#And then lining and coloring and shading takes a while

[ludolka]

Nulls eyes malfunctioning but he is just colour blind

"Since when is Joel's green streak yellow? This the dye fade? "

"Wow blue hair looks good on Lizzy... Since when is it blue? "

"Wow the fish surely look strange today... Maybe they are sick..."

And like he ONLY notices something is wrong for a dumb reason like his LED being blue instead of purple lmao

Omg yes I love this so much

Just him malfunctioning in ways has so much potential. The color settings are off in his eyes, making him see everything in different colors. Maybe everything has a strong blue tint, maybe everything’s monochrome, maybe he can’t see red or any shade of it, maybe everything’s either overly saturated or very toned down. His language settings are off, he can suddenly only speak Japanese or German (or Hungarian, that’s the only language I fluently speak without fucking it up or having to use google translate if I draw a comic with this concept), or maybe his accent changes

Maybe he gets some software virus from the internet and gets all glitchy

Also I really like the whole concept of Null struggling with various sensory issues during his building process. Everything’s too bright, his eyes need readjusting and he wears sunglasses for a while. Everything’s too loud, his hearing needs readjusting and he wears noise cancelling headphones for a while. His balance is off, he can’t walk in a straight line or be on his feet for too long without falling over and he needs someone to help him walk. His peripheral vision is off, he keeps walking into desk corners and chairs and doorframes

Like everything’s trail and error, every setting can have massive consequences that take way too long to undo or fix

[imminent-danger-came]

“I felt the red-winged man gaze, I heard him speaking. I know who you are, he said, there are two ways this can go, no, three ways. I don’t want to count the ways, I said, I just want to finish it. I need to get to the end. His wings lifted and sanked. Oh my darling, he said, you’re a long way from the end.”

— Anne Carson, H of H Playbook

[salamispots]

wip wip wip

[anakindoodles]

You trade your friends like guns for hire

(Please click for better quality, i spent so much time on the detail and tumblr is crunchinnggg it *tear*)

[avoidmint]

THANK YOU FOR 100 FOLLOWERS~!

I hit the milestone a few days back but didn't have time to make anything. It's actually a little over 100 now! ♥

Thank you all so much! It's been fun being part of this community, even if I don't interact all that much. You've all been so kind. I hope to stick around for a while yet! ♥

[feyburner]

I ??? woke up at 3am with this scene fully written in my mind palace and quickly jotted it down in the Notes app

*

Clark’s shaking his head before he realizes he’s doing it, and feels a twinge of embarrassment at his own bad manners when Bruce stops mid-word to look at him, brows raised.

“No?” he says.

“No,” Clark says, again without thinking, and again with the reflexive urge to apologize. Somewhere his mother is tutting without knowing why. But he doesn’t apologize, because he’s already saying, “No, it can’t—it can’t be that.”

“Okay,” Bruce says slowly. “Can you elaborate?”

He is, honestly, having trouble taking his eyes off the screen. The mockup design of his new suit is there, dark and sleek, ridged like tactical gear. The blue is like the last shade of evening before you can’t call it evening anymore, the color of nine PM in Kansas in July, so exact there’s a strong chance Bruce color-picked it from a photo. The yellow accents are the cool fluorescent yellow-green of lightning bugs. The red is dark as arterial blood. Every aspect of the suit has been updated—the colors deeper, the angles sharper, the S extending to the corners of its frame—but Bruce has done it without changing the fundamentals. It’s immediately recognizable as the Superman suit, just… well, a little cooler, maybe. A little more of the times. Even the tailoring is modernized. The neckline. The shape of the boots. Where the belt hits at the waist. Clark can tell just by looking that Bruce has not only spent a lot of time on this in general, he’s spent a lot of time designing it specifically with Clark in mind, Clark’s needs and preferences and the small discomforts of his current suit, things he might have mentioned offhand after a mission but never with the assumption that Bruce was listening or filing it away. No doubt the next slides of this presentation will detail all the hidden features of the new suit, and they’ll all be incredibly thoughtful if not slightly overkill, and Bruce will pretend his sole motive here was practicality and risk reduction and respond to any thanks with a curt nod.

And Clark wants to thank him. He will. It’s just.

“It can’t be… cool,” he says, inane. Bruce is watching him with that steady look that used to feel clinical, piercing, and now mostly reads as attentive. “It can’t be—like yours. Tactical, military-grade.”

“Lightyears beyond, actually.”

“It has to—Ma said once, a kid should be able to draw it with crayons. You know? I can’t look like a weapon. I have to—I want to look like a friend.”

He can feel himself flushing. It’s rare that he speaks like this, and rarer still that he does so while being stared at intently. Bruce may think of himself as the darkness, but his gaze is a spotlight: unwavering and revealing and more a little sweat-inducing, for one reason or another.

“Sometimes, when I show up, people laugh,” Clark says. “If it’s somewhere out of the way, where they haven’t seen me before. I show up and I look like a festival performer. It’ll be the worst day of their lives, and they’ve got no reason to trust my face, but when they see what I’m wearing—it goes from ‘Who are you?’ to ‘Who is this guy?’ And that’s a good thing.”

“Hard to be afraid of a man dressed in primary colors,” Bruce says, almost to himself.

“Exactly.”

“I see. Thank you,” he says, “for explaining.”

Clark tries not to show how surprised he is to hear that. Judging by the crook of Bruce’s mouth, his success is negligible. “Of course. Sorry I didn’t—I mean, thank you, obviously, for going to such trouble. I didn’t mean to come in here and—I really do appreciate it, I can tell you put a lot of work in—”

Bruce’s eyes cut away. “No. No need. I didn’t ask, before I…. It was only a first draft. If you’re amenable, I’ll incorporate your feedback into the second one.”

“Oh! Yeah. Yes, of course, but you really don’t have to—”

“If you have any further notes, I would like to hear them.”

There’s something determined in the lines of his face. Clark has the sense that this moment is important, that it’s a turning point, even if he’s not sure why. It feels like striking out into a sea of ice, a blank white expanse under which something precious and vital is hidden, has been hidden all along, just waiting for him to find it. To want to.

“Sure,” he says. He looks back at the suit and swallows, and knows Bruce will see the flicker of his throat and take some meaning from it, and wishes he knew what the meaning was. Or maybe Bruce won’t notice or read into it at all. Maybe Clark needs to calm down, in fact. “Um. I don’t want to assume, but does it… do things?”

“It does things,” Bruce confirms, after the barest pause. “Let me show you the next slide.”

[incognit0slut]

On camera

PART 4 OF KINKTOBER | MAIN MASTERLIST

Roommate!Spencer x Camgirl!Reader Spencer requests to take on a more involved role in one of your live streams.

content: (18+) 4k, exhibitionism/voyeur, reader wears lingerie, unprotected penetrative sex, creampie, overstimulation (surprisingly it’s him for once), and a hint of cockwarming at the end a/n: this is the second part to a special show although you don't necessarily have to read it to understand what’s happening. this took a while because… there was a little pressure? i didn’t expect people to wait on this i hope it lives up to the expectations, let me know what you think my cuties<3

You nudged your foot against his. “We don’t have to do this, you know. I don’t mind.”

“I’m fine."

"Are you sure? You've been quiet ever since you sat down."

He felt the words knot up in his throat. The quiet wasn��t hesitation, it was disbelief. The kind that lingered in the gap between what he imagined and what was happening. The lack of conviction that defied logic, even when he was the one who initiated to exist beyond just a pair of hands at the edges of the frame.

"Spence?”

He glanced at you. Deep pools of brown drowning in lust swept over the piece of lingerie you decided to put on tonight. Even without much fashion sense, Spencer could appreciate the soft frills of purple lace clinging to your figure. The garter belt wrapped snugly around your waist, leading down to thin straps that framed your smooth thighs, and every logical thought he tried to root out slipped away the longer he looked at you.

Wait. Purple?

Purple.

Although Spencer was sure it probably had a fancier, specific name that bordered on… lilac? Lavender? Or something else elusive he couldn’t quite pin down. To him it was just purple. He might not have the vocabulary to describe the exact shade, but he knew the way it looked on you was nothing short of captivating.

“You’re wearing purple.”

The frown creased between your brows as you tried to make sense of his sudden observation.

“I am.” Your lips formed a slight pout. “And you still haven’t answered my question.“

And he still couldn’t bring himself to answer.

“I thought you were supposed to be Princess Pink?”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them. It was true. Pink was your color. The soft, playful blush had always been part of your alter ego. You shifted on your feet, glancing down at the purple lace hugging your hips before meeting his eyes again. A small, hesitant smile tugged at the corners of your lips, and for a moment, you looked almost… shy.

“Well, yeah,” you admitted, your voice so soft it dipped into a tone he wasn’t used to hearing from you. Your fingers traced the edge of the fabric absently, and you glanced away again as if finding the floor more interesting.

“I thought maybe… it might help, you know? Calm your nerves or something.” The nervous laugh creeping out of you sounded strained. “I know you like purple… so I figured…”

The corner of his lips curled upwards. His smile reminded you of the times he caught you off guard with a look that was equally amused and deeply affectionate as if he couldn’t believe his luck.

“You wore it for me?”

You felt warmth rise to your neck but decided there was no point in hiding it. “I thought it might make this less scary for you.”

His smile faltered. “I’m not scared.”

“Spencer, you’re about to get naked.”

“You’ve seen me naked before.”

You couldn’t help but let out an amused laugh. He stated it so plainly with no hint of self-consciousness or hesitation. And technically, he was right. You had seen him completely, wholly bare more times than you could count by now ever since that first night you stripped away his innocence.

You still remembered how you had pulled him across the line from a curious roommate to someone who wanted to know every inch of your body. And that night turned into another, and then another, until what you were doing stopped being about one-off hookups and started blurring the boundaries you’d drawn between friendship and something more. Something you couldn't quite put your finger on that felt heavier than lust but not quite defined as love.

Spencer was a roommate, a friend, a lover, and eventually, an active participant in your live streams.

His hands were, at least.

You took a step forward, slipping between his legs where he sat comfortably at the edge of your bed. “I have seen you naked,” you agreed, “but they haven’t.”

His hands hovered at your waist, fingers twitching over your lace as if he wasn’t sure where to put them. He glanced up at you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips before he finally admitted, “Okay… maybe I am a little nervous.”

“I know, but you don’t need to be. Think of it this way, the people who are going to see us will only be jealous of you.”

“Why would they be jealous of me?”

“Because you’re the one who gets to be with me.” You reached up to brush his hair back from his face, tucking those long, unruly strands behind his ear. “They’re in their rooms jerking off to a screen while you get to kiss me.”

A kiss fell on his lips.

“Touch me.”

Another peck.

“And fuck me.”

He chased your lips this time, his mouth puckering before he closed the gap. His words were muffled against you, “I am pretty lucky.”

“The luckiest,” you mumbled back. A soft smack of a kiss lingered in the air when you pulled away. “And you don’t have to worry, once we get started, you’ll be too distracted to remember what you were even nervous about.”

He hummed, the sound deep and rumbling in his chest as his grip on your waist tightened. “I think you might be right.”

“Good.” You moved to the side of the bed. “Now let me set up the camera.”

The tripod attached to the top of your computer screen wobbled slightly as you fiddled with it, adjusting the device until the lens angled down. You observed the setup, making sure it captured your body and the way Spencer’s hand rested on your waist without revealing either of your faces.

Perfect.

“You ready?”

Surprisingly, he was.

With a slight nod from him, you turned on the live stream.

Princess_Pink is online.

Spencer’s eyes widened as the chat erupted in a flurry of notifications, messages pouring in so rapidly they blurred into an endless stream of words.

“That’s a lot of people," he muttered under his breath.

“That’s the usual amount of people.”

“No, it’s not,” he countered. “I can’t even keep up with the chat.” Which was saying a lot. For someone who could read entire pages of text in mere seconds, this was overwhelming in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

“Don’t let them intimidate you.” You turned around and slipped between his legs again, feeling the way his knees instinctively parted to make space. “Just focus on me.”

Spencer barely managed to nod before your lips met his again, and with that, everything else seemed to dissolve. He could never quite get used to how effortlessly you could unravel him with just a kiss. His hands slid up the back of your thigh, the rough pads of his fingers brushing over your skin as they trembled slightly, grazing the delicate strap of your garter before settling firmly on your ass.

A surprised giggle bubbled out of you.

“Easy there,” you murmured, catching his bottom lip gently between your teeth before letting it go with a playful tug. “I have to greet them first.”

He reluctantly loosened his grip, letting his fingers linger on you for a final moment before slipping away to rest at his sides. His eyes remained fixed on you as you turned away, shifting your focus back to the screen and reaching over to the mic.

A faint hum filled the room as it came to life. Spencer could feel his breaths gradually falling into sync before your sweet voice cut through the silence like honey.

“Hi, boys,” you purred, letting the greeting roll off your tongue. “Did you miss me?"

Princess.no1.fan: Princess!!! JadenCums: we missed those tits Adam_4432: fucking hot as always Adam_4432: purple looks good on you Crazydick: who's the skinny loser at the back

You rolled your eyes as the comment popped up in the chat.

“This is getting old,” you said with a sigh, fingers hovering over the mouse. “You’re all obsessed with him.”

With a quick flick of your wrist, you blocked the troll and watched with satisfaction as his name disappeared from the list. Spencer tried to peek over your shoulder. “What did they say?”

“Nothing important,” you replied lightly, brushing it off as you turned back to the mic. "Didn’t I tell you guys to play nice?”

Princess.no1.fan: i always play nice with you JadenCums: they’re just jealous of your boy toy Adam_4432: ignore the haters, babe BigBoss88: let him stay in the background ThickNick: you're gorgeous princess

“Remember, if you can’t behave, you don’t get to stay. And I don’t think any of you want to miss out on what we've prepared."

That was his cue, right? He forced down the tightness in his throat, the sensation catching and shifting like a dry click as his pulse quickened. With a quiet exhale, he slipped off the edge of the bed and made his way behind you.

There was a moment of hesitation. But his doubt faded into the background as he focused on the curve of your waist beneath his fingers. He let his hands move slowly, tracing upward with a touch that lingered at the dip of your spine until his fingers brushed the delicate lace of your bra.

Wide hands covered the soft swell of your breasts.

Princess.no1.fan sent a $50 gift.

“See?” you breathed, pressing your back against him. “You play nice, you get to enjoy the show.”

He couldn’t help but squeeze your flesh, fingers sinking in and then pulling back, the skin dimpling under the pressure before slowly springing back. His veins looked prominent, winding up his forearm like delicate, raised lines that caught the light on camera every time he moved over the fabric of your bra.

And the lace offered the thinnest barrier. He could feel the way your nipple firmed underneath his touch, straining subtly as if it, too, was reaching out for more. He traced small, lazy circles around it, and when you arched into him, he had to bite back a smile. He pressed a kiss on your shoulder instead.

“You’re so good at this,” you muttered, letting your hand drift up to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair.

He let out a quiet hum of acknowledgment, his fingers hooking under the edge of your bra’s cup before pulling it down. Your breasts bounced slightly, settling naturally in his palm as the lace slipped away.

“I’ve had a lot of practice.”

A soft moan escaped you as he began to explore, and Spencer couldn’t help the surge of satisfaction that followed. He was rougher than he intended to be at times, testing the line between what made you shiver and what made you push back for more. It was the way he rolled both of your nipples between his fingers, alternating between gentle pinches and firmer twists, that finally drew the most telling reaction—a subtle, instinctive rub of your ass against him.

He took it as a sign to touch you further, one hand drifting lower while the other stayed firmly in place. Goosebumps prickled over your skin as he slid down your stomach until he reached the edge of your panties. His fingers skimmed along the waistband, and you could feel his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts as he brushed his knuckles underneath the delicate material, hesitating.

Adam_4432 sent you a $100 gift.

That was enough to break through his hesitation. Without a word, he slipped his fingers beneath the lace.

The heat between your thighs greeted him, and there was no mistaking what that meant. You were wet, so wet that his fingers glided over your folds like silk. He couldn’t help but feel a flicker of smugness as each subtle shift seemed to draw a new sound from your lips.

He let his fingers slide lower, searching, and when he finally found your clit, brushing his fingertips lightly over it, you jerked in his arms. The tiny, sensitive nub was swollen and begging for attention as it pulsed under his touch like a racing heartbeat. He gave gentle rubs. Slow circles. Steady pressure. The more he explored, the more your arousal smeared against his fingertips.

“Oh—you’re gonna make me cum so fast,” you gasped. You threw your head back against his shoulder, letting out a whine you knew would drive your viewers wild. “What do you think, boys? Should he make me cum now?”

The chat lit up instantly, flooded with messages begging you to let go, but between the rapid scroll of usernames and flashing emojis, one message caught your eye.

Looking4Sluts: no Looking4Sluts: cum on his cock Looking4Sluts sent you a $200 gift.

The notification flashed across the screen, and you felt a surge of adrenaline, a wicked smile playing on your lips. “Do you see that, baby?”

He nodded against your neck.

“They want more of you,” you purred, letting your hips roll back against him, pressing yourself closer to his obvious erection. “They want to see just how good you make me feel.”

Your words went straight to his cock. His touch suddenly changed as he began to move faster against your clit, and a choked gasp spilled from your lips. But just as the pressure started to build rapidly, you quickly grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand from your panties.

“No, not yet,” you stopped him, turning your head to catch his ear, your lips brushing against the shell. “Wanna cum on your cock.”

He watched as you reached down and slowly hooked your fingers into the sides of your panties, sliding them down your legs. A thin string of your arousal followed as you lowered the fabric, clinging to the lace before it finally broke and left a glistening trail against your thigh.

His balls tightened painfully.

Princess.no1.fan: Holy shit, that’s so fucking hot JadenCums: fisting my cock so hard Fatcock_777: wreck that damn pussy PussyLover69: i bet she’s fucking tight Looking4Sluts: jesus christ, she’s dripping

Spencer’s mind emptied the moment you leaned forward, planting your palms firmly on the desk for balance. The way your body arched made his pulse stutter, a surge of heat rushing through him so quickly it almost left him lightheaded.

“Like… this? Standing?”

You glanced back at him over your shoulder. “Exactly like this.”

He could barely think straight. His hands moved on their own, one sliding over your hips, gripping you firmly, while the other fumbled with his waistband, desperately tugging his pants down. The fabric slid down over his thighs, and he bit back a groan as his cock sprang free, hard and aching, pressing against the bare skin of your ass.

He could feel the heat of you against him, and it took every ounce of self-control to keep himself from sinking into you all at once. He pressed in closer, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse echoing in the ache between you both as the tip of his cock settled right where your folds parted. He rocked his hips in shallow motions.

“Baby…” You tilted your hips just enough to align with him, “no teasing."

But hearing those words only made him want to draw it out even more. He let his bulging head nudge at your hole, barely dipping in before pulling back, feeling the way you instinctively pressed against him.

"Spe—" you faltered, then groaned. "Stop it."

He couldn’t help but smile as his fingers found the straps of your garter belt. He tugged on one gently, watching the elastic snap back against your skin. "But you look so pretty."

"I'll look prettier with your cock inside me."

That did it. With one last shaky exhale, Spencer gripped your hips firmly and began to sink himself into you, feeling the tight, warm stretch of your cunt.

“Oh my god,” you gasped. He felt a slight resistance as your body adjusted to him. He carefully gave a few gentle thrusts, easing in and out just enough for you to relax.

Looking4Sluts: fuck yes JadenCums: she's so fucking tight PeachyKeen420: look at him stretching her PussyFiend69: just watching this is gonna make me cum HotForTits: Fuck her harder dude she wants it

His eyes flickered to that last comment, and something inside him shifted, like a switch flipping. Without another thought, without any lingering trace of hesitation, he tightened his grip on your hips and pushed in all at once.

Your moan tore through the air. So. Fucking. Loud.

HotForTits sent you a $300 gift

The notification flashed across the screen, but Spencer barely registered it, his control was slipping further away as his hips moved on their own. He started to grind into you, eyes traveling to your connected bodies. You were practically swallowing his cock, clenching so tightly around him that he felt like you were pulling him deeper, refusing to let him go.

In a way, you did beg for it. Each time you met his thrusts with an eager roll of your hips, the sound of skin slapping together echoed around you. He would have thought he’d be shy doing this in front of so many watchful eyes, but the way you moved against him made it impossible to care.

It only made him bolder. He let his hand slide up your back, fingers fumbling slightly with the clasp of your bra before he unhooked it. The straps slipped down your shoulders, sliding down your arms, and then you were completely, utterly naked, except for the garter hugging your thighs.

You were so pretty like this, so incredibly beautiful it made his pulse stutter in his veins. You were so pretty that it was almost disorienting, as if looking at you too long might make him forget where he was. And in his mind, all the lofty notions of beauty and art seemed to fall flat compared to seeing you like this. He needed to see all of you.

A startled whimper left your lips when he suddenly pulled out.

“Can you angle the camera down?"

There was a knowing look in your eyes. Your fingers moved to adjust the tripod, and he wasted no time stripping himself. By the time you were done angling the camera, he was already sitting on the edge of your bed, his cock throbbing against his stomach.

He looked painfully hard. Hard enough that every heartbeat seemed to pulse visibly along his length. You crawled onto his lap.

“Hi.”

His palm found the curve of your hip. "Hi."

“Are you okay?”

He nodded, his fingers tightening around the base of his cock as he urged you to lift your hips. “I think I’m starting to understand why you do this.”

“Yeah?”

"Mhm.” He nudged his tip between your folds. “It’s kind of exciting.”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, fingers curling into his shoulder for balance as you began to lower yourself. “See? Nothing to be nervous about.”

A deep groan escaped his lips the moment your walls tightened around him. “You make this seem easy.”

“Maybe you’re just a natural.”

He gave a low chuckle, but it caught in his throat when he felt the full length of his cock buried inside you. “I… ah… I think you’re the one making me look good.”

“Shut up,” you replied with a grin, burying your face in the crook of his neck. “You don’t need any help looking good right now, trust me.”

Spencer wasn’t entirely sure what to think about that. He’d never seen himself like this, not in the way you did. But when he glanced over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of the screen and the way your hips rolled over him, he started to believe it.

He looked like… well, like the porn he’d watched late at night in his room before you came along. But better. The kind that didn’t seem real, the kind that made him question if anyone actually had sex like that. He knew the vast majority of what’s portrayed in porn is exaggerated with only a small percentage even close to reality. Except this was real. It was really him, and you made it look like he knew what he was doing.

And sure, maybe he did in some way, albeit you being his only real experience. But that was the thing—he knew what made you tick. He could read the way your body reacted, knew the subtle cues that signaled when a whisper of his fingers could coax out a whimper or when the right shift of his hips would leave you trembling. And more than anything else, he knew how much you liked being watched.

He knew just how much it turned you on.

With that thought in mind, Spencer grabbed the firm swell of your ass and spread you open.

JadenCums: fuck yes FatCock69: she’s so wet BigdickXX: damn, I wish I could feel that pussy ILovePinkPrincess: spread her wider TommyGoode sent you a $200 giftDaddyDom92 sent you a $300 gift.

Your body squirmed beneath his hands.

“Babe… what are you doing?”

He ran his tongue over his lips. “Giving them what they want.”

Then he spread your flesh even further, fingers digging into your supple skin as he held you open. The sight was undeniably lewd, and yet he couldn’t deny the surge of pride swelling in his chest as he held you like this, putting you on full display. But more than that, it was what you wanted. The tension coiled in his muscles as he thrust his hips up, watching the movement play out in the reflection over his shoulder.

He could see everything. The slow drag of his cock, the way it stretched you open with each push, leaving no inch of you untouched. Every time he thrust up into you, his length came back slick and shining, catching the light for a split second before disappearing inside you again.

There was something hypnotic in the rhythm, in the way your body seemed to swallow him whole. And somewhere in that steady push and pull, you visibly clenched around him, a vice-like grip that sent a shudder through his body and pulled a deep, harsh groan from his throat.

His hands tightened their grip on you, and before he could think twice, his hips began moving faster. You squealed, an actual high-pitched sound that he hadn’t expected. It was almost cute in a way—if cute was even the right word for what was happening. But there was nothing cute about the way his body reacted to that sound.

His hips bucked upward, again and again by an instinct he couldn’t control. He was so lost in the sensation of your warm, slick pussy that he barely registered the rising tension in his own body. It wasn’t until his muscles locked up, his hips jerking with one final, forceful snap, that it all crashed over him.

Oh shit.

A sudden rush of heat coursed through him as he spilled inside you, the realization hitting him a second too late. His breath came in shallow gasps, a deep groan escaping his throat as pleasure overwhelmed him, leaving him stunned and gasping for air.

You paused, feeling the unmistakable warmth of his release slowly seep inside you. “Baby?”

His eyes widened. “I’m sorry,” he blurted, sliding his hands up your waist. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—that was—”

Fast didn’t even come close to describing what happened.

You cut him off with a soft laugh, shaking your head as your fingers gently cupped his jaw. “Oh, honey,” you cooed. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

His eyes flickered to the camera behind you. “I ruined everything, didn’t I?”

You followed his gaze, then turned back to him with a smile. “Of course not,” you said softly, threading your fingers through his hair. “You kind of made everything better, actually.”

His brows knitted together. “I did?”

You nodded and wrapped your arms around his shoulders.

“Do you know…”

You started to roll your hips again.

“How hot it is…”

A soft squelch filled the air.

“To fuck with your cum inside me?”

He could barely comprehend the words that had just left your mouth, let alone the feeling of you moving against him. His eyelids struggled to stay open, the question catching in his throat before it spilled out in a breathy whisper. “Hot?”

“Insanely hot.”

Spencer couldn’t describe what happened after that. Obscene didn’t even begin to cover it. Surreal, maybe? But even that word felt lacking. It was all too real. You were rocking your hips on his lap, and the wet, sticky sounds filling the room were undeniably his own doing.

He held your hips tighter, half in an effort to steady himself, half because he didn’t know what else to do. The words were gone. Logic was gone. The only thing that existed was you, grinding against him with the same intensity that had already undone him once.

And he knew he was going to lose it again.

You leaned forward, your forehead pressing gently against his. “Spence, baby,” you whispered, making sure your voice was soft, just loud enough that only he could hear. “Can you fuck me again?”

He couldn’t say no even if he tried. His hands slipped beneath your thighs, fingers curling with just enough force to lift you, tilting your hips for better leverage. The shift pulled a startled gasp from you and you clung to him for balance, but he didn’t give you a moment to catch your breath. His hips met yours in a swift, demanding snap.

The sound of your body meeting was unmistakable, a rhythmic slap that would’ve made him blush if he were in any state to think clearly. But right now, all he could focus on was the mess he’d made of you, the way his cum seeped out, sliding down his cock in slow drips. Whenever he thrust into you, there seemed to be more spilling out, leaving thick, creamy streaks painted across your inner thighs.

Spencer had messy sex before (all with you, of course) but this was on a whole different level. It was chaotic—unapologetically filthy. The wetness between you spread everywhere. He could feel it pooling against his thighs, trickling down your legs, and the damp sheets beneath you were clinging uncomfortably to his knees while the heady scent of sex hit his nostrils.

And your voice wasn’t helping his self-control. It was high-pitched with a tremor, somewhere between a moan and a desperate whine tumbling out in a jumble of words that barely made any sense. Your voice grew higher each minute, more frantic, until finally, he could make out a few clear words through the haze.

“Gonna c-cum,” you moaned, “I’m gonna cu—ah fuck yesyesyes—”

A final, helpless cry pushed him over the edge.

He came for the second time tonight. He tried to hold back, but the way you were clenching around him, your body pulsing through your sudden orgasm tore down what little control he had left. He groaned, burying his face in your neck as his release overtook him again, shocked that he still had anything left to give as he emptied inside you.

The intensity bordered on painful. He could feel his body pushing to its limits and every pulse of pleasure felt like it was wringing him dry. And it was no less intense for you. You jerked against him, body twitching, sweat beading on your skin. Your muscles tightened and relaxed with the rhythm of his racing heartbeat as the last spark of pleasure finally washed over you.

Neither of you moved for a while after that. The only sound in the room was your labored breathing, the heavy rise and fall of your chests pressed together.

You were the first to break the silence.

“Baby,” you hummed, a soft, breathless laugh escaping your lips, “I think that might’ve been the hottest stream we’ve ever done.”

It took a second for your words to sink in, and when they did, his eyes widened slightly. The camera was still on. The audience was still there. His nose pressed harder against your neck as he tried to hide in embarrassment.

“Really? You’re getting shy now?“

His soft groan vibrated against your skin. “I wasn’t exactly thinking about the camera,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against your neck. “It left my mind the moment I… you know.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Oh, I know. I could tell.”

You started to peel yourself off of him, only for his arms to tighten around your waist. You gave a playful tap on his shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“Holding you.”

“Why?”

“My brain needs a moment to process this.”

Your hand danced aimlessly across his back. “Still embarrassed?”

“Mortified,” he confirmed.

A giggle slipped out of you, and you wiggled your hips. “We still need to clean up. I don’t think you want to stay like this forever.”

He let out a sound of protest but didn’t loosen his grip. “Just a few more minutes.”

Smiling at his stubbornness, you slid your fingers into his hair, letting your nails scrape lightly against his scalp. "Spencer," you said gently, making sure the mic didn't pick up your voice. “I need to turn off the cam.”

"They wouldn't mind watching us a little longer."

You sighed, feeling the undeniable stickiness between your thighs. It wasn’t the most comfortable feeling, and the warmth was quickly turning into a mess that would need attention sooner rather than later. But there was something so sweet about the way he wanted to hold you that it made it impossible to resist.

"Fine," you relented with a quiet laugh, "five more minutes."

[spurbleu]

scapegoat / tucked tail - john price

nsfw. ao3. ~4k

s. the old bruise in his eyes is gone. in its place, blue charcoal ignites, licking at his pupil in a dilated, focused anger. “doesn’t feel good, f'your space to be invaded,” his cigar breathes embers over the bridge of your nose, “does it?”

or, you and your boss get stuck in an elevator.

cw. fem reader. pnv. fingering. power imbalance/inappropriate work dynamics.

for @tobeholyistobeempty <3 thanks for letting me rant about him, love being abhorrent with you.

The world feels odd today.

Tectonic shift. An onslaught of rubble plateaus at your feet as you stand in the elevator. You taste the disquiet in your coffee and try to find its source in the tile grout. This anxiety is an old knife, sweating against a whetstone and the back of your neck.

Your mind searches for a scapegoat- forgotten papers, an unlocked door, perhaps the stove top was left on. But you come up empty-handed and are left to swim in these troubling waters alone and wondering.

The elevator bell brings you back to the morning. Opening doors reveal grey carpet and China blue walls. Clouds with silver linings that shade over the windows. Ceiling lamps. The familiarity should bring you comfort, but the knife is still at your throat as you walk to the main office.

Rounding the corner, it cuts.

The blue in Mr. Price’s eyes is bruised and the pupils have shrunk into capsizing ships. Purple grows beneath his lashes like swollen grapes, where his crows’ feet pick at sunspots. Exhaustion has seized the bridge you spent a year building between the two of you- made from iron, coffee runs and polite banter.

It’s seemingly been burned sometime between the elevator and his office.

“Good morning, Mr. Price.” You say. He stares.

Time takes a drag of its cigar and puts it out on your back while you wait for his reply.

“Morning.”

The answer to your unknown anxiety stamps itself to the slam of his door.

8 AM

He’s not in the office for your first delivery.

His absence is disturbing- abnormal. Even when he isn’t there he lingers- a man who frequently shadows the space and people around him. A wall of force.

You find that his room is similar. Swallows you, despite its minimalism. Mahogany flays the skin under your nose as you survey the small space.

Barren walls aside from a few framed accolades. Tobacco torn carpet. And a desk in the center of the room, framed by a small bookshelf and a single leather chair. Whiskey, neat.

“Excuse me.”

You flinch and spin around. Mr. Price has his hand on the door handle, paused as he glowers at you from the threshold. You smile, but it only seems to wrinkle what little patience he had left.

“Paperwork,” you clear your throat, nerves sparking down your spine “I…have some paperwork. ‘Was leaving it on your desk. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

He takes a long stride to the corner of his desk, hands folded behind his back. Sits in his leather chair with a huff and then holds his hand out expectantly. It takes you a second to understand, before you slowly lower the papers into his palm.

Usually, this is where he thanks you. Says he likes your hair “done like that”. Compliments the color of your shirt. It’s an arguably meaningless moment.

But not to you.

The way his voice purrs over your name, a small sentiment that brightens the dirtier, drawling parts of your day. John Price hand feeds you your own importance, and you hardly understand what you did to earn it.

But you don’t have to- the moment beckons content sleep anyway. Because someone- he- believes you did something good.

He says nothing to you today.

10:30 AM

Your knock on his door is timid at best.

“Come in.”

You poke your head through the crack. “I made some coffee…” He waits for you to make this worth his time, and both of you are skeptical that you’ll be able to, “I have an extra cup- black, how you like it. You seem tired today so I-“

“Just…leave it by the door.”

Your eyebrows draw. “…On the floor?”

He looks up at you from over his glasses. “Is there anything else to set it on?”

You look around to give your throat the opportunity to unclose. “No, sir.”

He looks back down. “Then yes. On the floor.”

You stand under the top of the door and watch tantrums manifest themselves around his torso. Small cracks in a meticulously built machine, where enflamed sores spit steam. Alloy lighthouse that searches for labor even when there is none.

Rusts when stagnant.

He does not look at you when he speaks again. “Today would be preferable.”

You’re already walking before your mind can stop you. Foot in front of the other to reach the corner of his desk, and the journey feels twice as long when you register the way he watches you. A fridged gloss over his iris- numbs an anger that squints when you place the cup next to his pen holder.

 He lets out a long, dry, sigh.

“I told you that you could-“

“One less trip for you…” You remember yourself when his eyebrows raise, “sir.”

Your words echo. The walls corner your shoulders. The air he exhales chokes you, and everything slows until it’s just the Atlantic of his eyes and the unshakeable sense that you are drowning in them.

He opens his mouth, but you leave before the words come.

1:00 PM

The seat in the breakout room next to yours is empty. He ate lunch in his office.

When you return to your desk, his mug is on its corner.

It’s empty.

5:25 PM

He calls you into his office this time.

You close the door with your back, hands folded in front of you.

He rubs the bridge of his nose when you walk in, evidently already annoyed. Takes his glasses off with a sigh, interlacing his fingers and rests his elbows on the desk. Greek statue still, with all the imitation of their Gods to match.

“I went through the reports.”

“About the covert?”

“What else,” he grits, “would I be talking about?”

You nod dumbly and stay with your back to the door.

“Do you w-“

“It’s missing pages.”

You swallow a rock. “What?”

“I said,” he stands, straightening his spine, “if you could listen the first time,” a frequent tactic you’ve seen him use on his subordinates- “It has,” but never you, “missing. Pages.”

He’s in front of you and he brings with him a particular quiet that triggers your fight or flight. The pause before an explosion, after a gun fire, or the sound of a casket closing. All of these buries you six feet under- still alive and restlessly terrified of living at the same time as his temper.

He pushes the paper into your chest, and when he removes his hands, he takes your breath with it.

“Fix it.”

5:28 PM

You fight tears at the printer.

When you’ve triple checked that all the pages are there, you return to his office.

You slide the report under the door.

It’s dark when you let your aching bones stand to leave.

Collecting papers, fixing your desk, shouldering your bag…a routine that feels uncharged without Mr. Price to talk with you. Funny, how much you miss his presence.

It’s hardly appropriate, but you pretend that it is.

The lights are off in his office, shades drawn. You didn’t see him leaving, but after your last interaction you hadn’t really been watching. You stare at the room, desperate for it to burst into flames, rot to the floor, melt into wax and metal and dread. Do something that isn’t absurdly empty.

None of those things happen.

So, you wave your white flag. Tomorrow, it’ll be better. You’ll be better.

Your day ends where it began- at the steel doors of the elevator. It looks frosted in the evening; the fluorescent lights above you casting a sick yellow hue over the China blue walls and grey carpet. It looks as stale as you feel.

It opens, and you let out a long sigh as you step in. And for a blissful moment, the day is over.

And then a hand slams between the closing doors.

They jut open, and reveal John Price standing at full height. He does not soften like he usually does when he sees you- in fact he goes ridged. It haunts you, how guiltless he looks.

“Good evening, sir.”

Your nicety falls on deaf ears. He hums and fishes out a lighter from his pocket, sticking a cigar between canines as he steps through the doors. Lights it as they close, and the room fogs.

Within seconds, you’re swelling in the familiarity of cigar corpse. Buried under the nickel smoke that clips to the heels of his boots and stagnates above the slope of his shoulders. Vaguely expensive, like it’s a luxury to be near him and his vices.

Your nose burns, a cruel itch that nudges your sinuses and overwhelms the place behind your eyes. Suffocating as Mr. Price and his cigar smolder beside you, watching the floor numbers decline with your tolerance.

Your peripheral renders embers- fizzles at his facial hair that rests over its barrel, and the fixed position of his jaw when he takes a drag. Calm blankets his silhouette, and you can see his attitude begin to repair itself.

It halts when you cough.

You don’t dare look at him when you feel a shift beside you. “Somethin’ the matter?”

You hold your breath, and when you exhale it’s shaky. “N-no si-“

“Speak up.”

“No sir.”

You cough again.

“Not used to these yet? For how long you’ve been workin’ f’me that’s pretty damn insulting.”

You’re blinking back tears, shifting in your heels. “I- it’s just because we’re in a-“

His hand is on your jaw, yanking it to look up at him.

The old bruise in his eyes is gone. In its place, blue charcoal ignites, licking at his pupil in a dilated, focused anger. Stikes quickly enough to paralyze you in his grip, stone as he squeezes the soft out of the base of your cheeks.

“Small space? Doesn’t feel good, f’your space to be invaded,” the cigar still sits between his teeth and breathes embers over the bridge of your nose, “does it?”

“No sir.” You can’t tell where he ends, or the cigar begins- all you know is that you’re burning in the subsequent ash that follows them both. Tears well up in the corners of your eyes as you become horrifically aware of how much he overwhelms you. How it’s always been this way- the kindle to his fire. A match to paper.

Just took him force feeding you secondhand smoke to see it. Or, rather, taste it.

“Been doin’ this t’me all fuckin’ day. Hoverin’ like a damn heli.”

“I’m sorry-“

He squeezes until your teeth mark the inside of your cheeks. “Can’tcha tell when a man needs his g’damn peace? When he’s fed up? What about today made’ya think I needed-“

The car convulses with the intensity of thunder. Mechanical earthquake sends you forward and into his chest, and you tense at the abrupt loss of gravity. You feel his back hit the wall, and the way he grunts as you follow close behind. Instinct moves his hand to cover the curve of your head, and you inhale into his shirt.

It’s quiet for ten long seconds. In that time, you realize the elevator isn’t moving.

Mr. Price speaks first. “You alright?”

“Yes.” You breathe.

You slowly part, and the light flickers over your head. Mr. Price curses.

“Not claustrophobic, are you?” You shake your head, and he runs a hand through his hair.

“Good.” He makes his way to the operating panel and clicks the emergency open. Theres a whine from somewhere in the front of the car, but nothing budges. He shakes his head and tries to pull the doors apart.

He grunts, but the effort is futile. He doesn’t quit, though.

“Mr. Price.” No response.

“Sir-“ He tries again.

“John Price.”

He turns to you, and for the first time today you see all of it. How his hand-built dam broke, and the surrounding bridges collapsed, and somehow and for some reason, the blame is on him. The blood in the water and the festered rage clogs up his senses until all clarity dies.

How when he softens, it’s the first time he’s seeing you.

You dig your water bottle out of your bag and hold it out to him. He takes it silently, and you press the fire department button.

You slip off your heels and set them next to your bag.

The closed door turns you into a gauche- softly painted in the flickering, orange lights. Theres a halo of static around your figure- as if the curves of you had been smudged. Your face is made up of vague features- shapes that follow its structure but feel slanted. A disorienting, surreal reflection of yourself.

You want to laugh at how fitting it is.

Next to it, is an equally detached painting of Mr. Price. The color of your shirt and the cream of his collect in the middle. It’s fuzzy, and you must squint to see it, but the tether is still there. If only, in the dull steal of an elevator door.  

Price is already looking at you when you glace in his direction. You lean against the side of the elevator wall. “What happened today?”

He lets out a sigh- like he knew you were going to ask. Props himself against the other wall and crosses his arms. In your peripheral, you see how the reflections are no longer on the door.

“A mission did not go as plan.”

You look at him as if to say that cannot possibly be all, and he drops his cigar and puts it out on the tile. “We lost two of our men.”

Your heart twists. “I’m so sorry.”

He nods solemnly, and you pinch your skirt.

“…was it the one I gave you today?”

He shakes his head, and you’re relieved. “No. I found out last night.”

You pause and begin to walk towards him. “Did you sleep?”

The question crosses a boundary, like your body is now. The invisible wall all employees and their bosses have. The absence of real empathy, loyalty without attachment, and the hard rule of never involving yourself in their outside.

The places beyond the office- his home, his habits, his thoughts. The places you so desperately want to be inside.

He watches you approach him, and his shoulders slouch. You’re in front of him now, the smoke still burning at your nose, but it fizzles from below your calf and travels up and between your legs. An awareness follows it- of just how large he is too you without the aid of your heels.

When you look at him, you’re cognitive of why you asked, why you stepped forward, and why you haven’t back away.

And how dangerous that is.

“What do you think?” The question is rhetorical, but your thumb comes to trace the dark space beneath his eyes anyway.

“Not a wink.” You whisper. His breath draws and comes out ragged. His eyes watch you carefully, and despite how hunted they make you feel, your other hand holds his shoulder. When you speak again, your question is genuine.

“Can I do anything to help you, sir?”

His kiss comes to you like an epiphany.

Evens out the grass in your yard that grows awkwardly. Dissolves the spots in your vision after you look at bright lights. The puzzle piece that fell under your desk. All the trifling anomalies that coexist with your ignorance. Orphaned calamities that, until now, it felt futile to repair.

But his mouth pulls it out of you. Biting your lower lip tipping your chin so your lips mold together and you can feel his breath- the thing that keeps him alive- burrowing itself into yours.

Put simply- he was the thing you didn’t know you needed until you had it.

His hands push your hips to the wall, and you inhale, lifting onto your toes and steading yourself by gripping his shoulders. He mutters something incoherent before running his tongue along your gums and you freeze.

He dips to your neck, and you stifle a moan, feeling his hands grab the back part of your thighs and pulling them forward to lift you up-

“Sir- wait-”

He looks at you- almost as angry as he had been about the missing report pages.

“For once,” his right hand comes back up to hold your chin, “let me do what I need to do.”

He doesn’t let an argument form before he slams his lips on yours again- this time it’s violent. Holding your face still so he can shove his tongue down your throat. Your mouth is his ashtray, swallowing his depravity, his rot, the injuries that kept him festering in a locked office. You widen your mouth to fit all of it, so when he groans your name, you swallow that, too.

His left hand relinquishes his grip on your thigh and slips it under your skirt. When you try to pull away, his other hand is there, holding your face still until he runs his index and middle over the wet patch on your underwear.

He smiles against your mouth. “Been wantin’ this, huh darl’?”

You gasp when his thumb presses against your clit through the cloth- “P-Pri-“

His hand falls away and you whine. Tuts, looking you in the eye. “Sir, sweet’eart. Say it.”

“Sir.” You breathe, rolling your hips forward to find fleeting relief against his limp fingers.

“Tha’s a girl.” Kisses behind your ears, before slipping his fingers past the lace to wander between your folds. You sigh, gipping his shoulders for balance, rocking your hips. His thumb returns to its small ministrations against your clit, and a curious finger slips into the sleeve of your cunt.

You groan. “S…sir the f-fire depart-“

He hushes you with a second finger. You yelp, and he takes your surprise as an opportunity to knock your planted foot out to let him stand between them. Shoves his fingers deeper, and you bend forward, moaning as you try your best to see straight.

“Tight lil thing, isn’t she,” his pumps become purposely cruel, and you’re resting your head against his shoulder, mouth agape with drool pooling on the white of his shirt, “have’ta warm her up, hm?”

You don’t know why you find yourself nodding. You’re long past an appropriate work relationship. Employee contracts don’t include riding your superior’s fingers in a stranded elevator.

But it’s been in the fine print, hasn’t it? In the lingering hands, careful eyes, the way you watched his mouth when he talked, and he let you. Even today, you weren’t upset with what he’d said and done on principle, but because it was done to you. It tore down the selfish, callow notion that you were removed from his cruelty- that you had and always would be an exception.

You think in some twisted way; this is him proving you right. The apology you’ll never hear said aloud.

He’s always been a man of action, anyway.

He adds a third, and you’re choking back a sob, shivering like you aren’t burning. Searing where he touches you, while the rest of him crowds everywhere else. Entirely aware that he’s stretching the sensitive tendons of your body and the bones that hold you together so he can watch himself put you back together. Molding you, for him.

Like you haven’t done so already.

“C’mon now, ‘can feel you getting close, sweet’eart,” he purrs in your ear, “give it to me.”

And he’s right. It’s building, the slow and pulsing anticipation your body cannot save itself from- pinpricks of lightning before the thunder. Shuddering breaths as you become desperate- echoed in the curls of your fingers and toes and the mantra you repeat against his neck,

“Please, please, please, ple,”

Your orgasm (you think for the moments that everything whites out) makes you a witch. Burns you at the stake, flays you alive, the mob of your own consciousness jeering from somewhere and nowhere. The limbo where the thunder finally rolls in, but too quickly disappears when he removes his soiled fingers.

“Stay with me,” the tap on your cheek pulls you back to the crammed elevator and the arms that hold you still, “open.”

You do, unlatching chattering teeth and flattening your tongue until his fingers are bed there. He doesn’t move his eyes from you.

“Ain’t that a sight…”

You close your lips and taste the beginning of the end. The torn tapestry yarn of your professionalism, your impulses, your desires. Congregated on the digits that have signed your reports, touched the small of your back, and have now been deep inside your cunt.

He grunts and pulls his hand away with a quiet pop, and steps back to put his hands on his belt.

Your mind is only now beginning to catch up with reality. “Pr-Sir I don’t…“

He draws his cock from the waistband of his pants, and you’re quiet. It holds all the same weight he does, and the hair. Thick swirls that brush over heavy flesh, where it blossoms in an angry red at the tip. You swallow thickly, back pressed to the wall and cunt aching for something your mind isn’t ready for.

“I’m not-“

“You’re prepped enough, darl’,” he steps forwards, running his tip between your folds you wince, “Be a good girl for me, hm? ‘S gonna feel,” he groans when he pushes in further, knocking your lungs up to your throat, “Christ…good.”

He wraps his palms on the underbelly of your thighs and lifts, pressing you against the wall of the elevator. You breathe in the infant relief, before he bottoms out.

You sob, gripping onto his dress shirt as your walls stretch. It’s all lost to the current of his own curses and ragged breaths into your neck. “Fuck, still tight huh?”

You try to reply but it’s lost to the waves that cascade under your ribs with every thrust you’re forced to take. Only able to focus on how full you are, the rest of your body hollowed out in comparison. Light, feverish shivers unfurl up the base of your spine, and you wrap your legs around his hips. He doesn’t mind your silence.

He starts with slow thrusts, letting you bounce on his cock in a rhythm that makes you squirm. When you put up a fight, he grabs your hips and pulls them against his, and you lean your head against the wall at the new depth that should be impossible.

His hand finds your clit and you’re quick to fold back into his shoulder, letting out another ugly moan.

“Tha’s it, knew you needed this,” his hips snap against your ass and your grip beneath his shoulder blades, “I see how you look at me,” grabs your face and tips his head to look down at you, “like you are right now.”

You sigh when he plunges deeper. “Y-you wha…wanted it too..?”

He adjusts your hips and answers with a hard jerk of his own. “’Course I did. Knew you’d be…hah..” leans his head into your neck, where he bites and you gasp, “made f’me.”

You’re flooded with a strange sense of ease.

Nothing about this is normal, but it’s warranted. Signing yourself to him with leather sticking to the underside of your thighs, shaking his hand and feeling a life richer than your own hold you with gentleness. How he’d look at you in the first week mornings and smile, so you adjusted comfortably. How he still did months into the job.

You recall an evening when he walked you to your car. You asked him when he’d be going home. He responded, “late,” and you had said “not too much later, yeah?” He had looked at you like you’d be the one waiting at home for him.

Then said, “For you, I won’t.”

You’ve been wanting it since then.

The collision shatters glass and other fragile things you’re made of. Lifted by his arms so you cannot collect yourself as he spears into you, until you are unsure where you begin, and he ends.

Didn’t hear yourself begin to speak, but you catch the butt-end of your incoherency when he steps forward and puts your back flat against the wall. “-ir so good…uh..hah good please, gonna- gonna cum’ah.”

He doesn’t relent, chasing your orgasm like he’s starving. “I know, I know sweet’eart, doin’ so well…” cages you between his elbows, “Show me how good I make you feel.”

You cling to his back like a lifeline. Drowning in him again, but now it’s beyond his eyes. Its his chest, his arms, his cock and every other part of him that makes you desperate enough to fuck him in an elevator.

Equally terrified and thrilled by his reciprocation. A follower returning to their alter, where their food has been eaten and wine swallowed and you simultaneously realize your god is real, and he knows you.

That he’ll eat you too, given the chance.

Your second orgasm is a cigar. Burns fast once lit and lingers until the smoke finds your lungs and the clenches your walls. Where the tobacco is you, your boss, this elevator, and the sprout that grew until its nicotine leaves bridged them together.  

Where Price can fit his mouth back over yours and groan, spilling himself into you and bucking until his spend kisses your cervix, and you see stars.

The come down is slow. He doesn’t move for awhile and you are grateful- entirely sure that the moment he steps away you’ll collapse to the floor. Feeling his chest inhale against your own, and kisses you like he didn’t just fuck you raw against granite that you will never look at the same again.

He peels himself from you at a snail’s pace, and when he pulls out, takes a finger and pushes his spend back into your swollen cunt. When you shift, his places a burly hand above your pelvis and holds you against the wall. Rises, and swipes the hair out of you face.

“Still with me?”

You can only nod against the hills of his palm. He smiles for the first time that day.

“Let’s get cleaned up before the firemen get us out.”

Tomorrow, Price will smile the whole day. He will get you a coffee from the break room, and you will ask how he knows the amount of cream and sugar you like. He will remind you he’s an observer. He’ll notice you did your hair differently. He will say he likes it.

At 5, he will call you into his office again. But this time, it’s not about missing pages of a report, but the missing undergarment from under your skirt.

He’ll then ask you to lift it, so he can properly see how soaking wet your cunt is.

[cherrygirlfriend]

fragile fawn reader seeing rafe at the beach of their encounter?

chance meetings

rafe sees fragile fawn reader at the beach while he’s out with his friends. hi!! since they met on the side of the road i did decide to just make it a random beach 😭 but i hope you don’t mind !!

rafe’s eyes were covered by a pair of black ray-bans despite the fact that the sun was already setting, the sky a color of pinkish orange as he pulled his car up on the beach, music coming from his stereos until rafe killed the engine and climbed out.

several of his friends got out of their own cars, the noise of chatter starting to fill the formerly quiet beach. the girl he’d been seeing that month, madison or madeleine, or something along those lines, wrapped her arm around his waist, and he lazily draped his tanned arm over her shoulder as they started to make their way to where their friends were.

bass-heavy music was blaring from the speaker topper had brought and rafe grabbed a beer from the cooler, opening it up via hand and ditching the bottle cap somewhere in the sand, taking a large chug. mad-something was babbling into his ear about something that rafe really couldn’t give a shit about.

“what’s good?” topper exclaimed, a wide grin on his face as they bro-hugged, before topper snaked his arm around the girl he had brought along with him.

“rafeyy, can you put sunscreen on my back?” the girl rafe brought asked, sticking her bottom lip out in a pout that she probably thought was cute but one that seemed to grind his gears, a wide grin on topper’s face. “sure.” rafe mumbled in response, but his eyes instead drifted to the water, the sight of an eerily familiar girl standing knee-deep in the water, the hem of her long floral-patterned dress floating on the surface causing him to furrow his brows in confusion, the figure staring up at the sky.

“it’s the weird-ass bird girl.” topper snorted and took a swig out of his beer. “bird girl?” rafe asked, feigning disinterest by doing the same as his friend had done, “yeah. jen saw her playing with some bird the other day and talking to herself. heard she’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic.”

“she’s a total nutcase.” madeline(?) said with a roll of her eyes, “heard she’s been in the loony bin a few times. doesn’t have any friends around here ‘cause everyone steers clear of her creepy ass.”

“i heard she was in a cult.” topper’s girl whispered conspiratorially and let out an irritating giggle as he watched you plunge into the water, “doesn’t matter. she’s irrelevant.”

rafe let out a noncommittal hum, yet as the night went on… the boy couldn’t help his eyes from straying to you. even as the sky turned a dark shade of blue, as his friends slowly started leaving the beach… rafe just kept looking over at you, sitting on a bench near the shore, your hair and dress half-dry as you simply watched the waves lap against the rocks.

“hey, i gotta head out.” rafe mumbled, chucking the half-empty bottle of beer onto the sand, “top, you mind giving… mad-whatever a ride home?”

“i got you, man.” topper shrugged, and rafe didn’t think the boy even heard him, but he didn’t really care. based on how the girl had draped her arms around some random dude’s neck, he was sure she’d find a way home.

rafe walked over to the bench where you were sitting at, holding a hand out, “come on.” you looked up at him with furrowed brows, your gaze going from his eyes down to his hand, “why?”

“you’re not supposed to get rides from strangers. we’re not strangers anymore. therefore i can give you a ride. now c’mon, before my hand goes sore.” after another moment of hesitation, you took rafe’s hand and he pulled you up to your feet.

you hummed softly as you gazed out of the window of rafe’s car, unaware of the fact that the boy driving was glancing at you every other second, until he placed something on your lap. you looked at the grey sweatshirt rafe just handed to you, before turning to him with a questioning look.

“put it on before you freeze to death.” rafe grumbled, and you did what he said, not even noticing that you’d put it on backwards.

“it seems like every time i see you, you just keep giving me clothes.” you observed, the sleeves of rafe’s shirt slightly too long for you. “you’re a strange guy.”

“that’s cause you don’t wear enough clothes.” rafe mumbled. “why do people call you bird girl?”

“i don’t know. people here don’t really talk to me that much.” you shrugged, “but it could be because i took home a raven that injured its wing a few days ago and i’m helping her out.”

“are you some kind of a hippie? all these midnight walks, going to swim in your fuckin’ clothes, savin’ animals… i don’t get your weird ass.”

“says the person who keeps borrowing a stranger his clothes.” you shrugged, “i’m just… me.”

“okay, then. real talk; were you in a cult?” rafe asked as he pulled up in front of the house that he somehow already knew the way to from muscle memory. “cause that’s what people are sayin’.”

“it was more of a commune.” you hummed quietly, but before rafe could say anything else, you pressed a quick kiss on his cheek, “thank you for the ride.” stunned, he watched as you climbed out of his car and rushed to your front door. why the hell did you just kiss his cheek?

and why the hell did he like it so much?

ty 4 reading! feel free to send requests & check out my masterlist! ₊˚⊹

[cressidagrey]

Supernova

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary:  Oscar Piastri realises that his daughter is more similiar to his wife than he thought. Set in Summer 2023. 

Notes: Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri verse. Happy Birthday, Oscar!

Enjoy Oscar having a nervous breakdown about his tiny daughter being a genius.

Warnings: mention of toxic parents, I think that's it?

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Actually, maybe Oscar shouldn’t have been surprised.

Maybe he should have seen it coming.

That’s what you got when you married a woman whose mind burned brighter than a supernova.

Still…nothing had prepared Oscar  for the moment he realized—

Bee was different.

Not in the soft, every-parent-thinks-their-kid-is-special way. No.

His daughter’s brain didn’t just work faster.

It raced.

Oscar had always known Bee was clever.

She’d hit her milestones early, sure. First words before she was one, stacking blocks in color groups before she could really walk straight, always watching, always listening. But he’d chalked it up to her being sharp—inquisitive. Like her mum.

Then came that afternoon.

It was raining outside, the kind of soft, steady drizzle that made everything smell like damp leaves and sleepy chickens. Felicity was running errands and he had a free weekend after a triple header. 

Oscar was home with Bee, who was two and a half and curled up on the carpet with her coloring book and a collection of crayons that were organized by shade and tone like she’d invented her very own personal Pantone system.

He was sitting on the couch with his laptop open, watching race footage while taking notes, when she looked up and said:

“Papa, your car had too much rear degradation in the third stint.”

Oscar blinked.

Looked up slowly.

“…What?”

Bee didn’t even glance away from her coloring. “The tires. On the back. They slid more.”

Oscar’s brain stalled like a bad engine.

“Where did you hear that?”

“You said it.” She pointed to the screen. “You said ‘rear deg was bad.’ And the yellow line goes down. That’s bad. It means grip is going bye-bye.”

Oscar stared at the tire degradation graph on the screen. The yellow line. The drop-off at lap 29.

His daughter—a toddler—had connected his own debrief to a data graph she’d only just glanced at.

And used the phrase “grip is going bye-bye” with the complete confidence of someone who understood the concept.

He slowly closed the laptop.

Stood.

Walked to the edge of the rug and crouched down.

“Bee.”

She looked up at him with impossibly serious eyes.

“Do you… know what tire degradation is?”

She tilted her head, crayon still in hand. “It’s when the rubber gets tired and stops holding on.”

Oscar made a sound he’d never made before. Something between a laugh and a stunned breath.

Bee frowned. “Did I say it wrong?”

“No,” Oscar said, reaching out and brushing a curl behind her ear. “No, Bumblebee. You said it exactly right.”

Oscar sat back on his heels, feeling a little dizzy.

Okay.

Okay.

Don't panic.

Bee just sat there, perfectly unbothered, organizing her crayons with the precision of an entire McLaren pit crew mid-tire change.

Oscar rubbed his hand over his face.

She was two and a half.

She wasn’t supposed to understand rear tire degradation.

She wasn’t supposed to diagnose race data off a glance.

Sure, Felicity had joked before — lightly, fondly — about Bee being "too smart for her own good," about how she needed bigger puzzles, bigger books, more challenges.

But Oscar had always thought that was just parental pride, the way any parent thought their kid was clever.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

Now he was staring at his daughter, who had just casually, effortlessly, decoded live telemetry like it was a bedtime story.

Bee glanced up at him again, frowning slightly. “Papa?”

He blinked. “Yeah, Bumblebee?”

She held out a crayon toward him. “Do you want to help? You can do the red ones. They’re the soft tires.”

Oscar choked back a sound that might have been a laugh, might have been a sob.

Red. Soft tires.

She even knew the color codes.

He reached out, took the crayon from her tiny hand, and sat down cross-legged next to her.

Bee went back to coloring, her little tongue poking out in concentration.

Oscar looked at her — his daughter, his brilliant, impossible little girl — and felt his chest squeeze so tightly he thought he might actually break.

He needed to call Felicity.

He needed to tell someone.

Someone who would understand that this wasn’t just cute.

This was different.

Because Bee wasn’t just clever.

She wasn’t just bright.

She was gifted.

And if they weren’t careful — if they didn’t get this right — the world could very easily mistake her brilliance for something else.

Something inconvenient.

Something wrong.

Oscar sat there, coloring in slow, stunned silence, while his two-and-a-half-year-old daughter explained the “different compounds” of her crayons like she was hosting a pre-race strategy meeting.

He swallowed hard.

He would do anything — everything — to protect that mind. To give her the space to be exactly who she was, at exactly her speed, no matter what the world expected.

Bee leaned against his side, warm and trusting, and pointed at a particularly dark green crayon. “This one is the soft tire,” she said seriously. “It goes zoom fast but wears out quickly. Like in Spa.”

Oscar blinked at her.

Bee beamed at her own brilliance, then went back to coloring.

Oscar stared at the crayon in his hand, then up at the rain drizzling against the window outside.

Maybe he should have suspected it earlier.

Maybe he should have known.

After all, that’s what you got for marrying a woman whose mind burned brighter than anything he’d ever seen.

The rain had deepened to a soft drumbeat by the time Felicity pulled into the drive.

Oscar heard the car door shut, the gentle thud of boots on the porch. Bee didn’t even look up, too busy giving Button the frog a full race briefing using her crayon-coded "compound chart."

Oscar scrambled to his feet, heart still pounding with the kind of stunned, proud panic he hadn’t been able to shake for the past half hour.

He met Felicity at the door, practically vibrating.

She was peeling off her rain jacket, cheeks pink from the cold. She took one look at him—wide-eyed, disheveled, practically buzzing—and froze mid-motion.

“…What happened?” she asked, calm but sharp.

Oscar opened his mouth. No sound came out.

He tried again.

"Bee—" he croaked. "She—"

Felicity raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed. She slipped off her boots, hung up the jacket, and stepped past him into the kitchen like she didn’t have a husband clearly moments away from a full existential crisis.

Oscar followed, helpless. “She—she diagnosed rear tire degradation, Felicity."

Felicity didn't even blink.

"Yeah," she said casually, reaching for a tea tin. "She does that sometimes, Oz."

Oscar gawked at her. “You’re not surprised.”

“Nope.”

“You knew.”

 “Suspected. She identified geometric symmetry in a butterfly wing when she was nineteen months old, so I started to wonder,” Fliss said lightly, setting the kettle on."The way she watches. The way she categorizes everything. The way she remembers the smallest details."

Oscar ran a hand through his hair. "You suspected months ago and didn’t think to—?"

Felicity turned, one hip leaned casually against the counter, tea mug in hand. "I figured you’d figure it out when you were ready."

Oscar opened his mouth. Closed it.

He stared at her, at her easy calm, like she hadn’t just dropped a grenade in the middle of his neatly organized world.

Oscar sank onto the edge of the kitchen counter like someone who had just realized they were living with a small wizard. “She asked me why understeer felt like a bad dream.”

“She’s very intuitive.”

“She told me Button the frog prefers oversteer because it’s ‘more exciting.’”

Felicity didn’t even blink. “I mean… same.”

Oscar dragged his hand down his face. “Felicity, I know every parent thinks their kid is special but I think we might be raising a genius.”

Felicity finally looked up, eyes soft. “Oscar. We are.”

He blinked. “You knew.”

“I had a spreadsheet,” she said casually.

“A—” He paused. “Of course you did.”

“I’ve been tracking her vocabulary progression, math intuition, pattern recognition, memory retention, and motor skill crossover since she could talk.”

Oscar stared at her like she had grown a second head.

“She also has synesthesia, by the way,” Felicity added drily. “Numbers have colors. She says three is green and ten smells like soap.”

Oscar made a helpless little noise. “I thought she was just creative.”

“She is creative,” Felicity said. “And scarily perceptive. And analytical. And basically a tiny version of what I could’ve been if anyone had let me be weird and brilliant at the same time.”

"How are you so calm?" he asked hoarsely.

Felicity smiled again, stepping closer to him, brushing a thumb along his cheekbone.

"Because I married a man who's going to show our daughter what it means to be loved exactly as she is."

She paused."And because I am her mother. I know exactly what it feels like to have a mind that doesn't fit the molds."

Oscar opened his eyes then — really looked at her — and saw it all there:

The knowing.

The fierce, quiet certainty.

The promise that she would burn the whole world down before she let Bee be boxed in.

His heart ached with love.

He kissed her forehead, lingering there for a moment.

Behind them, Bee’s soft voice floated from the living room.

"Papa, I made the medium compounds yellow! Like the chart!"

Oscar laughed under his breath, chest tight and too full.

"See?" Felicity whispered against him. "She's going to be just fine."

Oscar held her tighter.

No, he thought fiercely.

She's going to be magnificent.

And he and Felicity were going to be right there, every step of the way — holding her up, cheering her on, fighting for her when she needed it.

Because Bee wasn’t just brilliant.

She was theirs.

He tugged Felicity into a quick kiss — grateful, overwhelmed, so completely in awe — and then they both headed into the living room.

To where their tiny, brilliant daughter was waiting.

[misserabella]

jealousy, jealousy

spencer reid x fem! reader

summary;; you’ve had a crush on spencer reid for a long time. it’s time to take matters into your own hands. flirting with another agent in front of him might just do the trick.

cw; +18 content! minors dni!!, jealousy, possessiveness, mean harsh spencer, spanking, hair pulling, cursing, degradation and praise, use of good girl, dirty talking, oral sex (r receiving), orgasm control and denial, multiple orgasms, teasing, edging, begging, hickeys, choking, spencer being a little bit of a pervert, panty stealing, piv sex, unprotected sex (guys don’t do this), breeding kink, creampie…

spencer reid. doctor spencer reid. the sweet amazing genius of your team seemed to be going crazy. he was always collected. always right. always holding on by the right string. but that string had snapped when you had came into the bau with a skin-tight skirt and a lavender button up shirt that made his cheeks flush —as its first buttons were undone to show your cleavage—. and he had fallen into complete madness when agent waters —one of the philadelphia agents that had come to quantico to ask for your help in a new case— had put his eyes on you. and his hands.

your smile was professional, yet sweet as he made small talk with you, and spencer tried his best to not show the rage in his face when his palm fell to your shoulder, rubbing circles with a smirk.

when you first arrived to the bau, spencer was freshly out of college and entering the team as well. he was closed off. shy. the years had changed him. cases had made him harder. but he was still as soft with you. it was as if you were his soft spot, anything he did he’d try and make it greater for you. he had memorized how you took your coffee, your favorite restaurants and orders, how many shots it took for you to fall into a fit of giggles with jj and emily, the exactly amount of time it took for you to get into the bull pen from your home, how many minutes it took for you to reapply your lipgloss. if he closed his eyes he could count the perfect amount of eyelashes in your eyes, could remember the perfect shade of pantone color of your irises, how many lines your smile made appear in your perfect soft features, he could make out the beauty marks on your skin, could name exactly what your perfume was made of, could remember the first words you said to him, the first smile you gave him, the first time you touched him…

it didn’t take him long to fall for you. it was easy. so easy it scared him. you were like the sun after years of cloudy skies, like a fresh of breath air after having been under water for an eternity… he was completely head over heels for you. but he wasn’t able to tell you. so he just stood beside you, did everything he could for you, protected you in the field, he had even stood in front of a loaded gun for you for gods sake…

so seeing that man, that agent, get to touch you that easily, in ways that he had dreamed about, in ways that he had thought about while late at night with his hand fisting his cock in between moans and groans, had his mind reeling, his jaw tight and his fists clenching.

you weren’t even interested on the agent. sure, he was easy on the eyes, but you had set your own on someone already, and that someone was fuming just meters away from you, trying to hold himself together. you knew about spencer’s little crush on you. who didn’t? even through he tried, he couldn’t help but blush at your attention, to shiver at your touch, to get worked up at the sight of you. and you loved it. you loved the power you had over him. but you had waited long enough. and you wanted him to finally snap. so you played along in this little flirting to get out of him a reaction, his true feelings.

by the way his eyes were boring into the back of your head you were sure it was working.

it was by the time one of your hands made its way to the agent’s chest and he pulled you closer by your hips that he had had enough of it.

he was quick to leave the files he pretended to be reading and make its way to the two of you to interrupt your conversation with a clearing of throat that caught your attention.

“excuse me. y/n, could i talk with you for a minute?” you nodded and waited, and his eyebrows arched. “in private.”

“oh. yeah. sorry.” you apologized to agent waters and followed the doctor through the hallways of the bau into a separated and vacant office.

his shoulders stood tense as you stepped inside and closed the door, his demeanor strange.

“what are you fucking doing?” he spat. and your whole body shivered at the coldness of his voice. at the look he gave you when he turned around to face you. hazel eyes leaving you feeling stone cold. he has never looked at you this way, never spoken at you this way. spencer never swore. hearing it come out of his mouth… fuck. it went straight down to your core.

“what-what do you mean?” you stuttered, hands shaking, your heart being bruised by its constant crashing against your ribs. he scoffed, stepping closer to you.

he had never looked this tall, this intimidating. what made you take a step back, making you bump against the recently closed door.

“now you want to act dumb? cute.” he smirked, and stepped even closer, your breath got stuck in your throat when he clicked closed the lock of the door. “flirting with that detective in front of me? seriously? come on… you know better than that.” your cheeks heated up.

caught. he had totally caught you. and he chuckles.

“you think i wouldn’t notice? this little game of yours?” you shiver.

“spencer…”

“what is it, baby? you wanted my attention that badly?” your mouth dried up. “so needy for it that you teased me with another man? what a brat.” you gasped as his hands pinned your wrists up in the wall, your back arching and chest rising to press against his own. “i’ll give it to you.” he muttered against your ear, and you almost moaned, his mouth latching onto that sweet spot below your ear, kissing down your neck, what made you gasp. “i’ll give you every last bit of it.” he bit down on the soft skin, and you moan. “what it is? haven’t i had make myself clear enough? can’t you see how much i want you? how much i need to bury my cock right up your pretty little pussy and fuck you stupid?” your cheeks heat up and your thighs press against the other. “so needy for it… acting like a fucking whore for another man so i’d need to show you?” one of his hand grips both your wrists, freeing his other to grasp it around your neck. “i am the only one that gets to touch you, kiss you, taste you, fuck you… do you understand? you’re fucking mine.” he tightens his hold when you don’t answer and you whimper. “do you understand?”

“yes…” you nodded and he smirked.

“atta girl.” he praised, but his actions spoke louder. “but i think i still need to show you who you belong to, hm?” he was quick to pull you towards the desk in the room, bending you over with your wrists still tightly clasped behind your back.

you gasped when his free hand harshly pulled up from your skirt, shoving it up your hips to expose the black lingerie that cladded your ass and dripping cunt. he groaned at the sight, his palm soothingly caressing the curve of your ass. “so pretty… look at you.” he grasped at your skin, making you moan, your chest tightly pressing against the wood. “you wore this for him, hm? were gonna let him fuck you with it on?” you shook your head and a shriek left your lips when his hand came down harshly against your skin. “were gonna let him see you like this?” another spank. “fuck you?” and another one. you were shivering in delirious pain, your legs wobbly, your pussy completely soaked at this point.

“no! i wore it for you. only you, spencer. i promise…” he hummed, caressing the reddening skin.

“i don’t know if i should believe you…” he whispered, and your ass pushed against his touch.

“touch me…” you begged. “touch me and you’ll see it’s only for you. it’s only for you, spencer…” you cried out, and he dampened his lips with his tongue, the hand that had just inflicted you pain coming down in between your thighs, slowly trailing up your inner thigh to tease you, what had you trembling and whining, a gasp leaving your lips along with a moan when his fingertips finally found their way to the lace, completely soaked through.

“fuck.” he groaned and you whimpered as he pressed against your clit, your hips moving backwards and against his touch. “you’re so wet, baby… and it is all for me, huh?” he smirked as he started rolling the sensitive nerve, and you nodded.

“yes, yes, only for you, please…” you moaned under his touch, shivering slightly when he pushed the material to the side to take a glimpse of your sopping cunt, groaning as he took his place between your legs, down onto his knees. “fuck!” you cried out when you felt it, the teasingly slow drag of his tongue in between your leaking folds, humming at the taste of your essence. he held your thighs open to keep you exposed as he lapped at you, your hips moving back against his face as he ate you out like a man starved. and he was, having spent years waiting for this moment, dreaming and fucking his fist to the thought of your heady taste. “spencer…” you whimpered as he latched onto your clit, one of your now free hands coming down to his head to grasp at his hair, making him groan at the tugging.

“you taste so good… fuck. i can’t get enough.” he cursed, pushing two of his fingers inside, finding no resistance and easily finding your g spot in your gummy walls, making you scream. “that’s it. good girl. scream for me. let them hear who you belong to.”

“spencer, i’m going to… i’m gonna…” but before you could reach your high, he was pulling away, leaving you empty and in edge. you whined. “what…? why did you…?”

“you think you deserve to cum after what you just pulled?” he inquired, coming back up on his feet and pushing your head onto the desk, your cheek pressing against the wood as he undid his belt. your body shivered as he pushed down his pants and underwear low enough for his throbbing dick to spring out, taking it in his free hand and gliding the leaking reddish tip along your folds, your entrance gaping in need to be filled by him, your thighs shaking and moans leaving your lips. “look at you. so desperate for it. you need it that badly, angel?” you nodded.

“yes, please, spencer, please… need you.” he hummed, and chuckled.

“what is it? is my little fuck toy needy? do you need my cock filling you up, baby? filling you up with my cum?” he inquired, grabbing harshly at your ass, ripping the lace parties to leave your dripping center completely exposed to his hungry eyes. he pushed them inside his pocket for later.

you whined, nodding against the wood, muttering ‘yes’s and ‘please’s in need of his mercy, of his dick finally splitting you in half.

“it’s okay. i’ll give it to you, angel. take my cock.”you gasped at the sudden thrust he made, filling you up and stretching you so easily it felt as if your body was meant for him, as if you’d only been made for taking him.

“so tight…” he grunted, relishing on the feeling of your warm slick walls around him as he started to thrust into you. you moaned out his name as he filled you up over and over again, nails scratching the desk as your body moved with his deep thrusts. “you’re gonna take this cock baby, you’re gonna take this cock and be good for me, hm?” you nodded, your mind buzzing at the feeling of him fucking you so deep…

“i wanna cum…” you whimpered, still on edge for him having left you at the nearing of your orgasm.

“hold it.” he ordered in a harsh smack to your ass, making you moan. “i’m not done yet.”

your eyes rolled back as he increased his pace, fucking you so fast and needy that it made the room fill with your moans and his groans. the hand that held your head down against the desk sneaked around your neck, pulling you up in a tight hold against his chest as his hips snapped into you, his breath hot against your neck as his lips latched onto the sensitive skin, branding you.

“please…” you whimpered at the new angle, which made his tip hit your g spot with every new thrust.

“no.” he groaned, his other hand coming down to your clit to tease you, push you to the edge just to get you desperate.

tears were spilling from your eyes at this point, begging him to let you find your release.

“you need it that badly, huh? fucking desperate for it. wanna cum around my cock so bad you’re crying for it.” he mocked you, his hold around your neck tightening.

“yes. yes, please. i need it spencer, please…” you cried out, and he grunted, the tightening and pulsing of your cunt as you tried to hold it in driving him closer to his own orgasm.

“fuuuuck.” he grunted, his balls tightening, the feeling of you and your sounds driving him crazy. “go ahead baby. come for me. make a mess of my dick.” he didn’t have to tell you twice, the permission in his voice making your orgasm drown you in waves as you clenched around him, soaking him and screaming in ecstasy. “good girl. good fucking fucking girl. coming so prettily around my cock. no one else gets to have you like this. only me. you’re mine.” you nodded, moaning his name. “i’m gonna cum, fuck.” he moaned, and you whimpered.

“inside. please cum inside.” you begged and he almost whined at the need in your voice.

“yeah? you want me to cum inside, baby? want me to feel you up? breed this pretty pussy?” you nodded.

“yes please, please spencer, please…” you cried out, his fingers still drawing circles on your clit and making your second orgasm approach at high speed. “cum in me. please baby, please… i want your cum in my pussy.”

your crude words were what made him finally snap, his cock twitching and throbbing in between your walls as his pace faltered in between moans and grunts, finally giving you what you wanted. the feeling of his cum coating your walls and stuffing you full making your second orgasm wash over you. the two of you rode your highs in between his thrusts and the rock of your hips against him, his lips kissing your neck and his hands on your chest, fumbling your chest softly and making you sigh.

once over, he slowly and carefully pulled out of you, still making you whimper at the loss of him.

“i know…” he muttered, cooing, and making you moan as his fingers pushed into you.

“spencer…” you sighed as his thumb came down to your sensitive clit.

“just one more. give me one more as i fuck my cum deeper into you, hm?”

and how could you say no?

-

back with my shenanigans 🤩😼

[hcneymooners]

౨ৎ kiss me, and you will see how important i am.

ex-wives!pazzi au. men and minors dni.

synopsis: nothing brings together two people like their child's birthday party and the subsequent emotional breakdown.

cw: angst, emotional hurt/comfort, happy ending though open, mentions of infidelity (assumed, but nothing occurred), i would say p is slightly toxic but i really think it's just two adults being complex human beings and making mistakes.

notes: you all were so lovely and kind to me following my pazzi debut. i wanted to post this because i've been sitting on it for a while. i love people who still love each other despite the distance. i hope you enjoy. as always feel free to come into my inbox. i love speaking to you. love you.

“have you not told your mother that we’re separated?”

paige looks up to find her ex-wife standing above her, staring her down in all of her quiet, effortless radiance. azzi looks like the american dream: sun-bronzed and golden, long-legged, with perfect, plump, dark pink lips. she’s wrapped in a mid-thigh dress the color of a late spring bloom—pale lilac, delicate but striking. the fabric spirals down the curves of her waist and hips, cinched in places by thin rings of fringe that sway as she shifts her weight. her curls are slicked back into a bun that blooms at the crown of her head, petals of hair shaped to align with the spring showers theme of the party.

paige hums low in her throat, fingers brushing the hem of azzi’s dress. “you look good, ma.”

azzi swats her hand away without hesitation, leveling her with a look—sharp, unimpressed. paige bites back a grin.

“thought of me when you got dressed?”

azzi’s brow furrows until realization flickers across her face. the purple. paige’s color. her lips part on a scoff, irritation slipping through in a low noise before she schools her features into a tight smile.

“no, i was not. i wasn’t thinking of you at all, actually," she says, her voice light, deceptively sweet. "not until your charming mother came up to me and said she was so glad to see me. oh, but that’s not all.”

paige arches a brow, intrigued, and reaches out to pull azzi closer by the waist, nudging her forward. “no?”

“no.” azzi lets out a breath, clutching the large present perched along her hip. the wrapping paper is a particular shade of green, the birthday girl’s favorite. “then she tells me she understands my brand partnerships have been monopolizing my time, which is why she hasn’t seen me with you in quite some time.”

paige leans back against her seat, stretching her legs out lazily. “i’m not seeing the problem, az.”

azzi stiffens. “you’re not—!” she cuts herself off, inhaling sharply through her nose, shoulders rising and falling as she tries to steady herself. “do you not understand how that makes me look?”

“like a busy wife?” paige quips, knowing full well she’s fanning the flames.

azzi’s eyes flash, but her voice is measured when she speaks again. “like a neglectful mother.”

that sobers paige instantly. she sits up, studying azzi’s face, the tension lining her features. “did she say that?”

“it’s implied, paige.” azzi shifts the present under her arm, pressing her fingers into the wrapped edges. “you’re always bringing our daughter around, always having fun with her. and then i take her for holidays, and it’s like—wow, azzi makes no effort to be there in any other way.” her throat tightens, and she shakes her head. “i mean, come on. i know you’re punishing me for leaving you, but can you at least give me this?”

paige’s tongue flicks out, pale pink swiping over her lower lip, brow knitting together. punishing azzi was never something she wanted to do. but before she can find the right words, a small blur of brown crashes into azzi’s legs, nearly sending her toppling over.

“mommy!”

azzi folds like a house of cards, collapsing to her knees in the grass without a care for her dress. she gathers their daughter into her arms, pulling her in so tightly it’s as if she’s afraid to let go.

“my mia,” azzi murmurs, voice low and thick with emotion. “happy birthday, baby.”

mia beams, the gap in her teeth dark and small, laughter bubbling up as she buries her face in her mother’s neck. it’s almost uncanny how much she looks like azzi. the same wide, joyful smile. the same burst of blush that rises along their cheeks when they’re excited. even the same curls, though looser—tumbling around the glittering spires of her birthday tiara.

azzi cradles mia’s face, thumbs stroking the plush of her cheeks. she fusses over her, straightening the sequined sage-green tutu and retying the laces of her chunky mini sneakers, her fingers gentle and practiced. paige knows it's a chance for her to collect herself. azzi hates crying in front of other people.

“mommy, i’ve been waiting for you! you weren't at home!”

“i’m sorry, baby. there was traffic,” azzi croaks, her voice betraying her. her hand flies to her throat—her tell, the reflex she always has when she’s trying not to cry. “but mommy sped a little bit. she just couldn’t wait to see her favorite girl.”

mia frowns. “you should be careful. mama says we shouldn’t go too fast, or we can get hurt.”

azzi exhales a quiet laugh, smoothing a hand down mia’s back. “yeah,” she whispers. “mama’s right.

paige clenches her jaw, something bitter and painful lodging itself deep in her ribs. she feels so sick at the idea that anyone could believe azzi doesn’t love their girl, this spitting image of her—maybe the only thing of azzi that she has left. she watches them—azzi, kneeling in the grass—and stands, her drink dangling dangerously from her hand, going to join the two. but then azzi stands and is gone—dragged away by mia’s small hand and even smaller strength.

she watches as azzi jogs along behind her, her heels puncturing the earth like glass through a lung. her hair bounces, streaked from the sun, and her body looks as though it’s trying to vibrate out of itself, her love so evident that it struggles to leave her and get to the child in front of her.

the light catches on the strands of her hair, identical to mia's who is bouncing with each hurried step.

and it’s so obvious—the way she moves, the way her whole body seems to vibrate with affection, her love so intense it barely fits inside her. it pours out of her like light, desperate to reach the child in front of her.

paige swallows hard.

𓃹

paige finds azzi in the kitchen, her hands braced on the countertop before they come up to wipe her face.

“why are you crying, mama? c’mere.”

azzi exhales sharply, shaking her head. “please don’t.”

paige doesn’t listen. she steps forward, hands curling around azzi’s waist, gentle but firm. azzi lets herself be held for a second. just a second. then she presses her hands against paige’s chest and cuts her off. she wraps her arms around herself as if she’s attempting to recreate the warmth.

paige sighs. “you mad at me?”

azzi laughs, quiet and humorless. “yeah, p, a little. there’s a point at which i can no longer take being ignored by my wife.”

the nickname just slips out. it’s muscle memory.

paige stills. “azzi.”

azzi tilts her head, searching her face. “i feel like—it’s just. you’ve only ever wanted me when you didn’t have me,” she murmurs. “and my whole life, i’ve been right there.”

paige opens her mouth, then closes it. she looks away, rubbing a hand over her jaw. “you know that ain’t true.”

“and then we got married, and i thought this would be it. we’d be happy and okay. but then—i don’t know. you were less my wife and more the most famous woman i knew saying hello from my ipad.”

paige’s eyes lower, growing dead and dark. azzi watches her for a long moment, recognizes the signs of her checking out, then sighs. “paige. why haven’t you told anyone we’re separated?”

paige blinks at her, called back into the present, and then lets out a short, incredulous breath. “azzi, you can’t be serious. i don’t want this.”

azzi’s jaw clenches. her hands shake as she turns away, pressing her palms to the counter again. the position emphasizes the toned silhouette of her arms.

paige steps closer, voice softer now. “i don’t want this.”

azzi swallows hard, staring at the marble beneath her hands. “i’m tired, p,” she says quietly. “i just want to wake up and love you and know you love me back. i just want to go on my walk and come back to find you there. i want to be with mia all the time. i want you to start talking to me.” her throat tightens. “but i’m never going to get that, am i? maybe it’s just too much to ask.”

paige exhales sharply, jaw tightening. “azzi—baby, you have to know that i didn’t step out on you. i wasn’t with anyone else. i wasn't. i just got caught up in the pressure and—”

“i know,” azzi says, finally looking at her. “i know, p, everything i do, i always understand. i always understood. but honestly, infidelity would have been better than the things i was feeling.

paige runs a hand over her face, lets out a rough laugh. “like what?”

“endless loneliness that was never going to stop.” paige remains quiet, her teeth digging into her bottom lip until it splits. “then we did ivf and had mia, and for a moment i was okay. i was better. i was good.”

“i couldn’t complain,” azzi says. “i didn’t.”

paige shakes her head, muttering something under her breath. “man, you act like i’m tryna hurt you.”

azzi closes her eyes. “it’s not like that.”

paige doesn’t know what to do with her hands. she shifts her weight like she wants to argue, but azzi doesn’t give her the chance.

“the fact that it’s not intentional is what makes it hurt so much,” azzi says after a moment. “that’s why i kept letting it go. it’s so easy to forgive you.” her mouth twists into a pained smile. “despite your mistakes, you’re not a malicious person.”

paige presses her lips together, her fingers twitching at her sides. “azzi, please—”

azzi shakes her head again, this time slower, more deliberate. “you don’t mean to hurt me, and so i’m still here. it’s my fault, really. no one is asking me to stand in the wreckage of the life i can’t seem to walk away from. that i still want.”

paige swallows hard, her throat bobbing. she wants to reach out, to pull azzi close, but she doesn’t. for the first time in her life, she doesn’t know how to reach her. azzi breaks the silence, wiping underneath her eyes with a bit of paper towel.

“come one. it’ll be time for presents soon.”

paige watches her walk away for the millionth time, watches how her back ripples with the flex of her muscles. in the following silence, she only thinks of azzi’s eyes and how dark they are. just like mia’s.

𓃹

the night is a welcome change. the house is quieter, the soft hum of the city bleeding in through the balcony doors. the partygoers have gone, goody bags in hand and heads lolling sleepily along their parents’s shoulders. mia herself had been babbling nonsensically, her hand tight around her brand-new barbie doll. paige had it specifically made to look like her mommy.

it was mia’s favorite present of the day. it made azzi cry for the second time that afternoon.

inside, the house is still cluttered with evidence of a child’s birthday well celebrated, a day well lived. paper plates are stacked on the counter, ribbons forgotten on the floor, the faint scent of frosting lingering in the air. paige tosses a few cups into the trash and wipes down the counter before realizing azzi isn’t beside her anymore.

she roams the halls, peeking into rooms until she finds her on the balcony just outside of paige’s childhood bedroom, leaning against the railing, a thin, silver vape pinched between her fingers. the glow of it flares as she takes a slow inhale, her body unmoving except for the way her shoulders rise and fall.

paige frowns. “since when do you smoke?”

azzi exhales, a thin stream of vapor curling into the night. it smells a bit too sweet, a few inches too far from the cherry it aims to evoke. it’s clearly not hers.

“since i shattered my knee and my dreams and became my top athlete wife’s accessory?” her voice is light, but there’s a sharp edge beneath it. “i’m kidding. only recently. i don’t do it all the time, though, and never around mia.”

she shifts and paige steps closer, leaning against the railing beside her and sliding her hands into the pockets of her black sweatpants.

“truth be told, i hate how it makes me feel.”

“so why are you doing it?”

azzi huffs out a laugh, breathless, humorless. she tilts her head back and blinks up at the sky like she’s searching for something. “feels better than this.”

that’s when paige sees it. the sheen in azzi’s eyes, the way her lashes are clumped together, the tiny tremor in her fingers. she’s been crying again.

paige exhales, something tight wrapping around her ribs. without thinking, she reaches out and takes the vape from azzi’s hand, flicking it off and setting it on the balcony ledge. azzi doesn’t stop her.

“you’re such a crybaby,” paige mutters, but it comes out soft, almost affectionate. she turns, crowding azzi’s space just enough. “i don’t know why you don’t talk to me—”

“i don’t want to bother you,” azzi says, and her voice is incredibly small.

azzi looks at her then, really looks at her. for a second, it feels like the air between them shifts, something raw and fragile opening up. paige can feel her pulse in her throat, a nervous tremor she isn’t used to.

azzi reaches up, slow and deliberate, and cradles paige’s face in her hands. her thumbs skim the sharp edges of her jaw, her touch featherlight but grounding. paige exhales, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. when she opens them again, azzi is watching her with something so deep it makes her ache.

“you know i’m so proud of you, right?” azzi whispers. “regardless.”

paige lets out a breath, something falling away miles down inside of her. she nods, just barely, and then—because she can’t help herself—she presses their foreheads together.

“you know that i love you, right?” paige says, voice rough. “for fucking real, az. you’re it for me.”

azzi closes her eyes, and when she breathes in, paige breathes with her. she doesn’t say anything, but her hands stay where they are, holding paige steady like she’s afraid to let go. her grip tightens, and then she goes to pull away but paige stills her with a hand around her wrist. azzi is cooperative with her touch this time, allowing paige to guide her back into the bedroom.

she doesn’t ask any questions when paige pulls her to the bed, pushing her down until she’s on her side. her head is heavy, afflicted with the buzz of nicotine, and she stays silent as her wife climbs in beside her. the two of them are two crescent moons made of flesh, mirroring one another in their grief and desires. paige presses their foreheads together once again and azzi focuses on the feeling of her warm skin, the hard bone.

she breathes out and paige breathes in as if to inhale her. azzi’s breath smells like cherry—real cherry.

“i hate it when things change,” azzi says, and her voice is strained with emotion.

“you could never make a decision,” paige teases, and azzi laughs wetly.

silence, then,

“p?”

“hmm?”

“i don’t want this either.”

paige pulls her closer, lifts one of her legs so that her dress slides up, and reveals the soft meat of her thigh. she settles azzi’s legs on top of hers, ensuring that they’re closer together.

“i know, ma. that’s what i’ve been trying to tell you.”

azzi’s buzz continues, drifting gently over her limbs until they’re heavy; her thoughts hazy around the edges. the world feels softer somehow; the pain is less jagged. she can feel every point where her body meets paige's—hip to hip, chest to chest, the tangle of their legs a familiar comfort she's been starving for.

the familiar scent of azzi’s perfume—something floral, threaded with dry vanilla, and subtle—fills paige's lungs. it's the same perfume paige had bought her for their fifth anniversary, the one azzi had worn every day since, even after she'd left.

"where you staying at?" paige asks, her voice low and rough against azzi's ear.

"the marriott downtown," azzi murmurs, her fingertips tracing idle patterns on the cotton of paige's shirt. "just until i figure things out."

paige makes a noise in the back of her throat, disapproving. "nah, i don’t like that. don't want you living out of suitcases in some hotel. and marriotts are very unsafe, you know. read an article that said they have the highest break-in rates of any hotel franchise.”

“and where was this article from?” azzi asked, her voice thick with amusement.

“girl, don’t even worry about it.” her hand travels up azzi's spine, warm and steady. azzi presses back into them, her body contorting in its search for comfort. "just come back home to me, mama. i'll sleep on the couch if you want, but at least i'll know you're safe."

"safe," azzi repeats, a small, broken laugh escaping her. "as if that's ever been the issue with us."

"it's always been the issue," paige counters, her fingers now threading through the loose curls at the nape of azzi's neck, careful not to disturb her bun. "you not feeling safe enough to tell me when i'm fucking up."

the honesty surprises them both. azzi shifts, propping herself up on an elbow to look at paige's face. in the dim light filtering in from the balcony, her features are soft, open in a way azzi hasn't seen in months.

"maybe we could try therapy," paige suggests, the words so deeply obvious of their difficulty.

azzi's eyes widen slightly. "you'd do that?"

"for you? for us?" paige's throat works as she swallows. "yeah. i would."

azzi leans in, drawn by something familiar and inevitable between them. their lips meet, soft and hesitant at first, then with growing urgency. it's not frantic, not desperate, but deep and prying. when they touch like this—in any capacity really—their lives feel as though they are their most sustainable.

paige's hands drift to azzi's waist, holding her close as if afraid she might evaporate. they're trying to get closer, always closer, as if the mere millimeters of space between them are too much to bear. azzi shifts until she's practically melted into paige, their bodies remembering each other in the dark.

they are teenagers again, rediscovering that the other feels the same, trying to live inside of each other.

when they break apart, azzi's lips are kiss-swollen and so dark, all the blood sucked to the surface. her eyes are heavy-lidded from more than just her high.

"i never signed the papers," she confesses, voice barely above a whisper.

paige stares at her for a moment before a genuine laugh bubbles up from her chest. "you really can't make a decision to save your life, can you?"

"shut up," azzi mumbles, burying her face in paige's neck, but there's no heat behind it. she loops a hand through paige’s hair, taking in the spill of gold across her palm. "i kept finding reasons to put it off."

"what kinda reasons?" paige asks, her hand sliding beneath the hem of azzi's dress to rest on the warm skin of her thigh, the touch reverent and possessive all at once.

"i don’t know. um, mia's birthday was coming up. then it was our anniversary. then it was…" she trails off, her voice dropping even lower. "then it was because every time i went to sign, i couldn't—i couldn’t remember why i was leaving in the first place."

the admission hangs in the air between them, heavy with implication. paige's hand stills on azzi's skin.

"you still love me," paige says, not a question but a revelation.

"that was never the problem," azzi replies, the words muffled against paige's collarbone. "loving you is like breathing. i don't know how to stop, and i’d die if i did."

paige's arms tighten around her. they still aren’t looking at each other. "then don't. come home, az. we'll figure the rest out."

"it's not that simple—"

"it is. it could be," paige insists, but her voice is gentler now. "i know i fucked up. i know i let my career become everything. but i swear to god, az, i'm done with that shit. nothing's worth losing you. nothing."

azzi lifts her head, her gaze meeting paige's in the semi-darkness. the proximity has left her thoughts fluid, boundaries blurred, making it easier to say what she's been holding back. "hope is a dangerous thing, p, and you’re giving it to me.”

“i know," paige agrees, her thumb brushing over azzi's bottom lip. "but what's the alternative? living half a life? watching mia grow up in two different homes when we both know that ain't what we want?"

azzi closes her eyes, letting the weight of paige's words wash over her. when she opens them again, there's a quiet determination there, fragile but present.

"i'll consider coming home," she says finally, her practicality still firm despite her emotional exhaustion. "but we have to go to therapy, and you have to try. no excuses."

relief floods paige's face, so naked and earnest that it makes azzi's heart clench. "yes, yes, okay," she whispers, pressing her forehead to azzi's. "thank you, baby.”

"you don’t have to thank me," azzi replies, playing nonchalantly but there's a softness to her words that takes away the sting. her hand comes up to rest against paige's jaw, her thumb brushing over the bone. “i want—i miss you so much. it hurts sometimes, aches right inside of my ribs. i haven't been able to sleep without you.”

"i'm right here," paige murmurs against her temple. "i'm always gonna be right here, waiting for you."

they lie there in the quiet, bodies intertwined, the world spinning just beyond the balcony doors. neither speaks for a long time, content to exist in this fragile moment. azzi closes her eyes, her head heavy on paige's chest, rising and falling with each breath. the buzz is fading, reality seeping back in, but she holds onto this feeling—hopes that she will get to feel it again.

she thinks of mia, pictures their baby girl sleeping with her mouth slack and none the wiser to the complexities of loving someone else. she hopes she never finds out.

"you're it for me, az," paige murmurs into her hair, the words a quiet repetition from earlier. "always have been."

azzi doesn't respond for a moment, but her fingers tighten in paige's shirt, holding on as if to say: i know. me too.

"i know," azzi says, out loud this time. "you’re it for me too. i mean, you're paige. we go together. you're everything. i don’t think there was ever anyone else for me."

paige's heart clenches, a painful pulse in her chest. she smooths a hand down azzi’s side.

her heart pumps, thumps out a message.

azzi’s heart thumps back.

© hcneymooners.

[pforestsims]

Replacement for wonky sunglasses, Bon Voyage EP.

🕶️☀️Retro Sunglasses [BV] /YF-EF/ Default

Download: BOX | SFS | MEGA New polycount: 1050

Package contains GMDC/Txtr/TXMT resources. This replacement is not compatible with recolors or 'texture-only' defaults for original glasses. Might clash with age conversions (are there any?...)

Note: Sometimes a strange bug makes these glasses load into CAS very distorted. This also occurs in unmodded game.

Obviously I'm not a fan of original shape/textures and it seems like most of you share my feelings about it.

While browsing Splatoon 2 models I spotted these sunglasses (Double Egg Shades) and decided it would be a nice replacement.

FYI I won't be making custom version, if anyone wants to do that, go ahead.

Forgot to take a side pic so here's crappy bodyshop prev. Before and after:

Default file contains four 384x384 px frame textures and three 64x256px lense textures. Black and tortoise-shell (original green) sunglasses use the same lense color.

if you'd like to edit black lenses to be lighter or darker, without editing texture - open default file in SimPe, click on ufaccessorysunglassesretro_lens_black_green_txmt , Categorized Properties Tab. Find stdMatAlphaMultiplier line and lower the value to make lense more transparent, or increase the value to make it darker (max 1.000000). Remember to commit changes and save.

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

I've managed to capture the bug in action. I have no clue what causes it and how to fix it - I've seen it happen to at least one other kind of TS2 glasses, also - I think it only happens in CAS (??).

[miiyas]

LIPGLOSS

satoru helps you with choosing a new lipgloss shade all the while falling in love with you over and over again

wc: 642, fluff, modern au, heavily implied nerdjo, not proof read

there are translucent stamped kiss marks all over satoru's face, his eyes silently wandering to your lips as you part to test out a new shade of lipgloss, only to kiss him again just to see how it would look.

"don't you think the color's too strong on this one ?" you wipe the corner of your lips with the back of your hand, tapping your chin with a finger as you lift up satoru's glasses and push it back against his hair, taking a good look at the oxidized colors of different shades that covered his forehead. your brows are furrowed and you look seriously serious, like choosing the best shade was the most important thing right now.

"looks fine." satoru manages to mumble out, sinking his weight under the edge of your bed as your pretty face gets closer to adjust his glasses back on the bridge of his nose before plucking out a tissue to wipe your lips, a defeated sigh escaping.

"you said that about the other ones too, 'toru."

"what can i say ? you look good in everything." he teases, sending you a handsome grin that only receives an eye roll. despite it, he sees the subtle grin tugging on the corners of your pretty lips.

there's a silent ambiance that follows after his words as you put on the last test shade, leaning closer to the mirror of your vanity and popping your lips before turning your body towards your boyfriend again. satoru's bright eyes are tender under his glasses and his lashes bat nervously at the sight of you.

you were his and he was yours. a silly physics nerd is in a long-term relationship with you- a practical goddess.

"what about this one ? it just looks like a clear lipgloss, doesn't it," you mumble flatly, tidying the lines of your lips with the end of your pinky and slouching slightly on your chair as you smile thinly. satoru takes a moment to get a good look at you, no, rather, a good look at your lips before licking his, smiling with his eyes as he leans in closer.

"i think you should try it on me. you're gonna wanna see it oxidized, right ?" he taps a part of his left cheek, turning his head slightly. there's barely any space left, already occupied and smothered with kisses from different shades as he wears it like a medal. "c'mon, baby. right here. it's feeling a bit bare, don't'cha think ?"

"'toru," you chuckle out, getting to the edge of your seat and placing a finger on his jaw, tilting his face back to meet yours. you smile and lean in to place a gentle kiss on the corner of his lips, a hand cupping a side of his face and smudging bits of leftover lipgloss from his cheek onto your palm. you push back satoru's glasses with delicate fingers as they slowly slide down his nose, watching as his eyes sparkle at the simple kiss.

"this one." he blurts, his big hands creeping up to the soft plush of your thighs.

"what ?"

"i like this one."

with that, satoru leans in for another kiss, puckering his lips and whining like a child for a proper kiss, arms wrapping around your waist as he tries to drag you onto his lap.

"you don't even know what this one looks on you ..!" you giggle out, placing your hand atop his lips, pushing him back as you shake your head in protest of not wanting to give him another kiss, laughing at the vibrating feeling of him trying to speak into your hand.

"doesn't matter," he mumbles into your skin, placing muffled kisses that trail down your wrist, his glasses tilting and pushing against your arm. "i jus' know this one is the one."

[foxy-eva]

Swept off your feet

Summary: Spencer gives you a foot massage and discovers something very interesting about himself

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader 

Category: Smut

Content Warnings: (18+, minors DNI) massages, teasing, foot kink, footjob, female masturbation, unprotected penetrative sex

Word count: 2.2k

Author’s note: I love kinktober and exploring new things. So I decided that Spencer Reid must be into feet and my fic is here to prove it. It’s very cute, I promise. 

Masterlist

There was hardly a better feeling than to get cozy in a bed with fresh sheets right after taking a shower. Spencer was already waiting for you in bed when you stepped out of the bathroom. Seeing you in your colorful pajama shorts and oversized sleep shirt made him smile. He watched as you grabbed a bottle of body lotion and sat down on the mattress beside him. 

“I’m so tired,” you complained as you began applying the lotion to your legs. “Why is taking care of your skin so much work?” 

“Here,” Spencer cooed as he took the bottle from your hands. “Let me help you.”

You leaned against the headboard of the bed while Spencer moved to sit beside your legs. With careful motions he began rubbing the lotion over your shins and calves, giving your legs a gentle massage. A content sigh fell from your lips at the sensation. 

“Feels nice,” you breathed as he repeated the same movements on the other leg. 

“Yeah?” He said while a smile spread over his face. “You deserve to feel good.”

When Spencer seemed content with his work on your legs, he put more lotion into his palms and started to massage one of your feet. He gently caressed you while his eyes were focussed on your skin. 

“I love that color,” he said, prompting you to follow his line of sight. It took you a second to realize he was talking about your nail polish. “It makes your feet look even prettier.” 

It was nothing new for Spencer to worship every part of your body. He always made sure you knew how much he loved every curve and dip of your skin when the two of you were together. He had this way of looking at you like he had never seen anything more beautiful in his life. 

The way Spencer took his time massaging your foot was almost impressive. He made sure to cover it evenly in lotion and rubbing and pressing all the spots that he knew would feel pleasant for you. 

When he took your other foot between his palms, you noticed him shifting weirdly in his place, like he was trying to readjust his clothes without letting go of your body. It was so subtle that you almost missed it. When your eyes began searching for what caused the discomfort, you couldn’t hold back the audible breath from escaping your throat. 

Spencer was visibly aroused and his hardness was straining against his pajama pants. 

Of course he noticed you looking at him and when your eyes locked with his again, you realized how his cheeks had taken on a wonderful rosy shade. 

“Sorry, just ignore that,” he mumbled and you couldn’t overhear how his voice was laced with embarrassment. 

That was odd. It had been a long time since Spencer felt awkward about wanting to initiate intimacy. 

You opened your arms and giggled, “You can come here and I’d be very happy to not ignore that.”

He just shook his head and muttered, “I’m not done with your foot massage.” 

It was then that you became curious about what exactly it was that had turned him on so much. You thought back to the handful of times when Spencer had paid special attention to your feet. Like that one time you wore heels to your date night and didn’t even make it out of the apartment because Spencer got so riled up by seeing your outfit, he had to have you right then and there. Or those couple of times during sex when you hooked your legs over his shoulders and he took a moment to kiss your feet before continuing to fuck you. 

Raising your eyebrows, you decided to explore your theory. Slowly you moved your free foot over Spencer’s thigh, making him audibly gulp and stop what he was doing. You started carefully rubbing the sole of your foot over where his hardness was straining so painfully against his pants. 

“Is that okay?” You cooed when Spencer looked at you with widened eyes and his mouth hanging open. 

“Y… yes.”

When you let the ball of your foot brush over his clothed tip, Spencer’s entire body jerked and a moan escaped his throat. 

“Spencer?” You said while stopping to tease him with your foot. 

He looked innocent as ever when he replied, “What?”

Your voice sounded genuine when you wondered, “Do you have a foot fetish you never told me about?”

He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “Uhm… I uh… kind of just found out about this myself,” he confessed and added in his usual matter-of-factly way, “It’s definitely more of a kink than a fetish though because I can become aroused without it.”

“Interesting,” You quipped. 

You were getting excited about the new nuance this discovery could add to your sex life. 

Spencer, however, seemed a little worried when he asked, “Do you think that’s weird?”

“Absolutely not.” Sitting up to be closer to your boyfriend, you placed a kiss on his lips before purring, “I need you to tell me exactly what you want to do.” 

He found your lips in another, more urgent kiss. His tongue begged for entrance the moment he made contact with your mouth and you granted it, losing yourself in this kiss. When he leaned back to look at you, you could feel the heat of his breath against your face. Your fingertips brushed over his cheek and he leaned into your touch. 

“Tell me, Spencer,” You encouraged him again. 

“Can I uhm… kiss your feet?” 

You nodded as you leaned back against the headboard again, intently watching every move he made. He let his fingertips brush over one of your ankles before he lifted your foot off the mattress. Tentatively he began leaving feather-light kisses on your ankle and the back of your foot, the rough stubble on his cheeks tickling you. 

It was a strange sensation to have your feet caressed this way and you could feel how every nerve was on edge. When he moved to the underside of your foot, it almost became too much. Spencer noticed how sensitive you were to his ministrations.

“Am I tickling you?” He wondered before he continued kissing you. 

“Only a little.” 

“I’m sorry,” he breathed against your skin before placing your foot back on the mattress. “You have to tell me when I do something that doesn’t feel good, okay?” 

“I will.” You lifted your other foot and snickered, “Here, you’re not done yet.”

“I’m starting to think you’re enjoying this just as much as I do,” he chuckled as he rubbed his palms over your skin. 

He paid your other foot the same kind of attention as he placed soft kisses over your every inch of skin within reach. It seemed like he had figured out a way to apply just enough pressure that it wouldn’t tickle you and you could indulge in this strange yet pleasant new sensation. 

“So beautiful,” he mumbled into your skin.

Spencer’s lips brushed over your shin right before he placed your leg back on the mattress. You locked eyes with him and it became obvious that he wanted to ask something but didn’t yet dare to. After a moment, he began speaking. 

“Would you uhm… touch me like before?”

You placed your feet on his thighs and let them slowly wander over the fabric of his pajama pants. “Like this?” 

“Yes.” 

Instead of granting him what he was obviously longing for, you decided to tease him by only moving along his thighs. The outline of his erection was clearly visible and a wet patch had formed where his tip pressed against the fabric of his pants. Spencer was incredibly turned on and you couldn’t put into words how much that excited you. 

He found your eyes, a desperate expression written all over his face. “Please…” 

“Please what?” You teased him. 

“Please touch my… cock,” he whimpered. 

If Spencer wanted to get a footjob, you wanted to do it right. You had a feeling that it wouldn’t be a simple task, so you decided to make it a little easier for yourself. Your feet left his lap before you sat up once more to press your lips against his and grab the hem of his shirt. He didn’t resist when you pulled it up, moving with you as you undressed him until he sat in front of you completely bare. 

You leaned over to reach for the drawer of your nightstand, pulling out a bottle of lube. After squeezing a fair amount into your hand, you began spreading the liquid over Spencer’s cock. He twitched against your palm at the sudden sensation while hissing a curse. 

“You’re so cute when you’re needy,” you praised him before leaning back against the headboard once more. 

When Spencer found his position kneeling at your feet, you didn’t waste any more time before carefully making contact. The sound that escaped his mouth when your feet began caressing his cock was downright peccable. He couldn’t keep his eyes from where you made contact with his body, mesmerized by the look of your soles brushing over his velvety skin. 

It wasn’t easy but after a few moments you figured out how to do this. You managed to keep his erection firmly pressed between the undersides of your feet and move along his shaft. Ever so often he’d involuntarily jerk his hips upwards in an attempt to create more friction. 

“Fuck,” he moaned as your feet kept caressing him. “Feels so good.”

There was something so sinful, so taboo about this moment and you couldn’t deny how much you enjoyed the sight. It was arousing to see Spencer so desperate and vulnerable as he gave into his newly discovered kink. 

It was then that you noticed how turned on you had gotten yourself and decided to do something about it. One of your hands found its way under your shirt to grab your own breasts while the other dipped beneath the waistband of your shorts. To your own surprise you were already dripping with desire.

As you began circling your most sensitive spot with your fingers, it became more difficult to focus on your initial task. Spencer was so mesmerized by your feet that it took several moments for him to notice what you were doing. His pupils were blown wide when he scanned your body, watching you as you touched yourself. 

Just when you thought that he was about to reach his point of no return, he touched your ankles to hinder you from moving anymore and placed your feet on either side of his body. 

“I need you,” he groaned as he moved closer. 

“Please,” you whispered, already desperate to find relief. 

He grabbed the wrist of the hand that was buried between your legs and pulled it out of your shorts. Without a second thought, he brought your fingers to his mouth to lick off the thick essence they were covered in, making you whimper at the sight of it. 

Spencer didn’t take the time to remove your flimsy pajama shorts, instead he just pulled them aside to let his thumb glide through your slick folds. 

“You really liked that, huh,” he chuckled when he realized how wet you were. 

You laughed when you reached for his erection to guide it to your entrance. “You’re one to talk.” 

Spencer didn’t waste any more time to push into you, finding no resistance from your body. When he was fully inside you, you couldn’t help but clench around him, making him moan out your name. 

He hooked his arms under your knees to bring your legs over his shoulders and took a brief moment to turn his head to kiss each of your feet. Then he began moving as he towered over you. Slow and deep at first, savoring each thrust and watching how you reacted to his motions. When he was sure you could take it, he accelerated his pace, fucking you just the way he knew you liked. 

With all the built-up tension from your earlier actions, it didn’t take long for the both of you to dance along the edge of euphoria. Spencer seemed to struggle to hold back, his thrusts becoming more and more erratic. 

You felt like you were getting drunk on the sight in front of you. With his scrunched up face and disheveled hair, Spencer had never looked more beautiful. The rosy shade covering his cheeks had spread over his neck and chest, giving his skin a glow that almost looked unreal. 

“Fuck,” he hissed. “I’m so close!” 

Pleasure took over your senses when you felt his thumb pressing against your bundle of nerves, desperately circling it to throw you over the edge together with him. When he felt your walls starting to pulse around his cock, he couldn’t hold back any longer and released any remaining tension into your heat. 

You welcomed him inside your embrace when he collapsed on top of you, holding him close for as long as he needed you to. 

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[curlyflesh]

symbolism - POLLE

a mutual of mine pointed out that polle & anya’s text colors are the same, if not similar shades of blue. while we know that the anya symbolism we got during jimmy’s ‘purgatory’ hallucinations was the womb/pony centipede, the final polle scene at the top of the mouthwash hill could be one too

at first, i thought polle might have represented a godly figure that will pass judgment (considering polle is the mascot for the corporation), but i think she could also represent a fragment of anya that jimmy neglected, a part of her he didn’t hurt…

i know people have observed that through jimmy’s eyes, anya switches the way she talks to him since he’s her abuser. she cheers him on when he accomplishes something, she shrinks when he gets upset. at first she’s very enthusiastic and sweet, but then she becomes insecure and apologetic

so i’m like …. maybe the final polle hallucination is a part of anya that reflects who she truly is, someone who is wise cunning and self-assured, like her last moments when she is a door away from him,, she uses the rest of her strength to choose her own ending, albeit painful

polle is passing judgment now because anya didn’t get to. this is a parallel to the psych eval that anya didn’t want to perform with jimmy and not to mention the whole cartoon horse sexual fantasy thing …. it connects to this so ironically in an awful way. the pony baby, polle as anya…

“why are you still so concerned with him?”

this is probably one of my favorite lines of the game. after every purgatory scene he fails to take responsibility for the crew. after his epiphany/breakdown in front of curly, he misuses anya’s words to apologize to curly only. but polle knows damn well failing curly wasn’t his worst moment. why does polle know? yeah.

it makes the ending of the game even more fucked up. the fact that that was jimmy’s last chance to feel guilt, after the womb scene And the ID hallway where he doesn’t even conjure up her face but he continued to completely disregard her in yet Another dehumanizing form, as the pony express mascot.

i’m sure there’s even more to consider (like the very first scene where jimmy crashes the ship and sees polle), but yeah that’s all i got for now! check out my blog for even more analyses :)