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likeumeanit9497 · 16 hours ago

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like a pornstar pt. 2 | c.s. |

chris sturniolo x fem!reader

summary: pt. 2 to this freak show ;)

warnings: smut; unprotected p in v; oral (fem receiving); fingering; squirting; a lil overstimulation; toaster strudel vibes; dirty talk; 18+

notes: lets get horny!!

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

With a frustrated slam of the heavy wooden door, I made my presence known to the entire Sturniolo household as I stormed up the steps. It was late, the house settled into the hazy blue darkness of New England winter, and if I didn’t know that Jimmy and Mary-Lou were away for the weekend I would have felt bad for my noisy arrival. But I was pissed off, my body seething with angry heat as I stomped up the stairs to the upper floor — frustrated tears welling in my eyes as I headed for Chris’s closed bedroom door.

Without knocking I barged in, my sudden entrance causing Chris to startle in his gaming chair. “Jesus Y/n,” He slid his headset off of his ears and let it fall around his neck, “You scared the shit out of me.” I huffed, my eyebrows knit together in simmering anger as I stormed over to his bed, throwing myself face-down in the middle of the soft mattress like a starfish. “No offence because I’m happy to see you and all but…what are you doing here?” Chris’s slightly concerned voice carried a hint of subtle amusement. “It’s way too early for you to be back from the bar, especially since you told me the Carson Smith was there.”

Hearing the name of the man I had wasted two weeks of my life fawning over on Chris’s tongue sent a new wave of uncharacteristic anger through my body, eliciting a deep-seeded groan from my lips; muffled by the fact that I had buried myself in the comforter. Noting my vexation, Chris chuckled before speaking softly into the mic, “Getting off Nate”. I heard him shuffle for a moment before the mattress shifted slightly under me, and his hand on my arm let me know that he had sat down beside me. “I’m guessing it didn’t go well?”

“He’s a dud!” I shouted into the bed, exasperated. I was still reeling from the disastrously mid interaction I had just escaped from. Although my reaction was completely serious, Chris didn’t seem to think so as he continued to chuckle beside me. “I don’t get it, you were down horrendous for him legit two hours ago. What happened?” Sighing, I finally pulled myself out of my sorrow for a moment to turn and face my best friend — noting the amused grin pulling at the corner of his lips.

“He fucking came, IN HIS PANTS CHRIS,” Just speaking about the pitiful events of my night was causing my blood to boil again. “And I hadn’t even touched him yet!” I noticed the corner of Chris’s lips twitching, a sure sign that he was fighting back hysterical laughter. “We were literally just kissing by the bar for no more than FOUR MINUTES and the motherfucker jizzed his pants in public!” My face contorted into a disgusted expression as I remembered the feeling of the hot fluid soaking through his pants onto my leg and the immediate disappointment that had followed. “AND THAT’S NOT ALL,” Chris’s eyes widened from my never-ending fury. “After he came, he smiled proudly, kissed me on the forehead, AND FUCKING TOLD ME HE WAS GOING HOME! All before I could even finish my first fucking drink.”

I was shaking with anger and frustration, and the chore of re-telling my recently lived through nightmare drained me of all energy; causing me to collapse back onto the bed. Chris was silent beside me, and as I listened to my heart pound against the comforter I tried to ignore the other much more prominent pulse in between my legs. Suddenly, the bed began to shake, enticing me to pull my head back up from the comforter to find a chuckling Chris. “It’s not fucking funny asshole,” I spat, gently swiping his comforting hand off of my arm, “I had really high hopes for him.”

And, what I chose not to share with Chris was that I had been in the middle of a painfully long dry spell. Ever since my last visit to LA, in fact. After Chris spent that trip proving to me over and over that I could cum like a pornstar, I had been sure that my curse was broken and could put it into practice once I got back home to Boston. But, that was nearly six months ago, and I had yet to find a guy who I was interested in enough to put my new-found ability to the test. That was until I met Carson Smith, a gorgeous Harvard guy who just so happened to grab my attention. I had been so sure that he would know what he was doing, so I stupidly allowed myself to get my hopes up. The night was going well, and I stayed optimistic right up until that final, debilitating moment as his cock twitched against my knee.

“Hey, take it as a compliment,” Chris couldn’t control his laughter beside me, “You’re hot as shit, can’t blame the guy for getting a little too worked up.” I shot him a venomous glare. “Then why the fuck didn’t he invite me back to his place?” Chris’s lips thinned and his gaze drifted to a space just above my head. “Yeah, that’s kinda crazy,” Tentatively, he placed his hand back on my arm, giving it a gentle squeeze, “Maybe he was just embarrassed?”

I rolled my eyes, crossing my arms on the mattress before slamming my head back down. “Why are you trying to make excuses for the guy? What happened to your philosophy that no girl should go without satisfaction?” I grumbled into the mattress, forcing away the thoughts of what could have been — the way that I know my body could have melted like butter if only he had given it the chance. I felt so touch deprived that I wanted to cry, even the slightest shift of my pants caused my swollen clit to throb.

“Oh, that’s still my philosophy,” Chris murmured, and I shivered slightly as he ran a hand gently through my hair, “I’m sorry he disappointed you, but how do you expect me to be mad at the guy when he literally sent you running to me.” His words grabbing my attention, I slowly lifted my head once again from the mattress, turning to face my best friend. “What?” I asked, scanning his relaxed demeanour; far from what it should be after uttering his last phrase. With an amused smile, he gently jostled my arm. “C’mon kid, I know you’re hurting down there,” His voice was playful, the same as it always had been throughout our lives.

His hand traveled from my arm up to my cheek, where his thumb brushed delicately against my hot skin. Noting my shocked expression and inability to reply, he continued. “I’m your friend, let me help you now like I’ve helped you before.” His voice had lowered slightly, the tone and the meaning behind his words causing my stomach to tighten. I noticed that my breath was hitching in my dry throat, and a pool of warm arousal had collected in my panties as I stared up at him inquisitively.

“You sure?” I asked him, tilting my head slightly as my heart began to race in anticipation. Chris smirked, letting his hand travel slowly down my spine until it reached the dimples on my lower back where he let it rest suggestively. “Oh I’m sure,” He scooted closer to me on the bed, bracing his weight on his free arm so that he was level with my face, “What kind of friend would I be if I let you go to sleep feeling like this?”

His rhetorical question sat heavy in the air between us, going unanswered as my eyes focused on his lips just inches from mine. My breathing was erratic, his offer enough to rouse me into that same animalistic need I had felt when I visited him in LA. It was only now, in this moment, that I realized that even after those six months, my body craved his touch above all else. It was silly of me to think that anyone, even Carson, could make me feel the way Chris had on that trip. He hadn’t just broken the curse — he was the magic potion.

His lips inched closer to my own until I could breathe in the familiar taste of him. I stayed perfectly still, but inside my body was so alive — vibrating with untethered need. My eyes were glued to his lips as they parted slightly, and just as they brushed against my own in a cautious whisper, I released a whiney breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

“Touch me Chris.”

My request was oozing with desire, and he didn’t hesitate before accepting it. He exhaled through his nose before sliding down my limp body; dropping an open mouthed kiss against my exposed lower back. Goosebumps littered my skin as his hands meticulously worked at unzipping my jeans. “Stay where you are,” He whispered when I attempted to help him slide my jeans down my trembling legs, taking his time in peeling the rigid material over my ankles and dropping them to the floor.

In nothing but my thong, I trembled under his gaze, dying to feel his hands on me. I felt the mattress shift as Chris lifted himself off of the bed, and I felt his hands on each of my burning hot thighs as he now stood behind me. He used his grip on my legs to urge me to bend my knees and I melted into his touch, arching my back so that my thin panties were the only barrier between him and my exposed core. Chris hooked his fingers into the thin waistband of my thong, and very slowly pulled the fabric down my legs; discarding them alongside my jeans.

A soft moan fell from my lips from the combination of the cool air hitting my dripping wet core and his large hands massaging my fleshy ass. Using his hold on me, he gently spread me apart to assess the damage — the sticky sounds of my folds separating for him making the room heavy with eroticism. He let out a breathy moan at the sight, “Just as pretty as I remember.” Growing antsy, I shifted on my shaky knees and released a soft whine. “Chris—please,” I breathed weakly, my mind hazy with anticipation so drastic I was in pain, “It’s been so long.”

Chris’s hands massaged by burning skin. “How long?” He questioned, his voice thick with intrigue. Craning my neck so that I could look up through my lashes at his gorgeous frame standing behind me, I chewed on my bottom lip before replying in a low whisper. “Since LA.” His eyes widened in slight shock before he ran his pink tongue along his lips in desire. “That’s…fucked up,” Chris’s voice was low and absent-minded as he dropped to his knees behind me; his eyes never leaving my glistening core just inches from his hungry lips. “Shoulda told me,” He placed an open-mouthed kiss to my quivering inner thigh, “I woulda flown back to Boston sooner.”

I arched my back even more, my cunt desperately searching for his taunting mouth. I felt a bead of arousal drip from my pulsing entrance down my leg, and a shiver moved along my spine at the feeling of his warm tongue indulgently swiping it away. “So sweet,” He breathed against my skin as my juices dissolved against his tongue, and I gasped as his parted lips wrapped themselves around my aching core at last. His tongue swirled against my begging hole, drinking up my arousal with a satisfied groan — its vibrations reverberating against my sensitive nerves and causing my hips to buck.

I writhed as he took his time reacquainting himself within my folds, his hands held me steady as his tongue slowly made its way to my bundle of nerves. His mouth suctioned to my clit, creating a vacuum seal as his tongue flicked exquisitely against the swollen bud, and I released a guttural cry into the mattress from the weight of six months of sexual frustration being lifted off of me by the one man who had the power to do it. I lost control of my hips as I began rolling them against him — his tightened grip on my ass and his muscular, flattened tongue encouraging me to fuck myself against his eager face.

“F-fuck Chris,” I whimpered, overwhelmed from the foreign pleasure radiating through my veins. The slick sounds of my pussy sliding against his tongue filled the room, and was only muted by the sharp slap of Chris’s possessive hand colliding with my ass. Groaning erotically, his fingers dug so far into my skin I was sure they would leave bruises — as though this grip alone was what was grounding him to reality. “Feels s-so — shit! — feels so g-good,” I relished in the shockwaves that reached from my clit all the way to my fingertips, death-gripping the mattress beneath me.

With my cunt still grinding pathetically against his face, Chris inched one of his hands closer and closer to my core, until — with a satisfied sigh — his thumb slipped into my drenched entrance. A gasp fell from my lips at the sensation, and I began riding his face with a new-found fervour. He moaned against me once again, losing himself in the feeling of my spongey walls flexing around his curved thumb. His erotic noises flooded my ears, acting as a confirmation of his sheer passion for consuming my frustration.

I felt that familiar ache begin to grow incessantly in my lower stomach, sending a shockwave of nerves down my spine. A whine escaped my lips from the growing pressure — urging me to crumble yet feeling far too overwhelming to accept. It had been so long since I had felt this way, and as my body temperature began to increase — casting a bright pink flush along my sensitive skin — I felt the barrier between myself and my orgasm going up.

In my overwhelmed state, I lost the ability to ride his tongue so Chris reattached his mouth to my clit. Whines slipped from my lips incessantly, and although I was fighting against my mind, my body began trembling from the pressure. Noticing this, Chris’s tongue began flicking against my nerves with more urgency. I felt my desperation to fall apart grow to an inebriating state, causing a long string of moans to fall from my lips.

Reading my tone and body language, Chris detached his warm mouth from my nerves and snaked his arm around my waist; using his long fingers to circle my clit vigorously as he leaned over my back. “You needa cum Y/n,” He whispered, his voice ragged and breathless as he continued to work me. I felt tears prick in the corner of my eyes, feeling the same frustration as I had six months ago. “C-can’t d-do it,” I whined, my brain and body battling one another.

“Yes you can,” His words were filled with determination as he gently grabbed my hair, using his grip to pull me up off of the bed so that my back was flush against his front. His consistent movements against my clit never wavered as his other hand traveled down my feverish body, stopping once it reached my dripping core. I cried out as he plunged two curled fingers into my pulsating heat, and my ears began to ring as he worked my struggling body.

“Come on baby, come on,” He growled into my ear vehemently, his commitment to pushing me over the edge palpable in the thin space between us. His ravaging fingers curled right into the pressure in my stomach, causing my brain to muddle and legs to shake. I reached behind me, grabbing onto his muscular neck for support as my body became weak under his touch. “You know you can do it baby,” He whispered, catching my earlobe between his teeth and nibbling gently, “Let go.”

Letting my head fall against his chest, I released a string of animalistic moans as his words penetrated my mind — breaking down that barrier and allowing my orgasm to crash down onto me. I lost control of my body as I convulsed between his magical hands, the built-up pressure between my legs exploding into a rush of resonating pleasure. I felt my cunt squeeze his fingers as I let my orgasm overtake me, digging my nails into his neck as incoherent curses fell from my lips. Through blurry vision I looked between my shaky legs, watching in awe as my body took control and I squirted against his working hands; creating a dark puddle on his bed sheets.

Groaning in satisfaction, Chris pulled his soaked fingers from my core — slipping them between my parted lips as he continued circling my clit through my high. My eyes fluttered shut from the erotic taste of my own juices on my tastebuds; from the weight of his pruned fingers against my tongue. I allowed myself to relax into the slowly dying waves of pleasure, his fingers anchoring me to reality and allowing my obsessive mind to numb.

Only once my moans turned into gentle gasps for breath did Chris pull his fingers from my clit. Turning me around as though I was a ragdoll, he engulfed my panting lips in a hungry kiss. A needy moan slipped from his mouth into mine as he guided me backwards on the bed until my back was pressed against the headboard. His hands slipped under my shirt, grabbing onto my waist as his thumbs swiped delicately against my pebbled nipples. I wrapped my legs around his waist, drawing him closer as his tongue flicked erotically into my mouth.

Chris rolled his hips against my bare heat, eliciting a sharp gasp from me as his bulge pressed zealously against my sensitive bud. Humming against my lips, he pulled away slightly to look down at me through hooded lids. “Got another one in you?” His words were breathless as he let his mouth travel down my cheek towards my neck. Nodding frantically, I pulled at the waistband of his sweats. “Y-yeah,” I replied, feeling my body respond to the thought of him inside me again.

At my confirmation, Chris hurriedly pulled his sweats down just enough to let his swollen cock spring free. I watched hungrily as it slapped against his stomach; leaving a small pool of pre-cum on his smooth skin. He fisted his length, pumping it a few times before lining it up with my trembling core. I shuddered as I felt its veins press against my nerves; whining at the feeling of him sliding it through my folds, sloppily gathering my arousal.

With a deep moan of relief, Chris wasted no more time before sliding his cock into my swollen cunt. I gasped at the nearly-forgotten pleasure of being split in half by him, a delighted shiver going down my spine. Once he bottomed out, he stayed still for a moment to allow me to adjust to his size just as he did the first time. Impatient, I began writhing under him, silently begging him to move. Noticing this, Chris wrapped one strong arm around my waist and raised the other to hold onto the headboard above me, before slowly driving his hips into me.

Short, raspy grunts slipped from his lips on each snap of his hips. Overwhelmed by the relief that came from his cock sliding in and out of my slippery cunt, I let out stuttering moans as my head slammed against the wall behind me. “M-my god,” I cried out, my fingers desperately laced throughout his damp curls. “This is what you needed, hmm?” Chris purred, hooded eyes cutting through me; taking in every erotic facial expression that shadowed my face. Nodding vigorously, I let out another girlish moan as his pace began to pick up — his length curling up into my swollen g-spot on each thrust.

“Y-yes,” I whined, eyes rolling back slightly from the waves of pleasure radiating throughout me. My gaze followed his to admire the sight of his thick cock disappearing inside of me — a thick layer of my slick, milky arousal coating it and collecting at its base. The sight affected him like it affected me, evident from the guttural moan that forced itself past his lips.

“You feel so fuckin’ good you know that? So goddamn tight.” His voice was thick with profound arousal, swollen lips dancing across my fluttering chest as he spoke. “Never,” He paused, letting out a poetic groan, “Never been in a pussy more addicting than yours.” His words shot straight to my core, causing him to hiss as my walls flexed around him.

The wet sounds of our bodies slapping against each other worked in harmony with the squeaks that fell from my lips. “M-missed your cock s-so bad,” I replied, tightening my legs around his hips as they slammed into me. He pulled my parted lips into a sloppy kiss, his tongue slipping into my mouth haphazardly as he powered through his heightened arousal. “C-couldn’t stop th-thinking about it.” I admitted through fragile breaths.

My words caused his rhythmic thrusts to falter slightly, the naked vulnerability of them appeasing to his carnal side. His head dropped to my shoulder, biting down on the delicate skin as he tightened his grip around my waist. “You don’t even know how bad I’ve been dyin’ to feel you wrapped around me again,” His tongue swirled against my reddened skin as his pace began growing sloppier, “How bad I’ve wanted to watch you fall apart under m-me again.”

His breathing grew ragged, leaving warm condensation against my already burning flesh. I could feel his cock swell within me, filling me up and stimulating every part of my responsive centre. He was close, obviously grasping at his plummeting restraint. My glazed over eyes focused on a bead of sweat dripping down his temple as he pressed the pad of his thumb against my lower lip. Opening my mouth, I let him place it on my tongue before wrapping my lips around his salty flesh; sucking delicately.

A look of overwhelmed desire flashed across his features, his eyes glued to my pink lips as though he was caught in a trance. “Fuck Y/n,” He groaned, brows knitting together in what almost seemed like anguish as he popped his thumb out of my mouth and pressed it against my swollen clit. Gasping from the additional contact, I felt the overwhelming pressure begin to grow in my core for the second time. His eyes stayed set on my face, alert to the visible signs of my impending orgasm.

“Get there baby,” He cooed, his voice strained and underlined with desperation as his thumb moved in frayed circles against my trembling bundle of nerves. My jaw went slack from the intensity of his fingers and cock simultaneously driving me into shambles. “C-close,” I breathed out, barely capable of speech as my mind grew foggy with pleasure. An approving groan fell from his lips as his thrusts sharpened; doing all he could to push me towards the finish line.

My walls began to flutter uncontrollably around his strained cock, the sensation causing him to dig his fingers into my flesh. His zealous, purposeful movements pushed unintelligible moans from my parted lips. Instead of focusing on the urge to fight against the overwhelming swell of pleasure, I forced myself to relax — leaning into the titillating bliss that would soon take over all of my senses.

“G-gonna cum!” I cried out just as the overpowering waves of my second orgasm crashed down on me. My body grew rigid as electric shockwaves of pleasure surged through it, causing my legs to clamp around Chris’s shuddering waist as brutish moans slipped past my tongue. “Oh fuck,” Chris’s approval came out in an animalistic rumble against my skin as his forehead dropped to my chest. My cunt cinched around him, trembling and milking his fatigued cock. His thrusts grew weak and sloppy, hell-bent on fucking me through my high but losing the battle against his own.

A satisfying gush from my centre relieved the hot-blooded tension in my lower stomach as I squirted for the second time that night. Chris let out a sharp moan, the force of my release pushing his twitching length out of my core. “J-Jesus,” Caught in a moment of ecstasy, he wrapped his hand around his saturated cock, giving it a few erratic strokes before pressing the satin tip against my clit and, with a filthy, guttural moan, released thick ropes of hot cum; watching as the viscous liquid dripped down my folds — collecting into a creamy pool at my puckered core.

Throaty grunts fell from his open mouth as his hips bucked indulgently — his twitchy movements sending waves of electricity to my overstimulated clit. Once his cock stilled and our moans softened into sighs of relief, Chris leaned down, planting an appreciative kiss to the corner of my flushed mouth before letting his spent body fall onto the mattress beside me. He wrapped his arm around me, pulling me into him so that my head was tucked into his comforting neck.

I closed my eyes for a moment, catching my breath as I listened to his rapid pulse against my ear; noticing that our heart rates steadied into matching beats as we fell into a mutual state of blissful contentment. After a few moments, Chris let out an amused chuckle. “What?” I asked, pulling my head from the crook of his neck and hazing down at his satisfied expression. “Carson Smith is a stupid man.” His eyes were bright as he smiled shamelessly up at me. I rolled my eyes, that name barely registering in my mind after what had just transpired.

“I don’t think it matters anyway,” I began, “I honestly think that,” I pointed at his semi-hard cock resting on his stomach, still glistening from our conjugated juices, “Is a magic wand.” A prideful smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth before he pulled my weakened frame on top of him. “I don’t know…” He dragged his words out as his hands traveled down my back and over the round curve of my ass, “How about we test out that theory one more time.”

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

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#sturniolo triplets #sturniolo smut #sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #chris sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo x you #the sturniolos #the sturniolo triplets

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peacheeeliz · 2 days ago

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031. there it is (wc: 868)

“You are just too cute when you're drunk, you know that, right?” You question, squeezing Sunghoon's cheeks with your palms. His lips form a pout, forcing a quiet laugh out of you. “I obviously need to pay more attention to you, or you just drink bottle after bottle.”

A movie plays quietly in the background, long forgotten as the two of you went through various soju bottles. Not long after arriving, Sunghoon was able to find his place right next to you on your couch, sharing his convenience store goodies with you for your last-minute dinner plans together. A moment so familiar, yet your cheeks grow a nice pink color at the closeness between you two – and it wasn't the alcohol speaking.

The man nods, staring at you with heavy-lidded eyes as he nuzzles closer into your hand. You freeze at the action, hair standing up down your arms. “Please pay attention to me alllll the time,” he mumbles, holding one of your hands with his. “All I need is your eyes on me, baby.”

“Who knew being drunk would make you so bold,” you tease, softly rubbing your thumb across his cheek. “And affectionate. Didn't think you could get even more cuddly than before.”

“Only for you, my beautiful wife,” he whispers, escaping your hold on his face and falling straight into your arms. He buries his face into your shoulder, “being with you makes me so happy.”

“Aww, hubby,” you start, hands finding their way to his back and gently stroking the fabric of his shirt. “Being with you makes me happy, too.”

He grows silent for a moment, maybe because he's content in your arms. Or maybe his mind is racing, and his heart is pounding right out of his chest, struggling to come up with even a word to say next. “Now that Third Life is coming to an end,” he pauses, never looking up to meet your eyes. “Will we still be… I don't know… married?” He questions but doesn't give you the chance to respond. “I know Newly Weds will always be popular amongst the fans, and we'll always be friends, but… I like how it is now. Being married to you.”

“You like being married to me?” You ask. It's all you can muster, as your thoughts are running wild at the man's question.

He nods, finally lifting his head up to look at you. “I love being married to you,” he answers, his eyes sparkling. “The idea of you teaming up with someone other than me makes me sick. What if people start shipping you with them instead? And forget about us?”

You smile at him sweetly, hand finding his cheek again with a soft touch. “Hoonie, no matter who I team up with or get shipped with,” you pause, struggling not to laugh at his wavering eyes. “They will never be you.”

He goes quiet again, really taking the time to process your words. He lowers his head back into your shoulder, face heating up all the way to the tip of his ears. “You can't just say shit like that, Y/Nie…” He murmurs, shaking his head. “I can't handle it.”

“Oh, poor baby,” you tease, patting the back of his head with a quiet laugh.

He lifts his head up once more, eyes bright as they stare up at you. “Your baby, right?”

“Hey, if I can't say stuff like that, neither can you,” you joke, soothing his hair back. Still, he only responds with a pout. You let out a soft sigh, “but, yes. My baby.”

A smile grows across his face, reaching his hands up to cup your cheeks. Despite initiating it, the proximity between the two of you has his mind going haywire. “God, I can't believe I'm lucky enough to be with you,” he mutters, taking a deep breath. “If only it was more than just some fake marriage from a Minecraft server.”

You're taken aback by his bold words, eyes wide at the fact that just a few drinks would have all this spilling out of him. “Who says it has to be just that?” You question, tilting your head to the side.

His stomach turns, and his heart begins pounding even hard – if it was even possible – and his head dips down again. “What did I say about saying stuff like that?” He whines even more as you laugh at his response.

“You said it first!” You say, struggling to hold back your laughter. “Come on, say it again,” you continue, urging him to look back up at you. “I wanna hear you say it again.”

“You're evil,” his pout returns, looking back at you with almost glossy eyes. When you don't say anything else, he sighs. “... I want more than this,” he pauses. “I want more than some weird Minecraft series ship… Y/N, I want you.”

“There it is,” you tease, a big smile playing on your lips. You tilt his head up by his chin, adoring the way his cheeks flush at the situation. “God, have I told you how cute you are?”

“Many times,” he answers.

“Good,” you reply, leaning in until his lips meet yours.

synopsis ⤏ popular youtubers team up on all new minecraft smp, quick to name themselves the "newly weds" after sunghoon gifts y/n a poppy. but will these romantic endeavors between the two just be "for the lore," or will feelings blossom?

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celerydays · 2 days ago

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long time no see…

Hey, hi, hello~

I don't know if anyone is still around this little blog o' mine or if I'm just showing up suddenly on the dash and whoever is seeing this might not recall ever even following me lol.

But – whether you remember me or not – I'm just dropping by to say that...I've missed you and that I truly hope you're doing well 🫂💗

I...have not been doing so well. But I've been working on it.

In a way, it's been healing to reshape my approach to things like journaling and capturing photos. I've been taking the time to develop a practice in documenting daily life – the people I care about, the places we visit, and all the random little moments in between – with more intentionality and care than I have in recent years.

(tw: grief and loss/death under cut)

I lost my mom very suddenly last November – and things have been unbearably hard the last few months.

In a lot of ways, 2024 was one of the best years: my partner and I traveled to Japan for the first time ever, my family had a small reunion in our hometown to watch the total solar eclipse together, my best friends got married, and we went on so many amazing trips and had the type of outings that made me so inspired, optimistic, and excited about life and the future.

But in so many other ways, it was also one of the worst years I've had in a long time: starting with a hard-learned (but perhaps overdue) firsthand lesson and reminder on how scary and mean the internet can be, followed by losing both my grandfather in the spring and then my mother just before the winter holidays.

I'm not particularly good when it comes to emotions– forget about even processing grief or putting into any sort of meaningful words how it all feels. But I guess all of this has made me shift my mindset when it comes to wanting to just...remember. To not forget.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

On documenting life through journaling...

I had always journaled in some way or another all my life, but I only really started considering it a serious practice and hobby sometime around 2020. But I had lost my way with it in recent years, treating it solely as some kind of aesthetic-only venture, and only dedicating the time if I knew that I could make it "pretty" and "palatable for sharing".

And so, many entries were missed; days and weeks lost to fuzzy recollection, months bled into each other, and little moments only existed as vague and passing snapshots on my phone gallery (if I even remembered to take a photo).

But I now wish I had just written it down; whatever it was – big, small, angry, funny, sad, happy – just wrote it all down. It didn't have to be an aesthetically collaged spread or artful doodle or drawing. I wish I had documented some of the last times I had seen or spoken with my mother; what she had said, did, or how she reacted to silly news or quips I told her. I barely remember anything even just from the last year.

So now I write it all down, day after day: I'll write what's on my mind, what we did before, what I'm doing currently, what I'm planning to do. If someone calls or my partner walks in to my studio while I'm working and tells me something that has me reacting in the moment I'll jot down a little "omg!!" or "lol" or "holy shit" next to whatever they said or did.

If I get little scraps from the day – receipts, tags, tickets, wrappers – I'll paste it in wherever it happens to fit in my journal, with a little note of the date or what the outing was. And every so often, I'll print out photos to paste in with notes relating back to past entries or junk journal spreads.

Is always pretty? No, but it's pretty in its chaos. Is it always even chronological? Not at all, but I've embraced the organic nature of pages and dates that sort of jump around, just as long it gets recorded. Does it always make sense? Not really, but it makes sense to me and that's really all that matters. And I love every page so, so much more than anything I had carefully curated before in my previous journals.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

On documenting life through photos...

I had once carried a camera with me everywhere before phone cameras became decent enough that I didn't feel the need to have a dedicated tool for just taking pictures anymore.

It wasn't until we were all looking through our collective family photos to use for my mother's memorial service and headstone that it hit me that I just don't take as many pictures as I used to– and even when I did, they just don't compare to the ones that I took years ago when I did carry a camera with me on every outing and trip.

We ended up choosing a photo of her that I had taken on my once-beloved dSLR camera I used to haul around with me almost 10 years ago; she was smiling, strong, radiant, beautiful– and it was just a random moment I took my camera out in a Taiwan hair salon while she was waiting for me and my sister to get our hair done for our cousin's wedding.

A bit indescribable – and not even something I realized was missing – but there's something about having an actual camera on hand that pushes me to take more photos, and somehow better and more mindful photos at that.

And so I made the decision to invest in a new camera. An absolute necessity to take photos? No, of course not; I do still have my phone camera after all. But they say (apparently) that "the best camera is the one that you actually use"– and I was most definitely not using my phone as much as I could have been.

This new camera though? Only time will truly tell, but the past has shown that I've worked better with a dedicated camera on hand and already I can't begin to explain the difference it's made in the last week alone since I picked up the habit of carrying a camera around with me again.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

This was a crazy long post that sort of got away from me. Not sure where I want to go from here – I guess I just want to say that if you ever felt called to document your life in some way, it's never too late to start; you'll only wish that you had begun sooner.

If you're still here– I love you. I hope you're taking care of yourself.

And thank you for reading along with my incredibly longwinded life update of what was essentially just "I'm grieving so I started journaling more and also bought a camera" lol.

💗

#celerydays #cels diary #cel journals #cw grief

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littelovelunette · 1 day ago

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this one isn’t smut, but could you do vi and reader having an argument, and vi raises her arms in exasperation, and the reader flinches and has a panic attack because of past childhood trauma, and vi comforts reader and makes sure they’re safe

Promise Me

Contains implied PTSD, trauma, mentions of abuse, sensitive content

This one feels personal…

Vi had been letting go of herself, pit fighting and getting drunk, it made you sad.

You knew she was suffering deep inside and she was hurting but acting the way she did, hurt you as well. You just wanted her to put things in the past and move on with her life but she didn't seem like she was interested in doing that anytime soon.

You both weren't in an exclusive relationship, it was more like a random hookup where you both caught feelings somewhat and now live together. It was weird but you never found her sober enough to talk it through.

You were watching Vi stumble into the living room, clearly drunk as the bottle of alcohol fell out of her loose grip. The bandages she had on her arms and the chest bindings were all soaked with blood and sweat. She looked awful.

“You're drunk. Again.” you said, your tone clearly fed up and angry.

Vi only hiccuped a little and slurred a response back, “Looking so pretty while so angry.”

You rolled your eyes and walked over to her, sitting down at the couch, pulling her by the wrist so she would sit down beside you. “I don't understand. I'm trying to help you but you're not letting me. You're ruining yourself going down this path of painless self destruction.

While I wouldn't exactly say it's completely painless.” You pointed out the bruises and cuts she had from the fights.

You hated her being like this. She was just as good as an alcoholic by now.

“Stop nagging me,” Vi simply said, getting off the couch instead of letting you patch her up like she usually allowed while she was drunk.

You got up, now even angrier than before. “Vi,” you called, “I'm not nagging, I'm only saying you should take care of yourself. How do you even tell yourself you love me if you can't even bring yourself to love you?”

Vi groaned a little, “Blah, blah, blah, I'm too tired to go through your shit right now. Can't I just go to my room and take a fucking nap?”

“No, we need to talk about this.” You pressed despite knowing she was drunk. She was drunk pretty much all the time. What difference would it make if you questioned her about it now?

Maybe she would change, maybe she wouldn't. Instead of waiting longer for pretty much no results, it was better to just know now.

Vi huffed and crossed her arms, eyes bloodshot due to the alcohol, “What do you gotta say? Spit it out.”

“You need to stop all this fighting drinking, it's not a healthy coping mechanism,” you said, crossing your arms as well as you eyed the other woman.

“Healthy coping mechanism?! Look around! We're in the Undercity! Nothing’s healthy here if anything!” Vi yelled, her voice raising, making your heart pound against your chest almost painfully. You hated seeing her so drunk… and verbally hurtful.

“Do you wanna be like all the junkies we see out on the road?” You asked, trying to maintain a calm collected tone.

Just then Vi raised her hands in exasperation and you took a step back, flinching and hiding your face. Vi completely paused seeing you do that.

“Love,” she said, her voice an octave lower, she walked closer, hand hovering over your shoulder as if scared to break you, “Love, what's wrong?”

“N-Nothing,” you pushed her away and walked into the shared bedroom, trying to collect yourself.

Her raising her hands like that brought back bad memories. Pain. Screaming. Begging. To just stop. It felt like something was stuck in your esophagus and you couldn't breathe properly.

Forcing yourself to swallow the growing lump in your throat, you stared at yourself in the mirror. A small, barely visible scar on your left eyelid, the bruises that littered your legs. It was like every other memory you tried to bury deep away, away from your everyday day and mannerisms, they were coming back to haunt you again.

You could almost hear the screams and the begging behind your eyes, somewhere in your head and you weren't sure if you were being sane right then.

Something was bothering you…

“Sweetheart,” Vi walked into the room and cupped your face making you look up at her, “Tell me what's going on.”

You let out a breath, a shuddering breath as the imagery of blood, darkness, tears flashed through your brain at once making you flinch and try to pull again but Vi didn't let you.

She wrapped you up in her strong arms, hands caressing the soft locks of your hair and even if she was sweaty, bloody and reeked of alcohol you couldn't help but find love within her hug. And acceptance.

You knew she was always there but it was harder to open up about something so sensitive if you've buried them deep long enough.

“I'd never hit you. Never.” Vi said, kissing your head and making you look at her again to ensure that you understood what she said.

“Pinky swear?” you managed to ask in a low voice.

It broke Vi’s heart that you needed that much reassurance despite her saying she wouldn't hurt you ever, making her wonder just how many levels of hell you had been through in the past.

“Pinky swear…”

#arcane #vi lol #vi writes #violet arcane #vi is the best #vi #vi is so hot #vi imagines #arcane vi x reader #vi x reader #vi x you #vi x y/n #vi my beloved #vi league of legends #vi angst #vi arcane #arcane violet

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more-mara · 2 days ago

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NO WAIT please talk more about WAG!Carlos because I actually REALLY LOVE WAG!Carlos and it's been on my mind for a long time and I felt like I'm alone in this. I really like the established relationship idea of Oscar looking mighty walking alone in the paddock, but once Carlos is there, walking alongside Oscar and holding his hand, everyone can see who's the dom and who's the babygirl 😂 not that dom dom but like who tops and bottoms.

In my mind Carlos is a man in finance or consulting. Because, damn, everytime I picture him in fitted shirts and dark coloured slacks my mind goes brrr. They share an apartment in London and Oscar always goes back home after races to him. Carlos visits Oscar for races everytime he can (but he always makes time for Silverstone), and everytime he visits, the journalists and social media literally go very crazy about "Piastri's very hot, sculpted by the God himself, Spanish boyfriend". Oh and Oscar claiming the Spain GP as his home race because "my partner is Spanish and he lives and breathes Real Madrid and I'm very sure I'll marry him so".

I can't picture of the announcement of Oscar coming out, but I think I like the idea of soft launching first through his instagram or maybe Estrella Galicia makes Oscar and Lando talk Spanish slangs and Oscar aces all the questions and be like "My boyfriend is Spanish and he likes to teach me Spanish terms" something like that. Then boom Carlos coming to a race with him.

Eventhough Carlos is the one who tops and is very good in bed, but him also being soft and fluffy and calls Oscar with pet names in Spanish (tesoro, cariño, mi amor, etc) and cooks for him everytime Oscar's back home.

I can picture Oscar on break, dumping holiday pictures on his instagram and everyone goes crazy of Carlos shirtless and flaunting his abs and his super fit body in one (or many) of the pictures. Carlos having his instagram private and everyone will be asking Oscar to let his boyfriend open his instagram for public lol.

I'm going to stop because if I continue, I'll literally dump my thoughts (including the NSFW ones) and this ask will be very long lol thank you for reading my rants!

Oh, you’ve been THINKING about this lol. Anon I love this please continue. Side note, I had written an entire response to this once already but tumblr deleted it 🤡 I can’t remember half the shit I originally said but here we go lmao

I 100% see the man in finance vibes I just wanted to go against the grain and say something else lol but I absolutely imagine him in some white collar job. He constantly wears tailored suits, even in hot weather which Oscar will complain to no end about but ultimately it won’t change Carlos’ mind because it’s his brand.

Oscar gets a little irked by it because he’s supposed to be the celebrity, yet he give off so much just a guy energy when he’s walking hand in hand with Carlos. Oscar highkey loves the attention which is why it bothers him so much when Carlos steals it from him.

In comes the Spanish gp and Carlos is in yet another equivalent price of a mortgage suit. Osc saying it’s “basically my home gp now, I guess,” with a giggle as he eyes the screen where Carlos is clapping and smirking when he notices the attention on him- sending a little wink towards the camera that has Oscar stumbling over his words.

The media always goads Oscar for being “the girlfriend” in the relationship (let’s be real, media love to heteroify queer relationships and would 100% do it to them) but it’s always water off Oscar’s back as he redirects the conversation to how sexy and successful his boyfie is, “He’s just bought a new property in New York 🙂,”

Regarding coming out, Oscar is absolutely of the “I don’t need to come out, I’m just gonna live my life,” stance. He probably drops a “my partner is opening a new business back in London, he’d definitely know better than me if that’s a good idea,” when an interviewer asks about whether he’d buy a house in Monaco. Twitter goes crazy “DID OSCAR JUST SAY HE???!!” and that’s that, now Carlos shows up everywhere he can to show off who Oscar managed to pull.

Oscar loves the pet names but can’t stand it when Carlos uses them in public- goes beet red when Carlos calls him ‘mi amor’ when speaking with a journalist.

NSFW because I can’t help myself- Carlos always refuses to fuck Oscar on a race weekend because “I cannot affect your performance,” and Oscar fucking hates it. Oscar is lowkey needy in bed and can be a little insatiable at times, especially during a stressful week (e.g. a race week) so he goes out of his way to tease Carlos every chance he gets- even in public to see how long it will take for Carlos to snap. Except Carlos never does and remains firm in his stance which Oscar whines and complains about constantly until Sunday night when Carlos finally touches him and fucks the weeks brattiness out of him

Side note, Carlos is good in bed, like- really good, to the point where Oscar can’t even think about anything except for Carlos’ insane dick game. Carlos is experienced in so many ways that Oscar gets insanely jealous every time he thinks about it- getting angry at the thought of Carlos fucking anyone besides him. It’s a funny contrast because Oscar was basically celibate when he and Carlos first met and their first time in bed had Oscar experiencing pleasures he never though possible.

And yeah, Oscar just fully posting thirst traps of Carlos to make everyone jealous that only he gets to see it on a daily basis.

#carcar #carlos sainz #oscar piastri #maras asks

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transit-fag · 1 day ago

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Hello. I recently visited your presumably fine city, and I have to say, I did not enjoy myself.

I am reminded of a quote from AA (non active): "Principles before personalities."

Seems everywhere I went I was harassed, discriminated against, belittled, kicked out, yes sexually harassed, etc, apparently based on the characteristics of my physical appearance, as I gave no indication of political creed, religious affiliation, life philosophy, personal history, or otherwise. Like come on guys, my fashion sense is not THAT bad.

For example, a barista I interacted with saw fit to yell "no" in my face as I was attempting to order. Like fine, if you feel the need to publicly and preemptively cock block me by loudly stating your negative sexual preference towards my person, and thereby impress friends and bystanders, while letting that fella or lady you truly are smitten with know just how loyal a girl you really can be... I can't stop you. I'm sure they're great. I'm just trying to get some coffee.

Ok ok ok, so now, you (the reader) share a knowing look with the apparently psychic iindividual who tells you what to think and how to act (they obviously know about these things), who then makes a simple gesture accusing me of pedophilia and boom. Game, set, and match. It's over. Why even continue reading?

Not that either you believe what you are saying, but who gives a fuck at this point right? It's just that the look on both your faces reminds me of a smug version of the look my dog gets when he is licking his own butt.

Funny story-up until recently, I worked with an actual convicted child rapist. The genuine article. And let me tell you, he was having a fucking field day with this shit. It's ok, get it all out buddy. That's fine right? He's a part of the movement, and everyone gets something. Well, almost everyone lol;) ;)

Yes sir, it's a real pander fest out there. At an intersection, there is an environmentalist guy and a guy with the unnecessarily large and noisy truck. Given our recent political decision making process, you would think they would be staring daggers, yelling, celebratory coal rolling, etc. No absolutely not. Dudes are falling all over themselves in a mad scramble of trans political endearment. It's so simple!! All we have to do is find the one guy in society who isn't a completely gullible dumbfuck and shit all over him and poof. All problems resolved. Transgressions forgiven. A new age.

I mean, it is somewhat interesting how each of you has an individually unique rationalization for the exact same , identical patterns of hateful and abusive behavior. The tree hugger and the coal roller. Beautiful snowflakes all.

Just kidding, it's actually really easy to just place you in a cliched typology and reverse engineer your justification for participating in fascism lite (tm) based on a presumable self conception. I don't really give a fuck what lies you tell yourself in the mirror. But as your Bob Dylan said, it ain't me babe.

Point being, having superceded the political, as well as all conventional rules of civilized conduct, and or general local culture in your fair city, The Movement (tm) (ha) or whatever the fuck you call it, is the dominant social reality and governing social principle.

AND YOU CANNOT TALK ABOUT IT

Which is fine. You do you. But please cease to labor under the illusion that you still have any translatable values, of any kind, whatsoever. It's not that open harassment or discrimination or whatever, particularly when perpetrated by a group of people in a position of social power, is wrong, per se, right? I mean, it would be interesting to hear any of you attempt to justify yourselves, but unfortunately YOU CANNOT TALK ABOUT IT. It is forbidden. I get it. Its like fight club. That's fair. White guys have made some pretty decent movies.

Let's say you dropped $100k on a liberal arts degree. Here's a chance to exercise some critical thinking in the face of a mass social movement founded on cruelty and open hatred, which is kind of the basic purpose of such a degree. Nope. Let's say it was history. What does this say about your chosen field of study? Hide all evidence right? Or sociology. Beyond your purview. Philosophy. When in Rome? Congratulations.

A lot I could say, but, regarding the preposterous idea that this is jall ust a some organic, spontaneously occurring culture phenomenon (rationalization received from a Christian): 1. Easily forensically disprovable, I'm not even particularly well studied and I know exactly who your master is, where they work, and why, and 2. Shockingly naive, given the power dynamics of the situation, sorry no way are your overlords leaving that kind of money on the table.

I don't really feel like elaborating further other than to say that because you are unable to speak or "go back and forth with me", whatever it is that you are participating in is, on its face, complete bullshit, as you, by both structural and philosophical necessity, lack individual moral and intellectual agency, which is, in fact, and in spite of what you may believe (ask your benevolent dictator), the root of all collective historical human failure. As well as the principle rationale for a liberal arts education. But fuck it right?

So, you spent 100k on education, only to turn around and will yourself into intellectual and moral slavery, and become the object of some corporate marketing psychologist's vanity project? May I wipe my ass with that diploma?

In closing, I don't want to go over the top here and start some kind of song of myself, oh no, but having been treated like human garbage, I feel compelled to state:

In terms of adverse personal experience, I soloed goddamn Annapurna in the snow season, lived to tell the tale, and this is the shit I come back to. You are all useful idiots and your behavior is an insult to the human condition.

Why me? Honestly, because out of everyone in at least the entire western United States apparently, you could literally put a gun to my head and I would not get on whatever bullshit from the literal church of corporate Satan you all are being spoon fed. Which I guess is some sort of crime.

On behalf of myself, humanity, Jesus, the Buddha, the better angels of our nature, all the great ones who came before, rock-'n'-roll, etc, Bellingham, YOUR SCENE SUCKS.

I will enjoy the cold comfort of inner freedom and a righteous cause while watching you abandon any semblance of a coherent value system and continue to lick fascist corporate ass for a bump of cocaine (which I don't think is very punk rock:( )

In solidarity, an actual, working, breathing, locally available, and highly DMable, high 7-ish, cultural dissident.

And, let the bad faith Cassandra treatment begin.

(Unless you are feeling spry big fella. Wanna earn some points???)

UPDATE: You guys, you guys wait!!! I thought of a really good one. The hand gesture thing-that is soooo Hitler

Update to Update: WOW so many responses. I am not able to give each one the time and attention it deserves, so here I will make a brief general reply before sharing something (indeed) very special with everyone.

Briefly perusing these responses, they seemed mostly attempts and bad faith gaslighting (as predicted) along with a sprinkling of salty literary criticism. I, at least, personally, found the gaslighting amusing, because I said you would do it, and you still did it anyway. Lol.

But really, everyone here, myself included, knows that besides "though shalt not speak," like the second rule in the playbook (which apparently descended from Shiva on a ray of light or some shit) is "Just keep doing it," so really this discussion is basically pointless, other than to point out that based on your actions, you are now complicit in an ongoing attempt to manufacture a historical falsehood about our society as it exists today, which, to me, is somewhat mind-blowing and honestly something of a privilege to witness firsthand. Now on to the important stuff.

Driving home today, listening to some predictably tinny, cacaphonous, and emotionally shallow corporate music, it occurred to me: When all this first I was actually pretty afraid. I remember first commenting on this pattern of organized behavior I got so scared I had like a four day flashback, you know the terrors, worries that someone was going come kidnap me and bury me alive somewhere because the shit I talked was so unprecedentedly nasty there was no way it could be allowed to stand, etc.(Which honestly is a pretty scary thought, because just based on the responses I received here it is clear that no one is gonna come looking). But you know, this went on, and the ol shoe never dropped.

I could only speculate that I must have been the subject of some kind of Job-like wager, to see whether I could walk the razors edge between hysteria, due to the gaslighting, on the one hand, and some form of violence, due to the anger at the abusive treatment, on the other. And it went on, and on, and on.

Today I realized that due to recent developments, and in small part because of this post, the terms of the wager have changed (which is good, because turns out, I can do this shit indefinitely, but where's the fun in that?). I am no longer the subject of this wager. No, I am now a party to it.

So, what or who (you may ask), is now then the new subject? What is the nature of this new wager?

The subject, my friends, is you. My fellow citizens. The unwashed (stereotype) masses. The people of Bellingham. The human race.

And what is in question? I guess on my side would be what is known as traditional humanism. Although I am no paragon and did not choose this, this tradition would generally focus on the value of things like honesty, courage, dignity, perseverance, kindness, love etc. which in my opinion are inescapable, and due to my own experiences with hardship, indispensable, and woe be to him who has not felt that light touch some corner of his immortal soul.

The counterargument (I suppose) could (for my purposes) be described as anti-humanist, at least in the traditional sense. I believe that this position holds that the idealization of these traditional virtues breeds discontent and indeed mass violence and war, as humans are inherently somewhat petty, cruel, violent, etc, Overly harmonious, idealized group identities simply displace(?) sublimate (?) (my bad) these tendencies outward, in the form of group based hatred and violence.

Relevant questions: Realistically, are humans capable of self government? Are ideals good? Is the project of the enlightenment practical or desirable?

I would argue that life is basically not worth living in the anti-humanist society, as well as point out that in the more moderate "European" view, this is why we have things like rock climbing or whatever other stupid shit you guys do. Traditional forms of collective action are still necessary, and you can't solve many problems "herding cats."

To some extent this is a matter of taste, but I guess the real question is whether your corporate overlords can succeed in birthing the anti-humanist society and ,indeed, become bigger than Jesus.

You guys aren't helping my case much, but regardless this is the fundamental reality of what is happening right here, right now, plain as day.

I'll end with a plea for collegiately, as I have presented the arguments collegially, mainly out of fear for my personal safety, although we both know, if one thing is true about people from my tradition, it's that we fucking LOVE to party.

The ball is obviously not in my court, as I am alone here in a literal sea of sycophantic assholes, with nothing to defend myself but my rapacious wit, endearing humor, and roguish good looks.

It is ironic though. Me, an actual pariah, and the girl who has it all, arguing across each other. Like, I cannot fucking BELIEVE I am defending you people.

#asks

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sir-myst-cake · 3 days ago

Text

First post on here and it's a rant!! If you want more cool takes you should totally follow me as I'll be posting here more often and have totally cool art to share‼️‼️

I'm not completely sure how to tag this? I'm talking about the ships in a positive light so I think it's okay, and besides, I want lots of peeps to see it, I'm aware I probably won't change many people's minds at all, but it's okay lol, I just want Anti's to see they genuinely have a nothing burger and need to leave people alone.

This is a mostly TikTok only problem regarding Beast x Ancient's (thank god) but I've seen my fair share elsewhere like on here. So lemme counter every argument I've seen so far cause you got a lot of time on your hands to be telling people to off themselves over Cookie ships 😭 put that hate into people who actually deserve it.

BILLFORD COMPARISON

Regarding ShadowVanilla specifically, people have compared the ship a lot from both sides, but what really got me is what I've seen here:

"Shadow Milk Cookie is way worse than Bill! He drove Pure Vanilla to insanity! He tortured him!"- This is in regards to how people bring up the fact Anti's are fine with one thing but not the other when it's basically the same thing they're against. Psychological, physical, mental, and emotional torture. I'll be honest I haven't watched Gravity Falls whatsoever, but my friend has, and from what she says, yeah Bill is the definition of a cruel and unusual punishment. He's done some crazy things, absolutely heinous, might even be a little worse than Shadow Milk or on the same level, either way though-

You can't like one thing and then not the other, it's different flavors of the same thing, it's hypocritical. Either you hate them both or you hate neither.

"Those are 2 different fandoms!"- Doesn't matter, it's the same thing, just different media, it's not different whatsoever aside from the universe, there's much torture involved on both ends.

ABUSER X VICTIM

This one I've seen A LOT and I'm just ??

"If you ship Beast x Ancient's you support Abuser x victim btw"- That's a STRETCH. You are reaching FAR. Nobody is romanticizing the abuse, nobody is normalizing it, it's stuff that happened in canon and we acknowledge it but nobody is doing any of that other stuff. I'm not condoning anyone in real life to do that shit lol. It's called exploring, they have an interesting dynamic, romantic or platonic, two sides of the same coin. You can say the same thing about horror movies, they put a lot of disturbing stuff in there. Do the movie producers CONDONE any of that stuff? Obviously not. Goes for Devsisters too, they don't condone body mutilation yet they still made Burning Spice rip off Cheese's wings.

But even so, for the people who DO like it for the angst, I won't say fiction doesn't affect reality because it does in many cases, but this isn't one of them. Not every relationship is going to be peachy and perfect, just like in real life. I can give an example on this one too actually.

GoldenLily, they aren't condoning what Lily (technically) did to Golden Cheese's kingdom, but they like it for all the potential, complicated feelings and emotions that come along with it.

Also, that's basically the same thing with Beasts x Ancients, just turn it around to enemies to lovers.

"This isn't Villain x hero, this is abuser x victim"- Are you saying MOST of media is abuser x victim then? This is in fact a typical hero x Villain trope, it's nothing new. Respectfully, you guys freak out when a Villain does villain stuff, I'd be surprised if there was a villain who DIDN'T cause any trauma for the opposing party. But according to this logic, media is just dead, no more fanfiction, no more what ifs, no more content since it's all apparently problematic and not canon. Even if somebody switches stuff up in an AU, and makes things completely fluffy, that's apparently still not enough.

"oh you had to make an AU to ship them because you know it's toxic"- No, it's just playing around with scenarios. Learn to separate fanon from canon. This specifically goes for the redeemed AU's I see of the Beasts, people still complain, they act as if people can't change. One of the biggest examples I have of that is FlutterCord, Discord did plenty of messed up things, but in the end, he still managed to change. You'll still get burned at the stake for it though.

"You must be an abuser yourself to condone this!!"- Extremely disrespectful and a WILDDD take. Need I say more??

"I ship Beast x Beast rather than Beast x Ancient's"- According to your logic, the Beasts are abusers right? And if we followed the same story, they are not mentally well whatsoever. You'd rather ship 2 dangerously mentally unstable characters together who'd just make each other worse? Destroy each other? Fuck each other up beyond belief? It doesn't make sense does it, nor is it fair for y'all to praise these ships but hate on the others. You like watching the cookies crumble huh 😭

CANON

"The ship isn't canon!"- We know that, everyone should know that. With what I said earlier, please learn to separate fanon from canon. That's what a fandom is, we do non-canon stuff, it's very fun, you should try it.

"It's a Proship/Dark ship!"- Going the canon route, Beasts are Eons old, Ancients are thousands of years old. Big gap yes, but nonetheless all of them are old as fuck. Older than bloodlines. Treating the Ancients as if they aren't grown adults. You're intentionally trying to make it weird. Stop calling ships you don't like proships please.

Also a little off topic but please don't listen to everyone you interact with on TikTok?? I remember one time I was scrolling through a comment section and saw somebody say "Doesn't Mystic Flour Cookie hate Burning Spice Cookie?" On a MysticSpice vid, looked in the replies, somebody asked for proof/where it was implied, and they didn't answer 💀 just blatantly spreading misinformation. Sources around you are way more reliable than people who don't back up their claims.

CONCLUSION

Even despite all this, you still have the right to feel how you wanna feel. Just please stop harassing people for simple stuff like this, in all honesty, I feel like it's more about seeing one of your favorite characters shipped with somebody who hurt them in canon that makes peeps upset. Which I can totally understand because I used to be exactly like that, I LIVEEEE for Dark Cacao Cookie, when Mystic Flour's update came out, I wanted her dead. Quite literally blocked someone because I couldn't stand seeing their MysticCao art. Hated what she did to my baby boy fr.

But then It started growing on me, over time, I just realized it was never that serious.

Even so, notice how I still didn't go out of my way to harass said person about it because I specifically didn't like it? It really is that easy. Block and go about your day.

I also suspect this because of stuff like this 💀

Love that person who replied, but it's not that hard y'all. We all can in fact, get along.

ANYWAYSSSS thanks to those who took the time read, I love you my pookies hope you have a good day or night💕💕

#cookie run kingdom #shadowvanilla #burningcheese #mysticcacao #silentlily #pureshadow #hollysugar #beast x ancient #type shit

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marauder-misprint · 2 days ago

Text

A regular thing

Sirius Black x fem!Slytherin!reader

series masterlist

2.6k words

cw: fluff

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

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

You rolled your eyes as you fixed your uniform.

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

You reached out and fixed his tie for him.

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

“Just not.. Too ruffed up..”

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

‘Those boys will make your life complicated.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rosier,” you warned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you’ve figured shit out?”

You nodded.

“Then spill. Who. is. he?”

“Sirius.”

“Black?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Those boys will make your life complicated.’

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

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

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

---

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

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

Right? That logic made sense?

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

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

“It’s me,” Sirius’ voice said.

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

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

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

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

“So?”

“I haven't told her about this.”

“So?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Right, why we’re in here. Our date.”

“Yes. Um, when are we-”

“Are you doing anything after classes tomorrow?”

“Homework?”

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

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

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

You smacked him upside the head.

“Jokes! I joke!”

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

“Can’t a guy make a joke?”

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

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

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

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

“Why are you so infuriating?”

“Because you like it.”

“I do not like-”

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me, what?”

“Fine, follow me then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the Potters?” you questioned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What was it?”

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

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

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

You laughed.

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

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

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

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

“You figure… correctly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#marauders #marauders fic #marauder-misprint #sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #sirius black fluff #slytherin!reader

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chrollohearttags · 18 hours ago

Text

hard to breathe • portgas d. ace

seeing your ‘ex’ boyfriend ace one last time for closure..or so you thought. (based off of this song I’ve been obsessed with for months. It’s ‘old’ but I felt like it fit him and the vibe of this fic)

📝: black fem!reader, lots of relationship angst, modern au, heavy kissing, arguing + lots of dialogue, they’re slightly toxic ( y’all both ain’t shit I’m sorry 😭), riding, car sex, dirty talk, breeding, baby trapping (kinda), infidelity, hair pulling, pet names and daddy used, crying

wc: 4.1K

🎙️: I love writing my faves in a bunch of different scenarios, including ones that aren’t typical for their personality. This is in no way condoning toxicity, infidelity or anything of the sort. I just thought it would be a lil fun to experiment.

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“Where are you right now?”

“I should be with you..”

“You know that’s not a good idea..”

“Yeah, but it’s what we both want..who cares if it’s wrong or not?”

3:30am

the deep drawl on the other end of the line luring you in with each word..it always had a tendency to do so, even when you wished you could just ignore it.

“Ace, what the hell do you want from me? Stop this.”

“C’mon, babe. It’s the truth. Don’t tell me you’re feeling guilty..what did I tell you? You’ve got to stop giving so much a damn about what other people think.”

“Go to hell. Not everyone can just mistreat people like it’s nothing.”

it was a shame honestly..this type of behavior was so unbecoming of both of you. A sweet girl who didn’t like to make much of a fuss for anyone or over anything. And him, the shining example of a stand up guy. Charming, kind, helpful, a little rough around the edges but what every man should strive to be. Yet here you were..whispering into the speaker of your phone as to not wake the one in the room next to you. A mere replacement to dull the ache in your heart caused by him and his stupidity. Meanwhile, he was chuckling in your ear. Seemingly teasing you because he could sense the tension in your shaky voice. He knew you’d bolt the second you heard a ruffle from the other room…but he also knew you’d never hang up. Knew you couldn’t resist answering in the first place and for damn sure, that you couldn’t resist his offer…

“I want to see you. I can be at your place in ten..”

“Are you out of your fucking mind? It’s late, Ace..and—“

“And what? Afraid your little boyfriend might wake up? I know it’s not because you don’t want to see me either.”

“You’re a piece of work, you know that? How dare you? You ended things, Ace. Not me. So why the fuck do you keep hitting me up?”

the line would fall silent for a moment..only the shallow echoes of your breath captured on the opposite end. That was until you’d hear a sigh and his voice once more. This time with a much less arrogant tone.

“Listen, (y/n)..I get it. I fucked up..it’s my fault things turned out this way and I’m sorry. I know I can’t go back or change anything that happened between us but I can try to make it right. Even if it means someone else gets to do what I couldn’t…I just wanted a chance to apologize. In person…which I should’ve been man enough to do from the jump.”

the things in question? Your relationship..a bond of three years to be exact and a union everyone was certain would end in the two of you walking down the aisle. However, life has a funny way of throwing even the biggest of curveballs. This man had all but swept you off your feet one night a few summers ago..both out with friends and enjoying the night life as young singles should. Drinking, laughing and having a blast. Even though you were a bit more on the reserved side, he still managed to spot you out of all the beautiful women in that club that night. And trust, a fair share of them had been vying for his attention. Even so, he couldn’t focus on anyone but you. That was one of Ace’s many wonderful qualities. In a room full of people, he managed to make you feel special..as if you were the only one there. Which wasn’t exactly intentional..his biggest issue was that he tried to be friendly, trying his hardest not to hurt anyone’s feelings anymore. He struggled with his anger quite a bit when he was younger, taking next to nothing to set him off and if he was in the midst of conversation with one person, it was best that no one else tried to interrupt. However, he realized that only caused trouble so he always tried to greet someone regardless. It just didn’t fare very well when it came to women. No girl wants someone that it seems everyone can access to!

But alas, you sat in that section next to him; nursing your drinks and exchanging pleasantries. He was so easy to talk to. He had this awkward yet charming charisma about him. Almost as if despite his good looks, he wasn’t the ‘ladies man’ you’d peg him to be off first glance. Somehow though, he managed to get your number and the rest was history. You began hanging out, going on a couple dates..even spending a weekend together after a bad storm trapped the two of you inside of his apartment. You really enjoyed being around him and as time passed, the bond grew stronger. Six months later, you came over to visit and found yourself greeted by smoke and an obviously frustrated Ace covered in soot..a result of him attempting to cook a dinner to formally ask you to be his girlfriend! It was those goofy yet sweet gestures that made you adore him.

perfectly flawed was the best way to describe him in your book…maybe he made mistakes and maybe he didn’t come from this picturesque family but he was a damn good guy doing his best to be better than what he was used to. He was a hard worker and willing to fight for what he wanted.

You cherished every moment you guys got to spend together and at one point, you even got matching tattoos of half hearts on each of your hands..however, things began to crumble in the once ideal world you had curated together.

going from laughing all the time to petty arguments that seemed intentional. From spending late nights together..making love until the sun shines over your bodies..now you were blowing up his phone to see where he was. You began to suspect that he was cheating. Perhaps somewhere with another woman. But you were wrong..truth be told, he was running.

running away from a healthy home and relationship because he didn’t know how to handle it. Didn’t know how to process being loved unconditionally without expecting the worst to happen…he never figured himself to be good enough for you to begin with but here you were..constantly showering him with affection; buying him gifts, making his favorite meals and even surprising him with massages after long, stressful days at work. You were everything he didn’t deserve! Hence why..he felt the need to blow it up before it could escalate. He couldn’t let you continue treating someone like him as if he were special. Three weeks later, he texted you asking to break up and to say you were devastated? Was an understatement. You loved this man so damned much, you had already begun looking at wedding dresses and contemplating baby names, figuring you guys were in this for the long run. But fairy tales don’t exist and you weren’t getting the story book ending. Instead, you were left heartbroken..trying to piece yourself back together and figure out what went wrong.

“Just one last time, that’s all I’m asking. I want to say I’m sorry and then I’m out of your hair for good, I promise. I won’t bother you ever again..”

a solid compromise, you supposed. Besides, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to look him in his eye and tell him to go fuck himself for how he fumbled you. He’d plead, calling your name until he got a response and finally:

“I’ll be in the lobby, call me when you get here.” Before disconnecting the line and releasing a heavy sigh. You fought back tears but in order for the next chapter of your life to begin, you had to finish this one. But the funny thing about some books…

is that they refused to remain closed!

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page break bc I don’t do filler

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“..it’s nice to see you again. You look beautiful as always—“

“Enough of the small talk. State your business and make it quick.”

the two of you sat parked outside of your luxury apartment complex, downstairs in the desolate parking garage. Your arms folded across your chest in a defensive manner and his stretched across the steering wheel..that goofy snark on his face as he kissed his teeth. He knew you were fighting so hard to stand firm in your boundaries, something you struggled with in the past. And truthfully, he hated to disrupt that peace…but he was selfish, gluttonous even. He wasn’t always this nice guy everyone saw him as. He wanted to have his cake and eat it too and if that meant he’d leave your head a mess once again then so be it. A fucked up sentiment but the truth nonetheless..

“…damn. It's like that then? Fair enough..”

turning in his seat, Ace shifted and focused his attention directly on you. It was hard to maintain eye contact because how could he face you after such a betrayal? Even so, this was his bed he made and it was time to lie in it.

“The truth is...I was afraid. One day, you’d wake up and realize that I wasn’t what you thought I was. That I was broken and I didn’t have my shit together. It’s like no matter what I did in my life, I found a way to fuck it up. Make a mess of things..I’m not like you, (y/n). Honestly, what could you possibly see in me? Don’t you want someone who’s your equal?”

by this time, tears were beginning to swell in his eyes as well. The more he spoke, he realized that these feelings of insecurity were always within him. You promised yourself that you were just going to give him a piece of your mind, storm out and never have to see him again. But it was never that easy with this man.

you knew he was genuine and not just trying to victimize himself. He honestly felt like you could do so much better. But he also knew by the look in your eyes that you were not going to let him get away so easily.. You didn’t hate him, hell, you couldn’t even bring yourself to fully get angry with him for what he did. Looking down, Ace would begin to chuckle; a weird coping mechanism for him in times of stress and uttered the last words you wanted to hear.

“And after all this time, all the bullshit I put you through..you still love me, don’t you? That’s the only reason you’re still sitting here..the only reason you didn’t hang up. When you’re done with something, you never give it a second thought.” sitting cross armed, you’d begin to laugh. Not at his hurt but at the fact that for the first time in almost five years of knowing him, you saw him show genuine, raw emotion. You saw him finally let down his guard and be himself…as sad as it was, it was a bit cathartic.

“Wow…so you are capable of communicating your feelings and there isn’t a ten foot wall of bullshit in that head of yours.” Poking the side of his temple playfully..

“Of course I love you. I never stopped, you inconsiderate jackass. What did I ever do to you? That’s all I could ask myself. You keep talking about me deserving better and all of this bullshit..who gave you the right to decide what I wanted and what I deserve? Shouldn’t I have a say too? You left because it was easy, Ace. Instead of working through it with me, you ran because you don’t want anyone thinking you’re weak. That’s not how relationships work..we’re supposed to see each other at our worst, our best..good and bad days. If you feel insecure about anything, you did it to yourself because you were perfect to me and you know damn well I never made you feel anything less than.”

those words stung like none other. And honestly, no matter what he said, there wasn’t a good enough excuse for any of his behavior. You said it best..he was selfish, immature and didn’t think clearly. Ace had a knack for marching to the beat of his own drum and damn the consequences.

“..you’re right, (y/n). It’s my fault..and I can’t take any of it back…” suddenly, you’d feel his hand clutch the top of your own, intertwining your fingers as he stared you in the eye.

“..but I can try to fix it. Fix us..let me make this right. Please…if you’re happier with someone else, then there’s nothing I can do. But—“ In that moment, (y/n) had finally heard all that you could take. Reaching over the console, you’d clutch his face in your palm and shove your lips together. The sensation of that warm kiss sent a surge throughout your body..a spark you hadn’t felt since the day he left.

“Are you done? God, I swear you talk too damn much.” Prompting him to laugh as you held the side of his face. He was a little taken aback by your sudden dominance. Not knowing you to ever take control like this but he wasn’t mad about it one bit..

“..why’d you kiss me? What about your boyfriend?” A question as disrespectful as it was rhetorical.

“You’re as dumb as you are cute sometimes. You think I came all the way out here at three am to chit chat? Nut uh, you owe me..also, you’re a greedy bastard. No way you’re letting me go back in that apartment unless it’s with you." By this time, your hands were roaming his chest and your faces were only inches apart. His lips would curl into a sheepish grin before his palm snaked to the back of your neck, tugging your head towards him.

“..what can I say, babe? I’m just too damn stubborn..I always have to get my way.” And with that, you’d find your tongues joined together again. Twirling around one another with heavy whimpers mixed in. Suddenly, you’d find yourself crawling into the driver's seat and onto his lap. Just as you’d suspected, he’d worn those gray sweats you’d always loved to see him in and a black tank top to display his muscles, along with a newly acquired tattoo.

This man was not slick at all! Even so, his little tactic worked because all those memories of late nights and early mornings with him came rushing back. When you’d find yourself sneaking out on lunch breaks at work just to come eat his dick up or when he’d show up at your apartment around midnight because he’d work the closing shift again. With a bottle of wine and the intention of putting you through the mattress in every position after two glasses got you turned on. It was always exciting and spontaneous with Ace, something your ‘new man’ lacked. Slowly winding in his lap as you continued to make out, (y/n) caressed his torso..missing the familiar touch of his skin, taking in the scent of his cologne and immersing yourself in him. He’d run his thumbs across your throat, gently squeezing as you took his bottom lip between his teeth.

“You’re so beautiful..I missed you.” “Yeah? You missed me, baby?” Teasing him as you bounced your ass against his crotch, subtly twerking on his visible bulge. Caressing your gentle fingertips across his freshly shaven jawline. You could feel him growing harder underneath him and knew he wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. Even kissing on his neck and licking on his jugular. “Mmmm..fuck. Pull that dress up and I’ll show you just how much.” Without a single bit of hesitation, you lifted the hem and allowed your bare cheeks and slit to graze him. Shuffling around underneath you, Ace slid his thumbs into the sides of those sweats, letting them pool around his waist. Meanwhile, he couldn’t stop marking your neck and lips with tender kisses..or apologizing for how stupid he was! Being here with you again brought back a flood of memories and emotions..ones that he never wanted to lose again. He needed this to be real once more. However, you weren’t much for talking right now..if he wanted to win his girl back, all you needed were actions.

“Why are you still talking? Just fuck the shit out of me before I grow a conscience and change my mind.” Your command being heard loud and clear; forcing him to grip your waist and balance you above that aching tip. Swollen red and seeping with precum, he was eager for you and that warm cunt was welcoming him in.

“Yes ma’am..whatever you say.” Following up his remark with a toothy smirk so you knew he was going to deliver and give you exactly what you were looking for. (Y/N) reclined against the steering wheel for a moment as he slowly infiltrated that entrance. That core drooling as he made home inside of you. Both of your heads fell backwards in a haze of pleasure…enjoying the all too familiar feeling of being one!

“Shiiit..why are so fucking tight? Oh my gosh..” those breathy moans and whines escaped his mouth the second he began thrusting. Not even two pumps in and he was trying to maintain his composure. With you though, he failed pretty quick. Reacclimating to the warmth that was your insides was going to be a challenge. Even so, he’d continue to guide you up and down on his shaft, letting that thick cock stretch open those wet folds.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Take this dick…just like that..” Meanwhile, (y/n)’s mouth fell ajar, overstimulated by the sensation already. You’d paw at his chest, holding onto him as he maneuvered you to his liking. Using your body like that of a flesh light. “’s so good. Missed this big fucking dick.” Hearing those words elicited another chuckle from Ace, prompting him to cradle the back of your neck in a dominant manner, pulling you close. “Yeah? Your little boyfriend ever fuck you like this?” Questioning through clenched teeth as he continued guiding your lower half..

those soft insides wrapping around him with each stroke. You’d then feel the tight clutch of his hand on the back of your head, tugging at those freshly styled wefts coursing down your back..he was aware of the minute fortune you spent each month to upkeep your beauty. From the thousand dollar hair appointments, nail salon visits and waxes..even so, he didn’t give a damn! Turning his gorgeous girl into a sloppy slut was his favorite pastime. A toothy grin on his face, watching your swollen tits bounce and drool seep from the corners of your mouth, along with the loud moans following suit.

“..I’ll take that as a no. You’re squeezing me like you haven’t come in ages, babe.” Those taunts harbored more truth than you’d care to admit. As shameful as it was to be cheating, you’d never be happy with someone who couldn’t give you a nut! Hypocritical as it was abhorrent, you too would never be satisfied until you got what you desired. And that desire was the guy slamming balls deep up inside of you at the moment. Pounding that sensitive little core..letting that fat mushroom tip split you open and begging for that sweet cunt to siphon him for every last drop of cum he had. “You’re fucking dripping..you must’ve needed this bad. Goddamn..” referring to the creamy release you had drizzling his cock. Making a mess of his lap. “Y—yeah..you’re the only one who can make me cream like this.” Cock drunk and giggling as he catapulted you up and down. The vehicle began to sway due to the heavy activity taking place and the windows also began to fog up as a result. That’s when you’d feel his palms colliding with your asscheeks, egging on your bouncing. It was in the midst of those heavy handed smacks that he’d begin pleading his remorse. Telling you how sorry he was for how he mistreated you. As cute as it was, you weren’t interested in any half assed apologies, but rather….

”…if you’re really sorry, you’ll nut in me. This is your pussy so act like it..” Uttering those words with a wide smile on your face whilst meeting his strokes with heavy bounces..nearly made Ace convulse. He loved when you spoke to him in such a domineering manner. You’d feel a sudden twitch inside of you and his hands guiding you as you slammed down on that cock. Your cheeks grazing the outer rim of the steering wheel..both of you so close to your peak that you’d claw into one another’s skin.

Covered in a sheen of sweat and saliva..begging the other to get you there and revealing all of your deepest confessions for one another..including the fact that he wanted you to be his forever and that you weren’t leaving this parking lot without him. You’d clearly chosen who you wanted to be with.

“…damn right it’s my pussy, princess. I don’t care who you bring home. You belong to me and I belong to you..no one else can come between that. Ever again.”

not to mention..you were begging for his cum yet again. You’d often divulge in the throes of pre-climatic bliss that you wanted to have his kid..be so full of his seed that there was no way you weren’t pregnant and Ace certainly had no objections to it. Maybe it was the sensation of being cream pied or the fact that you really wanted a family with him. Either way, he constantly fantasized about seeing you full with his seed; how adorable you’d look with a bump and he just couldn’t maintain his composure.

“Yes..please come in me. Want your baby—“ having to laugh again at how cute and pathetic you were becoming. But alas, there was no room for shame right now. You’d plead with your last breath to feel that womb stuffed again.

“That right, gorgeous? Does my pretty girl want me to get her pregnant?..” “Yes, nut in this fucking pussy, daddy. Please!” certainly a far cry from the headstrong woman who was yelling at him before. Now, you were reduced to a desperate little cumslut, pleading to be bred. Luckily, you didn’t have to wait long. After experiencing your second orgasm in close succession, Ace would pin you down and force his cock up into you, going as fast as he could muster. “Don’t worry, you’re gonna take every drop. You’re going to have my baby and I’m going to take such good care of you both. Gonna marry you—be a better man this time around..” That soft flesh ricocheting as a result..loud grunts and curse words filling the car as he prepared to do the same to you.

“M fucking coming, babe! Hold still—shit!—“ in that moment, that orgasm would rip through his body and just as you requested, all of his warm seed coursed through your insides and didn’t stop for a solid two minutes..having not had a proper orgasm since you guys split up. He was still twitching inside of you, holding you to his chest as you both cried from how amazing it felt. Tears on both of your faces as a result of ecstasy.

“Damn, I guess I wasn’t the only one who needed that.” Teasing him amidst your cute giggles. Leaning up, (y/n) kissed the tip of his nose and caressed his cheek..unable to believe that you were here with him again. He’d gently stroke the side of your face as well..glaring at you as if you were the most precious thing in the world.

“I love you, (y/n)..so much. I never thought I’d get the chance to tell you that again. Feels so good.” And you shared his sentiment. He was the only one it ever felt genuine from and damn sure, the only guy you meant it to. Any guilt or shame had long since absolved and you knew this was exactly where you should’ve been. ”I love you too, Ace. I’m so glad you showed up.” It was going to be a long day, as you had some explaining to do. But for now..

“Shit..he’s calling me.”

“Ignore it..let me hold you a little bit longer, okay?”

you wanted to remain in this moment for as long as possible. After all, this is where you were happiest and there was no one who’d give you the high that he could.

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iamquiantrelle · 3 days ago

Text

THURAM'S NO. 1 ANGEL (chapter 1) ────iamquaintrelle

# pairing: marcus thuram x black oc (☔️✨💕)

# wc: 4.5k

# tags: @irishmanwhore @sucredreamer @coffeevacation @hopefulromantic1 @jessnotwiththemess

# summary: shanice carter-ricci didn't expect to become part-owner of inter milan at forty, but here she is - fresh off a divorce from her italian ex and ready to shake up serie a. she's got plans to bring some much-needed diversity and fresh energy to those stuffy executive boxes. what she doesn't plan on? getting tangled up with marcus thuram, the team's star striker who's fourteen years younger and infamous for his rotation of gorgeous girlfriends known as "thuram's angels." soon shanice is finding out that age ain't nothing but a number… and maybe it's time for this angel investor to shake up thuram's roster. masterlist.

# a/n: this will be a mini fic series with thirteen parts unless there's no engagement.

Shanice pulled her Hermes scarf tighter as she walked through the VIP entrance of San Siro. Even after six months, it still felt weird being part owner of Inter Milan. Like, how did her ex-husband's obsession become her fresh start at forty? The divorce from Alessandro had at least given her this, along with keeping her sanity intact.

The players' tunnel was empty and quiet since practice ended hours ago. As the new VP of Community Relations, she told herself she needed to know every inch of her investment. But honestly? She just loved how the place felt when no one was around.

That's when she heard it - deep laughter and rapid French echoing off the walls. Before she could place where it was coming from, she literally walked right into what felt like a wall of muscle in Inter training gear.

"Shit, I'm sorry!" Marcus Thuram's face broke into that infamous grin of his as his hands steadied her shoulders. Behind him, three gorgeous women watched the scene unfold, all gorgeous in that Instagram-ready way. So these were the famous "Angels" everyone gossiped about.

"Mrs. Ricci," he said, recognition lighting his eyes. "I didn't expect to meet our new owner like this." His English was good, touched with just enough French to be straight up dangerous.

"Just Shanice now," she corrected him. "The divorce was finalized in June." Why the hell did she share that? There was just something about his open, playful expression that made you want to spill your whole life story.

"Ah, fresh starts," he nodded sagely, though his eyes danced with mischief. "I'm somewhat of an expert in those. New club, new city…" He gestured at the women behind him. "New friends."

One of the Angels - this tall drink of water with honey-blonde weave - cleared her throat like she was tired of waiting.

"Speaking of friends," Marcus said with an apologetic grin, "we have dinner reservations. But maybe we could discuss community outreach programs sometime? I have some ideas."

Shanice found herself nodding before she could stop herself. This man's charm should be illegal for real. "My office is always open to players."

"Good!" He was already backing away, the Angels falling into formation around him like they'd rehearsed it. "Though fair warning - I might try to convince you to sponsor a sneaker design competition for local kids."

She watched him disappear down the corridor, her daughters' voices already playing in her head. Thirteen-year-old Dream would absolutely lose it if she knew mom had just met her favorite player. And nine-year-old Heaven would've been all over his shoes, trying to figure out if they were some limited drop.

Pulling out her phone, Shanice added "look into sneaker comps?" to her notes. She tried to ignore how her skin was still buzzing where his hands had been.

She had way too much on her plate to be thinking about a fine as hell 27-year-old footballer with a rotating cast of girlfriends. Even if his smile could probably power all of Milan.

Shaking her head, Shanice continued down the tunnel, her heels clicking against the concrete. Football had always been Alessandro's thing, not hers. Every weekend for years, he'd take Dream and Heaven to the matches while she built her empire hosting events and securing those luxury brand deals. Not that she minded - somebody had to be the practical one, the hustler making things happen while he played football owner with his rich friends.

But now? Now she owned a piece of one of the biggest clubs in Europe. The irony wasn't lost on her. She might not know every player's stats like Dream did, or care about formation tactics like Alessandro had, but she knew business. She knew how to make things grow. And honestly? Serie A could use some diversity in the owner's boxes - not just on the pitch.

"Time to make some noise," she muttered to herself, running her hand along the tunnel wall. Dream had screamed for ten minutes straight when Shanice told her about the divorce settlement. Not because of the divorce - they'd all seen that coming - but because her mom now owned part of her favorite team. Heaven had just rolled her eyes in that way only a nine-year-old could and asked if this meant she could players’ shoe collections.

Back in her modeling days, Shanice never imagined she'd end up here. But that hustle had never left her blood, even after she'd transitioned from walking runways to running events. Her network was crazy - fashion houses, celebrities, influencers, business moguls - all on speed dial because they knew she could make magic happen. Alessandro might've laughed at her "little parties" at first, but he shut up real quick when her connections started bringing serious money and clout to his business ventures.

She pulled out her phone again, scrolling through her contacts. Maybe it was time to bring that same energy to Inter. These stuffy old Italian football clubs needed to wake up and realize the game was changing. Social media, fashion collabs, global branding - that's where the real money was. And with her connections? She could open doors these men in their expensive suits hadn't even thought to look for.

The image of Marcus Thuram's smile flashed through her mind again. She had to admit - at least the view at work was going to be nice. Real nice. Even if he was young enough to make her feel like a whole cougar for even thinking about it.

Her phone lit up with a message from Dream: "MOMMM did you see any players today? 👀"

Shanice grinned, deciding to torture her daughter a little. "Maybe. Just walked around the tunnel a bit."

"OMG WHO???"

"Nobody special. Just some tall guy. French, I think? Had a few girlfriends with him..."

"MARCUS?!?! YOU MET MARCUS THURAM AND YOU'RE JUST NOW TELLING ME?! I'm literally dying. Did he do the smile? You know the one. Heaven says you better have checked his shoes!"

Shanice laughed out loud in the empty tunnel. Trust her kids to have their priorities straight - Dream thirsting over that smile and Heaven focused on the sneaker game. Like mother, like daughters - she hadn't missed those Jordan 1s he was wearing either.

"You're supposed to be doing homework," she texted back. "And yes, he smiled. No, I didn't catalog his shoe collection. I was kind of busy being professional."

The string of crying emojis that followed made her shake her head. She'd created a monster when she agreed to let Alessandro take Dream to that Inter Milan match three years ago. Now her daughter's room looked like a shrine to them - posters, jerseys, the works. Heaven wasn't much better, except her wall was covered in pictures of players' rare sneaker collections that she'd printed out.

Her phone buzzed again. This time it was her assistant reminding her about tomorrow's marketing meeting. Right. Back to reality. She had actual work to do, strategies to plan, a whole department to run. She couldn't be out here acting like her teenage daughter, getting flustered over a pretty smile and some designer kicks.

Even if that smile did make her forget she was supposed to be a whole grown woman with responsibilities.

"At least tell me if the Angels were as pretty in person as they look on Instagram!" Dream's next text popped up.

Shanice rolled her eyes. "Goodbye, Dream. Do your homework."

But as she headed toward her office, she couldn't help but wonder exactly how one got an invitation to join Thuram's Angels. Not that she was interested. At all.

She was way too old for that drama.

Probably.

*********************************************

Shanice's office was her sanctuary in the chaos of training days. Up here in the executive level, she could see the players running drills on the practice field below. Not that watching was doing her any good right now - she'd been staring at the same sponsorship proposal for twenty minutes straight.

Her phone buzzed. Dream again, probably spamming her with more TikToks of Marcus's training highlights. Her teenager had been insufferable since finding out mom was technically her idol's boss. Heaven was slightly more chill about it, but only because she was more interested in his sneaker collection than his football skills.

But it wasn't Dream. It was an Inter Milan internal number.

Marcus? Why is he calling her?

"Shouldn't you be training right now?" Shanice answered, trying to keep her voice professional despite the smile tugging at her lips.

"Water break," Marcus's voice was warm through the speaker. "And I hear you have an excellent coffee machine in your office. Much better than the one in players' lounge."

"Are you really trying to schmooze the boss for better coffee when you should be hydrating?"

"I would never," he gasped in mock offense. "I'm trying to schmooze the boss for both better coffee AND funding for my sneaker competition. I'm an excellent multitasker."

She shouldn't find that as funny as she did. "Fine. After training tomorrow? And yes, the coffee is excellent."

"Perfect. I'll bring my presentation. You bring your coffee machine's A-game."

"Get back to practice," she said, but she was grinning like a fool.

"Yes, boss," he chuckled before hanging up.

Shanice leaned back in her chair, trying to ignore the flutter in her stomach. This was business. Just business. Even if his voice did things to her that should be classified as a cardiac event.

Her phone buzzed again - Dream for real this time. "Mom mom mom did you see Marcus's new training pics? His fit is actually insane!"

Shanice glanced down at the practice field, where she could just make out number 9 jogging back to rejoin his teammates.

Just. Business.

The rest of her day was a blur of meetings and calls - sponsorship negotiations, community program reviews, endless emails about jersey designs. She was good at this part. Numbers, strategies, making shit happen - that's what got her here, not knowing the difference between a free kick and a corner kick.

On her way out, she nearly ran into Simone Inzaghi, Inter's manager. He'd been trying to get her to actually watch a match from the owner's box instead of just handling the business side.

"Shanice! This Saturday, yes? You'll come?" His English was getting better, but his hopeful expression did most of the talking.

She adjusted her Birkin on her shoulder. "Still not a football fan, coach."

"I will change this," he declared, shaking his head with a laugh. "I will beg if needed."

"We'll see," she smiled, already knowing she wouldn't. She had enough football talk from her daughters - she didn't need to add live matches to the mix.

The drive home to her Lake Como villa was usually her decompression time. Twenty minutes of pure luxury car silence, winding along the lakeside, watching the sun set behind the mountains. But today, that peace was shattered by the sight of a familiar Maserati in her driveway.

"What the fuck, Alex?" she muttered, pulling her Porsche in beside it. They had a custody arrangement for a reason. Wednesday wasn't his day.

Sure enough, when she walked in, Alessandro was in her kitchen like he still owned the place, stirring something that smelled suspiciously good while Heaven played sous chef. Dream was sprawled on the kitchen island bench, scrolling through her phone like this was just another regular Wednesday night.

"Ooh! Mama's home!" Heaven squealed, abandoning her post to launch herself at Shanice.

She caught her baby girl, hugging and kissing her while pinning her ex with a look that could freeze the whole lake. "Alex, a moment please."

Alessandro had the nerve to look completely unbothered as he handed Heaven the wooden spoon. "Keep stirring the sauce, tesoro."

Shanice led him to her home office, shutting the door with maybe a little more force than necessary. The room was her space - all clean lines and modern art, not a single piece of football memorabilia in sight. Unlike the rest of the house, which had slowly been taken over by Dream's Inter Milan shrine.

"What are you doing here, Alex? It's not your day."

He leaned against her desk like he used to do when this was their house, not just hers. Still fine as hell in that tailored suit, still wearing that Rolex she'd given him for their tenth anniversary. Still irritating as fuck.

"The girls called. Said they missed my cooking." His accent got thicker when he was trying to charm his way out of trouble. "You know how Heaven loves my pasta alla vodka."

"They have phones. You have a phone. A heads up would've been nice."

"Ah, but then you might have said no." He flashed that smile that used to make her weak in the knees. Now it just made her want to throw something at him. "Besides, I heard through the grapevine that you met our new striker today. Thought you might want to... compare notes."

Shanice's eyes narrowed. "You're here because of Marcus Thuram?"

"I'm here because of pasta," he corrected, but his eyes were laughing at her. "But since you brought him up..."

"Don't start, Alex." She moved behind her desk, putting some space between them. "I had one conversation with him about community programs. That's it."

"Mhmm. And tomorrow you have coffee." He examined his nails like this was casual conversation. "In your office. Alone."

"How do you even-" She stopped herself. Of course he knew. Half the board was probably still loyal to him. "It's a business meeting."

"With the guy Dream has plastered all over her walls?" His smile turned knowing. "The one with the harem of models?"

"The Angels," she corrected automatically, then wanted to kick herself.

"Ah, so you know about that." He pushed off the desk, moving closer. "Listen, tesoro-"

"Don't 'tesoro' me. We're not married anymore."

"Fine. Listen, Shanice." He held up his hands in surrender, but his eyes were still dancing with amusement. "I just want you to be careful. Marcus is... how do you Americans say it? A player. On and off the field."

She felt her temper rising. "Are you seriously in my house, uninvited, trying to warn me about a man like I'm some teenage girl? I'm forty, Alex. I own half your shares in Inter. I think I can handle a meeting with a footballer."

"Of course you can," he said smoothly. "You can handle everything. Always could. Just..." He paused at the door. "Maybe wear something less..." He gestured vaguely at her outfit.

"Get the fuck out of my office."

"Mama!" Heaven's voice saved Alex from whatever Shanice was about to throw at him. "The sauce is bubbling!"

"We're not done," Shanice warned him as she brushed past.

His low chuckle followed her down the hall. "We never are, bella. We never are."

In the kitchen, Dream had finally looked up from her phone. "Did you really talk to Marcus again today?" Of course, that's what got her attention.

"She did," Alex answered before Shanice could, stirring the sauce Heaven had abandoned. "And she's having coffee with him tomorrow."

The shriek Dream let out could probably be heard all the way in Milan. "OH MY GOD MOM! You have to tell me everything! What was he wearing? Did you see his sneakers? Was he nice? Were the Angels there? Is he even hotter in person? Can you get me his autograph? Or better yet, can you–"

"Dream." Shanice cut off the stream of questions. "Homework. Now."

"But Mom-"

"Now."

Heaven giggled at her sister's dramatic sigh. "I just want to know if his shoes were limited edition."

"Both of you, homework. Alex-" She turned to her ex, who was now plating pasta like he belonged there. "Next time, call first."

"Of course," he said with that infuriating smile. "I wouldn't want to interrupt any... business meetings."

Shanice decided right then that she was absolutely wearing her tightest dress tomorrow. And those Louboutins that made her legs look like they went on for days.

Purely for business reasons, of course.

Shanice stood in front of her closet the next morning, eyeing her options like she was planning a battle strategy. And maybe she was. That Roland Mouret dress had been collecting dust since Milan Fashion Week - the black one that hugged every curve like it was painted on, with that strategic slit that made her legs look endless. Perfect for making a point to her ex-husband about exactly what she could and couldn't handle.

"That's the one," she muttered, pulling it out. The fabric alone probably cost more than most people's monthly rent, but that's what you got for twenty years of fashion industry connections. She paired it with those red-bottom stilettos that had their own insurance policy - six inches of "fuck you" to anyone who thought forty meant invisible.

Her reflection in the full-length mirror had her feeling satisfied. The dress did everything it was supposed to do - snatched her waist, highlighted those gym sessions she'd been religious about since the divorce, and made her ass look like it was advertising something exclusive. Her hair were swept up in a French roll showing off the diamond earrings Alex had gotten her for their fifteenth anniversary. Petty? Maybe. But she wore divorce well.

"Damn, Mom!" Dream's voice made her turn. Her daughter was standing in the doorway, already in her school uniform. "Is this what you're wearing to meet Marcus?"

"This is what I'm wearing to work," Shanice corrected, but she couldn't help smiling at Dream's knowing look. "Don't you have a bus to catch?"

"Can't you just admit you're trying to get his attention? I mean, I've seen the Angels, but they don't have anything on you in that dress."

"Everything’s packed?"

Dream rolled her eyes. "Yes, but-"

"Bus. Now."

But as she walked into Inter's offices two hours later, the click of her Louboutins echoing off marble floors, Shanice had to admit her daughter might have had a point. This wasn't just a work outfit. This was a statement.

She just wasn't sure who she was making it to.

Maria's eyes went wide when she walked in. "Ms. Carter, the coffee machine is ready and-" she paused, taking in the outfit "-Mr. Thuram called to confirm he'll be here after morning training."

"Perfect." Shanice tried to ignore the little flutter in her stomach at his name. "Any other messages?"

"Mr. Ricci called." Maria's expression was carefully neutral. "Twice."

Of course he did. "Any actual emergencies?"

"He said something about wanting to make sure you got his advice about appropriate business attire."

Shanice's laugh was sharp. "I bet he did." She strode into her office, the dress moving exactly like it was designed to. "Hold my calls unless it's about the sponsorship deal. Or Mr. Thuram," she added, because Maria would assume anyway.

Her office was ready - coffee machine prepped with those specialty beans, a view of the practice field below (not that she was looking), and enough actual work on her desk to remind herself why she was really here.

But when she caught her reflection in the window, all dangerous curves and boss energy, she had to smile. Alex always did hate it when she dressed like this for business meetings. Said it was distracting.

That was kind of the point.

The sound of cleats on marble made her pause in reviewing contracts. He was early. She could hear Maria's professional greeting, followed by that deep laugh that somehow managed to sound like trouble even through walls.

Shanice stood, smoothing down her dress.

Game time.

Marcus didn't even try to hide how his eyes traveled up from those Louboutins when Maria showed him in. She caught his muttered "good damn" before he switched to that media-ready smile.

"What was that?" She arched an eyebrow.

"Nothing," he recovered smoothly, but his eyes were still taking in the dress like he was memorizing it. "Thanks for making time for me."

"Coffee?" She gestured to the machine, using the moment of turning away to hide her smile. That reaction had been worth every euro of this dress.

"Please." He settled into one of her visitor chairs like he owned it, all long legs and easy confidence.

"Should we be expecting any other visitors today?"

The question was casual, but he caught the underlying meaning. She'd seen the Angels in their usual spot during morning training.

"Just us," he replied, grabbing the cup from her.

"Your... friends are otherwise occupied?"

His chuckle was low and knowing. "They're... back at home." The way he said it made it clear 'home' was a loose concept.

Shanice pushed away thoughts about how weird it must be to just be cool with being one of many in a rotation. Not her business. Not her place to judge anybody's sex life, especially not when she had actual business to discuss.

"So," she sat behind her desk, crossing those Louboutin-clad legs deliberately. "Tell me about this sneaker competition for local kids."

Marcus set down his coffee and pulled out an iPad. But instead of launching into some formal presentation, he leaned forward with that infectious enthusiasm she was starting to realize wasn't just for show.

"Look, these kids in the local neighborhoods, they've got crazy talent. Not just for football - for design, for art. But nobody's giving them a platform." His French accent got thicker when he was excited, she noticed. "I want to do something that combines both. Get them designing custom football boots, have them pitch their ideas like it's Shark Tank or something."

"And the winners?"

"We produce their design. Limited edition. Split the profits with them and their schools." He grinned. "Plus they get to see a professional wear their creation in a match."

She had to admit, it was good. Combine Inter's community outreach with actual entrepreneurship opportunities, get some good PR, maybe even discover the next big thing in design...

"My daughter Heaven would lose her mind over this," she said without thinking.

His eyes lit up. "The sneakerhead? Dream mentioned her yesterday."

Shanice blinked. "When did you talk to Dream?"

"Instagram. She slid in my DMs like 'my mom's gonna be your boss now so we're basically family.'" He laughed at Shanice's mortified expression. "Don't worry, I kept it professional. Told her to focus on school and that her mom seems cool."

"Seems?"

"Well," he stood, and somehow the office felt smaller with him up. "That was before I saw you in this dress. Now I'm thinking 'cool' might be an understatement."

He was at the door before she could process that. "Think about the proposal? The kids would really appreciate it."

Shanice managed a nod, proud that her voice stayed steady. "I'll review the numbers."

"Looking forward to your decision." That smile again, the one that probably got him everything he wanted. "Boss."

The door clicked shut behind him. Shanice let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

So much for keeping it professional.

Saturday came too fast. Shanice had successfully avoided matches for months, but Dream and Heaven had formed an unholy alliance. Their combined powers of teenage begging and nine-year-old puppy eyes were apparently her kryptonite.

"You're an owner, Mom," Dream had argued. "You have to at least pretend to care about the actual games."

So here she was, in the owner's box, wearing weekend casual. Heaven was pressed against the glass, documenting every player's footwear choices in her little notebook. Dream was... well.

"OH MY GOD HE WAVED AT ME!"

Marcus had paused his warm-up routine to wave at Dream, who was now literally squealing and clutching Shanice's arm. Her daughter - usually so cool, so above it all - reduced to a giggling teenager. Which, fair enough, she was.

Shanice's eyes scanned the stands automatically. No Angels in sight. Interesting, since the gossip blogs always said they never missed a match, always in their usual section, always dressed like they were at fashion week instead of a football game-

Nope. She wasn't going to go there. That was the least of her worries. Besides, she wasn't about to become some cougar chasing after a 27-year-old footballer. What could he possibly do for her? He probably couldn't even satisfy a woman properly, especially not a woman like her who knew what she wanted and-

Marcus dropped into a stretch on the field below, and Shanice's brain short-circuited. Those thighs. That ass. The way his kit stretched across-

Well. Maybe he could do a little somethin' somethin'.

"Mom!" Heaven's voice snapped her out of it. "Are those the new Nike Zoom Mercurial Superfly 9 Elites he's wearing?"

"I have no idea what any of those words mean, baby."

But she knew exactly what those thighs meant, and it was trouble. Pure trouble.

The match kicked off, and Shanice tried to look interested in whatever was happening on the field. Heaven was still cataloging shoes, but now she was comparing them to some spreadsheet on her tablet. Dream was providing commentary that might as well have been in Chinese for all Shanice understood.

"Did you see that run? The way he just- Mom, are you even watching?"

She was watching something alright. Just maybe not the same thing Dream was excited about. Marcus moved like water on the field, all power and grace. The way his muscles flexed when he sprinted, the focus in his expression when he had the ball...

"Signora Ricci." A smooth voice interrupted her definitely-not-thirsting. One of the other board members - some old money type whose name she should probably remember. "So nice to finally see you at a match."

"Couldn't disappoint my girls," she smiled diplomatically. These men still weren't used to her being here, being part owner. Still called her Ricci even though she'd gone back to her maiden name.

"You've met our new striker, yes? Quite the acquisition."

Oh, she'd met him alright. Met those chocolate eyes and that devastating smile and that ass that should be illegal in those shorts-

"We had a meeting about his community outreach proposals," she said smoothly. "Very impressive."

"His proposals or his-" Dream's comment was cut off by Shanice's warning look.

The crowd suddenly roared. Shanice turned just in time to see Marcus breaking free, the ball at his feet. The defender didn't stand a chance. One move, two, and then-

GOAL.

The stadium erupted. Dream was screaming. Heaven had abandoned her shoe documentation to jump up and down. And Marcus... Marcus was running toward their end of the field, sliding on his knees in celebration.

He looked up at the owner's box. Straight at her.

And winked.

"Did you see that?" Dream squealed. "He winked at us!"

Sure, baby. At "us."

Shanice took a long sip of her champagne. She was going to need something stronger than this to survive the rest of this match.

Shanice was on her second glass of champagne when Marcus scored again. This time his celebration was all swagger - that signature dance that had Dream and her friends making TikToks for weeks. The stadium was going crazy, and even Heaven had abandoned her sneaker documentation to cheer.

"He's so good," Dream sighed dreamily. "Like, is there anything he can't do?"

Keep his shirt on, apparently. The heat had several players stripping down to their undershirts, and Marcus's clung to him like it was painted on. Those training sessions were clearly paying off because what the actual f-

"Mamma mia, he's really showing off today."

Shanice didn't need to turn around to know that voice. "Don't you have your own box, Alex?"

"Can't a father watch with his daughters?" Alessandro dropped into the seat next to her, looking irritatingly handsome in his weekend casual Brunello Cucinelli. "Though I see you're watching... something else."

"The match," she said firmly. "I'm watching the match."

"Of course." His knowing smile made her want to dump her champagne on his designer sweater. "That's why you haven't blinked since Thuram took his shirt off."

Before she could respond, the final whistle blew. Inter 3, Juventus 1.

"Can we go down?" Dream was already gathering her things. "Please? Dad always takes us to meet the players after home games."

"I don't think-" Shanice started.

"Excellent idea," Alex cut in smoothly. "The owner should congratulate the team on their victory. Especially the man of the match."

Heaven's eyes lit up. "We can see the boots up close!"

Shanice was outnumbered. Again. "Fine. But ten minutes max."

The tunnel to the locker room was crowded with families and staff, the air thick with victory excitement and expensive perfume. Dream was practically vibrating with anticipation. Heaven had her notebook ready.

And then Marcus emerged, still glowing from the win, that undershirt still clinging to every muscle like it was doing the Lord's work. His eyes found their group immediately.

"The Carter-Ricci family!" His smile could power half of Milan. "Did you enjoy the show?"

"You were amazing!" Dream gushed. "Those goals were insane!"

"Can I see your boots?" Heaven was already crouching down with her notebook.

Alessandro's hand found the small of Shanice's back - a move that used to be possessive but now just felt like him marking his territory. "Incredible performance today. You must have been... inspired."

Marcus's eyes flicked to Alex's hand, then to Shanice's face. Something flashed in them - too quick to read. "Very inspired," he said, but he was looking straight at her. "Sometimes you just want to impress the right people, you know?"

Heaven was rattling off questions about his cleats. Dream was trying to casually get a selfie. Alex was doing that alpha male thing Italian men loved.

And Shanice?

Shanice was thinking about exactly what else those thighs could do.

"Yo! Big bro!"

A younger version of Marcus strode up, already changed into Juventus casual wear. The family resemblance was strong - same height, same build, same dangerous smile but instead of a cropped fade, he wore his hair in dreads.

"Little bro!" Marcus pulled him into one of those complicated handshakes that looked rehearsed. "Tough luck today."

"Whatever, you were showing off." Khephren's eyes landed on Shanice. "Who's this?"

"My new boss," Marcus said, and something in his tone made Shanice's skin tingle. "Shanice Carter, meet my brother Khephren."

"Damn, if I knew Inter's management looked like this, I might've signed with them instead." Khephren's grin earned him a solid smack to the chest from Marcus.

"My apologies," Marcus said to Shanice, but his eyes were laughing. "My little brother hasn't learned manners yet."

Alex cleared his throat loudly. "Girls, come on. Time to go."

Dream and Heaven reluctantly said their goodbyes, leaving Shanice standing there like an idiot, trying not to stare at Marcus's abs through that sweat-soaked shirt that was doing entirely too much.

"I should go too," she said, snapping out of it. This wasn't right. She needed to put up a wall between them right now. She was his boss, for fuck's sake.

She pivoted on her heel, but his hand caught her wrist. Warm. Strong. Trouble.

"The proposal - did you read it?"

"Yes."

"Great. Can we talk about it more? Go over the plan of action?"

"Sure, schedule with Maria for an appointment."

His face changed, eyebrows furrowing. "I don't want too many ears in this situation." He tilted his head toward where the board members and her ex were speaking in low voices. "Maybe dinner?"

"That's not–"

"My treat."

"Marcus. That would be inappropriate."

"Then a business lunch," he countered, "still my treat."

Shanice pulled her wrist from his grasp, crossing her arms over her chest. She didn't miss how his eyes followed the movement, lingering just a beat too long.

"Do you think I'm dumb or something?"

"Far from that, Shanice." He straightened up, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. The move was sexy as hell but she kept her face neutral. "You're one of the smartest women I know."

"You don't know me."

"Yet," he added, and they stared at each other for what felt like forever.

"Whatever you think you're playing at, I'm not one of your little friends... or Angels for that matter. Like I said, schedule an appointment with Maria." She turned to leave again.

"So make a call?" His voice was low, just for her ears. Thank goodness no one else heard that.

She paused, glancing back. That smug look on his handsome ass face should've been illegal.

"I'll call you then. To set up the lunch," he said with absolute confidence.

Shanice just scoffed and continued down the tunnel, feeling his eyes on her the whole way.

That man was going to be the death of her career. Or just the death of her, period.

"Mom! Wait up!" Dream's voice echoed down the tunnel. "Why'd you leave so fast?"

Because your favorite player was looking at me like I was dessert, baby girl.

"Time to go home," Shanice said instead, fishing her car keys from her Bottega purse. "Where's your sister?"

"Still with Dad. He's taking us for gelato." Dream studied her face. "You should come."

"Pass." The last thing she needed was to sit across from Alex while he made smug comments about her "meeting" with Marcus.

"Is it because of Marcus?" Dream's voice dropped to a whisper. "Because I saw how he was looking at you. And how you were looking at his-"

"Dream. Don't."

"I'm just saying, Mom. The Angels are pretty and all, but you're like... you're you. And he definitely noticed."

Shanice stopped walking. "Listen to me carefully. There is nothing between me and Marcus Thuram except a business relationship. He's your age, for God's sake."

"He's twenty-seven, Mom. That's not my age." Dream rolled her eyes. "And anyway, age is just a-"

"If you finish that sentence, you're grounded."

Dream threw up her hands. "Fine! But for the record? I wouldn't mind. It'd be kind of cool actually. Like, my mom and my favorite player? That's some Wattpad level plot twist."

"Go get your gelato," Shanice laughed, pulling her daughter in for a hug. "Love you."

"Love you too. Even if you're in denial."

Shanice watched Dream skip back to where Alex and Heaven were waiting, then headed for her car. Her phone buzzed before she even reached it.

Unknown number: Lunch tomorrow? For the proposal.

Her heart definitely didn't skip. Nope. Not at all.

Another buzz: This is Marcus, by the way. Your daughter gave me your number.

She was going to kill Dream.

Third buzz: For business purposes only, of course. 😏

That damn smirking emoji. She could see his face when he typed it, all cocky confidence and knowing looks.

Shanice: Schedule it with Maria.

Marcus: Come on, boss. Let me take you to lunch. Professional lunch. Very proper. Very appropriate.

Those three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

Marcus: Unless you're scared...

Oh, this little boy thought he could play with her?

Shanice: Fine. One lunch. Professional. And you're not getting my coffee ever again.

Marcus: We'll see 😈

She dropped her phone in her bag like it was burning her fingers. What the hell was she doing? This was beyond stupid. Beyond reckless.

But as she slid into her Porsche, all she could think about was that damn smirk and those abs and the way he'd said "yet."

She was so screwed.

........................tbd

#quainwritings #quain’s masterlist #footballer x oc #footballer x reader #marcus thuram #marcus thuram x oc #marcus thuram x black oc #marcus thuram x reader #marcus thuram fanfiction #marcus thuram fic

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nereidprinc3ss · 3 days ago

Text

I didn’t mean to have so much to say about this but wow do I!!!!

Lots of people say they love domestic spencer reid but I don’t think they love domestic spencer reid like EYEEE love domestic Spencer Reid. Because I love domestic spencer reid where he’s doing nothing. Or he’s being kind of….. not an asshole but…… where it becomes clear that he’s just dealing with his own shit and he’s a flawed person and then I love domestic Spencer Reid where he’s dealing with his own shit and he’s a flawed person but he can still say I’m sorry!!! And they can hug and it’s okay because loving someone requires being close enough to sometimes hurt them!!!! And the realism of this kind of fic just fills me w so much joy like THISSSS is what I want from tumblr dot com I LOVEE the meditative fics where nothing crazy happens and the plot comes from the authors understanding of rich interpersonal relationships!!!! I love!!!!

This was also beautifully beautifully written like a breath of fresh air wow I truly am so lucky to get to read work from such talented people thank you for writing this and thank you for sharing it with us!!

So anyway here are the lines that jumped out at me. There is really no rhyme or reason, I tend to extra love lines that are a little philosophical and ponderous about human connection and boy was this full of that!! I am not a literary critic I am just a girl full of thoughts

You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.

I just think this is an jarringly astute and concise observation of something we as humans do all the time in relationships and again there is nothing I love more than an observation about human connection that I can point at and go MEEEE I UNDERSTAND THAT I KNOW HOW IT FEELS!!!! It’s very exciting to me!!

Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.

This to me was a kind of honesty most fanfic lacks and obviously most fanfic is supposed to be optimistic and perfect and reflect the readers desires back to them but quite frankly to me it hits harder when there is this subtle kind of interpersonal angst and strife that is something we can feel and recognize within ourselves it makes it easier for me to actually connect to the fic. Rather than watching it like a movie I can recognize this kind of sentiment and it’s far more immersive to me and therefore a lot more fulfilling and rewarding and interesting to read

Maybe that’s the point of all of this—not two people standing side by side, but two people learning how to take up the same space, how to move around each other without losing themselves in the process.

YEAH MAYBE THAT IS THE POINT!!! THE POINT OF EVERYTHING!!! THE POINT OF MY ENTIRE LIFE!!! This to me is just beautiful and very succinctly summarizes something I’ve been working on and will probably continue to work on for the rest of my life and I think really the whole point of love and the lesson most people need to learn!!!! Once again I like my fluffy fanfic tempered w this kind of realism!! It adds so much texture

"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.

No yeah actually this IS the sexiest thing a man could possible say or do!! Like care and pay attention and be present and observant!!! I won’t even be talking about this because I love it too much to dissect it

Anyways this is maybe making me look crazy I just haven’t been engaged with fanfic very much recently and I did not go into this with the intention of having anything to say about it afterward but to my own personal deep surprise was so motivated to!! And it was so beautiful and so lovely I had to say something. Pls excuse if I’ve gone overboard!! This is just such a good example of fanfic at its absolute best to me like this is what it’s forrrr this is what I wanttttt!!!! Thank you for writing thank you for posting beautiful

mouthful of sunlight (18+)

Some nights, Spencer can’t sleep. His mind runs too fast, too far, tangled in cases, in horrors he can’t unsee. But in the quiet of morning, wrapped in the hush of young sunlight, he finds solace in you—the warmth of your breath, the slow, steady rhythm of your fingers tracing his skin. The comfort is fleeting; distance is inevitable. His absence lingers in the empty side of the bed, in unfinished cups of coffee, in the soft weight of his sweater draped over your shoulders. But when he returns—exhausted, unraveling—you stitch him back together with soft reassurances, gentle hands, and the familiar ease of laughter. warnings: sexual content (who tf am I), very very wordy, mentions of a cannon-typical case, longing, some angst if you squint, mostly reader and spencer being lovesick fools wc: 7.6k

You wake to the sound of rain, soft against the windowpane. The sheets are warm, tangled around your limbs, heavy with the scent of sleep and him. Faint traces of his cologne linger in the cotton, something clean and quiet, the ghost of him woven into the fabric.

Spencer is still asleep beside you.

You turn your head, slow, deliberate - shifting too fast might startle him awake. And there he is, curled into the pillow, his body half-buried beneath the blankets, face softened by the hush of morning. His breath moves through the space between you in slow, measured exhales, lips parted slightly, lashes resting against his cheekbone.

You could spend lifetimes watching him like this.

The curve of his mouth, the way his curls press against his forehead, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes—the ones you're not sure he knows about yet. You think the mentioning of them would send him into a spiral about aging and lost time but you love their presence. It reminds you of how he's laughed with you in the past, their arrival a notion of his genuine joy. The body keeps score in freckles and scars, and time can be found in the weight of sleepless nights and too many days spent carrying more than he should.

In sleep, he is weightless. The tension he wears so often—creased brows, tight shoulders, fingers restless against his knee—has melted away, leaving only the quiet.

You reach for him before you can think of it, fingers trailing over the ridge of his knuckles where his hand rests on the pillow between you. His skin is warm, his palm lax, open. He doesn't stir so you let yourself press further, sliding your fingertips up the length of his wrist, feeling the slow pulse beneath his skin.

Spencer Reid is always thinking. Always calculating, always predicting, always existing a step ahead, untethered from the present moment.

But, right now, wrapped in the hush of morning, doused in soft rainlight, he belongs here. With you.

The thought is terrifying in its simplicity.

You swallow, pressing your fingers a little firmer against his wrist, grounding yourself in the proof of him. His pulse beats steady against your touch, and you let it lull you, let yourself fall into its rhythm.

Spencer stirs beneath your touch, just the faintest twitch of his fingers against the pillow.

You go still.

A part of you—the part still tangled in hesitation, in old wounds and old fears—worries he’ll wake, that he’ll blink at you with those sharp, knowing eyes and startle away the calm you've fostered. You love Spencer, asleep or awake, but the peacefulness of this moment is something to be cherished. You want to watch him more, to exist in this lulling moment between seconds where life doesn't matter.

He doesn't wake, though, and instead, he shifts closer, instinctive, unconscious. The space between you vanishes, his breath warming your collarbone, his hand brushing against your arm where it lies between you. He is reaching for you without realizing it, drawn in like something inevitable.

And god, that does something to you.

You exhale, slow, careful, and let yourself watch him again, let yourself sink into the quiet reverence of it.

The morning light has stretched further now, slanting through the window, gliding through the messy sprawl of his hair. He is all sleep-heavy limbs, the weight of him pressing into the mattress in a way that drags you forward, leaning against him.

Flesh and bone, heartbeat and heat.

He is here. He is yours.

The way he leans into you even in sleep, the way his fingers twitch like they are searching for yours, even now. The way his body gives him away, whispering the things his lips have not yet said.

You cannot be careless with this. With him. But before the weight of it can settle too deeply into your chest, before you can let yourself spiral, Spencer shifts again—his breath catching, his brow furrowing just slightly, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

You barely have time to think before his eyes blink open, slow and heavy-lidded, thick with sleep.

It takes a moment, his hazy eyes focusing and unfocusing. Still, he sees you. Not just looks, not just registers your presence; he sees you.

His lips part slightly, and for a moment, he only stares, like his mind is still catching up, like he’s still tethered somewhere between dreaming and waking. Blinking like he's not sure if you're a dream. Likely, everything is clouded by sleepy eyes and fading memories of dreams.

Then, his voice, quiet, still wrapped in the softness of sleep, “Morning.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you do the only thing you can—you lift your hand, still resting near his wrist, and press your fingers over his pulse once more. A quiet confirmation. A tethering.

Spencer exhales, slow, deliberate, and then he turns his hand, just slightly, just enough, so that his palm meets yours.

His fingers curl between yours, and you feel it—the certainty, the weight of something unspoken settling between your ribs.

There is morning, and then there is night.

There is sunlight spilling over Spencer’s sleeping form, gilding his cheekbones, illuminating the curve of his mouth. And then there is the stark contrast of shadow—of sterile hotel rooms, of the sharp, artificial glow of a bedside lamp casting his face in harsh relief.

His fingers, curled loosely around yours in the golden hush of morning, become hands gripping the edge of a desk, knuckles white, trembling with exhaustion. His voice, soft and thick with sleep, morphs into something raw, something fraying at the edges.

"I don’t know how to turn it off."

It takes you a moment to realize what he means.

He’s still in his suit, the fabric rumpled, the scent of cheap motel soap clinging to his skin. There’s a stack of case files beside him, a half-empty cup of coffee that’s long since gone cold. He doesn’t meet your gaze, just stares down at his hands, fingers twitching like they’re desperate for something to hold onto.

"Spencer."

Your voice is quiet, hesitant, as if anything louder might shatter him completely.

"Come to bed."

He shakes his head, exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.

"I can’t."

A fight, sharp and cutting. His voice raised, your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

"You don’t get it," he snaps, voice raw, eyes burning. "You don’t know what it’s like to have a mind that never fucking stops—"

"I do," you interrupt, and the way he flinches makes your chest ache.

A pause.

Silence stretching between you like a wound torn open, bleeding into the space between your feet.

Spencer exhales, shakily, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"Then why do you keep trying to fix me?"

And there it is.

The knife twisting.

You inhale, but the breath never quite fills your lungs.

The thing is—you don’t want to fix him.

You just want him to rest.

To sleep without nightmares. To let you hold him without feeling like he has to apologize for the weight of his existence. To believe, even for a second, that he doesn’t have to earn the space he takes up.

But you don’t know how to say that in a way that won’t turn into another wound, another reason for him to step back, to pull away.

So instead, you say nothing.

"Fuck. I'm sorry." And it's that simple, really.

Sorry, arms finding each other, whispers of "I know" pressed into necks and soft conversations easing racing minds.

Spencer can't stop the relentless chase of the case in his mind. You can't stop the constant overthinking of being enough, of your body, of desires edging into too much.

Morning. Again.

Spencer, golden in the dawn, the soft breath of sleep still heavy in his lungs. Your fingers ghost over the ridges of his knuckles, tracing the delicate architecture of him, the places where bones knit together beneath skin. Flesh and blood. A body, human and whole.

Then, blood, dark and seeping through the gaps in his fingers, staining his cuffs. Not his blood. Someone else’s. A case. A mistake. A man who didn’t survive the night.

His hands shake as he scrubs them raw in the motel sink, crimson swirling down the drain, his breath coming too fast, chest rising and falling like he’s drowning, like he can feel it slipping between his fingers, the weight of every life he couldn’t save.

You touch his shoulder, and he flinches.

Time lurches.

His head on your lap, hours later. His hair damp, fingers curled weakly in the fabric of your shirt, like holding onto you is the only thing tethering him to the present.

"I don’t know how much more of this I can take."

Morning.

Back in your bed, the light different now, stretched across the sheets in delicate bands. You can’t tell if you’re awake or dreaming.

You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.

Spencer shifts beside you, a quiet sigh escaping him, and you watch, desperate to memorize the shape of him here, untouched by grief, by the heaviness of what he carries.

You want to wake up to this every morning.

But the truth is, you don’t.

You wake up to the version of him that drinks too much coffee, to the one who is always looking at things that aren’t there, playing scenarios in his head like a film reel stuck on loop. You wake up to the version of him that gets lost in thought mid-conversation, who chews at his nails until they bleed, who flinches awake from dreams he won’t tell you about.

And you love him anyway.

Maybe because of it.

Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.

Mornings like this, where he sleeps beside you, still and warm and untouched by the weight of the world—stretch, slow and unhurried, slipping into the day like honey dissolving in warm tea.

Spencer moves through your apartment with the careful quiet of someone who knows how to exist in shared spaces—how to make himself at home without ever taking up too much of it. He is measured, gentle, a man who has spent too much of his life folding himself into small places, and yet, with you, he expands.

You watch him from where you stand at the kitchen counter, hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, warmth seeping into your palms. The coffee is slightly too bitter, but you drink it anyway, because Spencer made it. Because he takes his with too much sugar and no milk, and you take yours with just a little, and the contrast is something you love.

The morning light catches in his hair as he moves about the kitchen, curling slightly at the ends where sleep left it unruly. He wears his clothes loose in the morning—his pajama pants low on his hips, his sweater slightly too big, slipping past his wrists when he reaches for things. He is soft here, unguarded in the way that makes your chest ache.

You don’t say anything when he hums under his breath, something classical, a song you don’t recognize but have heard him play before on nights when he lets the record spin long past midnight.

You don’t say anything when he pours his coffee with one hand and flips absentmindedly through the book he left on the counter with the other.

But you do say something when he starts reading aloud.

“You know, according to the Journal of Neuroscience, studies show that sleep inertia—”

“Spencer,” you interrupt, smiling into your mug.

He pauses, blinking at you, book still in hand. “What?”

You shake your head, setting your coffee down, stepping toward him until you can reach for the book, plucking it gently from his fingers. He lets you take it, watching as you slide it onto the counter behind you, clearing the space between you.

“We’re supposed to be waking up,” you murmur. “Not filling our brains with research before we’ve even eaten breakfast.”

Spencer tilts his head, eyes flickering over your face like he’s considering it. Then, his lips curve, slow and warm. “That’s how I do wake up.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. You both know that you love when Spencer rambles, miss it when he's gone, call him craving the sound of his voice when he's away on trips. “Come here.”

You reach for him, and he comes easily, stepping into the space you make for him, folding himself against you like he belongs there.

Spencer exhales as you press your cheek to his shoulder, hands slipping around his waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his sweater. His arms come around you in return, slow and careful, pressing you against him like he knows exactly how to hold you.

The shape of each other, the cadence of shared breath, the quiet rhythm of a love that is not loud or fast or reckless, but something slow and deliberate.

Spencer is slow to let you go.

Even as you shift, even as you move to pull back, his fingers tighten just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there for a moment longer. You don’t resist. You let yourself be held, let yourself stay.

But then his stomach growls. Loudly.

You grin against his shoulder. “Well, that’s attractive.”

Spencer groans, burying his face in your neck. “I knew I should have eaten before I went to bed.”

You laugh, pressing your hands to his sides. “Come on, genius. Let’s get you some food before you start reading case files on malnutrition.”

He sighs, exaggerated, but finally steps back, rubbing a hand over his face as you turn toward the stove. “I do have a study on nutritional deficiencies and cognitive function bookmarked somewhere.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “You have studies bookmarked on everything.”

Spencer shrugs, completely unapologetic, and moves to lean against the counter beside you, watching as you pull out a frying pan. He doesn’t help—doesn’t even pretend to help—but he does reach for the bag of coffee grounds again, refilling your mug and his, making himself useful in the way he always does.

“You want eggs?” you ask, already cracking one against the rim of the pan.

He hums, peering into the fridge. “Only if you make them the way I like.”

“You mean, as you proclaimed the first time you stayed over, the right way?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

Neither of you mention how he burned them immediately after, distracted by kissing you in the early light filtering through the curtains of the kitchen window.

You huff, but it’s all affection, and he knows it.

Spencer doesn’t sit while you cook. He doesn’t retreat to the table or get lost in a book. He stays right here, a constant presence at your side, sipping his coffee, occasionally nudging your hip with his when you get too focused.

When you plate the food, he takes his with an approving nod. “See? Perfectly cooked.”

“They;re just scrambled, picky,” you tease, nudging him toward the kitchen table with your hip.

Spencer grins, mouth full of toast. “I have standards.”

You snort, setting your plate down across from him. “Oh, I know. That’s why you’re dating me.”

He swallows, takes a sip of coffee, and then, without missing a beat, says, “No, I’m dating you because I’m in love with you.”

Your breath catches.

He says it so easily.

No hesitation. No grand declaration. Just a fact, spoken between bites of breakfast, like it’s something he’s known for years.

You blink, lips parting slightly, and Spencer—Spencer, who notices everything—tilts his head, eyes softening.

“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching across the table, brushing his fingers against yours. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head, covering his hand with yours. “No, I—I just—”

You exhale, glancing down at where your hands meet, at the gentle press of his fingers against yours. Then, quieter: “I love you, too.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow, small, but full of something deep, something certain.

“I know,” he murmurs, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. “But I still like hearing it.”

And so you say it again, just for him.

Just because he likes hearing it.

“I love you.” Spencer smiles.

After breakfast, Spencer lingers at the table while you move about the apartment, rinsing dishes, wiping crumbs from the counter. It’s a soft sort of silence. When you pass by him, his hand brushes against your hip, absentminded but full of intent, a touch that says I know you’re here. I know you’re mine.

You catch his wrist, squeezing gently before letting go.

Neither of you speak as you make your way toward the bedroom, but Spencer follows, because of course he does. Because his place is beside you, moving with you, orbiting within the same small universe.

Inside, the morning light has stretched further across the bed, creeping in golden streaks over the fabric. The air is warm with the scent of sleep, of coffee, of him.

Spencer moves first, tugging his sweater over his head and tossing it onto the bed. His hair goes staticky, curls fluffed from the fabric, and you reach out instinctively, smoothing them back into place. He stills beneath your touch, the corners of his lips twitching.

“You’re going to make it worse,” he murmurs.

“Probably.” You grin, carding your fingers through the strands anyway, just for the sake of touching him.

Spencer huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t move away.

You let him slip his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head in one fluid motion. Let him reach for the zipper of your trousers, sliding it down with the same care you’d shown him.

There’s nothing rushed about it.

Nothing frantic, nothing heated. Just this. Just hands smoothing over fabric, fingers brushing against skin in passing, the quiet, unspoken promise of I know you. I love you. Let me show you.

Spencer tilts his head, gaze flickering down, not to your lips, but to the hollow of your throat, where your pulse flutters beneath your skin. He watches it like a scholar studying something precious like he’s measuring the exact rhythm of you, the precise way you exist in this moment.

And then, with all the patience in the world, he leans in.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Like he has all the time in the world to memorize you.

His lips brush your jaw first—so soft it could almost be nothing, just a breath, just a thought of touch. Then, lower, trailing warmth along the delicate line of your neck, the curve of your shoulder.

Your fingers find his wrists, not to stop him, but to hold him there, to feel the heat of him seeping into your skin.

You shift—not much, just enough to press closer, enough to let your forehead rest against his, enough to let his breath mingle with yours.

His hands slide higher, fingertips grazing the curve of your ribs, the warmth of his palms bleeding through the fabric like sunlight through frosted glass.

Like he understands, without either of you saying it, that this is the sacred part. Not the wanting, not even the having, but the holding. The staying.

He presses his lips to your temple, soft and sure, and you feel it—the weight of love settling between your ribs, deep and real.

“I want you,” he murmurs, voice low, full of something aching.

You shudder, your fingers tightening around his wrists. “You have me,” you whisper.

Spencer swallows, pressing his forehead against yours again, his hands gripping you just a little tighter as he breathes you in.

You feel his adoration in the way he moves—hesitant, reverent. Like he’s unraveling you thread by thread, pulling you apart just to piece you back together in the way only he knows how.

His fingers ghost over the curve of your waist, not grasping, not pulling, just feeling.

Your breath catches when he finally presses closer, the full weight of him sinking into you, a slow collapse into something inevitable. His body is warm, radiating heat like a fever, like a star burning too close to your skin. You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, twisting it tight in your grip, grounding yourself in the weight of him.

He exhales against your jaw, warm and unsteady.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

You do.

And god, it’s unbearable—the way his eyes search yours, wide and dark and pleading.

His breath stutters when you reach up, cradling his face in your hands, fingertips skimming the sharp angle of his cheekbone. He leans into your touch like it’s instinct, his lashes fluttering, his lips parting slightly, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

“Spencer,” you whisper, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.

He answers you with a kiss.

Not rushed, not desperate. His lips move against yours, unhurried but insistent, a careful exploration, a patient claiming. His nose brushes yours, his breath mingling with yours, the quiet sounds of longing pressing into the spaces between you.

You sigh into his mouth, and he shudders, his fingers tightening against your ribs.

“Again,” he whispers.

So you kiss him again. And again. And again.

Until the space between you is nothing, until your bodies are tangled in sheets and sighs and whispered names, until everything is breath and warmth and wanting.

His hands find yours, fingers threading together, clinging, pressing, grounding. His forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven, his body trembling with the weight of this.

“I want you,” he whispers, voice wrecked, shaking, repeating himself.

You tighten your grip on his hands, pulling him closer. “I know,” you breathe. “I know.”

And when he moves again, when his lips find yours with a new kind of urgency, you know—you feel it in your bones—this isn’t just wanting. It’s everything.

Spencer kisses you like he’s searching for something.

Like the answer to every unsolvable equation is pressed between your lips, tucked beneath your tongue, hidden in the soft give of your sighs.

And you let him.

Because you know this—this rhythm, this language you’ve built together. The slow pull of hands over fabric, the careful way he unravels you. The heat that grows between you, steady and unrelenting, like a pot left to boil over.

Spencer exhales sharply when your fingers find the sharp ridge of his collarbone. You press your lips there, breathing him in, and he shivers.

Spencer is reaching for you again, already fitting his hands to the curve of your back, already tilting his head to press open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your throat, the place just beneath your ear that makes you sigh.

“We’re going to be late,” you murmur, though you don’t mean it.

Spencer hums, his lips still pressed against your skin. “I don’t care.”

You laugh—a breathy, delighted sound that he swallows with his next kiss, his hands smoothing over your ribs, pressing warmth into your skin.

His trousers slide lower on his hips, and he makes a sound—low, breathless, almost dazed.

And then—“I’m sorry,” he murmurs suddenly, against the corner of your mouth.

You blink, pulse stuttering. “For what?”

“For all the times I haven’t been here.” His fingers tighten at your waist, like he’s grounding himself in the weight of you, in the proof that you are here. “For leaving. For missing too much. For—”

You don’t let him finish.

You press your lips to his, pouring everything into it—forgiveness, love, understanding.

When you break apart, your voice is quiet but sure. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Spencer exhales, shaky and relieved, and then—

Then he laughs, something soft and breathless, because you’ve pushed his trousers past his hips and now they’re tangled around his ankles, and it’s clumsy, and it’s human, and neither of you can bring yourselves to care.

Your own clothes follow, piece by piece, scattered and forgotten, because this is more important.

Spencer is warm everywhere, all golden skin and careful hands and parted lips. He hovers over you, his breath fanning over your cheek, his fingers tracing slow, reverent paths down your arms, your sides, like he’s still memorizing you.

And when you reach for him, guiding him closer, pulling him in, he exhales a sound—soft, broken, something like ah, like yes, like finally.

You sigh into him, arching, meeting him where he waits, and the warmth between you turns molten, turns necessary.

Spencer presses his forehead to yours, his breath uneven, his fingers twining with yours in the sheets.

“I love you,” he whispers.

And you—You're lost in the heat, the smell of him. The gentle movement as there's nothing left but you and him and him and him.

"Ah, Spencer," you breathe, and he shushes you.

"I know, I know."

It's quiet, it's breathy laughs, it's warmth building building buildig until something cracks - it has to, it's necessary, it's perfect and lovely and hot honey dripping down your thighs to gather into something greater, something perfect, something more.

It should be impossible, the way you fit together.

Like something sculpted by hands that knew what they were doing, shaping flesh and bone with deliberate care, pressing you into each other until there is no separation, no beginning or end. A seamless thing. Thread looping over itself, over and over and over into infinity. Until it cannot be separated from itself, until it is one ball of mass and moving and friction.

Heat and pressure and warmth build into something more, more more. Spencer is calling your name as if you are lost, you're grasping his back to remind him you're right here.

He tumbles and you're stuck on the edge, unable to follow. It's a brilliant thing, watching him. Eyes screwed shut, tightly. Breath coming out in spurts and spasms. Love, love, love. Pouring out of him and into you.

It's warm, so so warm, and nearly enough to send you to the place of glass shattering and pleasure fluttering and complete unity.

It isn't until Spencer's hips are faltering that he notices you there, hanging on the precipice of masterpieces yet unknown.

"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.

And you fall after him, tumbling down into something safe and known and foreign and unlearnable.

When you clatter back onto Earth, Spencer is warm against you, chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of shared breath. His fingers—long, elegant, familiar—trace mindless patterns against your arm, mapping you the way he memorizes pages, theories, entire histories. As if you are something to be learned, something to be understood.

As if he hasn’t already written you into the marrow of his bones.

Your limbs are tangled in the sheets, in each other, some quiet aftershock of connection humming between your skin. He shifts, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple, the edge of your jaw, the corner of your lips, his breath still heavy with you.

Whole. Uninterrupted.

Until—

A loud grumble splits the silence, echoing off the walls.

Spencer stills.

You blink.

And then—

Your stomach rumbles again, louder this time, an undignified protest against your distraction.

Spencer bursts into laughter.

It’s warm, breathless, human, cracking through the solemn weight of the moment like lightning through a storm. He drops his head against your shoulder, shaking with it, his entire body vibrating with amusement.

“Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face with your hands.

Spencer’s still laughing when he rolls onto his back, his hand dragging down his face as he tries to compose himself. He fails, utterly, letting out another breathy chuckle before turning his head to look at you.

“I’m sorry,” he says between soft huffs of breath, his eyes bright with mirth. “It was just—so poetic, so profound—and then your stomach actually growled.”

You peek at him between your fingers. “You're going to give me shit when you essentially did the same thing earlier?" You ask, aghast. Spencer nods his head, cheeky smile overtaking his face.

You groan again, but it’s half-hearted, because Spencer is still laughing, and it’s the kind of sound you’d willingly make a fool of yourself for, over and over again, just to hear it.

"Did you not have any of your stellar eggs?" Spencer asks, pulling away from you.

You both wince as connection is lost, resisting the urge to pull him back in again, to be selfish and keep the warmth of him near.

He stretches, arms raised above his head, back cracking. You stay still, stretched across the bed as he moves into your bathroom and wets a washcloth.

"No, I don't really like scrambled."

Spencer hesitates, at the foot of the bed, one knee propped up on the edge. "What?" He asks, frozen, still as a statue.

"I'll eat them but this morning they were too eggy."

"Too eggy," Spencer mutters, voice aghast, cleaning you before pinching your thigh playfully. "Come on, time to get you to work."

The moment lingers, shifting into something softer, something easy.

And then—

You’re standing in the kitchen, hours later, Spencer in his undershirt, stirring a pot of something that smells like warmth, like home.

Your stomach grumbles again.

Spencer smirks, not even turning around. “Should I start reciting poetry, or—”

You throw a dish towel at him.

||||

There is the weight of Spencer pressed against you in the morning, the heat of his breath on your skin, the steady rhythm of his fingers tracing patterns into your ribs. And then there is the cold side of the bed, the imprint of him faded from the sheets, the silence of an empty apartment that settles like dust in your lungs.

He’s gone.

Not forever. Neer forever.

But the difference between knowing something and feeling it is vast, and this morning, you feel it.

The bed is too big. The air is too still. The coffee is too bitter without his absentminded habit of adding too much sugar to the pot when he thinks you aren’t looking.

His absence moves through the space like a ghost, turning everyday things into echoes of him.

A book left open on the table, spine cracked, a scrap of paper sticking out with notes in the margins.

A half-full mug beside the sink. He always assures you he'll finish it later but never does. You don't mind, savoring the reminder of him when he leaves in the middle of the day with little notice.

The sweater he left draped over the back of a chair, smelling like warmth, like him, like something undone.

You exhale, pressing your fingers to the edge of the table as if grounding yourself, as if it might keep you tethered.

You knew this would happen.

It always does—cases that stretch into days, weeks, phone calls that come at odd hours, the sound of his voice wrapped in exhaustion and apologies, the waiting, the not-knowing.

You reach for your own coffee, cradling it between your palms, letting the heat seep into your fingers.

Your phone buzzes. A message. Short, simple.

Spencer: I miss you.

The breath in your chest stutters.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, a response forming before you can even think about it.

You: I miss you too. It’s too quiet here.

Three dots appear. Pause. Disappear.

You wait, staring at the screen, willing the space between you to close, even just a little.

Spencer: I’ll call you tonight. Stay in my sweater until then.

You let out a breath, something soft, something caught between a laugh and a sigh. You reach for it, slipping it over your shoulders, wrapping yourself in the remnants of warmth.

It’s not the same.

But for now, it will have to be enough.

||||

The door unlocks with a quiet click.

You don’t move right away.

You should—should stand, should cross the room, should meet him in the doorway. But instead, you sit still, curled into the couch, the weight of waiting still heavy in your limbs, pressing you down.

Footsteps. Familiar, careful.

“Hey,” Spencer murmurs, quiet, hesitant, like he isn’t sure if you’re asleep, if he should wake you, if he’s allowed to break the silence.

You inhale sharply, and that’s what does it—what snaps the moment in two. You push up from the couch, feet hitting the floor, your body moving before your mind catches up.

You are in his arms.

He exhales sharply at the impact, his bag slipping from his shoulder, his arms wrapping around you with something desperate, something relieved, like he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you have.

The scent of him—faint cologne, the sterile bite of too many hotels, the quiet warmth that is Spencer—hits you all at once. You press your face into his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, holding tight.

“You’re back,” you breathe, and it’s obvious, unnecessary, but you need to say it, need to hear it, need to confirm it.

Spencer laughs—soft, exhausted, fond. “I’m back.”

You feel the words vibrate through him, feel the shape of them beneath your hands, the weight of them settling between your ribs.

“Did you miss me?” You laugh, a quiet, breathy thing, your grip tightening on his jacket.

“Not at all,” you say, pulling back just enough to look at him, to see him. His face is tired, his eyes a little shadowed, but there’s something soft there, something bright just beneath the surface.

His lips twitch. “Liar.”

You hum, tilting your chin up just slightly, brushing your nose against his, letting the warmth between you settle.

“Say it anyway,” he murmurs.

So you do. “I missed you, Spence.”

His breath stumbles and he kisses you.

It’s not rushed. It’s not desperate. It’s homecoming, warmth where there was once cold. It’s touch where there was once absence. It’s the quiet, certain return of something that never really left.

It takes a while for Spencer to let go and, even when he does, he keeps a hand on you. Not even after the kiss fades into breaths, not even after his bag is abandoned by the door, not even after you’ve guided him toward the couch, pressing your hands to his shoulders until he sinks into the cushions with a sigh.

You don’t ask him about the case.

Not yet.

Instead, you move around him, nudging his shoes off with your foot, smoothing his hair back from his face, pressing your fingers into the stiff muscles at the back of his neck. His eyes flutter shut, and he exhales slow, like he’s unspooling one spiraling thread at a time.

“You look exhausted,” you murmur, brushing your knuckles over his cheek.

“I feel worse,” he admits, cracking one eye open to look at you. “I think I might actually be a ghost.”

You hum, tilting your head. Slowly, you press a finger into the center of his chest, thumping it against his sternum twice. “I don’t know, you feel pretty solid to me.”

Spencer lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m only part ghost.” He waves a hand in the air, "I hover between realms, or whatever those silly books you read would say."

“Well,” you say, ignoring the dig at your admittedly less-academic reading preferences, pressing your lips to his temple, lingering, “if you were a ghost, you’d be a talkative one. Following me around, rambling about hauntings and historic criminal cases—”

Spencer scoffs. “I’d be a great ghost.”

“Would you?”

“I’d be an educational ghost.”

You snort, letting your fingers trail down his arm, wrapping your hand around his wrist, pressing against the pulse there. “I think I prefer you educational and alive.”

Spencer smiles, but it’s softer now, more worn, and when he leans into you, it’s not just playful—it’s relief.

You shift, curling into him, letting him fold himself against you like he’s been waiting for it for days. He buries his face against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you feel the tension still lingering in him, the weight of something else.

Something he’s not saying. So you just hold him.

One hand drifts into his hair, threading through the soft curls, the other smoothing over his back, steady, slow. His fingers flex against your side, gripping, holding, grounding. He sighs, deep, exhausted, pressing closer like he’s trying to escape something.

You kiss the crown of his head. “You don’t have to tell me,” you whisper. “But you can.”

Spencer is quiet for a long moment, his breathing uneven, his fingers still pressed into your skin. “The case was a little boy,” he murmurs, barely above a breath. “He lost his—” His voice wavers, and he swallows hard. “His whole family. We nearly didn't find him in time."

It's the most he can give you, the most that the public has probably heard, too, but it's enough to impress upon you the true horrors he's facing.

You close your eyes, tightening your arms around him. “Spencer.”

He shakes his head, shifting just enough to rest his forehead against your collarbone. “I just—I keep thinking about him. How small he looked. How scared.”

You press your lips together, blinking hard, willing yourself to keep it together for him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice thick. “I know that doesn’t help, but I am.”

Spencer exhales shakily, nodding against your skin. “It helps.”

You don’t know if that’s true, but you keep holding him anyway. Keep smoothing your hands down his back, keep whispering his name, keep pressing your lips to his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, like you can will the heaviness away.

“I’ve got you,” you murmur against his skin. “You’re home.”

Spencer lets out a slow, shuddering breath. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I am.”

Spencer doesn't move much, pressed against you, letting himself be held. His breathing steadies, his hands no longer gripping like he’s afraid of being pulled away.

You shift, just slightly, pressing your cheek against the top of his head. “You wanna do something mindless for a bit? Watch bad TV? Read a book with no footnotes? Stare at a wall together?”

Spencer snorts, muffled against your skin. “Tempting.”

“I'm very persuasive when I want to be.”

“That’s one word for it.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, narrowing your eyes. “Excuse me?”

Spencer finally lifts his head, and there’s something lighter in his expression now, the weight of the case still lingering, but no longer pressing quite so hard against the edges of his mind.

He shifts, settling further into the couch, his knee bumping against yours. “You bullied me into watching a terrible documentary about haunted dolls last time I came back from a case.”

Your mouth falls open in offense. “It was informative!”

Spencer levels you with a flat look. “It was ninety minutes of a guy holding up dolls to the camera and whispering ‘Do you hear that?’”

You press your lips together, fighting back a laugh. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t the most scientific—”

“There was a scene transition shaped like a skull.”

“You didn’t have to watch it!”

Spencer gestures at himself dramatically. “I was physically incapacitated by exhaustion!”

You shove at his shoulder, laughing now, and he catches your wrist easily, pressing a quick, warm kiss to the inside of it before letting you go. The gesture is so easy, so thoughtless, that your chest goes tight with it.

Spencer sighs, shifting so he’s half-leaning against you again, pressing his forehead briefly to your shoulder before pulling back. “But,” he admits, softer now, “it was kind of nice. Sitting with you. Not thinking for a bit.”

You hum, tucking your legs beneath you, leaning into his warmth. “I am great at the whole ‘not thinking’ thing.”

Spencer huffs a laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You sure? I distinctly remember you asking me how I manage to not overanalyze things while I was eating a bowl of cereal the other day.”

“That was—” He pauses, brows knitting together. “Okay, yes, but that’s because you were reading the cereal box like it was literature.”

“It was a compelling narrative, Spencer.”

He tilts his head. “The ingredients list?”

“The lucky leprechaun’s backstory,” you clarify.

Spencer just stares at you.

You grin, nudging his knee. “It’s called escapism, genius.”

Spencer shakes his head, exhaling something close to a laugh-sigh, then shifts again, tucking himself more comfortably against your side.

"Unless you're calling me dumb," you muse, not ready to give up teasing him. He takes the bait easily.

"I would never say that-"

"i'm pretty certain that's what I'm hearing."

"Absolutely not." You sit silently, humming dramatically, hoping for a compliment that you're sure is to come. "You're one of the smartest people I've met, actually. That's why your taste in books and documentaries appalls me."

"You're good at groveling, Dr. Reid."

He doesn't answer, chuckling and pressing his lips against your shoulder in response instead.

After a moment, his fingers brush against yours, hesitant for only a second before twining them together. Quiet settles between you again—not heavy this time, not suffocating. Just easy. Just you and him. Spencer squeezes your fingers lightly, voice soft when he speaks again.

“You make coming home easy.”

Your throat goes tight, and you squeeze back. The shift in tone is palpable. You long to linger in the feeling of warmth and safety and the earnest way he mumbles it. “Good,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his temple. “Because you are home.”

Spencer exhales, slow and steady. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I know.”

You don’t move immediately after Spencer settles against you, letting his weight sink into the couch, his fingers loosely tangled with yours. He’s relaxed now, softer, the weight of the week still lingering in his tired eyes but no longer pressing quite so hard on his shoulders.

It’s the perfect time to strike.

You reach for the remote, flicking through streaming options with intense purpose.

Spencer glances at you, suspicious. “What are you doing?”

“Putting something on to help you unwind.”

His eyes narrow. “What kind of something?”

You hum innocently. “Oh, you’ll see.”

Spencer watches as you select a YouTube documentary—one you know is riddled with inaccuracies, one that will absolutely send him into a spiral.

The second the dramatic narration begins, Spencer physically tenses.

You stifle a smile. You watched it when he was gone, something mind-numbing after a long day at work, and have been waiting to see his reaction to the ridiculous claims of the conspiracies.

The documentary wastes no time getting things wrong.

A sweeping shot of pyramids. An ominous, overly intense musical score. And then, in bold, serious tones:

"The ancient Egyptians, known for their fascination with aliens—"

Spencer inhales sharply, head snapping toward you, eyes wide with horror. “Their fascination with WHAT?”

You shrug, biting your lip. “Aliens, love. Keep up.”

Spencer throws his hands in the air. “Ancient Egyptian society was a highly advanced civilization with remarkable achievements in engineering, mathematics, and medicine—why does everything have to be aliens?”

You pat his knee comfortingly. “Shh. The experts are speaking.”

He turns back to the screen just in time to hear the narrator say:

"Some theorists believe the Sphinx was originally a statue of a dog, not a lion."

Spencer physically jolts, glaring at you again.

“A dog?” he scoffs.

You bite back laughter. “I don’t know, Spence. It kinda looks like a dog if you squint.”

He looks betrayed. “It doesn't. I know you don't think it does.”

You hum thoughtfully, pretending to study the screen. “Maybe, like, a bulldog?”

Spencer presses the heels of his palms into his eyes like he’s in pain. Give me the remote. There's a better, actual documentary, about 1940s Germany that I wanted to show you instead of this-” he gestures toward the screen, "garbage."

You grin, nudging his side. “Oh, you love it.”

“I do not—”

A new segment starts, this one even worse, featuring a so-called “historian” confidently stating that the Romans invented cheese.

Spencer makes a noise nearly resembling a laugh and you know you've got him.

“No they didn't," he says, deadpan, shaking his head and clicking off of the video.

You lose it. You cackle, curling into his side, shaking with laughter as Spencer queues up an actual documentary, switching on subtitles for you.

“I hate you,” he mutters, but his voice is fond, his arm still wrapped tight around you.

“No, you don’t,” you tease, leaning into him.

He sighs dramatically, dropping a kiss to the top of your head.

“No,” he murmurs, softer now. “I really don’t.”

And just like that, the warmth settles back between you, easy and earned.

Even if he’s still muttering about the Sphinx as the documentary starts.

You settle down like that, listening as Spencer adds his own interesting facts to the documentary. This is home, wholly and truly, sitting on this couch next to him.

You're sure to ask questions, keep him talking, until he falls asleep, missing the sound of his voice the second he dozes off.

#fic recs #that should be me #fic motherfucking recs

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