struggle, but the emotional exhaustion took hold, he thinks, and they both try to get the best night sleep possible for the hell that was to greet them in the morning.

Gojo Satoru

Gojo whistled down the hall as he made his way from one part of campus to the other. He was quite pleased with himself.

It wasn’t every day he got to ridicule and humiliate the higher-ups; despite his attempts and life’s goal to make it an everyday occurrence on his part. Those old fools didn’t know what hit ‘em when Gojo plead his case and told them what happened. He might not have gotten this Yuji kid off scot-free, but he bought him some time. That’s all he needed for Gojo’s master plan to come to fruition (whatever it was).

He passed a familiar doorway and saw a light was on. Thinking it had been left on by mistake, he invited himself in and was surprised to see [Y/N] there. Boxes on their desk as they were throwing things into it.

“Hey, isn’t it a little early for spring cleaning?”

“Not for me.” They told him. “I have to be out of here by morning.” Gojo tilted his head to the side, so they explained further. “I’ve been sacked.”

Gojo’s face was one of alarm. “Wait. What are you talking about?” They couldn’t have been fired. Really? For what??

“Apparently my behavior at the council meeting was ‘unbecoming of an educator at this institution’.”

Gojo growled in his throat. “That’s bullshit! I was there too, and it was my idea! I did all the talking!”

“Yes, but I don’t have the Gojo name to defend me.” His ire and shoulder fell. Oh shit….

“They seriously fired you?” [Y/N] nodded. He clicked his teeth. “Can’t you do something? Your dad maybe?” He’d hate to ask him for any favors, but if it kept [Y/N] here they should take it.

“Who do you think signed my ‘death warrant’?”

He wanted to say he was surprised, but he wasn’t.

“I’m sorry [Y/N]. I didn’t realize that you might –“you did the right thing Satoru. Even if it was originally for selfish reasons.” He sighed. So he guessed they knew that the only reason he initially did this was to piss this old coots off. They lifted the box and put in on their hip. “I’ll be fine. I’m not exiled entirely. Not yet. I’m still a Special Grade. Still can go on missions.”

“Yeah. Ones that will get you killed.” They all knew what happened to people who weren’t Gojo that stood up to the council. They were given mission in far off places and then ‘died under mysterious circumstances’ while in Brazil or Cameroon or something.

[Y/N] let out a bitter chuckle. “They’d have to catch me first. For now, I need to find a place to stay. Get an apartment. They took away my professor housing too, and I obviously can’t go home to dear-old-dad.”

“You’re staying with me.” Gojo cut in quickly.

[Y/N] seemed surprised, but quickly schooled it into coy. “Ooo….I never thought we’d be in a point in our relationship where we were moving in together.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

Gojo grabbed the box they were carrying and helped carry it out. “I really am sorry.” He apologized on the way.

“I know.” They told him. But that was all they said this time. No ‘you had a good reason’, ‘you did what you could’, ‘it’s not your fault’. He suddenly felt all the more guilty. He had to remember more often that just because things couldn’t touch him, that other people weren’t as lucky. Collateral damage was something he never thought of. He’d need to think about that more in the future. Especially with his new student.

[sing-me-under]

I don’t follow the HH tag because I’m not interested in it, and I genuinely do not care about people’s opinions on the writers. But I do frequently dive into the HB tags, and every single day, there’s another person complaining about one character or plot point or another as if it’s the end times of good and pure society as if the the corporate theme song ends with “Kids Die For Free!” and as if their spam of posts preaching isn’t just showing their lack of media literacy. It’s not like clogging up the tag or anything, but it’s still there frequently enough that I think they do deserve dunce caps.

I’m glad HH doesn’t have as pervasive an issue of inappropriate tagging as HB’s tags seems to. You should be able to enjoy your fandom with minimal effort. But I WANT to follow the character tags of the characters I like. I shouldn’t have to avoid certain character tags just because people lack media literacy and don’t want to tag properly.

Tumblr needs a badge identifying people who post critical and anti shit in the main tags. The “I personally don’t like this so I’m going to make it everyone else’s problem and interrupt their fun with my unasked for takes” badge.

[blamebrampton]

Books talk to each other. Mostly because practically every writer is also a voracious reader, but also because books arise out of times and places and we share a lot of our worlds these days. So it’s unsurprising that several novels I have hugely enjoyed over the past few years share the theme of the antiheroine who is past all giving of the fucks. Naomi Novik’s powerful dark sorceress kept on her own tight leash in the Scholomance books was a joy to follow; Xiran Jay Zhao’s Iron Widow slashed her way into my heart and now Sarah Rees Brennan’s Long Live Evil has added to a list of beloved antiheroines that probably started for me with Becky Sharp in Vanity Fair.

Coincidentally, when considering how to describe Long Live Evil without significant spoilers, I realised that it shared several major themes with Vanity Fair. Young woman unfairly treated by fate decides to embrace her slut era to survive a war zone – both very accurate and wildly inaccurate for both. LLE opens with main character Rae in a hospital bed, teasing her sister about a book series they both adore. Rae is taking refuge in the story they have shared over years because it is one of the few things they have left: she is losing her fight against cancer and has been losing parts of her life, family and memory as that fight has progressed.

My personal hospital experiences have all been to do with major traumas rather than illness, which I vastly prefer because if you don’t die in the first couple of days, you usually start mending and you can immediately make plans to make the best of whatever you’ve broken. Rees Brennan, however, famously wrote a very funny, very horrible, ‘Kids, you won’t believe what shenanigans your girl’s been up to now, it’s only stage four Hodgkins lymphoma!’ post on her Tumblr or LJ (someone who has been hit in the head with taxis fewer times than me will doubtless factcheck that in the notes) about seven or eight years ago and then faced the very serious business of trying to live. The hospital scenes are painfully authentic, as are the stories of people who have left Rae as she slipped further out of everyday life.

For Rees Brennan, a loving family and peer group were there to hold her as close as they could. For Rae, only her beloved little sister, Alice, and Time of Iron, their favourite fantasy series, remain. They read the books together, remember adventures cosplaying and watching the musical, they wonder about the final instalment; for Rae it’s a joy she can still share (even if she doesn’t remember as much as she should), for Alice, it’s her two greatest loves. When a strange woman offers a door into the world of the book and a possible magical cure to Rae, she wants it as much as she disbelieves it.

Stepping into Eyam, the land of Time of Iron, Rae finds herself in the body of a villain doomed to die the next day. No worries! She’s thought and fought her way out of worse scraps than this in her past as a head cheerleader, let alone while battling cancer. She can use her knowledge of the plot to change things! If only she remembered more of the books…

Portal fantasies are common enough, but not all play by the same rules. This isn’t Narnia, where the magical world is more real than our own, for Rae, the world of the book is nothing more a tool to get her hands on the cure. She doesn’t need to care about any of these people, they’re not real. Most of them speak in a formal language that relies on the conventions of fantasy literature (there is an ongoing, warm-hearted skewering of all Game of Thrones-esque texts running through both the story and the in-text ‘quotes’ from Time of Iron) and half the characters are known more by their descriptions rather than their names. So she will play the Beauty Dipped in Blood, with her questionable morals, impractical clothes and centre-of-balance-distorting boobs for the weeks that will pass until the cure is available. Whoever she has to shuffle in the plot to secure a place beside that cure, she will shuffle. While she’s not out to kill anyone, it’s not as though they were ever really alive. Not like her. If she has to be the villain to survive, she will be an impeccable one. The people will cheer evil on!

Obviously, little goes to plan. Rae’s illness has taught her cruelty, but she hasn’t forgotten what it is to be kind. Even as she manipulates her role into ongoing main character, she realises that’s not how anyone gets a happy ending. That’s not how she can live with herself. As she comes to think of the other people in the story as real, they become more so, both in how we read them and in how they impact the story. Rae remembers what it is like to make friends, which she never meant to, but, oh, the luxury after years of watching people slip away!

As in previous novel In Other Lands, Rees Brennan has a long list of fantasy tropes to embrace and undermine, and her deft touch with humour is as evident as ever here, but her publishers call this her first adult novel and there is a shift in tone from her previous works. Anger is more real and lasting. Consequences are more significant. Understanding is reached for, even if it’s bitter. One of my favourite things is that she lets her female characters rage, but never judges those who can’t, whether because they’re too powerless or just too tired, and her male characters are allowed to be people if they choose to be — which all but the most vainglorious do.

I hadn’t paid much attention beyond checking the release date for the book, so didn’t realise it was the first in a series. For me, it worked perfectly as a standalone novel, even with the unended threads, which would have perfectly balanced Rae’s unfinished life. That said, I am very happy to know we will spend more time with these characters in the future. I want more. I do want to know if there is a hope for Rae, if this is the fever dream of a fading life, if this is the story Alice has told to ease her sister from the world or something else. There are a dozen characters I hope for, at least three happy endings that would bring joy. But don’t wait for the next books: sink your teeth into this one and believe what it says about the importance of listening to stories rather than just falling in love with characters. Though if you find yourself cheering on Rae, or her servant Emer, the elusive Eric, Horrible Hortensia or almost any of the others, I am the last person who will judge you.

[unfortunate17]

I have been thinking about both Wille’s and Simon’s character progression throughout the series and I have realized that it sort of looks like Wille has a pretty good character progression and has been pretty profoundly affected by Simon and their relationship (in a good way). But I don’t really see any of that for Simon. It sort of look alike he has had more things “taken away” by their relationship. He has lost his privacy, and gets hate to the point where he has had to delete his SM and he gets a rock thrown his window. In a way if they hadn’t gotten back together, it looks like all Simon would’ve gained from this period is trauma. Do you think he gained any positive things from this relationship (in the case they hadn’t gotten back together)?

So I’ve spent a long time thinking about this since you sent me this and I have a lot of thoughts about it, but they’re kind of all botched together. Hopefully I do a decent job explaining myself:

In my opinion, Simon definitely has an arc, it’s just more subtle and not as “flashy” as Wilhelm’s. This is genuinely fine with me for multiple reasons: 1. Simon just isn’t the main character of this story - Wilhelm is. So he’s not going to be the one to go on a life-altering journey 2. Simon, narratively, functions has the moral compass around which Wilhelm centers his life around. He’s there to push Wilhelm into embarking on this life-altering journey.

That being said, Simon’s story arc is really simple and very personal, but no less beautiful. We start in S1 with Simon being loudly himself, and Wilhelm adoring him for it, but this quickly becomes an issue - namely, Wilhelm starts to lowkey take advantage of Simon’s generosity and kindness, and ultimately betrays him. Which is why we get that big argument with Sara where she accuses him of “letting people piss all over him.”

Moving into S2, we see a Simon who’s taken that conversation to heart - he’s firm with his boundaries, he doesn’t want to give Wilhelm a second chance, he doesn’t want to forgive because he thinks Wilhelm isn’t sorry. Then, he has another conversation with Sara, where she basically tells him, hey, love is crazy, it makes you do crazy things. And yes, she’s projecting here, but once again, Simon takes her words to heart and decides to follow his feelings. He essentially “gives in” to his love for Wille and decides that no matter what, he wants to make this relationship work because he’s in love, damnit, and he wants to be with Wille no matter what.

And this is the mindset that Simon enters S3 with. That’s why we see him making himself small and trying to appease everyone. He’s just so in love, and he wants it to work so badly, until he just can’t anymore. Notably, he doesn’t end things for his own sake - he does it for Wilhelm. He sees that being with Simon is hurting him because it’s allowing Wille to use him as an emotional crutch and stay stagnant in life. So he leaves, starts to close himself off again. And then - dun dun dun - he has another conversation with Sara. He tells her, damn, you were right, I need to stop being a pushover and she shoots back with no Simon, YOU were right, we should give people second chances. And thus, Simon gets out of the car and gives Wille one more chance.

So what does Simon gain out of all of this? Basically, he’s learning to trust himself and his feelings. His entire arc is him basically learning: hey, my morals were right from the start! This is how I want to live my life! Which makes sense really because this is the role he’s playing in Wilhelm’s arc. And it’s not a particularly sexy discovery, but it’s a really powerful thing to learn, especially in your teenage years.

As for specifically Simon’s relationship with Wilhelm and what he gained from that outside of his arc: Wilhelm adores Simon for exactly who he is. And I think it’s a really profound, valuable thing to experience what it feels like to be loved and be in love with someone who really sees you and wants to stick by you through thick and thin. In many ways, Simon has always had to earn love, but he never has to earn Wilhelm’s love. And that’s kind of life-altering in and of itself - to know that love like that exists and that you are deserving of it.

But what do I know fr 😭

[shaunamilfman]

Lucy MacLean x Wastelander R HC's

you start looking at her in a new light after she sets off a grenade that takes out a room full of enemies. you're so impressed with her that she doesn't have the heart to tell you that she just accidentally tripped into a row of shelves and knocked an old grenade on the floor. 

“you want the head?”/ Lucy, love-struck “i mean if you're offering.” a pause, thinking over what you just said and looking disappointed. ”wait– did you say the head?"

most shocked look ever watching you loot bodies. on her high horse talking about “stealing is wrong” till you agree and say you just won’t be able to have dinner that night then. suddenly she’s willing to make exceptions to her morals, go figure.

whenever she starts talking too much, you start describing the most horrific looking monsters you've fought. she's following silently behind you in horror for a good mile before she manages to shake that description off and starts talking just as eagerly again. the silence was nice while it lasted. 

Lucy pretends to not know how to do things so that you’ll teach it to her as an excuse to talk to you but takes it way too far. you’re like, “what do you mean you don’t know how to open a can?” while she looks visibly upset that you don’t wrap your arms around her to show her how like she’s seen in those pre-war movies.

uses your rations to try to tame herself a pet while you're camping for the night. you’re looking everywhere for your last box of sugar bombs only to find a shameless Lucy feeding it to the ugliest animal you’ve ever seen as she tries to entice it to do tricks. She insists that she doesn’t understand why you’re mad about it but you can’t help but notice she never uses her rations for it. you end up getting so mad that you can’t even speak to her, which turns out to be the most effective punishment you ever could have come up with. she’s sitting there and begging you to talk to her because she's going crazy without human interaction (it's been five minutes).

you’re surprised and a little sad to see that Lucy isn’t in the camp when you wake up the next morning but it’s fine. You don’t need her anyway, right? You try not to look relieved when she trudges in halfway through taking the camp down covered in soot and grime and collapses in her cot as she holds up a pristine box of sugar bombs she spent all night searching for.

Lucy sees you smile one (1) time and will not get over it. “you have such a pretty smile, you should really smile more. you know it really lights up your face and…” on and on for like ten minutes. The type to grab for your face to pull the sides of your lips up to make you smile. You’re still visibly frowning, just with your lips pulled up at the sides. Lucy’s so frustrated with you mostly because she realized you’re actually really nice to look at when you aren’t glaring at everything. 

Lucy would call you lover unironically. goes through a million different terms of endearment before finally deciding on that one. it was one of the least embarrassing ones that she suggested so you wearily let it happen. walking for miles with Lucy trying them out initially like "honey. baby. teddy bear. big teddy bear of death? murder bear? no, okay, got it. sweetie. babe…” 

pretending not to know about things Lucy is referencing to see how long it takes for her to realize you’re messing with her. she's talking about her book club and you’re like “book? what's a book?” and she’s spiraling trying to explain the concept of written word to you

no concept of flirting. give her your absolute best lines and she's like “haha… okay?”. got to be as blunt as possible. tell her you want to fuck and she's like “oh yeah, sure.”

[keanusteddy]

🎸 NEW GIRL AT SCHOOL 🎸 ted logan x reader headcanons

A/N: Trying out something a little different. I’m very nervous to post this, since I’ve only ever done bots before. Hopefully it isn’t total rubbish.

Ted definitely hadn’t been paying any attention to what was going on in the classroom before you walked in. He and Bill had been too busy brainstorming new song lyric ideas.

“Who cares about some short dead french dude. We won’t need all this useless information when Wyld Stallyns becomes famous.” Bill had said to Ted, whilst messily scribbling down some lyrics at the back of his history notebook.

Ted had been so focused on his songwriting, that he didn’t even notice you walk into the room. It was only when Mr. Ryan told him and Bill to pay attention, that he looked up to see you.

“Everyone listen up! This is y/n and they will be joining us this year at San Dimas High. I want everyone to make them feel welcome.” Whilst Mr. Ryan introduced you to the classroom, Ted stared at you with his big brown eyes. He looked like a love sick puppy dog.

“I’m in love dude.” Ted shuffled his seat closer to Bill and whispered to him.

When you end up sitting in the seat next to Ted (it was the only seat in class left), he immediately became flustered and nervous. There was no way that he could focus on the lesson now even if he tried.

Throughout the whole lesson, Ted couldn’t help but steal glances in your direction. He also attempted to impress you with his laidback and nonchalant attitude, cracking jokes and giving witty responses during class discussions to catch your attention. However, it seemed that Ted’s antics had not impressed you.

Ever since you joined Ted’s history class, he had been arriving on time to Mr. Ryan’s lessons. Ted didn’t want you to think of him as the class slacker, even though he was already pretty much one.

Ted wants you to think that he’s smart. He’ll sit up a bit straighter in his seat and pay more attention in class. He even takes notes! Mr. Ryan can’t believe his eyes.

Ted may even raise his hand to answer questions and discuss historical events. He’s not correct most of the time but his silly responses sometimes get a smile and a giggle out of you, which makes his day.

Ted still goes back into his own world and daydreams in class (specifically about you). At the back of his notebook, he doodles your name and his together with a big heart around it. Ted is also a good drawer. He’ll draw pictures of you both holding hands.

He always makes sure his notebook is in a secure place. He would die of embarrassment if you ever saw his silly little doodles. Not even Bill knows about them.

Ted becomes incredibly clumsy and awkward around you, constantly tripping over his own two feet whenever you are nearby. Countless times he’s almost bumped into somebody, walked into a trash can and dropped his school books in the hallway.

Ted was harmless but he would low-key act like a stalker. During lunch times he would attempt to discreetly follow you around and he would bring Bill along with him for moral support.

“Dude. You are seriously acting like a total stalker. Just go up and talk to her. Recite her some lyrics!” Bill would always say to Ted, trying to convince him to make a move.

Ted has been observing you so much, that he now knows what you bring to lunch each day and where your favourite spots are to sit and eat.

Ted thinks he’s being sneaky, but a few times you have spotted him hiding behind a tree or a bush. His fluffy hair would always been sticking out.

Both of your lockers are right near each others in the hallway. Ted will peak around from his open locker door and watch as you put your books away or take out books.

One day you spotted him peaking around at you and you gave him a friendly smile. Ted nearly fainted on the spot.

You are now the inspiration for the songs that Ted writes. These songs often talk about your beautiful smile, and bubbly personality. Ted only wishes that one day you could hear it :((

[sovasleepy]

beauty sleep

[ gekko x reader ] — when you fall asleep wearing makeup, gekko does his best to clean your face without waking you ; part 2

warnings: the reader is gender neutral, although the reader is described to be wearing makeup so take that as you will. also a brief mention of being drunk/alcohol but its not gekko or the reader.

notes: requested by anon! i hope you enjoy :)

the usual banter between phoenix and jett played out in front of you. they were high off of a victory, much like yourself and several other agents that had joined together for a victory feast at a local takeout place. what was supposed to be a quick run for food turned into a posse of idiots parading around downtown, much to the credit of an already half-drunken skye.

phoenix quickly followed her, his energy coaxing the fire that was already brewing in the hearts of the agents. a particularly important mission had gone incredibly well that day and the entire team was still riding high.

jett snorted as she shoved phoenix, laughing at whatever cheesy joke he’d laid on her.

“love the energy, but i’m far too tired to match it.” gekko spoke, leaning his head slightly towards you. his voice was much softer and quieter than their’s. it was a sharp contrast to the loud, chirpy voices of those around you.

“couldn’t agree more.” you grumbled.

as much as you loved your friends, you were happy to have them split off into their own directions once you were back at base. gekko was the only one to follow.

he padded toward your door and gently held it open for you. he watched you walk in, but hesitated another moment before speaking.

“could i come in? i know we’re both tired, i just don’t think i’m ready to sleep yet, yknow?”

you nodded and smiled. gekko always had a weird way of matching your emotional state, purposefully or not. absently kicking away a t-shirt that had ended up on your floor, you apologized for the state that your room was in and invited him in.

you proceeded to hit the mattress, and you were out like a light.

“thank you,” he spoke, words falling on deaf ears. his eyes scanned your room. he took in the decorations, noting how such small things were marked by traces of your hobbies or personality. “i just need to be around ‘calm’ for a while before i knock out, is all.”

he sat on the edge of your bed. he didn’t notice the fact that you were asleep. he continued to mutter to himself for another moment, before finally turning to see your reaction.

“well,” he spoke one last time. “that would explain the silence.”

still, he didn’t leave. he felt creepy. as though he was spying on you in some weird way. but you had invited him in, right? so there wasn’t something morally off about it, he assured himself.

he would like to deny the warmth that spread in his chest as he observed you, but that would make him a liar. while the thoughts were always in the back of his mind, he never truly got the chance to fully take you in. every curve and every feature of your face, the slight pinch in your brows as you slept, and the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest. it took him a while to realize the other thing he was seeing.

“isn’t falling asleep with makeup on bad for your skin? or your pillows or something.” he whispered softly to himself.

as he did, he slowly got up from where he sat on edge of your bed. a quick glance around your room offered him nothing, but he didn’t want to turn on your light and wake you. you looked so peaceful, after all.

quietly, gekko walked toward your bathroom. after trying for a miserable ten minutes to figure out which washcloth in your bathroom was the softest, he finally settled on one. he stepped towards your sink to dampen it, where his eyes caught a sleeve with the words “makeup removing wipes” printed on the side.

yeah, that seemed like a better idea than his.

makeup wipes in tow, he finally returned to your sleeping form. slowly, as if it would make a difference, he turned on your lamp. he froze as if to make sure you were still asleep.

he pulled one wipe from the package, gently rubbing at your skin. after a second, he pulled back and checked the wipe. he was doing this correctly… wasn’t he?

how often were you supposed to change wipes? or was it just one for the whole face? how hard was too hard to rub? how expensive were these wipes, anyway? how does he know when your face is clean? would the liquid that dampened the wipe hurt if it got in your eyes?

oh well. he could try his best, at least.

he discarded the dirty wipe in the trashcan near your bed and retrieved a new one. he continued his process of gently rubbing your face, taking extra care around your eyes and making sure he wasn’t pressing down so hard as to irritate your skin.

when he was sure he was done, he closed the container and returned it safely to the bathroom counter.

he came back when he was done. gently setting his weight on the bed, he smoothed down your hair with one hand and smiled at your sleeping form.

“you don’t really need your beauty sleep, but i guess i can let you have your sleep-sleep.” gekko commented after a beat.

he sat up gently as to not disturb you. he clicked off your lamp and shut your door softly behind himself as he left you to rest.

[jolalibrary]

voicemails

frankie morales x f!reader

do we drabble on sundays? is this what we do? well, anyway, here’s some soft sunday fluff. no warnings: except fluff and sweetness and lovely softness. dedicated to @msjarvis who didn't ask for this but I’m giving anyway.

JUST THINKING ABOUT HOW THE TWO OF YOU BEGIN LEAVING VOICE NOTES FOR ONE ANOTHER. It started one time when life took one of you away from the other—the bed you share and the walls you laugh inside of are lonely without the pair of you together. Because it all feels vaster, quieter.

Then it became a thing. A make-do measure, a thing both of you grew to need first thing in the morning and last thing at night. A habit. A tradition. The day not beginning or ending without it.

It quickly becomes a comfort, a thing that brings the both of you joy, happiness—in the same way the scent of your shampoo does for him and how when he’s alone he leans closer to your pillow because it lingers and he consumes as much of it as he can to trick himself he’s not lay in bed alone.

Your voice in the morning makes up for the fact your mug isn’t left on the side or in the sink, all used. Because he hates it when he wakes and finds it in the cupboard, where he put it last night, it rumbling through him and making his chest clench.

There’s a list of things he misses when you’re not home, and if he begins, he isn’t sure he’ll ever stop.

Frankie supposes you’ll have your own list. An itinerary of things you miss about him when he’s out of town. Sometimes you share them, let them slip out and mumble them down the phone when you’re pacing, unsure what to do when he’s not home. It makes his heart squeeze in his chest, all tight, especially when he hears you doing mundane things he usually gets to watch you do, like cook or make a drink.

It’s why he likes the voice notes. Likes being a part of your day even if he’s not there. Has the chance to listen to them on his drive or when he’s brushing his teeth—pretending, even in hotel rooms—that you’re closer than you are. Staring at your contact photo as you say those three words, I miss you.

The voice notes range in topic. Sometimes they’re about your day, about the fucker you work with that he’d love to break the nose off; sometimes they’re a ramble about your breakfast, interspersed with a minor rant about something. Odd times they’re about dinner, hearing you move things in the refrigerator before you confess you’ll order and leave him leftovers.

He has his favourites, a handful of ones he’ll listen to on days where he needs more sunshine. One is the day you tripped, again, over his toolbox. An odd choice, he knows. It beginning all high-pitched, voice tinged in venom and anger:

“Francisco Morales, if you leave your toolbox in the hallway one more time—“

Then it was doused in sweetness, absolute honey, and it wasa exhilarating to fucking listen to.

“—Oh, you washed up. Oh, baby. Well, shit—Frankie, I love you okay? Just put your damn tools away.”

But the one he has saved is one where you’ve tired, exhausted—brain having kept you awake and every noise in the house doing something to make the shadows seem more dangerous than they were. You’re babbling, eyes likely closed, voice just reeling off the things your brain is thinking—no filter, no barrier between thought and tongue.

“—and baby, even though I’ve been sleeping in your clothes, I miss you. ‘Cause you make me happy—so happy, you know that? You have to. Tell you a lot. The bed does feel super weird without you. It’s really cold, and big—like too big. I turned the thermostat up, I know, I know, I’ll turn it down. Oh, and baby, I saw sprinkles moonwalk again on the fence. I did try to record it—but, you know me, I’m clumsy, chipped my phone. Don’t be mad. Please. I know you won’t cause you’re good, kind, nice—god you makemehappy. So tired. Justwanttosleep, you know?—“

He remembers driving back through the night the following day—slipping in, quiet as a mouse. Old training came in handy as he slid out of his boots and cautiously placed his keys.

Frankie managed to miss the floorboard he needs to fix, the one that usually gives him away—and even remembered to not use the light in the bathroom. His last test had been the bed, somehow managing to get in with precision, even roll you closer without waking you.

It’s worth it, all the time away—the voice notes in between—for the life he’s able to build with you and the look he wakes to in the morning.

A thing he thinks each time.

Because you look at him like he solved every problem wrong in your world; you look at him like he makes the impossible, possible.

And, after all he’s been through, he’d been sure that ship had more than sailed. That his chance had gone, faded, slipped through his fingers like water or dust.

But here you are. Your voice filling his ear in real time, whispering a good morning, if he had a safe drive—and he’s full of gratitude all over again. As he is every time he gets to hear your voice—in person or through the phone.

an: sometimes, voice notes are just the best, right? I also love voice mails, and all voice related things.

[sugudoe]

have you ever considered jjk men (maybe.. maybe toji...) and a reader who seems so strong very brave not scared of curses takes everything in stride what have you. but absolutely just crumples at thunderstorms 😭

✶ 𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐬: mention of blood and reader being a kiIIler ╱ anxiety attack

✶ 𝐚. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: hope you like this, i know it was supposed to be cute, but i got carried away. also, this reader had an encounter with reader from “on my way”, you can read if you want, but there is a basic explanation about what happened.

Your line of work had stained your bones and soul a long time ago, hardened your expressions and emotions. You don’t get to smile when you took someones life, is a constant thought you have.

Weakness, as a hitman, is equally tainted by the blood you take. As any human being — even if you may act more like a predator or beast sometimes — you have some of your own, hidden away from prying eyes and, as of recently, your boyfriend Toji.

Relationships aren’t supposed to have secrets, but one or two won’t hurt him, specially as pathetic as this, you think.

But still, those tangled nots you made on the door that unlocks your sensitive part, all untie at Toji’s house — it takes thunder in the sky and lighting on the floor, all followed by a blackout.

You had been in the shower, scrubbing away all the blood from a disgusting mission, the red liquid sticking to your skin, soaking up to your interior, but you held your head higher, pretending it was nothing.

Of course, the moment the house shook with the lightning, you had no reaction but to scream. Stupid, isn’t it? The fear of blades and curses and even jujutsu sorceress is not enough to cause a reaction out of you, it barely changes your heart palpitations. There is a need of more fingers to count how many of those have you fought and won. But, there is always light at the darkness absorbing you. Light as in the one that falls from the sky and strikes at you, the perfect pattern of scars along your back, a reminder — long ago, one sorcerer could summon those, and you survived by miracle, by mercy.

Toji never noticed those scars before, your intimate life was always rushed by the return to a mission, lights out and the focus solely on the feelings. Now, though, he sees them. When he crashes his door down, a long silver sword in hand, frantic eyes shinning in the dark, and turning into frightened and curious, that’s when the energy comes back — when you are bare and scared, in your most unprotected moment. Fat tears rolling on your face, you avoid his, while you reach the towel and put over your body. You leave the bathroom and your stunned boyfriend behind.

Save yourself some grace and morality, your reputation and maybe dignity, you put Toji’s shirt and shorts and fall on his cold bed, trembling under the covers with the crescent sound of thunder up in the clouds.

Could mercy be revoked by the one that hurt you? She could be up there, in the clouds, looking for you. That’s a constant thought you have had since that terrible day, the fear that with the storms might come your prey that turned predator.

You flinch when Toji’s large arms cradle you into his chest. He is silent, except for his unhinged breathing, much like yours, when his hands move under your shirt, cold fingers softly touching your thick scars — the perfect copy of what had hit you that day, sometimes, the pain comes back and it’s a constant memoir of what you felt. Today, with his caress, you don’t feel much. You don’t feel anything, except for the tears still escaping and the burning on your throat.

“I’m sorry,” you said, “you’re not supposed to see me like this.” weak, you add in your head.

“If not me, then who?” Toji asks, moving you so you can face him, and not your back. “You’re not weak, whatever happened, you survived, don’t think I could. I can’t barely handle tasers.” He cleans the tears from your cheeks, soon, replacing his finger with his lips in multiple soft kisses.

“I’m supposed to be stronger than angry clouds.” You whisper.

“You are.” he moves back to search for something in your eyes, maybe he found them, because a small smile forms on his face. “Yeah, stronger than clouds, than your scars, than your fears. I see you, and I see someone powerful.”

“I’m supposed to be like you,” you keep trying to make him understand you, how weak you are, “fearless.”

“What makes you think I’m not scared of anything?” Toji cocks and eyebrow before snickering. “I believe my strength comes from luck, and I’m afraid one day this luck will wash out down the drain some day.”

“Like blood?” you ask, he nods.

“Like blood, from my enemies, mine. Maybe one day I’ll find out.”

“I hope you never do.” You raise your head, chin resting on his breast. “I hope you stay for a long time, keep being this lucky bastard who fights anyone with ease. And I hope you stay to comfort me.”

“In all the storms there is, be in the sky, or in your head. I’ll be there.”

Toji kisses you, hugging your body and, you could guess, your soul. Your broken and ugly devastated soul, he loves it with care and no prejudice. In his arms, there is no lightning that can reach you, no thoughts of being hunted — who would come your way with him protecting you?

[jerzwriter]

Thank you to @snoopdogcone for this ask. For @choicesprompts Flufftober event: Drunken confessions. This is a follow-up (of sorts) to Edenbrook Mysteries: The Secret Admirer

Book: Open Heart (Post Series) Characters: Tobias Carrick & Ethan Ramsey Rating: Teen Words: 751 Summary: Tobias & Ethan remain behind at the bar after a retirement party ends, and Tobias has some news to share.

A/N: Participating in @choicesmonthlychallenge Laughter & warm hugs.

My Masterlist | OH Masterlist

The crowd at the dimly lit bar had thinned out, and the raucous laughter that had filled the air just hours before had been replaced with the soothing sounds of a jazz trio and ambient chatter. But as Ethan and Tobias were about to make clear, the reasons to celebrate this evening were far from over. With car service lined up, they ordered another round despite their dubious state.

“I still can’t believe Dr. Santos is... retiring,” Ethan slurred, raising his glass to his colleague. “The man’s in his prime!”

"In his prime?" Tobias chuckled, though nothing funny had been said. “The man’s old as dirt.”

“He’s seventy-three!” Ethan replied, looking offended.

“Right,” Tobias smirked, sipping his whisky. “Practically a schoolboy.”

“Speaking of schoolboys,” Ethan nudged. “I heard you have some competition! Has Connor stopped laying it on thick with Casey?”

Tobias snorted. “Oh, yeah! My 10-year-old romantic rival? I’m taking that kid down, don’t you worry.”

“Do you expect me to be impressed?” Ethan teased. “You can one-up a fourth-grader. What are you going to do? Distract him with Fortnite?”

Tobias shook his head, giggling in a way that only occurred when he had a few too many. “Nope,” he said, leaning into Ethan. “I’m doing something BIGGER. WAY bigger. And I need you to do it.”  

Ethan quirked an eyebrow. “Are you propositioning me, Carrick?”

Tobias laughed so hard he almost spilled his drink. “You fucking wish! No! I’m not propositioning you, Ethan. But... there is a question involved.”

“Well, in advance, you’re not my type,” Ethan deadpanned.

“Well, I will be on Saturday,” Tobias brimmed with excitement. “Because I need your help. I’m going ring shopping... for Casey, and I want you to come along with me.”

Ethan’s eyes went wide, and it felt like he sobered right up. “Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack,” Tobias said, his voice more level. “I’m proposing to Casey, and you’re the first to know.”

Ethan broke into a smile. “You haven’t even told your mother? She’ll kill me if she finds out I knew before her!”

“Don’t worry,” Tobias chuckled with a pat on his friend’s back. “I’ll protect you... I need a best man, after all.”

Ethan turned toward Tobias, his face softened. “Your best man? Me?”

“Yeah,” Tobias grinned. “You were like a brother to me for a long time... and I think we’ve gotten back to that... in large part because of Casey, it only seems right.”

“I... I don’t know what to say,” Ethan muttered.

“Say yes! Just like I hope Casey will,” Tobias laughed.

“Of course, yes!” Ethan grinned, reaching out to shake Tobias’s hand.

“None of that handshake crap,” Tobias scoffed, pulling him into a hug. “This is bro-hug territory, buddy.”

“God, you’re insufferable,” Ethan muttered, but it didn't stop him from hugging.

“Goddamn! Tobias Carrick proposing, and hell hasn’t even frozen over!”

“Yeah, well, that’s probably due to global warming,” Tobias grinned. “But you’ve got to admit, I’ve changed.”

“Because Casey’s a miracle worker, in and out of the hospital,” Ethan smiled. “She made an honest man out of you, after all!”

“She’s the best,” Tobias said softly, his smile tender. “I love her, Ethan. More than I thought possible.”

A slow grin spread over Ethan’s face. “So, Saturday. What do you need me for? Moral support? Picking out engagement rings isn’t something I have a lot of experience with.”

“And I do,” Tobias laughed. “If I’m going to be a bumbling idiot, I want you to be by my side... being a bigger bumbling idiot.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Anytime,” Tobias grinned. “Regardless, it’s going to be a great day!”

“It will be. Hey, Bartender!” Ethan called out with a wicked grin. “Another round! My friend’s getting married!”

Tobias laughed, waving him off. “You know what? Maybe we’re done with that part of the night. Besides, she has to say yes first.”

“Do you think there’s any doubt of that?” Ethan asked.

Tobias shrugged, flashing a grin. “Nah. I mean... look at this. How could she resist?”

“Aaand, there’s the Carrick we all know,” Ethan teased.

When they stumbled out of the bar, it felt like they were back in med school. Their laughter barrelled down Boston’s dark streets as if the years of troubles between them had all but washed away. Having Casey in his life was the best thing that ever happened to Tobias; he’d never deny that. But Ethan being his best friend again? It was a pretty darn close second.

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

[theewokingdead]

Breaking Free - Francisco "Catfish" Morales x Plus Size f!Reader

Pairing: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x Plus Size f!Reader Summary: You’ve always felt insecure about your body, especially since your last relationship. It isn’t until you meet Frankie that you wonder if there is more to life than worrying about your appearance. He tells you he loves your body, worships it, makes you feel things you've never felt before. Can you finally feel confident in your own skin? Can you finally break free from your body-hating demons and let yourself love who you are - and let Frankie love you? Word Count: 8.8k+ Rating: Mature – 18+ ONLY POV: First Person Warnings: Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story.  A/N: I took over the following ask received by @musings-of-a-rose: "Frankie and the reader (Fem) has been dating for a year and they are completely in love especially Frankie, but the reader is extremely insecure about her body, even if Frankie says he love her body and everything about her, so every time they are in private they have to do it with the lights off but Frankie doesn't really matter about, he give you the time you need, until one night you decide to face your insecurities and surprise Frankie, please do it with all the smut you can." I’ve never answered an ask before because I’m terrified of disappointing people. I guess this is me, like Reader, facing some of my insecurities. I hope you enjoy! Hope this is enough smut! **Reader is plus sized with stretch marks and cellulite, but is otherwise not described. **Post-Triple Frontier but no mention if he has a child or not Please follow @theewokingdeadwrites to get notifications when I post new fics

Masterlist

“What?” I question, leaning towards Frankie, who’s standing next to me with a wide smile and a look of absolute adoration in his eyes while looking at me. The crowded bar bustles around us, filled with people and music and chatter, an atmosphere of excitement filling the room with Christmas just around the corner.

“Nothing,” he replies, practically having to shout over the noise of the bar. He seems embarrassed that I caught him admiring me, but he wasn’t exactly being subtle. He never is. “It’s just…you look incredible tonight. I mean, you always look incredible, but…” He awkwardly rubs at the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing. “I just can’t believe you’re mine.”

I dip my head, hiding a shy smile, never one to easily accept a compliment. “Thanks,” I say softly but sincerely before sipping the drink in my hand.

It’s odd, hearing someone compliment my appearance. I’ve given up on ever finding myself beautiful; it’s never crossed my mind that other people could still find me attractive. I’ve never heard as many positive things as I’ve heard from Frankie these last few weeks. It feels strange and wonderful, but I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever be able to believe him.

Taking a deep breath, I remind myself that this is normal. This is how a relationship should be, how a boyfriend should treat his girlfriend. Just because I can’t see my body through his eyes doesn’t mean I shouldn’t trust his words.

Slowly, I tilt my head back up, my eyes meeting his gaze. I can feel the corner of my mouth curving into a sly smile. “I’m pretty sure you don’t own me though,” I reply teasingly, my voice playful. My heart is pounding in my chest as I bask in the thrill of our interaction, waiting for his response. Though we are just two people standing in a bar, it feels like we are each other’s entire universe.

As he stands there before me, I am struck by how the light catches in his deep brown eyes, causing them to twinkle like stars. His broad shoulders fill out his shirt perfectly, making him look both strong and gentle at the same time.

Frankie laughs, his eyes sparkling with joy. “No, I don’t own you…” he says, his voice trailing off as he leans in closer to me. “But say the word and I’ll make you mine.”

I smile, mischievously. “I thought I was already yours, Francisco?”

He chuckles, the sound deep and warm. “I meant in a different way, bebita,” he whispers. “I want to make you mine in every way possible.”

A shiver runs down my spine at his words, my heart pounding faster as I look up at him.

The corner of his mouth twitches with a smirk as he leans in closer, his warm breath fanning across my cheek. His hand slides down to rest on the small of my back. He leans in closer, brushing his lips against my ear. “I want to take you home with me,” he murmurs.

My eyes go wide, my cheeks flush as I realize the heated implication behind his words. My body is already responding to his touch. I lean in closer to him, the noise of the bar fading into the background as I focus solely on him.

“I want to worship you,” he continues. His voice is low and raspy, sending a shiver through my body. “I want to make you feel so good that the only name you remember is mine.”

My heart races at his words, my stomach clenching with anticipation. I never thought I could feel this way about someone, never thought I could be so deeply in – dare I say it? - love. But with Frankie, everything feels different.

“Okay,” I reply, my voice quiet. “Make me yours, Francisco.”

The ride to his place is silent, but my mind is racing. Anticipation bubbles up from my stomach and makes its way through the rest of my body, like a hot drink sloshing in a cup. I steal glances at Frankie, drinking in his rugged features and muscular build. The way his hand grips the steering wheel makes me ache for him, imagining those strong hands on my body, the rough skin sliding against the softness of mine. I almost tremble with need for him. But I’m also afraid that he’ll take my clothes off and doesn’t like what he sees.

It's been longer than I care to admit since I’ve been completely nude in front of anyone. And Frankie has told me that he loves my body, but until now, I haven’t been comfortable enough with him to take my clothes off. We’ve never done anything more than making out and heavy petting before, and I’m terrified.

As we step inside his apartment, I can feel my nerves intensifying. I take a deep breath, steadying myself before turning to face him. He stands before me, his eyes roaming over me hungrily, making my heart race with a mixture of fear and excitement. His gaze lingers on my curves, and for a moment, I feel self-conscious, but then he takes a step closer, his hand reaching out to brush my hair from my face.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, his lips closing in on mine. I melt into his kiss, my arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer to me. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, his hands roaming over my body, igniting every nerve in me. I moan against his lips, unable to resist his touch any longer.

Frankie breaks away from the kiss, his eyes dark and lustful. “I need to have you,” he growls, his hand sliding down to grip my ass, pulling me closer to him.

I can feel the sharp jut of his erection pressing against me, and the thought that he wants me makes me burn with desire. Somehow, we reach his bedroom, Frankie kicking the door closed behind him. He turns to reach for the light switch on the wall, but I quickly grab ahold of his wrist, stopping him.

“Don’t,” I blurt out, my voice echoing through the room. The light filters through the blinds from the moonlight and streetlights outside – enough so that it isn’t pitch black, but the shadows still lurk in every corner. It’s all we need – I don’t want him to see my flaws, to see my heart racing like a wild animal inside my chest. I want, more than anything, to share a passionate night with Frankie, but I can’t let him see me – not when my body is the way it is.

I stand there frozen, watching as he moves closer, a small part of me knowing that he’s not looking at my imperfections. He sees something else entirely. Something that makes me feel seen for the first time in years.

“Are you okay with this?” Frankie questions, concern laced in his voice. “I don’t expect anything from you just because you got this far. If you’re not ready-”

“I’m fine,” I reply as casually as possible, but my words come out almost a bit harsh. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m here because I want this,” I say with more conviction. “It’s just…” I hesitate, thinking about how to explain the truth without revealing too much of myself. “It’s been a while for me.”

“How long?”

“I-I don’t know,” I respond with a shrug. “I stopped counting. At least a year.”

“No pressure then, right?” he jokes, his eyebrows raised and cheeks puffed out in a boyish smile. He reaches for my hand, his fingers warm on mine as he grips them. “I really want this. I want you.” He smiles shyly. “I, uh…” His throat bobs and his cheeks flush. “I think I’m falling for you.”

Smiling softly, I reply, “I think I’m falling for you too.”

Frankie’s lips boldly meet mine as his arms wrap around my waist, pulling me close. His tongue slips into my mouth and swirls around mine. I can feel the heat radiating from his body as it crowds mine, both arousing and protecting me at once, making me feel like nothing else in the world matters. The smell of him invades my senses, a mix of musk and sandalwood that makes my knees weak. I’m too lost in temptation to think straight at the moment and waste no time in removing my clothes, Frankie following my lead. I barely get a moment to get a good look at him before his lips are back on mine.

The air around us crackles with an electric intensity as our naked bodies come together for the first time, my breasts brushing against his chest. His hands roam over me with fervor, memorizing every curve of my body as we move together. The feeling of his bare skin against mine raises goosebumps all over my flesh. And for one shining moment, nothing else exists but the two of us, lost in each other's embrace.

Frankie runs his fingertips across my sides, tickling me slightly before moving down to my waist. The sensation shoots sparks of pleasure throughout my body. He lets out a low growl in the back of his throat, tangling his fingers in my hair as he kisses me. I moan into his mouth, my body aching for more.

“Fuck, I can’t wait to taste you. I bet you taste so fucking good.”

His words only make me want him more. I can feel myself dripping as his hands caress my body. His lips meet my neck, and I can feel his hot breath against the skin of my throat. He gently scrapes his teeth against the tender flesh, and I can feel it throbbing beneath his touch. I could come just from his kisses and soft touches. Moaning, kissing, I rub my slick pussy up and down his leg, my clit practically ready to burst.

A high-pitched whine fills the air, and it’s an embarrassingly long minute before I realize I made that sound. I haven’t felt this turned on in – well, fuck, I don’t think I’ve ever been this turned on. As the thought hits me, I lose the feeling, lose the edge I’m riding.

The man I was with prior never made me feel special, never made me feel beautiful. He never pulled out the stops to make me feel appreciated—instead, he treated me as an object of his physical desires. Tears start to well up in my eyes, but I try to hold them back.

“Tell me what you’re thinking, baby,” Frankie says suddenly, and I realize he’s stopped kissing me.

“It’s nothing,” I reply, an obvious lie.

“Bebita, please,” Frankie begs. “Tell me. What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

I snort at his statement. My cheeks burn with fury and humiliation. I feel tears pressing against the backs of my eyes, wanting to break out. Every time I take a breath, it hurts, like I’ve torn something inside me that shouldn’t have been torn. It hadn’t been just one man who had reduced me to this; the last was just the worst. I’m angry at myself for not loving my body the way I should, but mostly, I’m angry that I ever let anyone tear me down the way they did, to reduce me to a shell of who I was or could be.

Putting both of his hands on my face, Frankie forces me to look at him. My vision is blurred from the tears I won’t allow to fall, but I can see the worry in his eyes.

“What do you see in me, Frankie?” I question, my voice a whisper. “I’m not in shape…I’m not pretty…I-”

His lips seal themselves around mine before I can say anything more, causing me to gasp in surprise. His tongue slips into my mouth, tenderly. I relax into the kiss, and after a moment, he pulls away.  

“Are you crazy?” Frankie questions. “Each and every single thing about your body is beautiful.” His hands fall to the slope of my waist. “You are so fucking gorgeous that it hurts how gorgeous you are.”

I let out a sound that’s a mixture of a laugh and a sob. “That’s cheesy.”

“Yeah, I know,” Frankie chuckles. “But it’s true. My dick is so hard it feels like it could burst. That’s what you do to me.”

I smile.

“Do you believe me?”

“I want to.” I mean.

Frankie holds my face once more, his eyes staring at me softly. “You. Are. Beautiful.”

Who is this man? I wonder as I stare at him, pleasure blurring the edges of my vision. He wants me. He desires me. It’s clear in his face, in his eyes as they smolder with desire. His full lips are parted as he breathes more heavily, his broad chest rising and falling as he devours the sight of me standing before him. We’ve only been dating for a few weeks now but it feels like this is where I have always belonged, like this is what I am supposed to be doing. Is this real? Am I dreaming? Is this only going to lead to more hurt?

I don’t know…but a part of me wants to find out.

He pulls me in for a kiss, his lips soft and gentle against my mouth. Our teeth click together as he kisses me more fully, sweeping his tongue into my mouth to taste me again and again. His warm scent fills my head as our tongues find each other. When I break away, trying to catch my breath, his mouth immediately moves to my throat, kissing a hot trail to the spot behind my ear, where my pulse leaps madly.

“You deserve to be adored and worshiped,” he murmurs into my ear. “I look at you and I can’t believe how lucky I am to have found you.” He nibbles on my lobe before growling. “Can you feel how much I want you? Can you feel what you’re doing to me right now?”

“Yes,” I breath.

“I want you so fucking bad.” His teeth grab onto my lower lip and tug, making me moan again. Then he spends some time kissing along the line of my jaw before returning to ravage my mouth with his tongue. “Do you know the things I want to do with you? Do to you?”

“Tell me.”

“I want to lay you on the bed, spread your legs, bury my face in your pussy, and eat you out until you can’t remember you name. I want to make you come on my mouth, around my cock…”

My eyes go wide and I feel my cheeks flush with color. He isn’t even touching me and I’m so turned on I can feel my body clenching, wetness pooling between my legs. He makes me want him so much I think I can explode from the intensity of it. I’m shaking now, trembling with need and anticipation, and a little fear.

Frankie moves down to my neck, his lips and teeth working against my skin. His fingertips gently cup my breasts, pulling at my nipples. “I want you to scream my name.”

“Fuck,” I whimper, my hands clutching his back. “Touch me.”

“Greedy girl,” Frankie teases, grinning. He presses warm kisses against my throat and chest, moving slowly down my body.

“Please,” I whimper, taking his hand and gently guiding it down my body. “I want you to make me feel good. Please.” His fingers slip between my lips

Frankie groans as his fingers sink into my wetness, teasing my clit lightly before he gently makes contact with it. I shudder as my legs move apart, my fingers tangling in his dark hair, my pussy practically screaming with pleasure. It’s so intense I can’t even think straight.

He slips a finger inside of me and I let out a gasp, the sensation sending a wave of pleasure through my body. Frankie’s lips trail up my neck, pressing against my ear, and his voice is harsh, but gentle. “I’m going to make you feel so fucking good.”

Shivers run down my spine. I sink against him, capturing my lower lip between my teeth.

I whine when he removes his fingers from me, his hands returning to my face, lips crashing to mine. He backs me up until the back of my legs hit the bed and I fall onto the soft mattress. He climbs on top of me, his body weight pressing me down, a delicious feeling of submission washing over me.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes. Always.”

“Close your eyes.”

My eyes search his, a soft smile forming on my lips before doing as he commands.

“I need you to relax. To just feel. Can you do that for me?”

“Mhm.” I’m nervous, but I do as he says, my body sinking into the mattress as I try to relax. I sense him drop to his knees at the foot of the bed. He plants a kiss on my thigh, and I shudder beneath the feel of his warm, soft lips on my skin. I breath in deeply, the shakiness apparent.  

“You are breathtaking,” Frankie praises between kisses. His hands grab either side of my hips, pulling me towards his face. He gently nuzzles my mound, inhales my scent. “And you smell like heaven. I can only imagine what you taste like. Fuck, I need to taste you.”

Need. Not want, but need. Fuck, yes.

“Taste me, Frankie. Please.”

My breath hitches when he licks his tongue against my clit. My hand fists the sheets, my thighs already shaking from the rush of sensation pouring through them.

“Oh, God!”

“You taste so good,” Frankie rasps. His deep voice sends a shiver over my skin. “I could eat you for breakfast, lunch, dinner and still not have enough of you.”

As I writhe, he slides a finger inside me, then a second, reaching the spot that helps lead me to detonation. My stomach clenches, the muscles in my legs tight.

“Frankie, yes! I’m…I…”

With all sense of rhyme and reason lost, I begin to shudder. He presses his fingers deep inside me, thrusting them slowly in and out. His tongue laps against me relentlessly, taking everything I have to give him. The cry of pressurized release that escapes my mouth is startling and loud.

“There it is,” I vaguely hear Frankie praise. “Good girl.”

He crawls on top of me, wiping the wetness from his facial hair with one hand as he hovers above me. God, I love the way his skin feels pressed against mine. “You did beautifully.”

“F-fuck. Fuck me,” I plead between pants.

“No,” Frankie states, planting a gentle kiss on my collarbone. “I don’t want to fuck you, baby. I want to make love to you. Please.” He is sincere. Desire burns in his eyes, free of the disgust of my last partner. “Please, let me have you.”

I nod, unable to speak. He kisses me, and I allow his tongue to seek mine, but he’s soon gone.

Frankie leans toward the nightstand and opens a drawer, pulling out a condom. Quivering in the dim light, I watch him tear the wrapper with his teeth and then roll the condom over his cock. It’s the first time I get a good look at it. Long, thick, and smooth – just like I’d pictured him.

He lines himself up at my entrance, looking me deep in the eyes as he pushes inside. It’s been so long since I’ve had a man inside me that I’m not sure I can take him all the way in, but he pushes in slow, giving me time to adjust.

“Frankie,” I gasp in surprise.

He groans, face nuzzled into my neck. “You feel incredible. So warm and tight.”

“Please, stop torturing me and move,” I beg, loving the feel of him stretching me but needing more. “Move!”

He grins and pulls out slowly, teasing me with just the tip before plunging back in. My back arches off the bed as I moan in pleasure. He kisses me, swallowing my moan as he pulls out once more then thrusts harder into me. Each thrust he makes shoots waves of pleasure through my body. I can feel the buildup of pleasure again, like it’s a ticking time bomb about to go off. He sets a steady rhythm. My nails dig into his back, urging him on.

“Fuck,” he moans. “I love your pussy. I love the way you feel. I love…I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I manage to utter before his lips crash against mine.

As he picks up the pace, I feel my body begin to tighten. I’m almost there, but I want him to come with me. I wrap my legs around his waist, urging him deeper. He groans and pumps into me faster, his breathing ragged.

“Come for me,” he breathes. “I’m close, but I need you there first.”

With one hand, I reach down and circle my clit. He kisses my neck, opening his mouth and swirling his tongue on the skin. I come so hard, screaming and going boneless. He slams into me one last time, burying his face into my neck, groaning long and low before collapsing beside me on the bed.

Once his breathing slows, he moves from the bed, leaving me with insecurities. Did I do something wrong? Did he not enjoy himself?

“I’ll be right back,” he utters then stumbles off to what I assume is the bathroom.

My heart races in my chest as my thoughts turn to everything we just did. I’ve never felt so adored, so appreciated, so loved. No one has ever made love to me like he did or talked to me the way he did. My ex-boyfriend hated how I looked and would insist that I cover up because of his discomfort with my body. I remember one night vividly – the night that absolutely broke me. I put on a sexy lingerie set hoping it would help make me feel beautiful. The moment he saw me, his face twisted in disgust.

“Can you put on a shirt or something?”

I try to shake the memory from my head, not wanting to taint the moment I just shared with Frankie. But it’s too late. The tears are already falling from my eyes. I turn onto my side, pulling a blanket over my body as I do. Then I cover my face with my hands, trying to will them away before Frankie returns.

Moments later, I feel the bed shift as Frankie climbs back in behind me, beneath the blanket. The warmth of him presses up behind me, holding me tight against him, his hands warm yet damp. It didn’t cross my mind until then that maybe he was going to get a wet towel to clean up – after-care another thing I’ve never experienced – but he no longer seems concerned about cleaning up.

“Hey. What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

I shake my head. “No. I’m fine.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“I just…I thought…” I close my eyes tight, wishing I could will the tears away. As much as it hurts, I want to be completely honest with him. “I’ve never been comfortable in my skin, Frankie. I mean, cellulite? I’m gross. Stretch marks? I’m not beautiful. Thigh gap? What the hell’s that?” I huff, a tear rolling down my cheek. “Loving myself has always been hard. Nobody has ever tried to make me feel good. Then, the last time I tried a relationship with a guy… He never wanted to have sex with me with the lights on. He made me wear a shirt so he wouldn’t have to see me. He made me feel disgusting.”

I turn onto my back, allowing myself to look at him. “I know I shouldn’t let it get to me, but I can’t help it.”

Rage flashes in his eyes. “I’ll fucking kill him.”

A smile tugs at the corner of my lips, but it disappears as quickly as it came. “He wasn’t the first, Francisco, and I don’t know that he’ll be the last.”

“He’ll be the last,” Frankie promises. His lips press against mine, his grip on my waist like a brand. I know he means it. He won't treat me that way because he’s nothing like the men I've dated in the past. Frankie will protect me from them.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice choked with emotion as I reach up to wipe away the trail of fallen tears on my face. “I know you didn’t sign up for all this baggage. I know I need some serious therapy. But I don’t know if I’ll ever be comfortable enough to have sex with the lights on. And it's not you that makes me feel this way - it's all me. Knowing my body is on full display… I just can’t focus, be present in the moment.”

I sigh, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders as I speak the truth. The darkness of a room is comforting, a soothing balm against the anxieties that plague me. My skin prickles at the thought of being seen under harsh lights, every imperfection laid bare for scrutiny.

Silence stretches between us before he speaks again, his voice gentle but firm.

“You’re right. I didn’t sign up for baggage. I signed up for you, and if that means helping you sort through your shit, then so be it. We’ll work through it together.”

“And if I can’t work past it?”

Frankie slides his hand up and cups the side of my face. “I don’t care about the lights. If I have to move into a cave just to be able to fuck you whenever I want, I’ll do it. I’ll install dimmer switches in every damn room of the apartment so you can find the level of light you feel comfortable with. And, if you didn’t already know, I really fucking love lingerie.”

“Yeah?” I question, raising an eyebrow while I roll onto my side and lay on an elbow.

“Yes. Fuck, yes. Just thinking about you in some little lace number is making me hard again.” He throws back his head and groans. “God, I’d come on sight.”

I giggle. I’d be lying if I said that doesn’t give me a little confidence boost.

“My point being…,” Frankie continues, looking at me again. “We can work together to find ways to make you comfortable.”

I melt at the thought that he’s already thinking about ways we can make this work, that he’s not pressuring me to do something that would make me uncomfortable for his pleasure. “Thank you for understanding, Frankie.”

He pulls me to him, and I rest my head between his collar and his jaw, my hand splaying out on his naked chest.

“I love you,” Frankie says, echoing the words he spoke early.

“I love you too.”

He kisses the top of my head. “I’ve got a lot of insecurities, too, you know.” His voice is quiet.

“Hm?” I question, rubbing my hand along his chest. “Like what?”

“Like the fact I can’t grow a facial hair for shit,” Frankie responds, sounding a bit grouchy about it. “It’s all patchy - like I’m a dog with mange or something.”

I can’t help the laughter that escapes my mouth, knowing he looks absolutely nothing like a mangey animal. I look up at him and cup his cheek, feeling his stubble prick my fingertips. “Are you serious? I think your patches are adorable. One of my favorite things about you.” I kiss the bare spot on the cheek closest to me.

He smiles. “And in case you didn’t notice, I have worse scars than a few stretch marks.”  

“I have more than a few,” I point out. “Also, your scars are sexy. They’re proof of your bravery, your sacrifice, your honor. You should be proud of them.”

Frankie’s chest heaves as he scoffs. “Not all of them.” He falls silent for a moment, his gaze drifting away as if contemplating whether he should say more. And then, as if making up his mind, he gently takes my hand and guides my fingers to his left cheek. Beneath my fingertips, I can feel the roughness of scar tissue along his cheekbone, harder than the smooth skin that surrounds it. The warm touch of his skin sends shivers down my spine and I realize that I have noticed the scar there before but never questioned its appearance. It’s like an old friend who is always there but never talked about.

“I got this in a helicopter crash a few years ago – in Colombia.”

I can tell by the way he says the words, by the look on his face as he says them, that he hates remembering that time in his life.

“What happened?” I question, gently encouraging him to continue. To my surprise, he does, and it was unlike anything I’d ever expected.

Frankie tells me the whole story – how Santiago talked him and the others into conducting a reconnaissance of a Colombia drug kingpin’s compound on the pretext that they were aiding the government, then how they ended up deciding to raid the compound themselves, killing the narcos and leaving with the hundreds of millions of dollars hidden there. How Tom, who I've heard mention of before, became greedy and forced Frankie to take more money than their escape helicopter could carry, resulting in the crash. But he doesn’t end there. He tells me about the hostile cocaine farmers, about Tom’s death, the car chases and gunfights they endured transporting their friend’s body and whatever was left of the money back to his family.

A job that spiraled out of control into a mission from hell that cost lives.

“Jesus, Frankie…,” I utter when he finishes, shocked that he has been carrying the weight of that secret, but even more surprised that he felt comfortable enough to share that with me. “That… That’s a lot. Thank you for sharing that with me.”

Frankie’s eyes are focused on the ceiling. He closes them, inhales deeply. “I’ll understand if you want to walk out the door and never come back. I won’t blame you.”

I lay my hand back on his chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He looks at me, resting a large hand on top of mine. “Neither am I.”  

I offer him a smile. “What happened in Colombia…it wasn’t your fault. You did what you had to do to survive. I hope you know that.”

Frankie nods, like he wants to believe me. “Anything bad that anyone has ever said about you or your body – it’s bullshit. You’re beautiful. And I don’t care how long it takes; I’ll spend every waking moment trying to make you believe that I need and love every inch of your body.”

My heart swells in my chest as he leans in and seals his promise with a kiss.

Frankie’s head turns, as if he can sense me watching him from across the room. The moment our eyes meet, his lips curl up in a mischievous grin. I smile back at him, unable to wrap my head around the fact that he has been mine for just over a year. A year filled with hurt and pain as we’ve dealt with our demons, far outweighed by all the laughter and love. A year where I finally understand what it means to be in a healthy relationship. A year where I’m finally starting to learn how to love myself – all thanks to the wonderful, patient, handsome man across the room.

I watch as he exchanges a few words with Benny before making his way toward me, patting his good friend on the shoulder with his beer-free hand as he passes him.

“You can’t just eye fuck me from across the room,” Frankie teases when he reaches me. “It’s Christmas, and there are children present.”

“Technically, it’s not Christmas,” you point out, the Miller brothers having gathered all their friends and family for a party the weekend before the holiday. “And unborn children don’t count,” I add, gesturing to Will’s girlfriend. “Which means I can eye fuck you all I want.” I gently jam a finger into his chest. “And don’t you dare act like you haven’t been undressing me with your eyes all damn night.”

“Well, it isn’t a surprise that I want to unwrap you when you look like the most tempting damn gift under the tree.”

I giggle to myself then take a sip of wine. If he only knew that I'm internally begging him to remove my clothing when we get back home. He has no idea about what I have underneath my dress or the things I have in store for him – it’s been a year in the making.

“I didn’t know you have a fetish for nicely wrapped presents. Probably something you should explore in therapy,” I tease.

It’s no secret that we both have entered therapy in the last year, Frankie for his PTSD and me for my body image issues. It was time. Frankie has been nothing but patient and understanding of my insecurities—and our sex life certainly isn’t lacking thanks to creative positions, blindfolds, and Frankie’s obsession with lingerie—but I realized I couldn’t ignore my demons forever. There is more to life than worrying about my appearance. I’m ready to experience it…tonight. I feel just bold and confident to finally give all of myself to him.

He just doesn’t know it.

“I only have a fetish for you,” Frankie playfully replies.

“Ugh! So cheesy!” I groan, playfully rolling my eyes. “You really think you’re going to get me in bed tonight with a line like that?"

Frankie chuckles, but takes it as a challenge. “You know, I told Santa not to even bother with Christmas gifts this year – because you look better than any present I could ever hope to open.”

I laugh. “Cheesier. Want to go for three?”

“Alright.” Frankie takes a step closer to me, bending close to my ear so only I can hear. “I hope you’re ready for a not-so-silent night”-I bite down on my lip, hiding my smile, anticipating whatever ridiculous thing is about to come out of his mouth-“because when we get home, I’m going to fuck you so long and so hard that you’ll be hoarse from screaming my name.”

I gasp, my eyes going wide, wearing a combination of surprise and excitement on my face. My heartbeat is erratic.

Frankie smirks, knowing exactly what his words are doing to me.    

I can’t help but laugh. “I’m not going to let you get away with saying something like that in public.”

I feel the tip of his nose graze me, his lips moving closer to my ear.

“I’m counting on it,” he whispers, his words sending a shiver down my spine.

I turn my head to face him, and our eyes lock. I see the mischief and desire in his gaze, and I can't help but feel drawn to him.

“Think anyone will notice if we get out of here?” I question.

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Without another word, he takes my hand and leads me out of the crowded house and onto the quiet street, leaving our drinks behind. The cool air hits us as we step outside, the night sky sparkling with stars above us. We walk in silence, the tension between us growing with each passing moment. Finally, he stops and pulls me close, his arms wrapping around my waist. I can feel the heat of his body against mine, and I know I won't be able to resist him for much longer.

He leans in and kisses me, his lips soft and gentle at first, then growing more urgent and demanding. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, and the passion between us ignites.

We stumble back against his truck, our bodies pressed tightly together. Frankie’s hands roam over my body, teasing and tantalizing me, and I can’t help but moan in pleasure, my skin tingling from his touch. The stubble along his jaw rubs my chin raw, but I hardly notice – I’m addicted to kissing him, and I want nothing more than to kiss and kiss and kiss for the rest of our lives. He tastes so good, and just the touch of his tongue against mine is enough to make my entire body tingle with lust. His erection presses into me, hot and throbbing even through the rough denim of his jeans, and I grind against him.

“Baby, if you don’t stop, I’m going to come.”

I dip my head back and moan, thinking how hot it would be if he came in his jeans right here, right now.

“Don’t tempt me,” I say as I grab his shirt and pull him in for another kiss, making sure I brush against his cock one last time before we break apart. “Alright. Fine. Let’s go.”

Frankie groans, then opens up the door of his truck and helps me inside. I scoot across the bench seat, wanting to be as close to him as possible. The entire drive home, our bodies are pressed up against each other, his hand on my thigh, rubbing my skin. I want him so bad, and it’s all I can do to not rip his fucking clothes off and fuck him right here in the truck.

Frankie pulls into the driveway of our home, one I moved into just weeks after he bought this past summer, then cuts the ignition and switches off the headlights. He hops out then grabs my hand, leading me into the house, straight to the bedroom. As soon as we reach the room, he kisses me like he needs me more than air. I could spend eternity kissing this man, and it would never be enough. But I want to feel him, his skin on mine, his lips on my body. I break the kiss, breathing hard, my lips tingling.

Frankie watches me, his eyes fixed on my every movement. He swallows, his throat moving with the action. I kiss his stubbled cheek and move to the buttons on his shirt, undoing them one by one. I push his shirt off, then help him remove the t-shirt beneath it, staring at his muscular arms and bronze skin. I trail my fingers down his stomach, following the trail of hair that disappears beneath his jeans, helping him unbuckle his belt and push his pants down.

“Your turn,” he says.

Smirking, I turn my back to him. “Turn on the lights, then help me with my dress.” I brush my hair to the side, allowing him easier access to my zipper, then look over my shoulder. His eyes are wide, his lips slightly parted. He stands there for a moment, as if trying to process what I just said.

I nod, letting him know it’s okay. “I trust you.”

My words force him to spring into action, flipping on the light and dimming it just enough to not be too bright and overstimulating. Then he steps behind me. His warm breath caresses my skin, his fingers nimbly lowering the zipper of my dress painfully slowly. He skims his fingers down my spine, making me come alive with sensation. My eyes flutter shut as he presses of series of tender kisses to my exposed skin.

Finally, my dress slides off me, leaving me in the satin and lace bustier set I had purchased especially for tonight, complete with garters holding up my stockings. I knew this set would drive him wild.

“Let me look at you,” Frankie says, helping me step out of the fabric pooled at my feet, then turning me towards him. He steps back, and I am suddenly feeling self-conscious as he devours me with his eyes.

“Jesus Christ,” he utters. He grips my hips, bringing me close to him, then falls to his knees. “Fuck, baby. Do you know what you do to me?” He plants a kiss to my covered stomach.

I smirk, reaching down to tip his chin up toward me. “How bad do you want me?”

He looks up at me, desire and need in his luminous eyes. “Bad. So fucking bad. I need you.”

I bite my lip, not quite ready to give myself to him yet. “You know, you never told me what you want for Christmas.”

“You,” he growls, planting a kiss on my thigh. “I only want you.”

“You can’t unwrap me,” I point out.

“I could. Will you let me?”

“It’s not Christmas,” I remind him, trying my best to sound stern.

“Baby, please, let me unwrap you.” He breathes heavily against my thigh while planting wet kisses, his hands gripping my hips. It’s clear he wants me desperately. How can I say no?

“Merry Christmas, Frankie,” I say, giving him all the permission he needs.

“Fuck yes.” He slowly runs his hands up my thighs, causing me to sway. Unhooking one of my stockings, he slides it down and kisses my thigh inch by inch, lifting my foot to slide my stiletto then stocking. He continues with the same action on the other leg, then places his hands on my hips. His fingers hook around the elastic of my panties and pulls them down, his eyes locked on mine as he does so.

When my panties join the floor, he is back at my center, his breath hot on my skin. I don’t dare move. Don’t dare say a word. I simply wait for his next move while reminding myself how to breath.

“So beautiful,” he mumbles.

“Wait. One more thing,” I manage to say, reaching back to unclasp my bra. I allow the final piece of my undergarments to fall to the floor, and, for the first time, I am completely on display for him to see.

Frankie looks up at me, his eyes dark. He is trembling with desire. “You’re perfect…but you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

I blush, feeling self-conscious, but I’m not going to let my thoughts consume me. My body is worthy of love and respect as it is. Frankie is right: I am perfect.

“I want to. Now, fuck me with your mouth, Francisco.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

My muddled brain screams as he gently runs the tip of his nose up my center. His grip strengthens on my hips, kneading my flesh beneath his fingers. Then his mouth meets my lower lips. A gentle, wet kiss. Then another and another. His tongue darts out and flatters against my seam as he slowly licks up my center. He hands cup my ass and tug me closer, bringing me to the center of his mouth, his tongue licking up my lips again, tasting me with unmatched hunger, flicking at the small bundle of nerves.

My breath escapes in small gasps. I can no longer think. My brain has shut down, only allowing me to feel, and he feels incredible.

“You taste so fucking good,” Frankie groans.

“Don’t stop,” I gasp out, gripping his head with both hands and rocking my hips toward his face. “It feels too fucking good.”

I buck against him, pushing his face harder and harder against me. His breath is hot as he moans into me, sending vibrations through my sensitive flesh. His stubble scrapes against my skin as he presses harder and harder into me. The tip of his nose nudges me, just beyond the hooded flesh. It’s too much and not enough. My orgasm refuses to crest over the edge, an elusive peak that lies just before I can feel happiness wash over me in a torrential wave of pleasure.

“Frankie,” I pant. “I need your cock.”

“No,” he growls, his eyes intense when he gazes up at me. He slips a finger inside me and watches as it slides in and out of me, thrusting through the hot wetness with practiced ease until I’m soaking wet with need for him.

“Please,” I beg, my frustration growing as the tension builds inside me, refusing to snap.

“I want you to come,” Frankie says, looking up at me. “You deserve it.”

“I-I can’t,” I admit, ready to throw in the white flag. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You can,” he assures me. “You’re doing so well. You’re so close, but you’re holding back. I know this is scary for you, but you can do it. Just focus on what you feel. Okay?”

I nod. “Okay.”

“Let go, baby, and I promise I’ll give you what you want.”

I nod, and Frankie dives back in, assaulting my clit while fucking me with his fingers. He swirls his tongue around my clit before sucking it into his mouth and lightly biting down on the tiny nub. I cry out as waves of pleasure start to sweep over me. The heat between my legs is spreading, pooling outward until there's a tingling in my chest that makes me huff for breath before I moan.

“Frankie… I’m gonna… I…”

“Come on, baby… There it is…”

“Yes!”

My entire body tightens, stills, melts all at once. My fingers dig into his shoulder blades, scrabbling for purchase in case I fall over with the pleasure of it all.

I am completely unaware of my surroundings until I feel my back hit the bed, Frankie crawling up my body and spreading my legs with his knees. He kisses up my throat, stopping at my chin.

“How do you want it?”

“Ride you,” I breath. “I want to ride you.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Frankie, please. Let me ride your cock.”

He nips my chin one last time. “You’re so pretty when you beg.”

Frankie rolls off me then pulls himself up the bed to rest his back against the headboard. He holds out his hand and I take it, helping me climb on top of him so that I'm straddling his thighs. I push up on my knees and grip his cock, positioning it near my opening.

“Look down while you take it,” Frankie commands. “Watch as your beautiful pussy swallows my cock.”

I rest my hands on his shoulders for balance, then look down, my eyes locked on where our bodies join while slowly sinking down. Our skin is wet with sweat, and I can smell the sweet scene of my pussy and a hint of Frankie mixed in with the salt and musk. He fills me like our bodies are meant for one another. For a moment, I imagine that this is all either one of us will ever need; there is no doubt that we were made for each other, and we have more love for each other than most couples ever know.

Frankie’s groan echoes off the walls. “Fuck…” His head falls back against the headboard. He rests his hands on my hips and holds me there. “You’re killing me. You feel so good.”

“You sure you can handle me, Frankie?” I ask with a smirk, running a hand over his chest.

“Your pussy is like fucking magic.” He squeezes my hip with one hand then cups my breast with the other, like he wants to touch me everywhere all at once. “Let me see you ride me, baby. I want to watch you ride my cock.”

I stop torturing us both and work my hips in slow circles, adjusting to the feel and fullness of him. I look into his heavily lidded eyes, watching as he winces in ecstasy with every slow and sensual roll of my hips. He keeps his gaze on my face, never moving his attention as I ride his cock.

My gaze drops, landing on my body as it ripples and jiggles with the movement of my hips. The pleasure rises within me, but I am embarrassed at the sight of my own flesh moving to that rhythm. God, is this how he sees me? I want to hide. Would it be ridiculous to reach for the sheets and cover myself?

“Eyes on me, bebita.”

Immediately, my eyes meet his. His gaze burns into me as if nothing else matters, and I don't care about anything except him and how much he loves me, how good he makes me feel.

“You ride my cock so well and look amazing doing it. Think you can come on my cock?”

Heat pools inside me. I move faster, shamelessly grinding myself against him.

“That’s it,” he encourages. “Take what you need from me.”

My nails score his skin as I ride him fast, like we’re in a race to the finish line. Breath rasping, teeth clenched, a wild determination fuels my movements.

“Take it, baby,” Frankie encourages, giving me all the power, making this all about my pleasure, my enjoyment. “Use me to get where you need to go.”

He presses a palm flat against my lower stomach. The extra pressure sends a sharp ribbon of euphoria spiraling through me. My movements grow erratic, and I babble absolute nonsense. All the tension inside me explodes, rippling and spreading to every nerve ending.

“Yes, baby. That’s my girl.” He drives himself up into me, brutal thrusts that draw out my own pleasure. He curses and thrusts again, once, twice, then his body stills. He groans, releasing inside me.

Frankie brushes my hair back, pulls my head to his, and captures my lips with his as my jumbled brain regains consciousness. After having his fill, he releases my lips and smiles at me.

“Hi.”

I return his smile. “Hi.”

“Are you okay?”

I nod, my smile widening. “Yeah. I-I did it.”

“You did it,” he echoes. “I’m so fucking proud of you.”

I move off him and lay beside him, tucked safely in his arms, not knowing what to say next. He pulls a sheet on top of us and we lay in silence for some time, enjoying the feel of the gentle rhythm of his breathing.

“I love you,” I finally say, breaking the silence.

“I love you too.”

I nestle in closer to him, loving the way his voice rumbles though his chest to mine when we’re this close.

“What are you thinking?” I question, sensing that his mind is running a million miles a minute.

“About how I wasn’t lying when I said I only want you for Christmas. Nothing you can buy me will be better than the last year with you, and I want more. So much more.”

I hum, completely blissed out. “Me too.”

“Marry me then.”

I laugh, then move my head to look up at him. “I swear to God, Francisco, if this is another Christmas pun-”

“It’s not.” His face reflects his seriousness. “I’m asking you to marry me.”

I push myself up in bed, my mind reeling, wondering if I came so hard that I passed out and I’m dreaming.

“I was going to wait until Christmas morning,” he continues. “Had this whole thing planned out. But I can’t wait anymore.”

My mouth falls open, and I try to wrap my head around his words. “You’re serious?”

“I’m serious.” Frankie reaches out, laying a hand on top of mine. “If I could have picked the woman I wanted to spend my life with, I never would have been able dream up you. You’re kind, beautiful, gorgeous, funny, you have a heart of gold, and most importantly, you love me for who I am despite my imperfections.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, seeming to watch the flickering emotions that must be passing across my face.

Emotion tears through his throat, causing his voice to become husky. “I love you, and I want to spend every second of the rest of my life reminding you just how beautiful and amazing you are. I want you to be the first thing I see in the morning and the last thing I see at night – always. Will you marry me?”

Tears course down my face as I shift to my knees and throw my arms around his neck. My lips meet his, giving him his answer. I’m insecure and hesitant about a lot of things in life, but there is not a single doubt in my mind about this.

I pull back, my hands cupping his neck. “Is this real? Like, really real?”

A small laugh escapes his lips before nodding. “It’s real. I have a ring. It’s hidden in the branches of the tree in the living room.”

My heart pounds with happiness. “I don’t need the ring. I only need you.”

A chuckle rumbles through him, and he kisses me with a greedy kind of joy that makes my toes curl. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes."