#How to install LAMP

[slightlyspooky]

Fake street lamps enjoyer. Didn't even specify high or low pressure sodium. SMH my head

those orange sodium street lights are genuinely more important & valuable contributors to society than any celebrity or other notable public figure to me

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Ok, this house is weird. Firstly, I was wondering what was up w/the garage door.

Turns out it's a mirror. Built in 1955 in Palm Springs, CA, it's been remodeled and you must see the choices. 3bds, 3ba, 2,319 sq ft, $1,499,999.

Check out the floor, like a mass murder scene.

Conversation pit decorated with a sofa and tables. Was this once a hot tub?

The stains continue throughout the kitchen.

Two lone side chairs in a corner.

Gray cement walls in the kitchen.

Snacks for the buyers?

Looking out toward the pool from the pit.

Cement dining table. I think it's built-in. It also appears to have a convenient electrical outlet.

It's such a huge space to fill. The sun is casting shadows, but it looks like there are steps here.

The glass wall opens to the pool.

There's a shower room here, but it's open. At least the shower & toilet are behind a wall.

The bedrooms and baths have floors that look watercolor stained. Interesting how they put the bed partly under the arch.

The bed from behind. Is that a fridge?

The ensuite is big, but so sparse and spread out. I would've expected a sink under the neon mirror. This is so ugly.

The secondary bedroom is plain and has floating nightstands installed.

The primary bedroom has folding doors to the patio.

Out by the pool, it looks like they repainted the statues pink and black, themselves. The lamp is broken.

Matching statues.

Nice fruit tree.

Fancy ceiling lights in the garage.

.28 acre lot.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/2275-E-Belding-Dr-Palm-Springs-CA-92262/18019319_zpid/

[buckcherried]

the mirror at the end of the bed was a recent purchase, one made by you, with a singular yet very important intention.

good old-fashioned loverboy kento nanami is a man that loves to make love. he values intimacy, romance. being able to make eye contact during the amorous act of sex was of high importance to him. he fucked insanely well, especially so under these pretenses.

so, even with his hands full of your perfect ass that aligned so nicely at his hips, doggy style had always felt a bit... impersonal. and despite how good and rough he always managed to fuck you, regardless of the position, he always preserved the connection between the two of you. his hand finding yours against your hip and interlocking fingers whilst drilling his cock upward into your cunt as you rode him reverse cowgirl, the way his thumb would caress your cheek as he held a tight grip of your jaw as he fucked your mouth ever so slow and steady... kento nanami always found a way to pour the romantics into everything he did.

his favorite act of romance, though, was eye contact. the very notion had him feral. having his eyes locked with yours as the two of you did the filthiest things to each other — he could cum at the mere thought. you could always see it right there in his eyes, usually moments after you batted your lashes up to meet his low-lidded gaze, and it was all over. it was allllll in the eyes.

that's why last night, not even half an hour after he came buckets into your cunt during a very hot and heavy session in the missionary position with your foreheads practically glued together, you got out the measuring tape. silently, in the warm glow of your bedside lamp that softly lit your sleeping lover's face, you took measurements of the wall facing your bed while the impurest of thoughts ran rampant through your mind.

the delivery men had it up and installed rather quick the next morning. you tipped them and sent them on their way before they could even begin to imagine the plans you had for this new item placed so strategically in your bedroom. you barely had time to fantasize as you heard kento enter down at the front door.

those hazel eyes found yours immediately as soon as their beholder swung open the bedroom door.

through the mirror, you caught his wide-eyed stare from your position on the bed — face down, ass up high in the air, wearing nothing but his favorite black lace set. he stood there for a moment, his stare flitting to your body and back, finding conversation in your eyes as they told him everything he needed to know about how the scene in front of him came to fruition.

kento's bag fell with a thud as it dropped to the floor, his hands finding a new interest as they found his belt. he made quick yet steady work of it, gaze never leaving yours as he pulled it from its loops.

he remained silent as he halved the belt into one hand and walked into the room. your eyes never left his form as he approached the bed, mattress dipping from the added weight as he knelt on it behind you.

you flicked your head to the side, your right cheek pressed against the bed as you peered back at him best you could from this angle, a soft gasp hitching in your throat as you catch him freeing his rigid cock from his dress pants.

his fingers dipped around the material of your thong and dragged it to the side, tapping at your now bare entrance, giving your core a few languid circles, making a mess of your arousal.

"my sweet wife..." kento's voice was low at your ear as he leaned over you, a hand grazing softly over your ass, cock twitching as the length of it pressed flat against your weeping cunt, "if you needed to be fucked like this you just had to ask."

you didn't have the chance to respond before kento sheathed himself inside you, wasting no time in removing any of his clothes as he got to pounding you mercilessly into the bed. his big strong hands held your hips up high, in perfect position, fucking you into oblivion at a pace you couldn’t physically comprehend as the snaps of his hips flung you forward.

your scream was muffled by the bedsheets, fisting the material so hard your knuckles begged for mercy.

kento tutted, hauling your chest up off the bed by seizing both your wrists and yanking them back toward him to clasp in one hand, "eyes, darling."

it was the only warning you needed, eyes locking with his in the reflection of the mirror immediately. the groan that escaped his throat was guttural. you could feel his cock harden against your walls as he continued his ravenous assault of your cunt. his low-lidded gaze was telling, those hazel eyes darker than you had ever seen them.

"ah, there’s my girl.”

the love in his gaze was overwhelming as he quite literally fucked you like he was trying to split you in two. his beefy chest strained against his tight button-up as he put all his strength into the action, the thick muscles of his biceps rippling as he used you as leverage to fuck you even harder. his jaw clenched, those pussydrunk eyes flitting from yours to the place where you connected, hypnotized by the way this thick length sheathes perfectly into your tight little cunt like you were made for him. your gaze was locked on his frame, staring with wide eyes as he spit in his free hand and grazed his way around your trembling thighs to make contact with your clit, knowing he found juuuust the right spot by the way you arched into his touch for more.

kento took the opportunity to rut the entirety of his ruinous cock inside to the hilt, his aching balls flush against your core as he holds himself there, hips grinding in for as much give as your cunt would allow him.

the stretch of him dropped your jaw, your lungs gasping to maintain your breath at the sensation of being completely and utterly full. you could barely keep your eyes open — but fuck, it would be a crime to miss out on the moment before you. those utterly lovesick eyes of his on yours as he began to make work of your clit, so intentionally slow and steady as you warmed his throbbing cock.

it was hard for you to keep it together now. his touch lit you on fire, the soft strokes of his expert fingers that know you oh so well. and that cock of his, so unforgivingly big, rutting there ever so gently at your cervix over and over and over, stuffing you full to the point of delirium.

you tightened around him as you desperately tried to adjust to the stretch. he was so fucking big. no matter how many times kento fucked you it seemed like he’d never fit. but your husband always got the job done.

kento let your wrists free as you caved into the mattress, not letting your eyes leave his as you peered up from the sudden relief of the covers as his free hand ran the length of your back.

“you know just how much i love you, yes?” his pace slowed to an even more intimate speed as he leaned to trail kiss after kiss up your arching spine, “thank you for the surprise, sweet girl..."

the gravel in his voice caught your immediate attention, your lulling eyes that were rolling to the back of your head now snapping back up to meet his.

and there it was. it was always in the eyes. he looked at you like you hung the stars. his wife. the woman he would lay his life down for. the only one to know him so well, so intimately. the woman who'd install a fucking mirror at the end of the bed just for this very moment.

"... now cum for me.”

and you did, immediately. it was all too much now, all you could feel was him. the pressure of his cock, how you could practically feel him all the way up in your stomach — you were done for the moment you watched that last screw drill into the wall this morning.

the shakes racked your body as you came, cunt clenching him for all he’s worth as he followed suit, rutting his hot thick cum inside you like it was the last thing he’d ever get to do. the hand at your clit reaches further down, his fingers splitting the place your searing bodies meet to memorize the feeling of the way his cock ruts in and out of you as the two of you ride out your orgasm.

kento had come undone — a mess of hot and slutty moans at your ear. he simply could not. get. enough.

and as you take in the beautiful sight of him holding you so in the reflection, all sweaty and fucked out of his mind, you couldn’t help but grin as your hand leisurely followed to meet his to feel the last of his strokes stuff your cunt. his eyes, yearning and low-lidded, latched to yours as he watched you open your mouth to speak.

“would the delivery men start to catch on if we had them install another on the ceiling?”

[push-the-heartbrake]

𝘼𝙣𝙠𝙡𝙚𝙨 // 𝙎.𝙍

𝘗𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘥, 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴. 𝘐’𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺.

Third instalment | Series masterlist

Summary: “Look at the poor boy, he’s got the unscratchable itch.” — or the one where you're overwhelmed and Spencer discovers he's an absolute munch.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader (she/her)

Word count: 13.3k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI♡ Virgin!Spencer is back and hornier than ever. Cums in his pants, again. Oral and fingering (fem! receiving). Slight discussion about reader having mommy issues and her past (read the prior parts and it'll make sense).

A/N: It took me forever but here's the third part to the 'Home For You' Universe! English is not my first language and this is not yet fully proof read! Please tell me what you think and if you have ideas or thoughts about the future of these two lovebirds. ♡

It had been raining when you woke up.

The soft, whispery kind. The kind that worked as a lullaby. The kind that made the whole city feel like it had collectively decided to sleep in.

The only reason you’d even stirred was because Spencer had moved—just enough to pull the blanket up over your bare shoulders sometime around 8 a.m. He hadn’t been fully awake either, just instinctively attuned to your comfort. You’d watched him through slitted eyes as he settled again, his profile soft in the dull morning light. 

Neither of you had said a word.

Instead, you’d nestled closer, one leg tangled between his, your face tucked into the crook of his neck. He’d made a little noise—one he always seemed to make when you burrowed in—a little half-asleep sigh out of pure contentment. 

And that’s how most of the day had gone.

The rain hadn’t let up, and neither had you. No alarms. No responsibilities. Just a tangle of sheets, long-winded conversations about nothing, and the kind of kisses that made no sound from how gentle they were. 

By the time afternoon rolled around, you’d only gotten out of bed three times—once to use the bathroom and get dressed, once for a late breakfast, and once more for another bathroom trip. Spencer had gotten up four times, the extra one to grab the Sunday newspaper from his mailbox.

You were draped across him like a sleepy cat, the sheets twisted around your legs, your chin resting on his chest. His fingers traced mindless patterns on your back, barely there, a touch just shy of tickling.

“Molecules move randomly, right?” you murmured suddenly, voice low from not having spoken in a while. 

The glow of a lamp flickered against the spines of his current bedside reads, casting their titles in blurry shadows. One book was yours, obnoxiously pink, wedged between dense academic texts like it belonged there. Like you belonged there. Spencer thought so, anyway. You watched his eyes linger on it for a second before he looked back at you, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. You infiltrated more of his life and home each day that passed. Even if it was as simple as an extra toothbrush on the sink or your Converse placed next to his in the entryway. 

“Yes, they do,” he answered softly. “Is there something on your mind?” 

You shrugged, shifting so that your cheek lay flat against him now, ear to his heartbeat. “Just something stupid a school class discussed when they visited the library.”

He didn’t press you. Just waited for you to say something. Like he always did.

You absentmindedly rubbed your leg against his, your toes brushing against his calf as you talked. “There was a kid—one of those annoying twelve-year-old dweebs with a Justin Bieber haircut and permanent marinara sauce in the corners of his mouth—you know the type?” 

Spencer laughed, nodding in agreement. 

“And he tried to scare one of the girls by saying that since they move randomly, oxygen molecules could spontaneously assimilate in a singular spot in a room, suffocating anyone outside of it.” 

His brow lifted, bemused. “Were you the girl he tried to scare?” 

“No, no,” you defended, grinning,“I just thought you could maybe rationalize it for me.” 

Spencer wanted to reach out and grab you. Bite you, even.

Because he’d never seen anything as beautiful as you, lying there on his chest, curiosity burning in your eyes, waiting for him to ramble on about something that you knew got the gears in his brain turning. 

He’d thought you were pretty since the first time he saw you at the checkout counter at the library. But it had been fleeting, simply registering another beautiful human in passing. 

It was different now. So very different. Because he knew you, and he could read your behavior, your quirks and traits. The way your mind worked. The strange little questions and facts you collected—like air molecules grouping together to suffocate you. 

He knew that you had different laughs for different situations. He cherished them all and cataloged them like rare editions. 

1. The little snorts that would come out of your nose when he said something silly, usually a pun that bordered on criminally bad. 

2. The high-pitched giggles that wriggled out when his fingers skimmed over your sides, late at night when you were half-straddling him in bed and desperately trying not to wake the neighbors, making the giggles even more squeaky-sounding. 

3. The loud, from-the-stomach kind of laughter—the kind you couldn’t hold back even if you tried—just because something was so genuinely funny. Like when he accidentally turned all his white shirts a soft pink thanks to a rogue red sock, or when he tried to surprise you with breakfast in bed but ended up spilling orange juice all over the bedroom floor.

You let out one of the first snorts now as he explained, nose scrunching up adorably. Spencer was fairly certain you didn’t even notice you did it.

“It is possible, though,” he said, tone casual, trying not to sound too eager. “In theory at least. In a system of random motion, any arrangement of particles is technically possible, including extremely unlikely ones.” 

You squinted up at him, suspicious. “So… I could suffocate?”

“You can calculate the number of oxygen molecules and then find out the statistical probability, but I’m assuming you don’t really want to learn that?” Spencer suggested, his hand moving to his hair, shoving curls off his forehead. 

You found his hand as it landed back down on the bed, lifting it to lay next to you on his chest, your fingers intertwining with his own. 

You shook your head, and he felt your hair rustle, telling him that his assumption was right. “No… I just want to sleep at night without having nightmares about suffocating.”  

He gently squeezed your hand, looking down at you reassuringly. “We’re talking about hundreds of septillions of molecules that would have to randomly gather together.” 

Spencer knew you had a tough time sleeping already. Falling asleep wasn’t the issue; instead it was staying asleep. You would fall asleep at a reasonable hour (for someone who mostly worked late or even night shifts), but then after a while, you’d wake up and just lay there. You didn’t need the added stress of silly nightmares, but he sometimes got the feeling they already haunted you. 

“So the chance is, like, microscopically small?” 

“A septillion is a quadrillion billions.” 

You stared at him for a beat, eyes slightly wide as you tried to comprehend the number. You weren’t even sure what a quadrillion was. Occasionally you got the zeros confused even at a billion. The number was huge, at least. And that was comforting. 

Spencer watched as you thought about it, wanting to take a picture of your puzzled expression. “You’re more likely to shuffle a deck of cards and get them in a perfect order millions of times in a row than for all oxygen to group in one spot.”

You huffed out a little laugh before you mumbled, “I can’t even shuffle a deck of cards.” 

“That I can teach you. Much easier than Avogadro’s number.” 

“Avocado who?” 

“Amedeo Avogadro,” he corrected, laughing out loud. “Italian physicist. He’s the namesake for the constant used to calculate the number of particles in one mole.” 

With a slight head shake and a scrunch of your nose, you declared that math and physics weren’t something for you. “I’d rather learn how to shuffle cards and play strip poker with you.” 

You pressed a kiss to his neck before he even had a chance to react, feeling his pulse jump beneath your lips.

Spencer was blushing—because of course he was. You always knew when you got to him. When your dirty words made his IQ split in half. You’d said it was one of your favorite things—the stupid and surprised look on his face whenever it happened. Spencer was on board with agreeing, even if the blush made his cheeks hurt. 

Your lips brushed the edge of his jaw, and he let out a small, stunned huff. His hand instinctively rubbed your shoulder, your knitted cardigan slipping down from the motion, exposing the strap of your tank top—and the soft, maddening curve of your cleavage beneath it.

One (equally horrifying and fascinating) thing that Spencer had discovered about himself since being with you was that he was a boob guy. He hated to admit it—that something so primitively sexual appealed to him. But he was just a man at the end of the day. 

Since seeing and touching them for the first time, he’d become obsessed.

Maybe it was the fact that you’d sometimes let him sleep on your chest, and he could unabashedly feel them as he nuzzled closer. Maybe it was the fact that your skin was impossibly soft and that your breast were somehow the softest part, squeezable and malleable, cupped in the palms of his hands. Maybe it was the way they bounced when you were sat in his lap, your hips grinding down onto his clothed cock. 

Maybe that was it.

He was a boob guy. And not afraid to let his eyes linger as your cardigan fell down and your top got exposed as you pressed into the side of him. 

Your tank tops were his undoing. It was simply sadistic—the way that whatever clothing brand had designed most of the tops you wore. Thin and soft to the material, a lace trim along the square neckline, and, worst of all, a little silk bow placed right in the middle. It was an evil trick, Spencer was sure of it, to make him stare down the valley of your tits. 

Which he did. A lot.

He wasn’t sure if you’d noticed his little fixation, but you sure didn’t do anything to stop him from looking, almost on purpose making the tank top slide down a little as you lay on top of him, the cups of your bra now peeking out. 

The ample skin moved as you pushed yourself against him, your breasts bubbling out of their confinement. Perfectly biteable bubbles. Spencer imagined putting his fingertip to the swell, just to watch the skin jiggle.

Oh Lord. This was the kind of greed they warned about in the Bible. 

Despite all of this—despite Spencer staring you down like he wanted to eat you alive—you hadn’t had sex. Not yet. Spencer told himself it was a “yet.” Clung to that word like a little life raft. But he wasn’t sure how true it was.

Because you had a tendency to push him away. 

It wasn’t necessarily on purpose, which Spencer had noticed. You made out a lot, kissed him whenever you got the chance, usually for hours on end. Like horny teenagers, he assumed. It was routine at this point—to watch a movie, or read together, maybe have a lazy conversation in bed after a long day—and then by the end of it, you’d end up in his lap, hands in his hair and tongue down his throat. 

Spencer had gotten braver with how he dared to touch you, not always keeping his hand stiffly glued to his side. He loved to feel your skin between his fingers, whether it was your plush thighs or your soft waist. Boobs too, of course. 

If he was capable of keeping it together, he’d wait for some time alone to sort himself out in the bathroom afterwards. But on more occasions than one (five times and counting), you’d made him bust in his pants. And no matter how many times you said it was the hottest thing ever, Spencer still couldn’t help but feel embarrassed to the point of no return. 

And you… He’d only made you finish once. That first time on your couch on Valentine’s Day—when he’d rubbed your soaking clit with his fingers until you collapsed in his embrace. Only touched, not tasted, not penetrated. 

Spencer couldn’t help but want more. And it wasn’t because of his lack of experience or lack of willingness that it hadn’t happened again. 

You simply just didn’t let him close enough to even try. You didn’t show any signs of wanting him to help you out, and he was too scared to ask. 

Can I go down on you? or Do you want me to finger you? were not questions that Spencer had in his vocabulary. Although he thought about saying them more than what was probably healthy. He didn’t know if it was fear from your side, or guilt, or something darker, and he wasn’t going to push.

You would only smile like you’d accomplished what you wanted when he was a panting and blushing mess with a spreading stain on his trousers, and then you’d continue on with your evening like nothing was different. 

And you smiled in the same way now when you followed his eyesight straight to your cleavage. 

“Any plans for next week?” you asked, almost nonchalantly. 

“We’re consulting in California.” Spencer swallowed, forcing himself to stare at the ceiling. “Cold case that’s been reopened, something from when Rossi started out.” 

You hummed and nuzzled just a little closer, your nose brushing the edge of his shirt. If he hadn’t been wearing one, your lips would’ve been right over his heart. The little sound made his stomach flip, which was ridiculous because you did things like this all the time. Making sounds, that is. The very human thing that was noisemaking. 

“How long?” 

“Flying out tomorrow morning, then we’ll see. Maybe a week?”

A week. Seven days. Possibly more. He really should be used to this by now, but the idea of not seeing you for that long made something inside him wilt.

You exhaled through your nose—soft, but unmistakably disappointed—and your fingers loosened from his hand. They disappeared beneath the blanket instead, toying with the hem of his worn-out t-shirt. It had the Caltech logo on it and was slightly too tight on him. You’d jokingly called it a crop top once, and Spencer thought about tossing it out until you said it was sexy. A personal milestone since it was the first time he’d ever been called that. 

“What about you?” he asked, voice low. “Do you have anything planned while I’m gone?”

Now, your fingers brushed against the bare skin of his stomach. Just a featherlight touch. He tensed—he always tensed—but not out of discomfort. No, it was the opposite. It was the unbearable pleasure of being seen and wanted by you, and the helplessness of not knowing what to do with that feeling.

“Work. Sleep. Work some more,” you said, stretching your legs with a lazy yawn. “Help Edith set up her new TV. Maybe catch up with friends. Oh—and uh… lunch with my mother on Thursday.”

Spencer blinked, tilting his head. “She’s in town?”

“She technically lives here,” you said, pushing yourself up onto one elbow. “Unless she sold the place and moved full-time to Baltimore with her new man without telling me.”

He chuckled softly, but there was a strange ache creeping in at the edges of his laugh. You hadn’t let him meet her yet. You hadn’t let him meet anyone yet.

And he couldn’t figure out why.

He sometimes worried he had yet to meet the real you even. 

You fit in perfectly when he introduced you to the team. Socially adaptable was what Emily had called you, like she could somewhat see through that you were nervous and uncomfortable, but still doing your best to be likable. And they did like you, a lot, it seemed. Soon you’d be off on girls’ nights with them, leaving Spencer behind. He knew it. 

You sat up suddenly, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your hands. Spencer looked at you like you’d gone mad. Until you pointed at the alarm clock on his bedside table and he read the time. 

“3 o’clock,” you simply said. “I have to get to my place and get ready for work.” 

“Why?”

The question left Spencer like an exhale. He could already feel a coldness spread in his body from where your contact was now missing. You’d made him hate the laws of time. Every time he was alone with you, he dreaded the moment you’d be apart. And every time you were apart, he counted the hours until he would next see you. 

You laughed, turning to look at him with a raised brow. “You’re asking why I have to work?”

“No, I mean—” he floundered, “Why this late?” 

“Because the library is open at night?” you teased. “Where else would geeks like you spend their time?” 

“But there have to be other people available for the late shifts as well.” 

“I got hired because I like working nights,” you said, standing and stretching, tugging your cardigan back over your shoulders. “The qualified librarians signed up for nine-to-fives. They’ve got spouses and kids waiting for them.”

“You’ve got me,” he said, almost too quickly.

You paused mid-movement, glancing back over your shoulder at him. “Sometimes,” you said quietly. “Other times, you’re on the opposite side of the country.”

He winced. He didn’t mean to guilt you. That wasn’t fair. But you weren’t wrong.

Spencer stayed in his spot as you started to move around his bedroom, padding across the floor to his dresser where your bag and clothes were. He only shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow to be able to keep his eyes on you.

The pajama pants you were wearing slipped off in one easy movement, exchanged for a pair of dark-wash jeans. You didn’t seem to care that he was watching, which somehow made it worse. That he could spot the see-through material of your underwear as you tugged the denim over your hips—doing that awkward (yet attractive) little jumping motion to get them on—made him wonder all over again about why you didn’t let him close. 

Since this didn’t seem to bother you, that is. 

Were you waiting for him to make a move?

He hated that his mind did that. He hated that he still didn’t know and that he was too scared to ask. 

“And I have picked up earlier shifts when I know you’re going to be in town. I’ve done it so much that Elizabeth complained,” you continued, arguing your case even though you had already won. 

You grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder, as you headed back to the bed to sit down to put on socks. Little white socks with lace trims. No one would see them, but he knew the mere fact of wearing them made you happy—how the lace peeked out from the top of your shoes. 

“Is Elizabeth the scary one with the owl necklace?” Spencer questioned, turning to you now that you were next to him. 

“Mhm,” you hummed. 

You smiled faintly and turned to pick something up from your bag. A tangle of headphones. An essential for you together with your iPod. You couldn’t go on a walk without them, needing the distraction of music blasting. 

Spencer watched as you struggled to untangle them, wordlessly reaching out to do it for you. Not because he thought you were incapable of doing it yourself, but because you’d asked him for help multiple times before and seemed to like the gesture of him helping you. 

He was more efficient with his fingers, anyway. 

“Hey,” you said, glancing down at him, “why don’t you enjoy being alone for the evening? Watch some foreign movie without having to translate it to me.”

“I was going to suggest Bergman’s Autumn Sonata,” he murmured, handing you the untangled headphones. 

Spencer watched your mouth press into a thin line, eyes flickering just slightly away from him. He didn’t understand why he mentioned the damn movie—like it would miraculously stop you from having work to do? No, it was just stupid.

He knew you loved Bergman. You talked about his work with the same kind of reverence he had for Russian literature. But you hadn’t seen Autumn Sonata. He hadn’t asked why. Not yet. But he made a mental note of it, filing it away in the ever-growing, completely normal, and definitely not obsessive folder of things about you that fascinated him.

Your fingers tightened around the headphone cord, twirling it between them as you quietly said, “I haven’t seen that one. And it’s got subtitles.” 

“I know, that’s why I wanted us to see it together.” 

You shook your head a little. “No, you can watch it and tell me what you think.” 

“You say that like you don’t already know that you’ll love it.” 

“…There’s a reason I haven’t seen that one, Spence.” 

His lips parted, a question already forming—but you kissed him before he could speak. It was soft but lingering, and he felt your fingers curl slightly against the back of his neck. His brain short-circuited because kissing was still something he was getting used to. He was very aware of every single movement, every shift of pressure, every tilt of your head. Was he doing it right? Was he too stiff? Should he be—oh, your tongue—

And then you pulled away, smiling at his dazed expression.

“Will you call me before the flight tomorrow?” you asked, your voice quieter now, stripped of any teasing edge. 

You simply wanted to hear from him. Like that wasn’t a totally insane thing to say. He couldn’t believe you expected him to behave normally in front of you. Or maybe you didn’t expect it, but it would get old quite quickly if he verbally, as well as mentally, freaked out every time you showed him affection—a certain need for him that you actually had and he still couldn’t grasp. 

But still—

“Of course,” he said, embarrassingly quick. 

You smiled, lingering just long enough to memorize the way he felt beneath you, before you straightened up again.

“Be safe. Have fun,” Spencer said, sitting up after you, closing the space you’d created. 

“Fun? At work?” You raised an eyebrow. 

“I have fun at the library all the time,” he teased, so close that you felt his lips against yours.

“Shut up.” You laughed into the kiss he pulled you back into, fingers curling into his hair, warmth spreading through his chest.

Seconds later you were gone. The door clicked softly shut behind you. The sound echoed in the quiet apartment like a pin dropped. 

Spencer stared at the space where you’d been, his hands still half-curled, like he was holding onto the shape of you in the air. His shirt smelled like your skin—soft and floral, and a little like the soap he had in his shower. The sheets were still warm where you’d laid, rumpled and twisted, half falling off the bed.

He let himself collapse back against the mattress with a sigh, one arm thrown over his eyes. Your absence was growing inside of him, starting from his chest and spidering out like a nervous system drawn in light. A slow, luminous burn.

And he was terrified—utterly terrified—that this feeling consumed him far more than it ever would you.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

The case in California was… a weird one, and not the usual type of weird. Because that was a measurable thing for the team. A normal amount of weird, an abnormal amount of weird, and then thirdly—the weird kind they’d never encountered before. 

This was the third kind. Not because of blood, death, and gore. It was stranger than that. Stranger because it was stale.

A forgotten cold case dumped on their laps like an aging puzzle missing half the pieces. Files yellowed with time, reports handwritten in blue ink fading under the fluorescent lights. Evidence stuffed in mismatched cardboard boxes stacked haphazardly in a converted conference room at the local PD—each one covered in decades worth of dust. 

If this was one of those TV series about agents solving crimes and catching killers in the act, this would be the episode where everyone unanimously decided to stop watching because the show wasn’t worth it anymore. 

No progress was being made. At all. 

It was partly because the old detective was territorial and proud—only really letting in the help from Rossi—and partly because the leads went nowhere anyway. 

They were most likely dealing with a copycat. It was one singular murder that had a slight connection to a series of murders committed in the eighties. The connection was: same small town in California that didn’t see many murders and the same M.O. used. Asphyxiation with a barbed wire. 

They hadn’t had any reasonable suspects in the eighties, and the pool of people to look into now was even smaller. Or way too big, depending on how you looked at it. People handling barbed wire in a small farming town was a large amount. 

When Thursday rolled around, they’d spent four days with this going-nowhere thing. Stuck in the conference room with their boxes, pestering old witnesses and relatives by bringing up bad memories, and at the M.E., looking at the new corpse for too long. 

Maybe they would have to give up. 

It was far more usual than what Spencer wanted to admit, but they couldn’t spend forever on one case when they had other ones waiting. 

Rossi had gone with the detective to look at the crime scene once more. Hotch was outside of the conference room, possibly speaking with Strauss by the strained look on his face. Derek and JJ had gone on a coffee run, and Spencer and Emily were left in the conference room. 

He wasn’t sure if Emily was even awake—sat quiet and still in a corner with her file covering her face for over half an hour. 

Spencer had gone from standing to sitting to standing again. 

He flipped open yet another file, scanning the interview transcript, but his eyes weren’t really absorbing it. Not fully. Not when his phone was sitting face-up on the table beside him, untouched since breakfast. The screen annoyingly black and the sound eerily silent. 

You were supposed to have called by now.

Lunch with your mother couldn’t be a simple thing—he knew that much. He’d heard the tone in your voice whenever you mentioned her. A tightness that suggested years of subtle warfare and passive aggressiveness layered under polite smiles. Still, even the most drawn-out emotional lunches didn’t usually last past two o’clock. Unless things had gone wrong, and you were currently trapped in some kind of emotional gladiator battle over a Caesar salad.

Spencer checked his watch. 2:14 p.m.

You were never late without saying something. Not unless something had gone wrong. Which meant something had to have gone wrong. 

The door creaked open, and he looked up automatically. Derek stepped in, carrying coffee and a half-eaten bagel. JJ trailed behind him, flipping through a folder.

Derek clocked Spencer’s expression immediately. “Look at the poor boy,” he muttered to JJ. “He’s got the unscratchable itch.”

Spencer froze mid-step. He’d been pacing, subconsciously. He whirled around. “I’m not in love with her.”

Derek smirked, taking a seat in his chair, leaning back. The exact kind of smirk that let Spencer know he had walked into a trap. “I wasn’t talking about love, pretty boy. But it’s very telling that you think I was.”

Spencer opened his mouth, then promptly closed it. His face burned. Heat crawled up his neck and pooled somewhere just under his collarbone.

JJ gave him a soft, knowing look. “Then what’s wrong, Spencer?”

He inhaled sharply. “She’s not answering her phone.”

There. Said out loud, it sounded ridiculous. But now he was committed. He pressed on, pacing again.

“She said she would call me after she had lunch with her mother, and it’s now 2:16 p.m. That’s a reasonable time for lunch to be over, right? I mean, unless they got a twelve-course tasting menu at a Michelin-starred restaurant, in which case I would understand the delay, but they didn’t! Because they go to the same café every time, and it’s not a place that serves twelve-course meals, unless you count uncomfortable conversations as a course, which, in that case, I’d argue that—” 

JJ cut in gently, “Maybe they just lost track of time? Had a lot to talk about?”

“But she doesn’t like her mother. Or maybe she does. It’s complicated—”

Emily, who’d been eavesdropping at the far end of the room, didn’t even glance up from her file as she interrupted, “No girl likes their mother.” 

Spencer stopped mid-ramble. “That’s not true. I mean, statistically—”

Emily held up a finger, ticking off points as she spoke. “They might love their mothers. Unconditionally, even. But like? Like requires compatibility. And most mothers either carry a sadness that their daughters became something they never did, or they carry disappointment that their daughters became less than they expected.”

Spencer was momentarily thrown. He had a degree in psychology. He had read hundreds of case studies on maternal relationships. And yet, somehow, Emily Prentiss casually dropping this into the conversation like it was an immutable law of the universe had his brain short-circuiting.

The conference room went silent. A metaphorical tumbleweed rolled by.

Spencer stared.

JJ blinked. “Jesus, Emily.”

Emily took a sip of her coffee, utterly unbothered. “What? It’s not rocket science. It’s like if the Electra complex was actually useful and not just about male-centered attention. There’s a rivalry between mothers and daughters over everything.”

Spencer opened his mouth. Then closed it again.

“But,” he managed after a moment, “that still doesn’t explain why she won’t answer her phone.”

JJ muttered under her breath, “Who would’ve guessed boy genius’s kryptonite would be love?”

“I already said I’m not—”

“Reid, take a breather,” Hotch’s voice cut in from the doorway, sharp as ever. “The rest of you, back to work. We need someone to go to the crime scene again. ”

Spencer huffed, reluctantly collapsing into his seat. He stared down at his phone, holding it between both hands like it might sprout legs and run off. His knee bounced under the table. He tried to focus—on witness statements, on timeline inconsistencies, anything—but his mind kept looping back to one thing:

You hadn’t called.

Logically, he knew there were perfectly rational explanations for why you hadn’t called. But his gut—which had been trained by years of profiling and reinforced by knowing you—was telling him something wasn’t right.

He hadn’t ever thought of it like that, the simplicity in the words. How like could be stronger than love—because you choose what you like, and you are somewhat predestined to love. At least when it came to family. 

Gathering their things, Spencer and Derek got ready to leave the conference room and join Rossi at the crime scene. 

He heard Derek mutter something under his breath about how they possibly couldn’t gather any more information from looking at the same bloody barn again. Spencer wasn’t unusually cynical, but with this case, it was growing on him like moss. 

At 2:21 p.m. his phone rang. A quick beeping tone, signaling a text message. It wasn’t often he received those. Everyone stopped in their tracks when they heard it. 

Spencer’s eyes hesitantly scanned the screen. 

He was right; it was a text. A short one too. 

That was it? No Sorry, I forgot; no Lunch was a nightmare, please send a SWAT team, just a quick, impersonal abbreviation. Spencer squinted at the letters, blurring together. He still wasn’t entirely confident about texting as a method of communication. He had once typed out ’See you later’in a message, and somehow autocorrect had changed it to ’Seal utters’. He did not trust this medium, nor his ability to decipher abbreviations. 

Across the table, Derek raised an eyebrow. His voice was lower now, as if he suspected Hotch to still be in the hallway listening. “So… did she answer?”

“No, but she sent a text,” Spencer muttered, “Got called in to work, ttyl.”

“Talk to you later,” JJ translated. “See? It wasn’t something worth getting upset over.”

Spencer slumped, staring at the message like it personally offended him. You weren’t supposed to work until 9 tonight. You had a night shift. You couldn’t possibly work from 2 p.m. all through the night. You were… lying. 

“I still feel like something’s wrong,” he said under his breath as he put his phone in his pocket. Biting his lip, forcing him to not think of why you were lying. He had to focus on other things now. Such as… a bloody barn. 

Emily, yet again, didn’t look up from her notes as she spoke, “Well, the faster that big brain of yours helps us solve this case, the faster you’ll find out if you’re right.”

Spencer sighed. She wasn’t wrong. But that didn’t mean he could stop worrying.

. . . . . . 

The bloody barn didn’t tell them anything new. As evening fell over the little town, it had been decided that they were going home. The old murders would remain cold and the new case would be handled by the local police. It could probably lead to something. It just wasn’t enough to grant them being there for longer. 

Spencer was torn inside if it was the right or wrong thing to do. But there would always be another case, always be another murder. They couldn’t get them all. 

The team boarded the jet in silence. None of them had anything left to say. 

On the plane ride home, Spencer did something he maybe shouldn’t have done. Or maybe this was exactly what you had wanted. He borrowed Emily’s laptop and downloaded Autumn Sonata, watching it all in one sweep, not taking his eyes off the screen for even a second. Emily had looked at him with worry—calling it ’Mommy issues, the movie’. 

And that was what it was. Autumn Sonata unfolded like a violin string pulled taut over the little laptop screen. A mother and daughter dissecting decades of buried wounds in soft lighting and whispered monologues. It was 93 minutes of waiting for a rubber band to snap—either breaking clean or lashing back hard enough to scar.

“The mother’s injuries are to be handed down to the daughter. The mother’s failures are to be paid for by the daughter. The mother’s unhappiness is to be the daughter’s unhappiness—it’s as if the umbilical cord had never been cut.” 

When it ended, Spencer sat very still, the cabin quiet except for the low hum of the engines. He understood why you hadn’t called. 

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

It hadn’t stopped raining for almost a week.

From the Sunday morning Spencer left for California to this very moment—early Friday at six in the morning, with your shoes squelching every other step and the sky still weeping as if the clouds had lost the will to hold anything back.

You had lost that will too.

You usually liked rain. Found it calming. Romantic, even. But right now? Your socks were soaked through your Converse, the sleeves of your coat clung cold and damp against your arms, and your jeans had turned several shades darker than when you'd left the apartment last night. Rain was not romantic. Rain was not poetic. Rain was miserable.

You looked like something dragged from a pond. Not a lot of people were awake to see you in this state, which was a saving grace of working the graveyard shift. That, and the fact that most of your mascara had been rubbed off by staying awake at the checkout desk all night, so you didn’t have to worry about looking like a melting member of the band KISS. Everything else was still miserable, though. 

You climbed the stairs, keys jangling, counting each tired breath. All you wanted was to crawl into bed, cocoon yourself in something dry, and sleep until the world stopped being soggy.

It was all you had wanted to do since 2 p.m. yesterday—when you had gotten home from lunch with your mother, lied to Spencer about why you hadn’t called, and then fallen asleep until your night shift. 

You had wanted to call in sick. But you weren’t sick. Just tired. 

So you suffered through it. Helping a few stressed students, organizing the current popular books, and drinking so much tea your taste buds still felt burned. 

But now, you were seconds from falling asleep on your welcome mat, even just seeing it outside your front door. A little bristly thing saying ’come back with a warrant’ in Pinterest-esque cursive writing. You had told yourself it was funny when you bought it. 

However, the moment you unlocked the door and stepped inside, you stopped dead in your tracks, your cocoon of blankets having to wait just a little longer. 

Because there was a light on.

The vintage Tiffany lamp on your hallway table, seeping light through its stained glass. You definitely hadn’t left it on before leaving yesterday. 

With a quick turn of your head, you saw the shape of a man sitting on your couch. Alone there in the darkness. 

“Spencer?” 

He stood up quickly, startled.

“What are you—” 

Your words got stuck in your throat at the sight of him. The man in front of you looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Spencer’s shoulders slumped forward, the crisp lines of his usual attire replaced with something wrinkled and weary—his sweater and tie gone, shirt half-untucked. Disheveled curls clung to his forehead. And his eyes… His eyes flicked from the floor to your face like they couldn’t decide what was safer.

“Edith let me in,” he said hurriedly, like he’d rehearsed it. “I—she had the spare key you gave her, and I just… I needed to see you.”

You placed your soaked bag by the door, the water from your coat already beginning to drop onto the floor. “You weren’t supposed to be here until tonight.”

“I understand if you don’t want me here—” he said quietly, eyes lowered, “Actually, I do not understand, not fully, because you won’t tell me anything.”

You blinked at him, shivering now that you were standing still. “How long have you been here?”

“We landed around midnight. I took a cab straight here.” His voice cracked at the edges. “I thought maybe if I saw you in person, you'd actually talk to me instead of… abbreviating everything.”

A pause.

“T-T-Y-L,” he repeated bitterly, “Is that really how we communicate now?”

You winced. “Spencer…”

He didn’t flinch exactly, but his shoulders rose—defensive, folded in. “You can throw me out headfirst if that’s what you want, but you should know that’s the opposite of what I want.” 

For a moment, just a flicker, he laughed—something small and tired and helpless. But it disappeared fast. His face crumpled into something far too raw for someone trying to act composed. A dull, terrified shine behind his eyes. Like he was seconds from breaking again. Like he'd been bracing for you to become the next person to walk out on him.

You should’ve known he would catch you in your lie. He wasn’t easy to fool. It wasn’t that you had wanted to lie to him. You just hadn’t wanted to talk about…it. About anything, really. You couldn’t face yourself, let alone him. And you knew that Spencer could force it out of you by just looking at you in the right way, the walls of your façade coming crumbling down. 

That was a terrifying thing. 

“I’m just…” you exhaled, bringing the sleeve of your coat up to your cheek to wipe lingering raindrops away. “I’m so tired, Spencer.” 

A similar little helpless laugh escaped your lips. Spencer dared to step closer to you. 

“I can see that,” he said with a slight smile, just inches away. 

But when his hand came forward to touch your arm, you tensed up, unthinking. It wasn’t that you had wanted to shy away. It just…happened. 

Spencer stopped in his tracks, his hand suspended in the space between you, looking at you with a perplexed expression. “Why won’t you let me touch you?”

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even frustrated. He asked it like someone who was hurting—like someone who’d been waiting far too long to understand why they were being kept at arm’s length.

“Because I—” you faltered. The words had come so easily to the front of your mind, but saying them out loud was a different thing. 

“Because I’m terrified, Spencer,” you finally whispered. “I’m terrified of being too much for you and making you uncomfortable. Because if we start, I’m scared of taking it too far. I always do.” 

Spencer’s brows pulled together. 

You’d had this discussion before. You thought you were too much; he didn’t realize that he was enough. An evil spiral of sorts. Maybe he’d thought you’d gotten out of it, hence the confusion. But you hadn’t. Or it had at least returned, in full force, like a hurricane sweeping by and taking everything with it. 

“When are you going to realize that I will tell you if I am uncomfortable?” 

The look in Spencer’s eyes was now the closest thing you’d seen to anger. It frustrated him. The walls you put up around yourself, thinking you were protecting him, hindering him from being close to you—they frustrated him. Because now he knew the reason. 

And quite frankly, the reason was stupid. You both knew it. 

You couldn’t hide from affection in a relationship. Because you were terrified of it leading somewhere further? That defied the entire purpose of your relationship. It was a support system, a center of gravity. It couldn’t develop if you were scared of that exact thing. 

Spencer exhaled loudly, shaking his head. “You always just… assume that I’m uncomfortable. For once, let me make up my own mind. ” 

“You sort of… look uncomfortable.” You twisted, arms coming up to fold over your chest. 

“I think that’s just my face,” he deadpanned. 

You huffed a quiet laugh—half relief, half disbelief.

“But you never make the first move,” you said softly. “You’re never the one to kiss me first. Never the one to—” 

He moved.

Quick, certain, finally—he closed the last of the space between you, and before you could get another word out, you felt your back hit the door. Not hard, just enough to steal your breath. And then his mouth was on yours.

His hands braced beside your head, then slipped down, anchoring you at your waist. It wasn’t rushed or messy. Just certain. Very certain that this was what you both wanted. Needed. 

Your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer and not caring if you got him wet. You could taste the coffee he must’ve had hours ago. The slight salt of your own skin where the rain had dried between your lips. His breath shook when he finally pulled away just enough to speak.

“Is that better?” Spencer whispered, forehead pressed to yours.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

“I’ve been waiting for you to tell me what you want,” he explained. 

You should’ve caught on to what he was doing. For him to suddenly become all confident in matters of… love (?) was something you simply dreamt of. Maybe you needed to help him along the way, even though your stupid brain kept telling you that it would make him view you as a burden. As someone too much, too eager, too loud with feelings he hadn’t asked for.

Yet here he was… actually asking for it. 

“What I want…” Your hands slid up his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palm, ticking impossibly fast. That gave you courage. “…is for you to want me.” 

“I do want you,” he said. “Painfully so.” 

“I need to hear you say it,” you whispered. Then, a small smile. “Or show it. Pushing me against the wall is… a good start.”

“I believe we’ve established precedent,” he said, returning the smile. 

You laughed, light but wrecked, and for a second everything felt okay again. And then you shivered. A cold, involuntary tremble you couldn’t hide. The wetness of your coat and jeans clinging to your skin returned to the forefront of your mind. 

Spencer noticed it too. You couldn’t help the way your teeth chattered. He smoothed a hand gently down your arm, concern flitting through his features. “Why don’t you go get out of these wet clothes and lie on the bed for me?” 

In seconds you saw the fear in his eyes, noticing what he’d actually said out loud. Intended innuendo or not. Spencer stumbled over his next words, hurried and ashamed. “If that’s okay, I mean—” 

You continued to smile. An awfully content smile, like you were just waiting for him to notice that he’d done exactly what you wished for.

With a loud thud, you had shaken your coat off your shoulders, sneaking past him further down the hallway, saying a little sing-song, “Already on my way, Spence.” 

You didn’t look back as you walked toward your bedroom. But you could hear him exhale—something long and full of relief. 

Your bedroom was a sanctuary, always had been. Peeling off your soaked socks with your toes, you moved through the dim space, switching on the bedside lamp and the soft glow of fairy lights tracing the ceiling’s edge.

You sat down on your bed as you got there, struggling with the button of your jeans. It got even worse as you dragged the denim down your legs, the wet material sticking to your skin as your hands tried their best to get a good grip.

It wasn’t the rain slicking your hands anymore. It was a nervous sweat. 

“You got here too quick,” you said as you heard his footsteps near the door. “I’m not done yet.” 

Spencer lingered in the doorway, simply observing you on the bed, jeans pooling around your ankles. 

“Jeans are difficult to get off when they’re wet.” You huffed out a little laughter as you pulled them off completely, tossing them to your hamper, landing on the floor. You should’ve hung them to dry immediately. But Spencer was more important. 

Pantless, you realized your state of undress, reminding yourself that it was what he’d asked for. He wouldn’t be standing in the doorway if he didn’t want to see it. 

You tried to decipher his expression. Soft smile, even softer eyes. 

“Is that my shirt?” he quietly asked, walking into the room. His feet stopped when he was standing plainly in front of you. 

You looked down at what you were wearing. Peeking out from your sweater were the edges of a pink dress shirt. One that he’d accidentally dyed pink in the wash. Spencer had wanted to throw them all out until you said that you liked the color pink. In general, but especially on him. 

You could only nod at his question. There was no denying it. Looking back up, you caught a glimpse of an uncontrollable smile, where he had to fight the corners of his mouth from perking upwards too much, too noticeable. 

“You wore my shirt all day? To work? To lunch with your mom?” Spencer asked. 

You shrugged, lifting your rain-soaked sweater over your head, messing up your wet hair even further in the process. Spencer took it in his hands, throwing it over to where the jeans had landed. 

“It smells like you,” you said, lifting the pink poplin to your nose. “Or it used to. I’m afraid it smells like me now.” 

It was a comfort thing, you realized as you did it. Why you had worn it. Wanting a part of him near you, even subconsciously. 

Spencer’s gaze moved slowly across your body, not greedy. Your thighs flattened out against the mattress, the skin in contrast to the rose-colored shirt. You felt his eyes on you as he took you in. He was good at watching, bad at talking—you concluded. 

“Stand up?” he asked softly.

A little surprised, you obeyed, rising slowly from the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking beneath you. Spencer stepped a little closer and let his hands rest gently on your waist, fingers brushing the fabric of the shirt—his shirt. His warm palms wandered down to your hips, brushing the hem of the fabric and the tops of your thighs in an easy movement. 

He didn’t rush. Not even a little. 

Not even as his fingers started to unbutton the shirt. He could’ve ripped it open in seconds, but he began gently with the lowest button. 

You could feel his breath on your skin as he leaned in, eyes still focused on the buttons up the center of your stomach. His fingers moved with quiet precision, undoing one, then another, then another—his knuckles grazing your skin, warm and steady.

When he reached the last few buttons, right over your breasts, he looked up at you. Waiting for something. Your nod. Something saying yes, yes, yes. 

With the last button undone, you let the shirt fall to the floor.

Stood there on bare feet in nothing but your underwear—your worn-out, simple white bra and a pair of cotton panties where the elastic had started to fray—you couldn’t help but feel the nerves settling in again. Steady and heavy, like a weight on your chest. 

The air was still cold on your damp skin, but his hands were warm when they skimmed your sides. Spencer snuck his arms behind you, fingers ghosting over the clasp of your bra, waiting again, always waiting for the yes without asking it aloud.

And then, with two quick movements…

“Do I ask how you did that so well?” you asked, blinking as the straps slipped off your shoulders.

“I’m efficient with my fingers,” he said absentmindedly, still focused, eyes gentle but studious. 

You blinked once, bit your lip. He didn’t even realize the double meaning—of course he didn’t. In his mind, “efficient with his fingers” meant things like… moving chess pieces or untangling cords.

But the way Spencer’s knuckles dragged along your arms as he slid your bra down made you sure that he wasn’t completely innocent or unaware of his actions. He caught the garment in his hands before tossing it on the floor too, his hands quickly back holding your hips.

You reached up and touched the side of his face. “Come closer.”

Spencer looked at you briefly. You knew the spots where his eyes wanted to linger. Then, he pulled his own shirt over his head, putting it aside. You weren’t entirely used to him shirtless yet, his pale, lean yet strong build hypnotizing to you. His arms wrapped around you, skin to skin, almost pulling your feet off the floor as he embraced you. His chest was warm against yours, and you buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in.

“You still smell like you, at least,” you whispered.

Spencer smiled against your hair. “That’s good.”

He was gentle as he led you towards the bed, the back of your knees bucking as you hit the mattress. In a brief moment of disconnect, you shuffled to lie on the bed, sighing as your head hit your mountain of pillows. 

With one leg propped onto the bed, Spencer waited a moment before he joined you. He loved seeing your skin. As simple as it was. He could get lost as his eyes trailed the texture of it. Scars, bumps, bruises, and birthmarks. Almost completely naked too. He wasn’t just a boob guy—he was a you guy. That was easier to get on board with than the simple stereotype that boobs were just great. 

Spencer got in beside you, a slight touch of his fingers all the way from your ankle up to your shoulder as he settled on top of the covers. On his side, his body cradling yours. 

His palm rested flatly on your stomach, moving with your heavy breathing up and down. You didn’t say anything but turned your head to meet his, lazily adjusting forward to kiss him. Kissing him was all you needed to feel safe. To feel that it was true. 

With a soft, open-mouthed trail, Spencer left kisses all over your face, down your neck, and chest. His hands started to roam as well, carefully gripping at your skin. 

“Let me take care of you, angel,” he whispered as his mouth landed in the valley between your breasts. He looked up at you with golden warm eyes. 

“Angel? That’s new,” you whispered back. Once his fingers dared to wander so low that he could run them over the fabric of your panties, feeling your arousal that had soaked through, you audibly hitched your breath. “I— I like it.” 

Spencer moved his body to hover over you, lowering down between your legs as you purposefully spread them apart. He was a scrawny mess of limbs most of the time, but somehow felt natural crouching together at the edge of your bed to face your most desperate parts. 

“Tell me what you want,” Spencer said, his hands touching over the soft swell of your stomach, down to your hips, but hesitant when they came back up, nudging the underside of your breasts. His nerves were finally showing. “And I’ll do my best.”  

You intertwined your fingers with him, making sure to have eye contact as you teased, “All bark, no bite, huh?” 

Spencer was flustered. You’d seen through his confident act since it began, but you enjoyed watching him try. He opened his mouth to say something, shutting it just as fast as he overthought. It was like you could see his decision-making happening, the signals connecting in his brain. 

“Do you want me to explore instead? Trial and error?” he finally asked, tilting his head slightly with a boyish grin. He took small breaths that you could feel against your stomach, waiting for an answer. “Because I have a few ideas I’d like to try.” 

You couldn’t wait to pick his brain, wondering exactly where he had gotten his ideas from. He was an anomaly as is. It wouldn’t be from an adult film or magazine. Knowing Spencer, it was something scientifically proven or from literature written centuries ago. 

“You—you can try,” you breathed out, running a hand over your face, feeling the warmth from your own cheeks. He could fluster you too. “Y’know that you don’t have to, like—you can stop immediately if you don’t like it—” 

He cut you off. “Let me try before you decide for me.”

Assertive. That was new. 

With the same warm eyes from before, he sought you out as his fingers found the hem of your underwear. You nodded eagerly, lower lip lodged between your teeth. 

You wanted to help him—rip the fabric off in seconds. But he took his time. Agonizingly slow as he bunched the sides up between his hands and started to pull them down your legs, shifting your hips slightly upwards to ease the process. 

You kicked them onto the floor with the help of your foot as soon as you were able. There was something desperate growing inside of you as Spencer found his place between your legs again. 

He was big with his movements first, heating your skin up—your stomach and thighs—using the warmth from his palms. Softly cupping your boobs, he pushed them together as his thumbs toyed with the nipples. Then he was gentle, with smaller movements. As Spencer’s fingers slid all the way to your pussy, slowly spreading your lips apart with pressure on each side. 

His thumb was first to touch your clit. Barely any pressure, just to watch your reaction to it. He pulled away, to see your wetness cling to his skin, before he gently swiped over it again. 

Spencer looked at you in a way you weren’t sure you’d experienced before—with a certain awe or fascination. Really took in the view of you naked, like he had all the time in the world. It felt intimate in a weird way. But not necessarily uncomfortable. You cursed yourself for being used to guys who fucked you with the lights turned off or under blankets, not someone who would drink in the sight of you aroused. 

On Valentine’s Day, when the first piece of your sexual puzzle together had been laid, you almost hadn’t had the time to feel nervous. You’d been too focused on Spencer and on his pleasure. When he had wanted to get you off with his fingers after your little dry humping session, you’d let him do it in a (desperate) heartbeat. That you hadn’t shaved or that no one had seen you naked in close to three years wasn’t at the forefront of your mind then. 

It was painfully obvious to you now, though. An outgrown little thatch of hair, your leaking entrance clenching around nothing, and your skin… flawed. 

Resting his cheek on your thigh, Spencer tilted his head to look up at you, his finger inches away from tapping your clit again. 

“I don’t tell you enough how pretty you are.” 

He said it simply. Easy. No qualms. 

Your brain shut off for a moment when you saw him lick his lips as he touched your pussy again, your eyes squeezing shut at the tingling pleasure. 

You truly did look pretty through Spencer’s eyes. Angelic even, the accidental pet name he had used suited you perfectly. With your damp hair clinging to you, your skin still slightly cold to the touch, your nipples pebbled like peaks.

“Can I—” 

Spencer couldn’t finish the question, the words stuck in his throat. Slightly mesmerized by the view in front of him, he teased the pad of his index finger around your clit, down towards the entrance, gathering your wetness along his digit. 

“You can finger me—yes, Spencer.” 

With a low groan, you hummed in agreement as he began to push the finger inside of you.

It slipped in easily, even though it was noticeably bigger than what you were used to. Your own fingers would do nothing after this. He was tentative at first, like he took in the feeling of your cunt, warm and tight, around his finger.

“Is this—Am I doing it right?” 

He sounded slightly worried but just as he asked it, he curled his finger upward, touching a spot deep inside of you. 

“Oh, uhmf—” you gasped. “Right-fucking-there. You’re good at this.” 

“I’m a virgin, not a monk.” 

“Could’ve fooled me—”

With the building wetness, Spencer slipped his ring finger inside of you too, catching you off guard. He never took his eyes off of you, though, in case you would change your mind. But you didn’t. You couldn’t when it felt this good. A surprised curse left your already open mouth together with a ringing laughter, “Oh f-fuck you.”  

Just the thought of you made his painfully hard cock leak in his boxers. Your taste, however, would send Spencer over the moon. You reached down to push the curls off his forehead as he finally delved in, leaving a series of kisses and nibbles on your inner thighs before you felt his tongue between your folds, his hands helping your legs up to spread apart even further. 

“You’re sweet,” he mumbled. Just as quickly as he had said it, his mouth was back on you. 

Tentative, again. But observing. Tuned into your body. Your reactions, your sounds. To every little touch he made. He tried out different methods, switching from gentle kissing and sucking of your clit to using all of his tongue to lap you up. 

Your thighs closed around his head when he did it, your cunt tightening around his fingers as he continued to work them in and out of you, sucking even harder and longer on your clit. Spencer could easily piece together that it was your favorite part—the long, repetitive suckling. Together with his fingers touching that special spot deep inside of you. That was what brought the most mind-blowing little moans from your mouth, staggered and breathy. His observing nature made him a natural… and a mess, face glistening from your slick. 

Spencer’s hair felt silky in your grip, tugging slightly as you settled into the pleasure he was giving you. You couldn’t help it as you started to rock your hips against his mouth, his nose pressing at your most sensitive part. Spencer choked out a groan as he realized what you were doing, the vibrations from it going straight into you. 

Disguised behind your own cries, you heard him time and time again. Spencer’s sounds vibrated against your skin, sending jolts of added stimulation. He was moaning into you, clearly lost in the moment, just as much as you were. When you looked down, his hips were rutting hard into the mattress, desperate to rub his aching cock against anything, desperate for relief as he ate you like he was losing control.

“I’m close, Spence,” you gasped, shuddering, the grip his hands had on your hips only getting tighter. “That’s—right there, please, I’m gonna cum.” 

He wrapped his hands around your thighs, pulling you closer than you thought was possible, continuing to whisper sweet nothings into your cunt, telling you to let it all go. 

With one last curl inside of you and a couple of lazy kisses to your clit, stars began to form behind your eyelids as Spencer held you down by your hips. Your hands flew from his hair to your face, covering your cheeks as you came. 

Spencer had noticed, even in non-sexual situations, that you were innocently shy about your own pleasure. Shy of taking, shy of enjoying. You probably always had been. But as he slid his fingers slowly out of you as you climaxed all up in his face, you were everything but shy. Your stomach tensing, your breathing stopping—and the sound, god what a sound. Deep from your throat, louder than he’d ever heard you. 

With a curious gaze, he watched your pussy clench around nothing, twitching as you rode the very last second of your orgasm out. Slowly licking, he cleaned the slick from between your folds, around your cunt, before returning his focus to your face. 

“Y’know, the  female orgasm can last for up to 60 seconds, sometimes even longer.” 

With your hands still glued to your cheeks, feeling nothing but burning heat, you malfunctioned a little as he spoke. “Why are you—oh my god, Spence. ” 

He came up to lie beside you as you were still nothing but a panting mess. Of course that would be the first thing he’d say to you. 

“Explains the aftershocks.” 

You guessed it did. You’d be reeling from this feeling for days. 

Spencer’s non-sticky hand gently took one of yours, removing it so you couldn’t hide your face. Intertwined, they rested on your stomach, still heaving irrationally from your breathing. You looked down at yourself, and at Spencer. Lovingly, almost. There were crescent-shaped indents on your thighs from his fingernails, your soft skin having spilled out between his fingers as he had pressed close to you. 

He breathed heavily beside you too, still catching his breath. You had almost expected it to happen, but you still smiled like a fool when you realized it. The dark stain on his soft gray trousers. His bulge not so prominent, but still a sign of what had happened. 

“Don’t mention it,” Spencer said, like through closed lips. 

Catching his sight, you shook your head with a little laughter, “I’ll take it as compliment.” 

And it was. Truly. To not always be the giver, but the receiver. And to have someone enjoy you receiving pleasure so much that it ends up bringing them their own pleasure. Again, you were ruined by men (boys, really) who were so focused on their own cocks reaching the final destination that you were only really there as a vessel for their own orgasms. You didn’t know the last time someone offered to go down on you, and for it not to be the result of you asking, making you feel like a burden for wanting it.  

Turning to your side, you laid your head on Spencer’s chest, letting out a breath that felt like it’d been lodged in your ribs for hours. Your legs tangled with his instinctively, and you sank into the heat of him, body finally relaxing in the aftermath. It took about five seconds for the awareness to hit: you, naked, skin to his still clothed legs, with nothing but the slight stick of sweat and something more lingering between you. 

One of Spencer’s arms curled around you automatically. The other hovered awkwardly in the air, like he wasn’t sure what to do with it—just a few inches above the sheets.

“Sticky fingers?” you asked, amused. 

“Y’know, it’s not as sticky as I first thought it would be. It’s more… wet—” 

As Spencer explained, you grabbed his hand without thinking, looking up into his eyes for any sort of intel but being met with a mostly blank stare as you guided the two fingers he’d used into your mouth, swirling your tongue around them slowly. Lazily, curious if it would short-circuit his brain as easily as you suspected.

You were not disappointed.

“Jesus C-Christ—” Spencer’s whole body tensed beneath you, mouth parting in a sharp gasp.

A slight giggle was your only response. Lifting your head, your cheek had left a faint pink imprint across his chest. Truth be told, the entirety of Spencer was flushed. Face, neck, stomach. He was a study in pale skin turned soft rose. 

“It’s like I can hear you overthinking,” you murmured, your voice rough around the edges, the way it always was when you were soft and…coming down.“And you really don’t have to.”

He hesitated, then shyly whispered, “Was I… Was that any good?” 

The corners of your mouth lifted, lazy and genuine. “It was really good, Spence. Did you enjoy it?” 

You felt him tense beneath your fingertips. He didn’t answer right away, too busy internally dissecting the phrasing—really good? As opposed to just good? Or better than expected? But before his thoughts could spiral, you kept talking. Doing what you always did: catching him before he fell too far into his own head, usually with something crude. 

“You’re better than most men by principle,” you said, casual and completely sincere. “You know where the clit is.”

Spencer groaned, dragging his arm over his face. “You really have no filter, do you?”

You laughed—low, warm, the kind that curled around his mind and stayed there. “Is that a bad thing?”

His voice came muffled through the crook of his elbow. “No. I love you for it.”

You stilled—just for a second. You didn’t say anything, but he felt the shift. The way your breath caught. The way your eyes lifted to look at him again, just to make sure you’d heard him right.

“You love me�� for it?” 

It wasn’t the first time you’d thought about what this was, what it meant. Part of you had worried once that maybe Spencer only loved you because he could. Because you were the first person to touch him like this, see him like this. That he was falling in love with the intimacy itself—not with you.

But that fear didn’t live here. Not in the quiet way he touched you. Not in the way he listened. Not in the way he waited—for you, for your pace, for your yes.

You knew, somewhere deeper than your mind, that this wasn’t a performance. Not a conquest. Not the story of the virgin who loved the first person who said “stay.” The stupid virgin who fell in love with the person they had given up everything to. (It wasn’t everything. Far from it, actually).

As you had grown to know him, you realized how foolish you’d been to ever think that. He’d never wanted this to be one-sided. He was doing it all for you. The two of you. The us. Because if it wasn’t mutual, it wouldn’t be worth it to him at all.

“Mhm,” Spencer answered seconds later, muffled but still easily understood. Then, after a breath, “Should we take a shower?” 

Smoothly swerving the subject. 

Your head tilted slightly. “Like…together?” 

He nodded like it was obvious. “Yes, is that so weird?” 

You grinned. “I’ve never seen you naked.”

Spencer blinked. “I—yes, that’s true. Technically. That feels… unbalanced.”

“Let’s even the playing field then.”

You pulled the sheet with you as you sat up, tossing him a wink over your shoulder. Spencer groaned under his breath—somewhere between overwhelmed and entirely thrilled, watching as your naked body slipped out of the room. 

And in the quiet trail of your footsteps heading toward the bathroom, he found himself smiling so hard it almost hurt.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

The water had already begun to fog the mirror by the time you stepped in, first wiping off the last of your makeup and letting Spencer quietly undress. 

He stood beneath the showerhead, letting the stream beat down on his back and shoulders. His hair, flattened against his forehead, dripped steadily along his jaw. He’d slicked it back once, instinctively, and now little rivulets trailed down the line of his spine. The tips had already begun to curl again, wet and weightless, plastered to the nape of his neck. 

Spencer wasn’t cold—he didn’t think he could be, not with the heat of the water and the anticipation of you coming in behind him. 

Not nervous. Not exactly.

Just… aware. Aware of what this meant. Of how rare it felt to be so bare in front of someone and not feel the instinct to cover up.

He didn’t turn around when he heard the glass door open. Not right away. He just felt it—the slight change in the air, the extra warmth, the soft whisper of your breath as you stepped in behind him, saying a little hi.

Then your forehead pressed gently against his back.

That broke him a little.

Because it wasn’t a sexy thing, or even a performative one. It was grounding. A small gesture of trust. Your skin was slick against his, arms resting loosely at your sides, the crown of your head nestled between his shoulder blades like you belonged there.

Maybe you did. 

He turned around slowly, and you looked at him like you’d been looking all along.

Maybe you had. 

Your body was graceful in the low light, water gleaming as it slipped across your collarbones and traced down the dip of your stomach. Steam clung to your lashes, droplets staying on your cheeks. Spencer couldn’t decide what part of you to look at first. Your eyes always won.

He reached for the soap absently, trying not to fumble it. Jasmine.

The scent brought something up in him—unexpected and nostalgic. A low green bush outside his childhood home in Nevada. White, almost yellowing little flowers. His mother’s garden, where she’d hum Debussy and dig her hands into the dirt, fingers stained and nails wrecked but proud all the same. He remembered helping her water the jasmine in the summer, his small hands never quite strong enough to carry the big watering cans. 

Now, years later, that same scent lingered in your hair. On your skin. Tied to you. Beneath his hands as he lathered the soap over your shoulders and along your upper back. He worked slowly, deliberately. Partly because he didn’t know what to do, partly because he wanted to feel all of you against his hands. 

“That feels good,” you said, voice quiet with his hands running over your shoulder blades. 

“Efficient fingers,” he said without a hint of irony.

You laughed, resting your forehead against his chest, water cascading down between you. “You still don’t realize how that sounds.”

He tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. “How what sounds?”

You didn’t explain. You just kissed the spot over his heart.

The water pelted the top of your head gently as silence filled the gaps between words. It wasn’t awkward. Not at all. Domestic, even. He thought maybe this was what safety felt like. This quiet comfort. 

Spencer washed your back with care like you were something delicate and revered, and when he stepped behind you and wrapped his arms around your middle, you leaned into him like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Eventually, though, the quiet gave way.

His voice was soft against your temple. “Do you want to talk about why you shut me out yesterday?” 

A pause. Seconds long. 

“No,” you admitted. “Not really.” 

“That’s okay.” He tucked a damp strand of hair behind your ear, brushing a droplet from your cheek. “I just… I’m sorry if I made you feel bad. For not answering me. Or for being short.”

You met his gaze. “How you made me feel isn’t the issue.”

“Okay,” he said, carefully. “Then what is?”

Your eyes flicked toward the fogged glass of the shower door. You watched a droplet race another down the pane. “The younger version of myself still stuck inside. Constantly screaming that I don’t deserve this.”

Spencer’s face softened, his breath catching in his chest. “Deserve what?” 

“Being with you,” you shrugged. You tried to make it feel simple. “Being loved by you. Being in love with you.” 

He wasn’t worried that you hadn’t said it back in the bedroom, because he deep down knew—past his own insecurities—that you loved him back. But he hadn’t thought about your insecurities in the same way, how they formed like thick brick walls in front of you and hindered your capability of showing affection. 

Spencer’s throat tightened. “Did your mother bring out these thoughts? That you’re not deserving of love?” 

You didn’t answer, not with words. But your silence thudded between you.

“She’s a…” you started, then bit the words off in frustration.

“You’re allowed to say it.” 

“A bitch, Spencer,” you whispered, uncharacteristic of you to care about cursing. “She’s like comically bad.” 

He didn’t laugh, even though he knew you meant to ease the weight. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against yours. The water streamed around you, washing the ache away in some way. 

“You are deserving of love,” he murmured. “It would be terrible if you weren’t. Because I love loving you. And I honestly don’t know what I’d do with all of this love if you didn’t let me in to show it to you.”

Your fingertips curled at his chest, right where his heart lived. Then, you reached up to kiss him. Softly, sweetly. Your inhale was shaky as you pulled away, but your voice was clear. 

“I love being in love with you too.” 

After a few more minutes under the spray, you turned the water off, steam wrapping around your shoulders like a blanket. The silence that followed was almost startling—thick and filled with your shared breathing, the kind of quiet that felt sacred.

Spencer moved first, reaching for one of the larger towels hanging on the hook. You didn’t even bother drying off fully before wrapping it around your chest like a makeshift dress.

He grabbed another towel and rubbed it through his hair—quick, automatic motions. But his eyes kept drifting back to you.

You wiped at the foggy mirror with the flat of your hand, revealing just enough to see the two of you reflected back— naked, wet, soft around the edges with fluffy towels in the low light of your bathroom.

Spencer stood there for a moment, drying himself with his towel, just looking at you. Damp hair, glowing cheeks, a surprisingly big smile. 

“I know we’re having a sweet and sappy moment right now,” you began, trying to keep your tone even, “but I have to say—” 

He squinted, seeing mischief in your eyes. “Oh no.”

“You were lying when you said it was five inches soft, Spencer.” 

“Oh my—” He made an absolutely strangled sound—halfway between a laugh and a groan—burying his face in the towel while simultaneously trying to shield what was more than five inches, apparently. Maybe he’d been humble. “Don’t ever change.” 

You grinned into the mirror, entirely smug and still somehow the softest thing in the world.

In a moment of courage, and maybe as a slight comeback, he reached for your hand, laced his fingers with yours, and tugged you gently toward the bedroom.

The bedroom was dim, the morning sun barely sneaking in through the slats of the blinds, casting golden lines across the unmade bed. The covers were still tangled where you'd left them, half-slipped onto the floor.

You paused near the edge of the bed, still towel-wrapped, while Spencer rummaged through his travel bag. He emerged with a button-down and a pair of boxers in hand, the shirt rumpled from being folded too long. It was another pink one. You could tell without smelling it that it hadn’t been washed since he wore it last. California, probably.

“Here,” he said, holding it up. “Arms out.”

You blinked. “You’re dressing me now?”

He gave a small shrug, lips twitching. “If you want me to.”

You rolled your eyes, but they softened as you raised your arms. The towel dropped silently to the floor, pooling at your feet like a sigh. Spencer didn’t react—didn’t flinch or look away.

Spencer stepped in close, his own towel hanging dangerously low on his hips. The shirt slid down over your arms slowly, the fabric catching slightly on damp skin. The hem fell mid-thigh. He only buttoned two buttons, in the middle of your stomach, leaving the rest undone and revealing most of what was underneath anyway. 

But it smelled like him, and that was the sole purpose. You pressed your nose to the collar without even thinking.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, towel abandoned, bare thighs brushing the soft sheets. Spencer stood in front of you, pulling his boxers on beneath his towel before he too abandoned his in the pile of laundry gathered on the floor. 

He didn’t say anything as he moved to your closet, opening a drawer you always kept a little messily organized. Underwear. You wondered if he panicked over the selection—if you would’ve judged him for grabbing a hot pink lace thong or the floral granny panties. 

He settled on a safe pair in black cotton, just cheeky enough. Spencer handed them to you, and you giggled as you slipped them on. It seemed you still had to dress some parts of yourself. 

Spencer then knelt slightly, just enough to be level with you, and placed one warm hand on your bare knee. “Now,” he said softly, “do we eat breakfast, or do we go back to bed?”

You looked toward the window, then back at him with a raised brow. “Spence, it’s 8 a.m.”

He just shrugged. “There are no rules. If you’re hungry, we eat. If you’re tired, we sleep.”

You considered it for half a breath, then leaned forward, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

“Both,” you said into his shoulder. “I wanna do both.”

“Then we’ll do both, angel.” He leaned in to kiss your forehead. 

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think ♡ Title and lyrics are from Ankles by Lucy Dacus.

౨ৎ [ masterlist ]

[malpractice-morale]

tomorrow I’ll be at home while the sun is out so get ready for cute baby rabbit pictures

[loveanddeepdick]

gummy bear

❤︎₊ ⊹ childhood bff!yuta okkotsu x f!reader || gummy bear is ur nickname that he gave u as a kid (also, this is yuta when he comes back from africa.. heart eyes)

warnings: both yuta and reader are in their early 20’s, piv sex, creampie, yuta is a virgin but there’s no corruption kink, childhood bffs to strangers to lovers, men turning into putty, lowkey sub yuta, he’s just down bad for you, freaky ass perv yuta but he fries his very best to be respectful to you, reader is implied to have slightly bigger than average boobs but honestly interpret however you’d like, porn with some plot, not revised lol just horny as always

summary: it’s been a while since you’ve seen your childhood best friend, yuta. you haven’t seen him since he left high school to be a sorcerer and although you guys tried staying in touch in high school, you haven’t heard a single peep from him after he left for africa. you understood him, mutually agreeing that you two were simply growing up and exploring new. however, when yuta comes back a new man, you can’t help but feel new feelings growing

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

you’d recently moved into a new apartment close to your new boring, but nicely paying, corporate job. on a random tuesday afternoon at the grocery store, you bump into a familiar face you hadn’t seen in years, almost not even recognizing him.

“oh shit- i’m so sorry-,” you stumble backwards as you run into what seemed like a human lamp post when you look up to meet a familiar pair of black eyes, accompanied with eye bags. “.. yuta? is that you?”, you almost laugh at the situation, not believing your eyes. he had much longer hair now, deeper eye bags, but still had the same anxious eyes.

“ow.. fuck, hey gummy bear, haven’t seen you in a while,” yuta looks down almost embarassed from his absence. the nickname rolls off his tongue so easily, like it was naturally your name and it makes u slightly blush.

when you and yuta met as kids, he initially introduced himself only because he wanted one of your gummy bears since it was also his favorite snack. he didn’t even learn your name until weeks after you guys were friends, only calling you gummy bear and the nickname sort of just stuck with him. the story always made you let out a dulcet sigh, cherishing the innocent memory.

“it’s not your fault, yuta!” you giggle, “i haven’t been really reaching out either.. i guess we’re both busy. how about we uh, catch up?” you suggest.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

it had been a week since you and yuta had been reunited. and you slowly started to notice how attractive he’d grown to be. both you and yuta were sitting on the sole couch inside your nearly empty apartment, unpacked boxes littered everywhere as you procrastinated on putting everything together. enjoying each others presence as you both told stories about things that happened in your lives, you felt a sense of nostalgia washing over you, as if this was what you were missing for so long. you draped your legs over his lap as he lightly ran his hand over them like you guys would always do in high school. would this be something that only best friends did? probably not…

“oh my gosh, yu!”, you gasped, almost wiping a tear away, “you went through all of that? on your own?”. he stayed humble of course, shyly brushing it off as if it was no biggy.

he couldn’t help but trail his eyes over to your tight shirt, encasing the tits that he had not noticed back in high school. he swallowed hard, darting his eyes back to your face. the face that had only grown more gorgeous as you moved into adulthood. have you always been so beautiful?

“c’mon, yu, let’s watch a movie, like old times?”, you laugh. he nervously nodded before you took your laptop, propping it on the coffee table since you haven’t installed your TV yet. “sorry for the setup.. erm, well, i mean the lack thereoff”.

“nah, it’s f-fine, gummy bear”, he almost audibly gulped as he thanked god that you couldn’t see him taking in the sight of your ass pointing at him as you bent over to put on a movie. were you doing this on purpose? yuta had never been the perverted type. hell, he’d never even been the romantic type. you were basically the only girl— well, human girl—he’d been close to in his life. he averted his eyes as you turn back around. almost crying out loud as you cuddled into his lap, wrapping a blanket around both of you. like old times, right?

you enjoyed how tall yuta had grown (as well as the rest of him), resting your head in the crook of his neck as your back settled into his chest. “i hope this is comfortable, yu.. we haven’t done this in a while”, you mumble, wiggling to get yourself comfortable as he bites his tongue, praying he didn’t get a boner.

yuta instinctively wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling his face into your hair, subtly smelling it as he appreciated how your scent never changed. “m’okay, gummy bear”.

you smiled faltered a bit, having a small realization and shifting slightly off of his lap and onto his thigh instead, facing him. “oh god, i really hope you don’t have a girlfriend. we probably shouldn’t be doing this if you do!”, you frantically panicked. yuta responded with a curt shake of his head, his body acting before his mind to pull you back onto his lap.

you sighed in relief, wiggling back to your comfortable spot with more of a bounce than you should’ve. “oh that’s a relief, yu. i really missed you”, you mumbled, leaning back against his as your ass pressed against his groin, your hand subtly grazing his thigh. fuck, if he didn’t have a boner before he definitely had one now.

he slightly shifted you by your waist with his big, lanky hands, praying to god that you didn’t feel his boner. you did.

your eyes widened as you realized that he was getting turned on by whatever you’d been doing. yuta had never been inappropriate with you or even any other girl! your relationship was strictly platonic.. well until now. you wanted him to make up for lost time, for the years he’d been missing from your life. you were on a mission to make him snap.

“mmm, yuta, stop moving me..” you whined, “i was comfortable in my other spot”. you bounced back, landing right on his bulge as he bit back a whine. “yu, what’s in your pocket? i feel it against my butt..! you should probably take it out before i squish it or something”, you tease , rubbing your ass so his cock would slide riiight in between your asscheeks.

when yuta looked down at the sight, he nearly came in his pants. his raging boner was in between your asscheeks which were held in the confines of your sweatpants, his hands gripping at your waist as you slightly rubbed against him. the blanket was covering you from the rest of the room, albeit empty, but it felt like he was a high schooler in their house trying to hide being fucking freaky from their family.

“g-gummy bear, please-“ he was cut off by your hands moving up to cup your tits through your top, yuta almost, almost, gave them a squeeze but he held it in. you had no idea how much of a pervert he had become from seeing you again, pent up from years of no release and being a damn virgin his whole life.

“what, yu? don’t wanna cuddle with your best friend?” you inquire, feigning innocent. he then felt your nipples pebbling up underneath his palm. he hadn’t noticed earlier since it’d been slightly warm but fuck, you weren’t wearing a bra. he threw his head back, feeling like he was a fucking lion clawing inside an enclosure. and you were damn determined to let him out.

you grabbed his hand again, manipulating the pads of his fingers to rub against your nipples through your painfully thin shirt. “never fucked anyone while you were away, yu?”, you whispered as you felt him shake his head behind you.

“thought so. i mean, you can have all the practice you want with me.. right?”. before you could continue he yanked you up, manhandling you so you were pinned down on the couch.

“stop being a tease, gummy bear.. y’know i missed you so much, shit.. and you have the gall to grind on my boner? knowing i’m a damn virgin?” he huffed, his face inches from yours, “please, please, gummy bear. tell me you want this. tell me. if we do this we’ll never be just friends again. please, baby”, he whined.

you grabbed his face with both hands, crashing your lips into his. it felt like a century of pent up feelings had come breaking out like water from a dam. he humped you as if he was a fucking dog, moaning into the kiss. you flip over again, going on top of him as he admired how fucking sexy you looked, hair disheveled, lips slightly swollen, and your lip combo smudged. you scoot down slightly to tug against his pants, eyes widening as his erect, throbbing, cock springing out and slapping against his stomach with a slight pap.

you looked so damn hot and hungry, almost happily touching his cock, but before you could lean down to put your mouth on it, he grabbed your wrist.

“no, no, gummy bear, please, i want it first in your pussy, baby, please”. he sounded so good begging you took off your sweatpants faster than fucking barry allen. he threw his head back with a groan at the sight of your pussy, if he could, he would jump for joy right now but he was too focused on you.

“next time, you’re sitting on my fucking face, gummy bear”, he groaned. next time. you rubbed your pussy on his cock which laid flat against his stomach, his tip leaking precum on his toned abs.

“please, baby, don’t tease me. put it in..” he whined, his hand traveling down to rub at your clit and the other gripping your hip. with a small smile, you lean back, lining up his tip to your entrance, moaning as it caught onto your clit as you rubbed his cock over your hole.

“stop- fuckin teasing.” he grunted as his hips thrusted up, his cock entering your soaking wet pussy as you yelped. he was big. you had some experience with guys in college but no one ever could even reach his caliber of dick. you dropped down completely on his dick, feeling his balls against your ass and his public hair tickling your clit. you didn’t even care that he wasn’t trimmed and neither did he. fuck, he wouldn’t even care if you had a whole forest, i mean, he’s a sorcerer, he’s supposed to explore territory that’s unseen, right?

“fuck yes, yu! you’re so fucking big!” you yelp, beginning to move as you began to grind on his cock. slightly bouncing on it. yutas’s eyes trailed from your fucked out face to your pert tits, allll the way down to your pussy that had enveloped his dick. you almost wished you put some furniture out because all you could hear was the echos of your moans, yuta’s heaving breathing and whining, the squeaking of the couch, and the wet squelch of your pussy. you were definitely getting a noise complaint filed against you.

he thrusted up again and you let out an obscene whine, squeezing his dick which made him let out a loud, strangled moan. you peered down, noticing that he was starting to fucking cry from how good your pussy was.

“y-yu.. are you- ohh fuck, okay?” you bring your hand down to wipe his tears, peppering kisses on his face.

“s-such a good fucking- f.. FUCK.. pussy..” he groaned out, not even believing that his level of pleasure was possible. you were taken aback by his dirty words, but sighed in relief before he started to continuously thrust up, hitting your cervix over and over again.

yuta’s eyes wandered back to your tits, noticing that they’d began to slip out of your skimpy top. with one hard thrust, he almost came on the spot when they bounced out of their confines, nipples erect as your tits jiggled perfectly.

“g-gummy bear you’re so.. shit- perfect!” he shoved his face in between your tits as you let out a strangled moan from the extra pleasure. “perfect fucking tits. made just for me. fuck, thank you for waiting for me.. for not dating some fucking loser… all for me, yeah? right, gummy?” he lost himself in between your boobs.

“all for you, yuta baby, all for you!”.

“fuck- FUCK- gummy bear, cum with me, i can feel your pussy clenching, please baby, please cum with me”

he gave your tit one more sick before the coil in your stomach snapped, making you squirt for the first time in your life.

“fuck yes, gummy bear, squirt all over me, make a mess, baby yes, where do you want me?”

“i-inside please..” you were nearly crying as well from the overstimulation.

“don’t say that baby- fuck- you drive me crazy, gummy bear, i’m gonna cum in you, fuck yeah,” he groaned before thrusting up harshly one last time, his thrusts calming to slow, shallow humping. he pulled out, admiring how well your pussy took him as you whimpered from the new empty feeling. you huffed, thinking he was satisfied.

“you didn’t think i was done, right, gummy bear?”, he smiled, his almost eerie eyes peering up at you as he pulled you up, making you plop right on top of his face.

“‘gotta keep my promise. my best friend was waiting for me at home all these years, after all”

[dunham-doodles]

A Picture Worth A Thousand Words

Remmick x fem!reader

2k words | Pure fluff

Summary: (AU - Remmick survived the juke joint.) It’s 1964 and you’re an artist who decides to draw the handsome stranger who keeps turning up at your door every night.

Tags: yearning; soft and sweet; lingering gazes; touching scars; 1960s music; puppy!Remmick; touch starved!Remmick

A/N: I wanted to borrow an idea I’ve seen used with Astarion from Baldur’s Gate 3. I love love love the idea of an artist drawing the face of a vampire who hasn’t seen their reflection in God knows how long.

“Hold still,” you ordered, “I don’t wanna mess this up.”

“This ain’t gonna hurt, is it?” Remmick said playfully.

“It will if you keep moving,” you shot back, only half joking. “Eyes on that horizon, boy.”

“Yes ma’am,” he drawled out, rolling his eyes lightly. He tilted his chin in the direction of wherever horizon meant. Although his tone was sarcastic, a grin curled at the ends of his lips.

The night air was crisp. It was the beginning transition of spring into summer where the days warmed the skin like an embrace from a loved one but the nights remained cool like a reminder of their absence. The town had eased into sleep around you.

You thought the best thing about living out in the middle of nowhere was that there was no light pollution. Despite the dark, the sky was alight with hues of deep purple and blue like an ocean dotted with pinpricks of multicolored stars. In school, they taught you the names of each and every constellation that rotated with the seasons.

You found him right under Polaris. You had been awake after losing track of time. You were locked into your paintings so intensely, you didn’t see the sky turn. The ashtray was loaded with burnt out cigarettes, remnants of smoke curling in the warm glow of the single lamp glowing on the end table. You kept the window open to air out the smell, the soft trickles of a sad guitar playing through your stereo speakers filtering through the pane.

He stood at the end of the dirt path that served as your driveway, hands in pockets, curious, as if he were contemplating going up and installing himself into your life. You weren’t going to get a say in when or how.

You turned down the record as he got closer.

“There’s no need to do that,” he said, hands stretching out in the open air, “I came up here to ask what you was playin’ is all.” His blue eyes pleaded innocent.

“Lonnie Johnson,” you stated, an edge to your words.

He hummed low in his throat. “She sure knows how to play.”

“He,” you corrected, “Lonnie’s a dude.”

“H-He,” the stranger repeated, “He sure knows how to play.” A beat of silence strung between you awkwardly. He shuffled his feet underneath himself. “You wouldn’t mind if I sat and listened, wouldja?”

You chuckled to yourself. A strange white man asking you if you minded if he sat and listened to your records in the dead of night? Your eyes took a precautionary glance over where the trees met the boarder of your land for any sign of unsavory movement.

“You alone?” you asked finally. He nodded his head. You pursed your lips, weighing your decision in your mind. You turned on your heel, away from the window. You crossed to your record player, moved the needle to the beginning track, and turned the sound up a little louder.

You met the eyes of the stranger’s once more. His features reflected his gratitude. He leaned against the strong post of the porch landing and closed his eyes, taking in the music.

You shook your head. What a weird man.

He kept finding his way to your home every night after sundown.

“Whatcha got spinnin’ tonight?” he’d ask you without fail. You’d tell him anything from Etta James to Freddie King and he’d happily sit his ass down on your porch no matter who poured through those speakers.

Some nights he came with some 45s he thought you would like.

“The guy on guitar has to be one of my favorites from this decade,” he said, pushing the small disc into your hands. To be honest, you thought his music tastes were a little too old. Nothing he gave you was dated past the forties. But still, you admired the gesture. In return, you gave him a more modern musical education, opening his ears to the sounds of the 60s. He was floored the first time he heard Hendrix.

“Find a new favorite guitar player, did ya?” you teased.

It was nice having him to share your nights with. He didn’t make too much of a fuss; didn’t ask for anything to eat or drink, despite your offerings. He was perfectly content listening to your music and asking questions about your art. He praised the paintings, kept saying they belonged in the Louvre rather than hidden in this small town. You shooed away his compliments like water off a duck’s back but you couldn’t stop the blush creeping into your cheeks.

One evening, you decided you were gonna join him out on your porch. Armed with your drawing pad and a tin of charcoal sticks, you rocked yourself gently on your porch swing with your big toe. You had tucked yourself into an oversized crochet blanket, preserving your warmth as you waited for the sky to dim. You had the radio on instead of playing a record to save yourself from having to leave your seat. The tinny voices crackled over the sounds of the crickets singing.

“Evenin’ Remmick,” you called when you saw him crest your driveway. He told you his name some nights ago and you kept it on your tongue whenever he was near. You just liked the way his face lit up like Christmas whenever you said it.

“You waitin’ for me?” he asked, a hand pressed to his chest.

“Sure looks like it,” you replied. He crossed over to your place on the swing but leaned against the post of the porch landing instead. “You ain’t gonna sit by me?”

Remmick jolted like he touched an electric fence. “I didn’t know you were offerin’.”

You scooched over to make room for him and patted the empty space. “I don’t bite,” you winked. A smile tugged at his lips as if he were keeping down a really good joke.

The swing groaned under his weight. Your heart flip-flopped at the proximity of him. His brown hair curled at the base of his neck, grown too shaggy. His face was pocked with unkempt whiskers and a white scar cracked the left side of his cheek. You wanted to trace that scar with the tips of your fingers.

His blue eyes watched you carefully. Watched for any indication that his nearness was offensive somehow. He kept himself small, not daring to brush your skin. He moved as if you were on fire and he was trying very hard not to get burned.

“You’re gonna be my muse,” you declared.

“That’s the first time I’ve been called that,” Remmick smirked, “What do I gotta do?”

You picked up a charcoal stick and told him to face forward, keep his eyes on the dirt path ahead. The charcoal scratched the surface of the paper, debris crumbling onto your lap.

Santana crooned over the speakers on your radio lying on the kitchen counter inside. Remmick shifted under the weight of your presence.

“I think I like your music better,” he mumbled.

You breathed out a small laugh without looking up. “You’re too kind. Your taste isn’t too bad either. You just got an ol’ soul.”

Remmick pursed his lips. “You could say that.”

“Did you grow up here?” you asked softly.

He shook his head. “No,” he sighed sadly, “You?”

“Nope. I moved out here a few years ago.”

“How come?”

“Just wanted a change. The city was too loud.” Your eyebrows knit together in concentration. Remmick took this moment to steal a look at you.

Your eyes flicked up at him through your eyelashes. The tips of your ears turned crimson. “Eyes forward, Pretty Boy.”

“Pretty Boy?” he tossed the name around his mouth like a shiny token. You bit your lip to keep from saying much else.

You twisted the length of your charcoal stick to match the angle of his nose before copying it onto your page. His shoulders slowly began to relax. His hands brushed down his thighs, right where your knee almost touched him. He curled his fingers as if to check that they were still operational.

“Can I look yet?” he asked tenderly. His pinkie stretch precariously, bridging the gap between you two. You could feel his nail ghosting on your bare skin. Your heart leapt into your throat, the lightest of touches already turning your nerves into an inferno.

“Just gotta work on the shading,” you replied meekly. He nodded, correcting his head. His finger never dropped. He began to soothingly stroke your knee back and forth, keeping time with the new song that played. It tickled you.

It was harder to concentrate now. From the briefest of looks, you noticed his jaw clenching and unclenching, chewing on words he almost felt ready to say. And what would those words be? What could he possibly say to make your heart race any faster?

To ease it along, you pushed your knee further into his touch. Remmick inhaled sharply in response. He closed his eyes, finally allowing himself to melt.

“Okay,” you said after a while, “I think I’m done.” You pressed the pad of paper to your chest before revealing it slowly to him. He cradled the pad in his calloused hands like it was a newborn.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, “This is me?” He asked the question like he wasn’t sure what he looked like.

“It’s a rough sketch,” you admitted, “If I gave it more time, I could clean up the lines and be more precise with the shadows.”

“When did I-?” he wondered under his breath. His fingers brushed the hair curled around his ears to the hair on his chin, trailing all the way to the scar that marked him. His brow furrowed as if remembering the fresh wound marring his face and the blood and pain that came with it. He covered it fully with his hand, ashamed to have you look upon it any longer.

“How’d you get that?” you asked tentatively.

His eyes tore reluctantly from his portrait. “I, uh…” he paused, “The war.” He locked back onto the sketch, studying it as if he hadn’t seen his own face in centuries.

“Is… Is everything okay?” you whispered. You gently pressed yourself into his side.

“Yes,” he murmured. He straightened his back and finally met your gaze again. “Yeah, everything’s good.”

“Y’know, you can tell me if you hate it,” you chuckled, trying to make it light. “Don’t gotta spare my feelings.”

“No, I love this! I love—,” he started. “You did an amazin’ job.”

“You can keep it,” you said. Your hands met his and you lightly pushed the drawing pad against his chest. You leaned into his space, your touch lingering on his. Your thumb rubbed the side of his hand, returning the gentleness he showed you. Remmick’s lips parted slightly, exhaling a shallow breath.

“Thank you,” he spoke. His voice frayed like he hated that he broke the silence. You smiled softly at him. Your fingers reached and stroked the angry crevasse on his cheek.

He looked so fragile being held. His eyelids fluttered as he bathed in the warmth of your hand. He winced like it hurt but his head leaned into you instinctively. A soft trembling sound slipped past his lips.

“You are a wonderful muse,” you said. You leaned in and planted a delicate kiss on that scar. He dipped his head slipping past your ear before nuzzling in the crook of your neck. You gathered him into your arms, wrapping the blanket around his broad shoulders. Your fingers stroked the relaxed curls of his dark hair. His arms lifted with difficulty, still unsure if he was allowed this much, and rested around your waist. When you didn’t fight him, he pulled you in closer. You began to hum along to the song that wept from the radio.

The last thing you remembered before falling asleep was the steady rocking of the porch swing on the light breeze and the feathery trail of kisses tied with promises of everlasting happiness.

[yassbishimvintage]

Welcome to Chicago

A/N: The First installment of Sinners fanfic enjoy

Sinners Masterlist

Chicago 1926

The SmokeStack twins have made their claim to the city. Fresh from war and from Clarksdale,Mississippi. Stack, the ever so charming one. Looked around the city and smiled at his brother Smoke.

Stack adjusted his hat, the brim low over his eyes, but that smile—sharp as a razor and twice as dangerous—cut through the cold Chicago wind.

"Smell that, Smoke?" he said, his voice smooth like molasses but with an edge of iron. "Opportunity. This city don't know it yet, but it belongs to us now."

Smoke, broader in the shoulders and quieter by nature, just lit a fresh cigarette, the match flaring against the dark. He took a long drag and exhaled slow, watching the smoke curl into the sky like a signal.

"Ain't nothin' here but dirt and death, Stack," Smoke muttered, his Mississippi drawl still thick despite the months up north. "Same as back home. Just colder."

Stack laughed, that easy, dangerous laugh that had gotten them out of trouble more times than Smoke could count. Or into it.

"Nah, brother. This ain't Cocksdale. This is Chicago. Where dirt turns to gold if you got the stomach for it. And we? We got stomachs full of war and sin. These city boys—they ain't ready for Smoke and Stack."

He slapped his brother’s back, eyes already scanning the streets lined with flickering lamps and the distant thump of jazz clubs. The Outfit ran things now, but Stack had plans. Plans that started with blood and ended with empire.

"Let’s make our introduction," Stack grinned. "Real polite-like. And then we'll take everything else."

Stack looked around and he saw her. She had the pinned up curls. Skin just like honey. 

Stack's smile faltered—just a flicker—but in a man like him, even a flicker meant something.

She stood across the street, framed by the golden haze of a streetlamp and the shimmer of rain slick on the pavement. Pinned curls neat as Sunday morning, but her eyes? They had Saturday night written all over them. Skin rich and warm, like honey poured slow.

She wasn’t looking at him, not yet. But Stack, he already knew. Knew the way trouble smelled sweet before it burned you.

"Well, I'll be damned," he muttered, half to himself.

Smoke caught the shift in his brother’s stance—the stillness, the sudden quiet—and followed his gaze.

"Don't even think about it, Stack," Smoke grunted, flicking ash to the gutter. "We came for business. Not for some city girl to put a noose 'round your neck."

But Stack, he was already stepping off the curb, hat tipped back just so, that crooked grin sliding back into place like a loaded gun.

"Brother," he drawled, "sometimes business starts with a pretty face."

And the city, big and mean and cold, seemed to hold its breath as Stack crossed the street, heading toward the honey-skinned woman who just might change everything.

Stack adjusted his collar, smoothing down the lapels of his coat as he closed the distance. His boots clicked against the wet pavement, each step slow, deliberate—like a man who had all the time in the world and planned to take it.

Up close, she was even more dangerous. Eyes sharp, like she’d seen men like him a hundred times and knew exactly how they fell. But still, she let him get close enough to smell the faint perfume on her skin—jasmine and something darker underneath.

"You lost, soldier?" she asked, voice low and smooth, like a record spinning late at night when the bar’s almost empty.

Stack let that grin spread, all charm and teeth. "Depends who’s asking."

She arched a brow, cool but not cold. "Annalise." She didn’t offer a last name. Didn’t need to. The way she said it made it sound like a promise and a warning all at once.

"Stack," he said, tipping his hat just a little. "And that big fella back there, that’s my brother, Smoke."

Annalise’s eyes flicked past him to Smoke, then back. "Cute names. Like a bad omen."

Stack chuckled, deep and warm. "We’ve been called worse, darlin'."

She shifted her weight, one heel tapping softly against the ground. "Well, Stack, you might want to watch your step. In this city, pretty boys with Southern smiles tend to disappear before they can unpack their bags."

Stack leaned in just enough, voice dropping to a murmur. "Good thing I didn’t come here to unpack. I came to claim."

Annalise held his gaze a beat longer, then smiled—not sweet, but sharp as a knife’s edge. "You’re gonna need more than charm for that."

And just like that, Stack knew—Chicago wasn’t the only thing he wanted to get his hands on.

-

Stack's smile was easy, but his eyes stayed sharp as razors. He tipped his head, watching her like a man sizing up a card table before placing his bet.

"Tell me what you do, pretty lady," he drawled, voice smooth like good bourbon.

Annalise's lips curled, just enough to show she wasn’t impressed—or maybe she was, but she’d never let him know it.

"I sing," she said simply, letting the words hang there between them like cigarette smoke. "At Le Mirage down on State Street. Maybe you’ve heard of it."

Stack’s grin widened. He hadn’t, but he liked the way she said it. Like the place belonged to her, or maybe like she owned every man who stepped inside.

"A singer," he mused, tilting his head. "Figures. A voice sweet enough to get a man killed."

Annalise’s eyes flickered, something colder there now. "Sweet don’t keep me alive in this city, sugar. Knowing when to shut my mouth does."

Stack laughed low. "Well now, ain’t that a shame. I was hopin’ to hear you sometime."

She stepped in a little closer—close enough that Stack caught that jasmine scent again, but her words were cool enough to freeze the air between them.

"Maybe you will. If you last long enough in Chicago to see Friday night."

Then she turned, curls bouncing as she started to walk away, heels clicking against the wet street. But just before she disappeared into the dark, she glanced back over her shoulder.

"Le Mirage. Midnight show. Don’t be late, Stack."

And just like that, she was gone—leaving Stack standing there, grinning like a fool, already knowing he was in deeper than he planned.

Behind him, Smoke muttered, "I told you. City girl’s gonna get you killed."

Stack just chuckled, eyes still on the spot where Annalise vanished. "Maybe, brother. But what a way to go."

Le Mirage hit them like a punch of heat and brass the second they stepped inside. Smoke thick as fog curled around the red velvet curtains, and the thrum of a stand-up bass rolled through the floorboards. The place was packed wall-to-wall: city boys in sharp suits, gang men with fat rings on their fingers, and dames dressed like every night might be their last big score.

Stack’s eyes swept the room, hungry, sharp—searching for that honey-skinned woman with the pinned curls.

But she found them first.

A soft voice, right at his shoulder. "Didn’t think you’d show."

Stack stiffened, then turned slow. And there she was—Annalise, dressed in midnight blue that caught the dim light like the surface of still water. Her pinned curls were perfect, but her eyes? They glittered with something wilder now.

"Couldn’t miss your show," Stack said, that grin sliding back into place. "Smoke and I, we got front-row curiosity."

Smoke grunted behind him, already sizing up the exits and the muscle leaning by the bar.

Annalise’s smile was small but knowing. "You boys are a long way from Mississippi. And you’re already in deeper than you realize." She leaned in, voice dropping low so only they could hear. "You made waves just by walkin’ in here. The kind of waves that get men followed home."

Stack’s grin didn’t falter, but his eyes narrowed, just a hair. "That a warning, darlin’?"

"It’s a fact," Annalise said, straightening up. "And facts don’t care how pretty you smile."

She stepped back, smoothing her dress, and nodded toward the stage. "Enjoy the show, Stack. But keep your head on a swivel. Le Mirage—it ain’t just for music."

Then she was gone again, slipping through the crowd with the grace of someone who knew exactly who was watching—and wanted them to.

Smoke muttered under his breath. "Told you. Trouble."

Stack just licked his lips, that fire lighting in his chest. "Yeah. But she’s my kind of trouble."

Up on the stage, the house band started to play, the lights dimmed, and somewhere in the shadows, men with cold eyes took note of the two strangers from Cocksdale.

And the night? The night was just getting started.

-

The lights dimmed until only the stage glowed soft and golden, like a secret whispered in the dark.

Then she appeared.

Annalise stepped into that light slow, deliberate, every move practiced to perfection. The room hushed—not because they wanted to, but because she commanded it.

Her dress clung to her like sin, dark blue velvet that shimmered with every sway of her hips. Her pinned curls caught the light just enough to make them gleam like a halo—an angel's crown, if angels had ever learned to smile like that.

And then she sang.

The first note slipped out like warm honey, low and smooth, wrapping around every man in the club and pulling them in closer.

"When the night falls slow… and the devil comes to dance…"

Stack felt it hit him square in the chest. That voice—it wasn’t just a song. It was a net, and he’d walked right into it with open arms.

Smoke shifted beside him, eyes scanning the corners of the club, catching the way certain men leaned in too close, the glint of steel at one table, the hard stares at another.

But Stack? He only had eyes for Annalise.

Because now he understood. This wasn’t just a performance. This was a ritual.

Every time she found a new admirer—someone bold or foolish enough to think they could touch her—she sang like this. Luring them in deeper, making sure they were well and truly tangled before the trap snapped shut.

Her gaze flickered toward him mid-verse, just a flicker, but it felt like a shot fired straight at his heart.

"You can call my name… but you’ll never stand a chance…"

Smoke leaned in close, voice tight. "We got eyes on us, Stack. Real eyes. More than one table. You feel that?"

But Stack didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because right then, Annalise hit that high note, her voice breaking just enough to make every man in that club lean in like moths to flame.

And Stack knew—deep in his bones—that she wasn’t just singing for him.

She was setting the stage.

For what, he didn’t know yet.

But it was coming.

And it had her name written all over it.

-

The final note of Annalise’s song hung in the air like a blade suspended mid-swing. The crowd erupted in applause—cheers, whistles, the clink of glasses. But beneath that noise, Stack felt it. That low, crawling tension. The kind that made a man’s shoulders go tight without knowing why.

Smoke was already shifting. "Doors just locked." His voice was gravel. "Did you hear that click?"

Stack blinked, pulling himself back from the spell Annalise had wrapped around him. He caught it now—the bouncers weren’t watching the crowd. They were watching him and Smoke. The ones at the back doors? Already standing shoulder-to-shoulder. No one was leaving unless they said so.

And Annalise—she didn’t go backstage like a regular singer would. No, she stayed right there at the edge of the stage, one hand on the mic stand, eyes scanning the room. Cool. Calm. Like she’d just lit the fuse and was waiting to see where the explosion landed.

Stack’s grin dropped. Finally.

Smoke muttered, "Told you this place wasn’t just for music. We walked into a goddamn cage match."

The band kept playing, a soft tune now, but Stack noticed half of them were watching the exits too.

Then they saw him.

A big man in a sharp pinstripe suit, shoulders like a truck, stepped out from the shadows near the VIP booth. Gold ring flashing on one hand, the other holding a cigar like it was a weapon. His face was a map of old scars and broken promises.

Dominic "Dom" Lucetti. Capo in the Outfit. The kind of man who didn’t come out unless there was business—and blood—on the line.

He clapped slow, eyes fixed on Stack and Smoke.

"Well, well," Dom rumbled, voice carrying over the thinning applause. "The famous SmokeStack twins. Fresh off the train from Mississippi, thinking they can carve a piece outta my city."

The room went still. Every patron suddenly more interested in their drinks. Even the air seemed to thin.

Stack straightened his collar, forced that old grin back on. "Didn’t realize we were so popular already."

Dom chuckled, dark and humorless. "You made ripples, boys. Big ones. And ripples turn to waves." He gestured around. "This? This is me... making sure the waves don’t get too high."

Behind Stack, Smoke’s hand hovered near his coat—where he kept steel.

And from the stage, Annalise finally spoke.

"Play nice, Dom. They just got here." Her voice was sweet, but her eyes—when they flicked to Stack—were sharp as cut glass.

Dom laughed, a low rumble. "I am playing nice. For now." He turned his attention back to Stack. "So here’s the game, Southern boy: you walk outta here tonight... maybe with a few bruises, maybe not. But you walk out only if you make me believe you’re smart enough to fall in line."

Stack's jaw clenched. He could feel Smoke tensing beside him, ready for the fight.

Annalise stepped down from the stage, slow and graceful, coming to stand between Dom and the twins. Not close enough to take sides. But just close enough to remind everyone she was the one who set this whole thing spinning.

Her eyes met Stack’s, unreadable.

The choice hung there, heavy as a loaded gun.

Play along? Or make their claim the hard way, fists and bullets?

Stack’s fingers curled into fists at his side.

Dom smiled wider. "Well? What’s it gonna be, Mississippi?"

Tags 🏷️

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[reasonsforhope]

"Evening is approaching at the confluence of two rivers in the Bay of Bengal — the Payra and Bishkhali. Still, the fishermen at the pier in Gazimahmud village are busy preparing for the next day’s work — every boat here is now illuminated by small solar-powered devices.

“Solar power is now not only in homes, it is also at our work. Now, there is no rush to return home when it is evening,” says fisherman Altaf Hossain, who is arranging fishing nets in his boat so that he’s ready for tomorrow.

Hossain is now able to work longer hours and boost his income, and he doesn’t have to worry about his wife and kids at home at night. The children sit under a solar-powered light to study, while Hossain’s wife, Roksana Begum, does various chores.

“The sun gives us light both during the day and at night,” Begum says. “It has made our lives much easier and has changed our livelihoods.”

Gazimahmud village is about 30 kilometres away from Barguna Sadar, the southernmost district of Bangladesh. A winding road leads to this village, where the sea and two rivers meet. The people of this remote community still remember the devastation caused by the powerful Cyclone Sidr in 2007, when 30 locals died. When the storm hit, it was difficult for many to reach safety as the entire area was dark. Now, thanks to most of the houses in the village having solar power, the community feels better prepared for future disasters.

“We have more faith in solar power, because, when a storm comes, the electricity connection may be disconnected or the power may be turned off, but solar power helps us to find a safe shelter by showing us the way,” says resident Monir Hossain.

Unprecedented success

Bangladesh has implemented the world’s largest off-grid solar power programme, with 20 million people across the country benefiting, according to the World Bank.

What began as a pilot project in 2003, involving 50,000 households, ultimately reached 14% of the population within 15 years, while some 200,000 rural businesses and religious facilities benefited from the Solar Home Systems (SHS) initiative as well.

The programme, which officially ran until 2018, was implemented in partnership with the private sector. Among other measures, the state provided generous incentives, such as tax breaks, for rooftop solar installers, and also focused on ensuring financing mechanisms were in place.

Together with 56 partner organisations, the government installed 4.1 million solar systems in remote areas by 2018.

According to the World Bank, the initiative has improved health and living conditions — including by reducing the use of kerosene lamps and thereby tackling indoor air pollution — and boosted school attendance. It also led to household solar becoming “a credible electricity source”.

“The Solar Home Systems programme has shown that millions of dollars raised internationally can be efficiently leveraged to provide loans of as little as $100 in remote corners of the country, enabling a rural household to purchase a solar home system,” according to Amit Jain, a senior energy specialist at the World Bank...

To clean up its power grid and contribute to the fight against climate change, Bangladesh plans to install 4.1GW of renewable energy capacity by 2030, up from around 1.2GW today."

-via The Progress Playbook, March 10, 2025

[xiletay]

Doctor’s Orders

TW: Injury, blood, mention of physical pain, mild medical scenes, hospital setting

Summary: a small accident lands you in the ER, while Billie is on shift. She ends up being the one to take care of you, both as your doctor and your girlfriend.

doctor!billie x reader

A/N: not sure this fic is any good but whatever, i just wanted to post something. oh and its my birthday lol

You didn’t mean for it to happen. You just wanted to be helpful, to do something nice for Billie and take a bit of the pressure off her. She already had so much on her plate, shift after shift, barely any sleep, surviving most days on caffeine alone. It was exhausting.

You had just moved into the new house together. Billie had started her new job at the hospital and you were busy with your own workload. The house was big, almost too big for just the two of you but it was finally yours. A place that symbolized your love, your shared life. A home that, once fully unpacked and settled, would be filled with light, love and beautiful moments.

You had two days off work and originally planned to get the house in order: unpack, clean, go grocery shopping. Billie had said she’d handle the more hands-on tasks. A few cabinets still needed assembling and the ceiling light in the living room had to be mounted.

“I’ll do it after work, baby,” Billie had said. But most nights she was far too exhausted when she got home. And you couldn’t blame her, of course not. You saw how hard she worked, how drained she was. You never held it against her. If anything, you were always telling her to just lie down and rest. Every time you saw the dark circles under her eyes or the way her body moved from sheer exhaustion, all you wanted was to take something off her shoulders.

You should’ve just left it. Billie finally had the upcoming weekend off. She would’ve gotten to it then. But you wanted to be a good girlfriend. You wanted to take care of it for her.

So you went to the garage and brought in the ladder, setting it up in the living room to install the ceiling lamp yourself. You thought your lack of skill would be the issue but in the end, it was your own clumsiness that betrayed you.

You were climbing up the ladder when your foot slipped. One wrong step and suddenly you were falling. You hit the floor hard, landing on your back with a thud, a strange, garbled sound escaping your mouth.

It took a moment to understand what had happened. You felt dizzy, the room spinning, your breath caught in your chest. A sharp pain stabbed through your back. You stayed on the floor, unmoving. Every small movement in your upper body hurt, your face contorted in pain.

You slowly lifted your head and glanced down at your leg. That’s when you noticed the scrape: bloody and raw. You must have cut yourself on the ladder during the fall. It stung but it wasn’t the worst of it.

This is a disaster, you thought, trying to sit up slowly, despite the pain. But it was clear: you weren’t in any shape to stand or take care of yourself.

You wished you could just shake it off but you knew better. Better to go to a doctor, get checked out, make sure everything was okay. Especially to rule out a concussion.

═══════✦═══════

This is how you ended up in the waiting room of the ER. The ticking of the clock on the wall keeps you grounded. The light is bright and you have a hard time adjusting to it, causing you to blink a few times.

Your name is being called and it takes a moment for you to realize they mean you. You lift your head and slowly rise to your feet. Each step feels heavy, small, cautious. A nurse greets you with a gentle smile and asks you to follow her.

Once you reach the room, she gestures toward the examination table.

“Please, take a seat,” she says kindly. “A doctor will be with you shortly.”

═══════✦═══════

Billie is just about to go on her break. Finally a moment to breathe, even if it’s just 10, maybe 15 minutes. Just enough time to grab another coffee even though it’s already her sixth of the day.

She’s thinking about you, like she always does during these rare quiet moments. About sending you a quick, loving message. Something simple. 'Just wanted to tell you I love you. Thinking of you. Knowing I come home to you makes all this bearable.'

She picks up the patient chart one last time, just to glance over it before she leaves the station.

And then her eyes land on your name.

No.

No way.

That can’t be.

═══════✦═══════

The door swings open abruptly, no knock, no soft warning.

Your head snaps up, too quickly and for a brief moment, the room spins. It takes a second before your vision clears and you can make out who’s standing in the doorway.

Billie.

She’s gripping the doorknob with one hand, the other running through her hair in clear frustration or maybe disbelief. She takes a deep breath, visibly trying to compose herself. There are dark circles under her eyes and her expression shifts from confusion to alarm the moment she sees you.

“Y/N— oh my god. Whatever you’re doing here? Are you okay?” she asks, her voice a little too fast, laced with panic, as she closes the door behind her.

She quickly crosses the room, pulling the rolling doctor’s stool toward you and sits down in front of you, already reaching for your hands.

“What happened, sweetheart?” You squeeze her hand gently, trying to calm her down with a soft smile.

“I just fell. Nothing too bad,” you say, brushing it off like it’s nothing, even though your body tells a different story.

Billie doesn’t buy it. Her eyes scan your face, full of concern. “I need more details, baby. Tell me exactly what happened. And where it hurts.”

You nod, letting out a small sigh. “My back hurts. And my leg too. I think I cut it when I fell.”

Without wasting another second, Billie begins examining you with practiced hands, her professional focus kicking in but you can still feel the emotion behind her movements. Her touch is careful, almost reverent. As she gently presses along your spine, you glance at her with a sheepish, innocent look.

“Okay, so… don’t be mad,” you start, your voice trailing off with a guilty smile. “But maybe I tried to mount the ceiling lamp.” You pause as her eyes widen slightly. “I know you said you’d do it but I just wanted to take some of the weight off your shoulders.”

Billie freezes for a second, her hands still on your back. Her entire focus shifts back to your face.

“Baby…” she says softly, the word barely a whisper.

She lets her hands fall to her lap and looks at you fully, the concern in her eyes now mixed with something else: relief. “You scared the shit out of me. I just saw your name and I expected the worst. My heart dropped.”

You lower your gaze for a second, guilt creeping in but before you can respond, she reaches for your hand again.

“I know you just wanted to help me. And I love you for that. But please… be careful. Promise me?”

You nod, a bit overwhelmed, and Billie brings your knuckles to her lips, placing a tender kiss there. Then she opens your palm and presses another gentle peck into the center.

She continues her examination, more carefully now, palpating along your spine, checking your reflexes, looking at the gash on your leg. Her face tightens slightly as she takes a closer look.

“So, good thing is, you don’t have a concussion,” she finally says, offering a small smile. “Your back is bruised, but not seriously injured. However, that cut on your leg? It needs stitches.”

You nod again, relieved it’s nothing worse. Honestly, you’re just glad Billie’s the one taking care of you. There’s no one you’d trust more.

“It could’ve been a lot worse,” she adds, reaching for supplies to clean the wound. “Once we’re done here, you have to slow down and get some rest. Doctor’s orders.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, rolling your eyes. “Perfect,” you groan sarcastically, then add with a teasing grin, “Good thing I have the best doctor at home. One who can baby me if I ask nicely.”

“Damn right,” Billie replies without missing a beat, raising an eyebrow. “Gotta make sure my wife stays healthy.”

You tilt your head, a playful spark in your eye. “Your wife, hmm?”

Billie meets your gaze directly, her expression shifting again, this time full of warmth and quiet certainty.

“Well,” she says, her voice softer now, “one day I’m gonna make you my wife. In my heart, you already are.”

Your smile falters for just a moment, not because you’re uncertain but because her words hit somewhere deep. You see the sincerity in her eyes and everything else, the pain, the fall, the hospital room just fades away.

═══════✦═══════

Thank you so much for reading🤍 I hope you enjoyed the story, even just a little! Any feedback, comments or just little thoughts are always super appreciated. ✨take care & tight hugs for you.

[witherby]

Could you make more Damian and mer!Reader? I wanna see them swim together!

Yeah, I can do that! The previous post surpassed 10 reblogs so y'all can have another installment :)

Part 2 of Human!Damian x Mer!Reader

Content: Fluff, Swimming, Language Barrier, Courtship Ritual (unbeknownst to Damian)

Part 1 is Here!

You swim in fast spirals through your enclosure, ducking around seaweed and colorful rocks and the fake castle spire they installed for you to hide in, tail brushing against the rough, stony texture. The lights all dimmed about thirty minutes ago, leaving just the bioluminescent foliage scattered throughout your tank and a few, small overhead lamps to illuminate the space. You know that this means all the Attention Time is done for the day, and that Damian will soon be around for dinner and playtime.

When you feel those familiar disturbances in the water, the gentle swish, swish, swish of your favorite caretaker's hand, you bolt towards it and surface with a splash and a chirp. Damian wipes the water off his face and levels you with an unamused look, which you preen at, and you rest your arms on the lip of the tank.

"Hello to you, too," he greets, holding up your bucket. "It's dinner time. You did great today, as though we could expect anything less than perfection at this point."

You take the bucket and start eating, offering a piece of squid to Damian. He scrunches his nose and politely refuses, so you shove it between your own, razor-sharp teeth instead.

"Visitors asked a lot of questions about you today," Damian says. You register the general idea of what he's talking about — the "visitors" are the creatures that come to stare at you in the funny tunnels. "Two of the tour groups asked if you were lonely, being the only mer we have in the aquarium."

The boy tilts his head, vibrant green eyes unusually pensive as he regards you. You stare back as you chew, the fins on either side of your head twitching. You love staring at his eyes, more vibrant than any foliage in your tank and endlessly entertaining to look at. When he speaks again, you do your best to keep following along.

"I didn't know how to answer them. Mers, from what few we've observed in the wild, travel in pods. You don't exhibit behaviors of loneliness or excessive stress, however; I don't think living here without pod-mates is causing you harm, otherwise we'd see you picking at your fins and scales, or lashing out more violently, or at the very least hiding more often."

You smile. How silly of your caretaker — he is your pod! You socialize with him plenty, even if he can't live in your enclosure with you! You click your tongue and trill, showing him your empty bucket to get the frown off his face.

Damian takes it back with a quick word of praise and dodges your grabby hands when you make to pull him into the water.

"Patience. Let me change into the wetsuit, okay, Princess?"

You perk up and chirrup with glee. You know that word! He's going to come into the tank and play!

Damian disappears through a set of doors several yards away from the edge of your tank. You slip under the water to rehydrate your gills, floating aimlessly for a few minutes. When you surface again, Damian is standing on the edge of your tank in a black wetsuit with a small apparatus on his face. After an accident (and it was an accident, you promise! How were you supposed to know the land creatures couldn't breathe water the same way you did?) where you almost drowned Damian trying to play with him, he showed up a few days later with the suit and small face-thing that you learned was important not to pull off of him.

You whistle and trill, arms extended in delight. Damian's eyes crinkle just slightly around the edges, as he can't smile around the rebreather, and he lets his body tip forward into your waiting arms.

You splash into the water together, squeezing him in a tight hug, then draw back to grab his hand and pull him along. Damian allows it, kicking the flippers on his feet to help propel him along, though they're no match for your huge tail.

Playtime always starts with you dragging Damian to the bottom of your tank, either to show him the latest way you've arranged your collection of colorful rocks, or to find a gift for him. Sometimes you give him a rock, sometimes you give him a piece of foliage, and once you gave him a loose brick taken from your castle spire (he put that one back).

Today, you release his hand to dart into your seaweed nest, pawing around until you find what you're looking for, then pop back out and press it into his hands. Damian's eyes go wide, clutching the small handful of shredded scales you passed over with the delicateness one would use to cradle a baby.

Mers tended to have hoarding tendencies, especially for shiny things. Your myriad of painted stones and other aquatic-safe decorations were proof of that. In the wild, shedded scales were kept and used as further decoration for a nest, or placed around the entrance of their home so it could be easily identifiable. To see you hand him what is typically considered a valuable resource to your species...

Well, he's nothing short of flattered. You must care for him a great deal to be willing to part with your scales.

He signs Thank You under the water and carefully tucks the gift into a bag on his hip, since the wetsuit has no pockets. You grin back and twirl around him, bumping him a bit with your tail. Damian can just barely make out the sound of you trilling under the water as you bump him back and forth a couple times, a behavior you've never exhibited before. He bumps you back, which makes you trill even louder. It's fascinating.

When you're done, you circle Damian a few times, chittering and chirping, then gently shove his shoulders and take off like a bullet through the water, off to find a space to tuck yourself into for hide and seek. You can't play tag with him, it's never fair, but other games like this are easily adaptable between the two of you, especially given that your enclosure spans several floors of the building.

As you dart across your expansive tank looking for a place to slip into, you can't fight the giddy little skip in your heart. Damian accepted your scales! He accepted them and thanked you! You're so happy he accepted your proposal to be mated!

-----

Thanks for your support! Reblogs = more content!

[daydreams-after-dark]

Good things come in small packages Part 2

Part 1 | Part 2

Pairing: Mini Han x fem reader

Synopsis: One year ago you purchased a ‘miniature companion’ named Hannie. He’s the size of a Ken doll but alive and horny. But something unexpected happens on your one year anniversary.

Word count: approx 7.4 k

A/n: SURPRISE!!! I know I said this was being released approx next Monday, but.... I wrote it quicker than I expected. I want to thank you for your patience with this installment. There was a point there where I almost didn't have it in me to write it. But your words of encouragement helped spur me on.

I hope that you enjoy part two of this fic. There's a lot of emotions, sickly sweet moments, and a surprise character features too.

CW below the cut

C/W: unprotected p in v sex, oral sex, rough sex, angst, brief themes of depression, fear of suicide (just a fleeting thought), size kink?

Previously:

"Hannie?" You whisper, lowering the lamp, letting it drop to the floor.

"Why is everything so small? Wait. Why am I naked? Noona, have you been playing with me in my sleep?" He looks up at you confused and worried. "Noona, why are you looking at me like that?"

His eyes land on his pajamas, torn to shreds next to him. He picks up the scrap of fabric that was his pajama top, and his eyes widen. "Why are my clothes so tiny?"

"Hannie," you take in the man before you, naked and taking up most of the bed. "You're big."

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

Han just stares at you blankly. Then realization hits him, causing him to spring out of bed and look around the room frantically.

"Hannie?" You say again. "Hannie, look at me." You take a step closer to him and he finally looks at you. It's as though your gaze anchors him and he appears to calm down somewhat. His eyes soften and he looks at you like he's looking at you for the very first time, just as you are with him.

You already know he has an incredible physique. Broad shoulders, slim waist, toned muscles. But standing before you right now he’s breathtaking. But you don't love him for his body. You love him for his heart.

Standing fully naked in front of you, he seems less real than when he was small. How can this be happening? It's impossible. Right?

"Noona?" His eyes drop to where your gaze has fallen. Right on his cock, still semi hard from his morning wood. It's the most delicious thing you've ever seen. So much bigger than you expected too. You can't help but imagine all the things you want to do with it. You have imagined it plenty over the past year. How you want him to fill you up, or make you choke on it. How it tastes. How it feels in your mouth.

"Hey!" he covers himself with his hands. "I'm going through a crisis and you're staring at my dick!" He exasperates. He narrows his eyes. "Oh my God, Noona? You know what this means?" His eyes light up with excitement.

"I do, Han. Trust me, I know. But first we need to figure out what is going on. Why this has happened." You take another step towards him, closing the distance, and with shaking hands you reach out and touch his chest. You feel his heart pounding and it makes your heart beat faster too.

He's real.

"Do you think my wish has finally come true?" he whispers. "I wish it every night before I fall asleep. That I'd wake up and be human sized."

You look up to meet his gaze. His gorgeous big brown eyes. "I wish it every night too. It's just... this doesn’t make any sense.” You pause. “Wait. The manual. Maybe it says something in that?”

Without giving him any warning, you snap into action and disappear into your walk-in wardrobe, returning with a pair of sweatpants and an oversized tee.

"Here. Put these on. I can't be getting distracted." You say and hurry out of the bedroom.

----------

"I thought you said you'd studied the manual?" Han says suspiciously whilst chewing on the scrambled eggs and toast you quickly cooked for him. You were quite happy to forgo your breakfast so you could search for answers, but his stomach rumbled so loudly you couldn’t ignore it.

While he scoffs down his breakfast, and you're still in your pajamas, you pore over the instruction manual spread open on the dining table, looking for any information that might help.

"Well... I kind of only read about how to keep you alive. You know, like how often I needed to feed and water you." you reply casually. Inside, you wish you had read the rest of the information. Maybe you would have had a heads up about this and you could have prepared yourself?

"Do you think I'm going to be like this permanently? Like the first year was a test of your commitment or something? Maybe I could learn guitar? Or cook? Or-"

"Okay. I've got something." You interrupt. "It says here: At twelve months of ownership, your companion will transform into typical human size-"

Han's eyes light up excitedly. "Wait! So this means?"

You hold up your hand to hush him. "There's more." You say. "He will remain in this state for 48 hours, before returning to his original size."

“Oh.” Han’s fork clatters on his plate. You look up at him as his expression changes from excited and hopeful, to absolutely crestfallen and deflated.

"I'm so sorry, Hannie." you whisper. You know how badly he wants to be big. You watch as he swallows a lump in his throat, and without a word, he stands and walks into the kitchen to look out of the window above the sink.

————

Forty eight hours? So It's not permanent? What kind of fucking idiot is he to think he'd ever be able to be a human? He tries to fight back the tears as he looks out of the window.

It's a beautiful, sunny morning, and usually on a day like this he'd climb up onto the windowsill and watch the world. There's a little strip of shops across the street that he especially loves to watch. His favorite is the flower shop. Observing the customers going in and out buying flowers and bouquets for loved ones. They’re such pretty colors too, the flowers. He’d love to be able to buy flowers for you.

A lady about your age works there, and sometimes another man is there too. Han doesn’t see him there often, but knows he’s someone special the way the shop owner and him look at and hold each other. Maybe he travels for work? He's often wondered as he sits on the windowsill.

He's broken from his thoughts when he feels your arms wrap around his waist and you lean against his back. His eyes close softly, and his body relaxes as he savors the feeling of being embraced in this way for the first time.

"Hannie, I know we don't have long, but maybe if we see it as a gift?"

He turns in your arms to face you, and wraps his own arms around you. You feel so good like this. In his arms. Holding so much of you in one go. Feeling your entire body pressed against his. It's better than he ever imagined.

"You're right." He says finally. "We can't waste a minute of this precious time. There's so much I have to do to you." His dick twitches when he sees your cheeks flush. He knows you're not shy, but if you feel anything like he does right now, then you’d have to be trembling on the inside.

His hand slides up to hold your jaw tenderly as he brings his lips close to yours. Sure he's kissed you, parts of your lips - both sets even, and other parts of your skin. But your lips in their entirety? He feels so scared, so nervous. What if he's a shit kisser?

"Stop thinking, Han Jisung." You say and connect your lips to his.

His lips fit yours perfectly and he melts into them with a moan. He kisses you slowly and carefully and a warmth spreads throughout his body. He hardens immediately when he feels your tongue slip into his mouth to find his. Your tongue, the one that’s licked his entire torso in one sweep, is currently inside his mouth. 

He allows his hands to wander lower to cup your ass. He loves your ass and often stares at it when you're doing housework in your tight little exercise shorts. Another moan escapes him when he pulls you even closer against his body. Touching so many parts of you all at once has him feeling overwhelmed in the best way possible. What will it be like when he’s inside you as well? He has to know.

He lowers his hands a little more to lift you up and you wrap your legs around his. Then he’s carrying you - actually carrying you - to your bedroom.

Your room is still filled with the warm sunlight, and Han is glad because he’ll be able to see absolutely everything. He lays you gently on the bed and kisses you deeply, then sits up to kneel between your parted legs.

“I think these need to come off.” He announces, flicking the waistband of your pajama shorts.

You smirk. “You do, huh?”

“Yes. We need to be naked.” He starts tugging off your clothes, then his own.

You look stunning beneath him, and you feel the same way about him. The sunlight hits his honey skin perfectly and you feel a surge of love for the man above you.

This is actually happening, is the thought going through both your heads.

Han gulps as he drinks you in with his eyes. Where to begin? He decides to start with your breasts. Holding them in his hands, massaging them. He loves the pretty noises you’re making as he kneads them. He leans over to take a nipple in his mouth, flicking the tiny pebbled nub that he normally has to stretch his mouth around. It goes straight to his dick and he can’t help but grind his cock against your core. This is too much already. He sits back up between your legs to try and regain his composure. He doesn’t want the first time he has intercourse to be over before it begins. To bide some time, he slowly runs his hands down your stomach and massages the tops of your thighs while his eyes lock onto your pussy. Home.

His favorite thing in the world is to eat you out, and he’s excited to taste you. Firstly, though, he is dying to explore you with his fingers. He drags his thumbs through your folds. “Wet for me as usual, Noona.” He states, glancing up to see your flushed cheeks. He chuckles to himself knowing how flustered he’s making you.

“Hannie…always soaked for you.” You say with a breathlessness to your voice. 

He rubs circles on your clit with his thumb whilst using his other hand to spread you wide. 

“I need your fingers inside me, Hannie.” you wiggle your hips to give him the hint.

“Like this?” He asks innocently as he slips two fingers into you. You moan in relief, making him smirk again.You’re so tight just around his fingers that he can’t imagine how you are going to fit his cock. He partially withdraws his fingers then pushes them back into your warm, wet, cunt. He repeats this a few times, your moans and ‘yes’s urging him to go a little harder, a little deeper. He remembers watching you finger fuck yourself and that there’s a spot inside you that when you stimulate it makes you come. He needs to try it. 

He angles his fingers a little differently and fucks you with his hand. The response is immediate. Your pussy begins to make those lewd, but arousing sounds, that he has heard when you’ve made yourself cum on your dildo. Your back arches off the bed and your thighs start to tremble. He knows the signs of you having an orgasm. He’s made you come so many times. But not like this. He leans over you to slide his tongue into your mouth, capturing the moans from your orgasm while his fingers work you through it until you’ve settled back to earth. Stunning. Erotic. Perfect. That’s what you are to him right now.

Now he can eat you out. Lick up all that arousal leaking from your delectable pussy. He nestles between your legs, his agonizingly hard cock squashed between his stomach and the mattress. He knows it’s leaking all over your quilt.

Firmly holding your thighs apart, he licks a long stripe from your vagina to clit. You taste perfect. He is careful not to go too hard or too rough. When he’s tiny he needs to use all his energy and strength to get you off, but right now even the most delicate of licks or suckles has you whimpering for him.

He spits on your clit and then sucks it off. Then moves lower to slip his tongue inside you. He has to hold you still as another orgasm starts to build for you. He loves making you feel this way.

He needs to make you come again, so he slips a finger into your pussy while he laps at your clit. He feels you come on his face, shaking, quivering, covering him in your juices. Yep. Still his favorite thing to do.

He removes himself from between your legs to hover over you to take you in an urgent kiss, smearing your arousal all over your lips. His dick throbs.

“Hannie,” you pull away from the kiss. “I really need you inside me. I need it so much it hurts.” You look up at him with desperate eyes.

“Me too, Noona.” He gulps. He’s so fucking scared and hopes you don’t notice.

“Are you nervous?” You reach up and stroke his cheek. 

Of course you noticed it. You always know how he feels. He nods. “Yeah. I am actually. I am a virgin you know?” He chuckles awkwardly, like you didn’t know he’d never actually fucked before.

You wrap your arms around the back of his neck and pull him close. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Just let it slip in. Dicks usually find a way into a pussy.” You whisper in his ear.

He trusts you and grinds the length of his cock against your slipper pussy. It’s already beyond incredible feeling your soft skin against his obscenely hard cock. You both moan equally in pleasure and the frustration of needing more, so he shifts his hips to allow the tip of his cock to prod at you. 

“Yes!” You cry out against his ear. “Fuck…Hannie…need you. It’s so close…” 

All it takes is a slight adjustment of the angle of his hips and he feels the tip slip inside you. 

“Please…hurry.” You sob. “I love you so much, Hannie.”

“I love you too, Noona.” he says with a shaky breath, and then he’s inside you. All the way to the hilt. You both moan in relief. 

“You’re so tight.” he declares, his eyes rolling back into his head. He’s not going to last even a thrust. It’s already too good. But he begins to move anyway, eventually finding a slow, deep rhythm.

He was wrong. This is his most favorite thing to do. Be buried in your pussy, with your arms and legs wrapped around him as you moan his name over and over. Definitely his favorite.

“Faster…please… harder…oh Hannie…fuck.” You claw at his back trying to pull him even deeper. He obliges, picking up the pace, fucking you harder. He kneels between your legs again so he can see all of you. The sight is erotic. Seeing all of you at once, with your legs folded and pushed up high and wide. Your breasts bouncing with every thrust. And the expression on your face as you look down at where you’re connected almost makes him fill you right then and there.

“I’m coming, Hannie… I’m…don’t stop! Come with me. Come inside me!” You’re already trembling beneath him, and there’s no way in hell he’d be able to stop himself coming inside you even if he wanted to. He’s about to burst. Not just his cock, but his heart too. He loves you too much. He takes his thumb back to your clit and focuses on bringing you over the edge. He feels your walls squeeze tight around him like a vice, and it sends him over as well. With a few last shaky thrusts, he releases himself inside of you with a deep moan.

“Noona… Fuck…” he pants and collapses on top of you. “That was the best feeling in the whole world. I don’t know how anyone gets anything done when they could be doing that!” 

—-----------

The day passes far too quickly as you fill the rest of the day with lovemaking, food, drinks, and even more lovemaking. You both don't want to miss a single moment of each other. Night comes too quickly, and despite trying your best to stay awake, sleep eventually takes you both as you lay in his arms.

-----------

The sun streams through the window waking you from your sleep. You feel Han's arm laying heavy across your waist. It wasn't a dream. Your eyes snap open to find him fast asleep, mouth open, and still very much human size.

You watch him until he finally stirs and opens his eyes. "Am I still big? Are we still naked?" He asks sleepily.

You grin in response. "Yes. You're still big. And we’re still naked. " You lean down and kiss his cheek.

"So we can have more sex today?" he adds, rubbing his eyes.

"Anything you want, my love." You say and let your hand wander down to rest on his erect cock. Flicking the sheet off of him, you begin to kiss your way down his body, savoring every inch of his skin, ensuring you remember this moment forever. You pause when you reach his cock, admiring the way it looks. Fucking perfect. Mouthwatering. You waste no time taking him in your hand and bringing your tongue to the underside of his shaft. 

He releases a sharp breath. “Fuck, Noona. Please…are you gonna suck me off? Please suck my cock, Noona.” he begs, lifting his head and looking down at you. You give him a sly look and swirl your tongue around the tip, and he throws his head back down onto the pillow, surrendering to you and your plans.

You take your time teasing him, alternating between kitten licks to the tip, to long languid strokes of your tongue along the shaft. His breathless pants turn to whimpers, then finally a deep, relieving groan as you sink your mouth over him. You take as much of him into your throat as you possibly can, and even though your eyes start to water, you take him even deeper.

“Baby, Noona…This is…your mouth… How can you even breathe right now?” He can barely get the words out. “So good… ngh…s’good.” he squeezes his eyes closed trying his hardest not to thrust into you. His hands thread through your hair and rest on the back of your head. You hope he pushes you down further so you take absolutely everything, and when he does, you feel your cunt tighten and your arousal leaking between your legs. 

Your lips are pressed to his pelvis and he isn’t letting you go. You are finding it hard to breathe, but you don’t care. You want more. You feel him getting close when his cock hardens even more and he starts thrusting into your throat. Yes. This is what you need. 

Han gets noisier as he approaches his climax, then you feel it. The familiar taste of his hot cum hits the back of your throat. He cries out then stills, releasing his hands from your head and relaxing into the bed.

As usual, you swallow every last drop. There is so much more compared to normal, the fluid coating the back of your mouth, then you make your way up to kiss his lips. 

Han grins at you with hooded eyes. “Fuck, Noona! That was so fucking goog.”

“You don’t know how many times I’ve pictured doing that for you, Hannie.” You smile and curl up to his side.

“Noona?” he says, stroking your arm.

“Mmm. Yes my love?” you hum.

“Do you think…after we fuck again, we can go out? There’s something I want to do.”

You turn your head to gaze at him. “Of course. Anything you want, my love.” you say again, but this time with a curious tone.

-----------

"Are you sure I don’t look weird?" Han isn't convinced that the sweatpants and tee you have given him are gender neutral.

"You're fine, I promise. Just trust me?" You reply, locking your front door.  You take his hand in yours and begin to up your front path. As you reach the sidewalk, he begins to have second thoughts. Sure he's been out of the house with you before. In your handbag, hidden away. Safe. Unseen. Maybe this isn't a good idea after all, he thinks to himself. Maybe he shouldn't have such lofty ideas? But he's not going to have another opportunity to do this. So he has to be brave.

“”What would you like to do, Hannie?” 

“There’s something I’ve thought about doing for a while now. Buy you flowers.” He gestures to the flower shop across from your home. 

Your eyes light up and a smile washes over your features. “I’d absolutely love that!” You squeeze his hand and look up at him. “I love you Hannie.” You say and kiss him on the lips.

“Noona, y-you can’t do that!” He stutters.

“Do what, sweetie?” You tease, and kiss him again. This time a little longer.

He pushes you away gently. “You’re getting me hard.” He whispers sternly and looks around to make sure no one can notice.

“Okay, Han. No public display of affection. Got it.” You pinch his chubby cheek.

The flower shop isn't very big, but it manages to accommodate so many flowers and bouquets that fill every corner and surface. Han takes in the floral scents, and the vibrancy of the colors, and smiles when his eyes land on what he's looking for.

"Can I help you with anything?" the shop owner asks cheerfully.

"Yes, can I please have the bouquet of purple tulips?" he says proudly.

The owner, who's name tag says 'Jules', takes the bouquet back to the counter to ring up the price. "That will be $60."

That's right. He has no money. He closes his eyes for a moment, berating himself. Of course he can't pay. He has no bank account. No identification. He's not a citizen of... anywhere really. He's an alien.

"That's okay, I've got it. He forgot his wallet today." You step in from out of nowhere and take care of paying for the flowers.

Ashamed by his inadequacy, Han steps away from the counter, and busies himself by looking at the corner with some potted houseplants. He quite likes the houseplants you own, often sitting underneath the leaves pretending to be somewhere outdoors. He chuckles to himself at how silly that sounds when movement behind one of the pot plants catches his eye.

Intrigued, he crouches down and ever so slowly nudges one of the plants to the side. His eyes widen and he almost stumbles backward when he sees a little man, the size of a Ken doll, looking up at him.

The same man that he’s seen kissing and holding Jules the shop owner multiple times.

Han blinks, not believing what he is seeing, but when he opens his eyes the little man is gone. Where did he go? Did he imagine it? He starts shifting plant pots around, desperately trying to find him.

"Hannie. I'm done now." you call to him from the shop entrance.

----------

"Hannie, what's wrong?" You ask as you both step outside onto the sidewalk. "Is it about paying for these?" You hold up the tulips.

"No, Noona. It's not that." He turns to look back at the shop.

"Han? You look like you've seen a ghost. Are you okay? Are you feeling okay?" You press your hand to his forehead. Sweaty and warm. Is he getting sick?

"I'm fine. Just... the forty eight hours are coming to an end tonight." He frowns.

You drop your head. You have been trying your best not to think about it. Today was so perfect, spending time with Han like a proper couple. It felt so heartwarming watching him with his big, curious eyes as he interacted with his surroundings.

You take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the flowers. "What made you choose these?" you ask him curiously.

"Well," He starts, as you begin to walk back towards your home. "From what I read on the internet they are a symbol of perfect love." He smiles sheepishly. "It also said that they symbolize rebirth, as well as being known to help us let go of the past and embrace the future with renewed optimism and hope." he adds, proud to have remembered the details he'd read.

"I think that sounds perfect." You smile warmly and kiss him on the cheek.

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

Dinner is a quiet affair. The quietest it’s ever been. Usually at dinner time you share your day with each other, listening intently, offering advice or support, or whatever each of you needed that night. Tonight you’re both thinking about the same thing. That your time together like this is coming to an end. Neither of you want to talk about the elephant in the room, so you both stay silent. 

After a while you see Han set his knife and fork on his plate and stand up, walking around to your side of the table. You look up at him and he offers his hand out to you. Wordlessy, you take it and let him lead you to your bedroom.

He’s not gentle as he pushes you down onto the mattress and practically rips your clothes off before climbing on top of you and taking you in a rough, heated kiss. He shoves his tongue past your lips and you thread your fingers through his hair to pull him into an even deeper, even more feral kiss. He pulls away only to remove his own garments, then he forces your legs apart so he can line his cock up to your entrance. 

Without any preparation, or warning, he pushes the entire length of his cock into you in one go. You cry out at the intrusion, but part your legs further. You need him inside you, to consume you.

He’s careless with his thrusts, and his hands grope and squeeze, bruising your flesh. There’s a look of anger and resentment in his eyes. You know it’s not because of you, but at this whole situation. It feels so unfair to have a glimpse of how life could be, and know that it’s never going to be like this again. You love Hannie no matter what. But this feels so good too. Why? Why let you experience this, only to have torn away so quickly?

“Are you gonna remember me like this forever, Noona? How full I make you? How deep inside you I am? How hard I can fuck you?” He growls. “Tell me. Tell me you’ll never forget it. Cos I’m never going to forget how your pussy feels around me. Squeezing me tight. Tell me I’m your favorite. Tell me I feel better than anyone before me.” 

Han’s words are aggressive, and so is the way he’s fucking you. But his voice is full of heartbreak and angst. You want him to give you everything. His sadness, his anger, you want him to take it out on you. 

He thrusts his hips even harder against your body, and his cock slams into your cervix, causing you to cry out his name.

“Hannie!” You choke. He doesn’t slow down or go easy on you. You can barely breathe. 

“Say it… please…Tell me your mine.” he sobs, but he doesn’t slow down.

“I’m yours, Hannie…forever.” you whimper.

He leans down over you, caging you underneath him. “Come for me. Come on my cock.” He growls, his hot breath against your ear. “I wanna feel your pussy choke me one last time.”

It’s too much and you come hard around him, sobbing against his shoulder.

“That’s it…Yes…Fuck! I’m coming too!” He grunts as he thrusts his hips a few more times and empties himself inside you.

You stay like this for a while. Breathless and sweating. Eventually, he lifts his head and looks down on you. “Did I hurt you?” He asks with a concerned expression.

You shake your head. “It was passionate. I needed you to fuck me like that.” You sigh. He closes his eyes softly in relief, then withdraws his softened cock from you. 

Neither of you move to clean up, or even get a drink, or even say another word. You simply lay in the comfort of each other’s arms as though the world was about to end.

---------

You fall asleep first, but Han can't sleep. He doesn't want to sleep. So he watches you sleep instead. He cups your cheek. He needs to burn the image of this into his brain, for tomorrow his hand will barely be able to wrap around your pinky finger. These past forty eight hours were a dream come true, but he’s not sure how he’ll get over it either. 

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

You wake to find your bed empty. "Han?" You call out and search the bed, lifting the blankets. Sometimes he ends up tangled in them, but he isn't there.

You hop out of bed, slip on your robe and head out into the kitchen. You find him sitting on the windowsill above the sink. Small as ever. You feel a sadness in your chest and bite your lip as you approach him. "Hannie?" You say softly, leaning your arms on the counter next to the sink so your face is close to him.

"I'm okay Noona." he sighs, but doesn't turn to face you.

"You want me to fix you some breakfast before I go to work?" You ask hopefully, but he shakes his head.

The usual conversation that you have when you get ready for work is replaced with a heavy, awkward silence.

"You know, Hannie, you are perfect to me no matter what. Your personality, your heart - it’s bigger than that of any man in the world.” You say as you turn to leave the kitchen and head out the front door for work.

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

Han hasn’t left the windowsill in days. He hasn’t washed, he's barely eaten. The spark you love so much in him has dimmed, and you’re frightened that it won't come back. It's not like you can get him therapy. No one knows about him. No one can know about him.

Every day you leave for work not knowing what you'll find when you return home. What if he’s left? What if he's-" No you won't let yourself even go there.

Those forty eight hours of him being big was not worth it, and if you could take it back and go back to how things were before, you'd do it in a heartbeat. You just want your Hannie back.

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

Han knows you love him. But he can't help but feel depressed. He feels worse now than he has ever felt in his entire, albeit short, life. It's like him becoming big was some sick, cruel joke. Like it was to taunt him. To show him how good it could really be, how good it could really feel, to be a human, just to snatch it away from him.

It isn't just depression that's consuming him. It's an obsession with the flower shop and that little man he had seen that day.

For ten days now he’s stared at the shop hoping to catch a glimpse of...something... anything that might give him answers or closure. They know something. He can feel it.

Then finally it happens. Han hurries to a kneeling position, face pressed against the glass to catch a better look.

The man is back. As a human sized man. Han guesses he's seen this man maybe four times over as many months. He stands in the doorway waving to a customer before going back into the shop. It definitely looks like the little guy he saw standing by the pot plant.

You probably imagined it. You were probably over excited from the sex with Noona. Can sex make you hallucinate? Han isn't sure of anything anymore. Except that the miniature man was either imaginary, or, he has the answers Han's looking for.

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

You leave work early and pick up a cheesecake. Han hasn’t eaten in days and you hope his favorite dessert might perk him up a little bit, even if it’s just a sugar rush.

You open your front door kicking your shoes off, and make your way upstairs to your main living area. The house is eerily quiet, even with a depressed Han it's too quiet. Something is off. Something is wrong.

“Hannie?” You call out. No answer. You place the cheesecake box on the counter. He’s not on his windowsill. Maybe he’s asleep somewhere? You check your bedroom next. He isn’t there either. You search every room, calling out his name.

Nothing.

He’s gone. He’s actually gone! Why? Why would he leave? Where would he go? What if he’s hurt? What if he’s - you gulp. You start to panic and begin to check everywhere again. Maybe he fell into a drawer? Maybe he’s stuck somewhere?

Again, nothing.

He really was gone.

—-----------

Han has never ventured out of the house by himself before. Well this month has been full of firsts, he thinks. Why not climb down the stairs and sneak out of a slightly ajar window?

He jumps down from the window sill and tumbles into the garden, surprisingly unscathed. He is on a mission and nothing is going to stop him.

Determination takes over any fear of being eaten by the neighbors cat, or being runover by a car, as he carefully treks across the road to the flower shop.

He hasn't even planned what he’s going to say. What if he's mistaken and the owner faints? What if she kills him? Or kidnaps him? Tortures him? No. He shakes his head. The lady was really nice the other day. People love to go to her shop. It'll be fine.

By the time Han reaches the threshold he is hot, sweaty and very thirsty. He looks up to looming doorway and swallows hard. Here goes nothing.

He slips inside, carefully seeking the cover of a nearby flower pot. The shop looks gigantic compared to last time he was there.

He notices something that he missed the last time. That the entire shop is set up suspiciously accessible for him. Like it was made for someone his size. Strings from buntings and signs dangle in such a way that Han would be able to reach just about any shelf he wished. Some shelves look to have mini rope ladders, and there seems to be plenty of places to hide and watch customers, or your Noona.

He quickly climbs up one of the rope ladders where he can get a better view of the sales counter. Jules is there finishing serving a customer. But where is the man?

Han doesn’t have to wait for long. The man emerges from a back storeroom with a gift bag for the customer.

“Oh Minho! You’re back in town!” The customer exclaims in a high pitch voice. “How was your work trip?” She gives this Minho a kiss on the cheek.

“Adventurous as usual.” He winks at her.

“Well it’s good to see you.” She takes her flowers and gift bag, smiling as she leaves the shop.

“Take care Mrs Maple!” Minho waves after her then turns to Jules. “Finally, I’ve got you alone, kitten.” He smirks and closes the gap between them. “Maybe we could close up for lunch? Head back into the storeroom?” He kisses her neck.

“You’re always so horny, Minho.” She teases. “Don’t think I don’t know you masturbate behind the flower pot while I work.”

Wait! What? Han’s eyes almost pop out of his head and he stumbles knocking an ornamental garden gnome off the shelf.

Jules and Minho’s eyes land on the smashed gnome. Then they lift their gaze, eyes landing straight on Han.

Fuck! He freezes to the spot.

The pair look confused and make their way over to where Han is standing pretending to be gnome himself, and crouch down so they are eye level with him.

“It’s the customer from the other day.” Jules remarks. “He didn’t have any money.” She adds.

Han crosses his arm and pouts.

“He’s the one I told you about. The one that saw me on the shelf.” Minho adds.

“Excuse me?” Han interrupts. “I was hoping you could help me. You see, I live across the street with my Noona. She was the woman I was with when I came in the other day. And…anyway… I sit in the window sill and watch the flower shop. Not in a creepy way.” He is sure to add. “And I’ve seen him…Minho, or whatever your name is,” he points to the man “a few times… Then when I came in, he… he was small.”

“And you were big.” Minhos’s eyes glisten and he rubs his chin deviously. “And now you’re small!”

“Exactly! And I need to know… are you one of those miniature companions like me? And if so, why do you keep getting big? And… and is it the same for all of us? Is it different depending on the batch? Do some of us get big and others don’t?” Han’s out of breath by the time he’s finished.

“What’s your name?” Jules asks kindly.

“Han.” He replies and plops down, crossing his legs.

“Han?” She repeats thoughtfully.

“Do you recognise the name, babe?” Minho enquires.

Jules nods. “Yes. I believe he was also part of the range I purchased you from. The Skz range. I don’t think he was ready yet. How long have you been with your owner?”

“Just on a year.” He replies.

Jules and Minho exchange looks, then turn back to Han.

“Well, Han, buddy,” he says. “I think we might be able to answer your questions.”

—-----------

Eventually, after tearing your house apart in the hopes to find Han and failing, you flop yourself on your couch feeling empty and numb. You don’t even notice that your doorbell is ringing, but then a loud knock on the door makes you almost jump out of your skin.

“Yeah okay, I’m coming!” You call out as you head downstairs. With a sigh, you open the front door to find the woman who owns the flower shop across the street, and a man who you’ve seen a few times around the place, standing there. The woman holds a basket in her hands, and the man holds an amused look on his face.

Great. You’re not in the mood for interaction.

The woman’s eyes widen when she sees your tear streaked face.

“Uh, sorry to bother you. I’m Jules. From the flower shop across the street.” She smiles awkwardly. “And this is my, um, partner, Minho.” She gestures to the man next to her.

You continue to stand there, saying nothing.

Jules coughs, clearing her throat. “We’ve brought your Hannie home.” She declares.

“Noona!” Han’s head pops out of the basket.

Your hand comes up to cover your mouth. “Why do you have my Han?” You choke. Your eyes dart from Jules to Minho, confused and scared. Han is supposed to be a secret. You can’t have outsiders knowing about him.

“I went to them, Noona. They have something to tell you! Can’t you let us inside already?” He whines.

A whining Han is a good sign. You nod and usher them inside.

————-

You’re back on your couch, this time with Jules and Minho on the couch across from you, and your little Hannie on the cushion next to you. You’re relieved he’s back, but also so mad at his reckless behavior. He could’ve gotten himself killed. He and Minho are enjoying a piece of cheesecake, like this is some normal afternoon gathering of friends.

“So you have something to tell me?” You say looking to Jules.

“We do. You see, Han came to us because he saw my miniature companion in the flower shop the day you both came in.” She starts.

Your eyes widen. “You know about them? You’ve got one?”

Jules nods. “Yes. Minho here is my companion.”

“Hi.” He waves.

“He’s your companion?” You arch an eyebrow.

“Yes, he’s got his monthly grown up pants on at the moment, but most of the time he’s small like Han.” She nods her head towards Han.

You shake your head in disbelief. “One minute Han is doll sized, then suddenly out of nowhere he’s big.”

“She really didn’t read the manual, hey Han?” Minho chuckles.

“Then I find out there’s another tiny man running around across the street?” You continue, ignoring Minho’s remark.

“Hey, I’m far from tiny!” Minho turns to you with a deadly glare.

“Calm down sweetie.” Jules pats his thigh. “He’s not really cold and cynical.” She reassures you.

“He’s cocky isn’t he?” You say lightheartedly to Jules but your eyes are firmly on Minho. “You know you were able to read their traits on the website and select accordingly?” You say jokingly.

“That’s why she chose me. For my cock-iness.” Minho leans back into the couch.

“He was the only one who was cat friendly. I have three cats, you see.” Jules playfully punches Minho in the arm.

“Hah! You love my cock-y personality.”

“I do.” Jules admits and leans against him.

The pair are fascinating, but you need to know more. “What did you mean by monthly grown up pants?” You ask.

“Once a month I grow into the size of a human for two days.” Minho shares. “It’s a fault in the Skz manufacturing process.”

“You didn’t receive the recall email from the company?” Jules turns back to you surprised.

You shake your head.

“There was a form in the back of...the manual...that you could send in so you’d receive any important information. Like recalls and such.”

“Noona only read up to the part where it says I can ejaculate.” Han pipes up, his mouth full of food.

“Hannie! Don’t, you’re embarrassing me. Sorry, he hasn’t been socialized.” You say bashfully.

“I think these two will become best friends.” Jules laughs looking at the two men. “Han did say this whole human size situation came as a surprise to you both.”

“I feel so stupid. I didn’t read the whole manual.  I’m such an irresponsible companion owner.” 

“There was a recall on the Skz range because they were only supposed to grow big the once, not once every month. Purchasers were given the option to return the companion if they chose.”

“And she chose to keep me.” Minho adds.

“Would you have sent me back, Noona? If you’d known about the recall?” Han looks up at you with his boba eyes.

“Of course not. I love you. I just wish I’d known all this so we could have been prepared. Looked forward to it, even.”

“It’s okay, Noona. I think it has worked out for the best this way.” He looks at each of you. “I’ve finally got friends!” He says gleefully.

Jules and Minho leave shortly after, to have some alone time before his “grown up pants become too big”.

Han is exhausted from his adventure, and just wants to snuggle up on your chest and watch anime. Neither of you say much. There's no point in being angry at him for venturing out alone, and you're just happy to have him back in one piece.

Neither of you are really watching the anime either. Instead you're both smiling inwardly, imagining what life is going to look like from now on.

—————-

A little update on our y/n and Hannie:

Over the next year, Han and Minho have become inseparable, spending almost as much time with each other as they do with you and Jules.

You’ve introduced Han to your family. He was so nervous at first, but once he realized they approved of him, he was okay.

He learned to play guitar, and even commissioned a guitar maker to make a scaled down working model of an acoustic guitar so he can play whenever he feels like it.

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

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this little fic. I loved writing it, even though it took me so long to have the energy to put the ideas into words. Thank you so much for reading. Your support encourages me to keep writing.

If you enjoy the more plot driven, lovey dovey fics, I have a few others on my main blog @moonlightndaydreams and I think I will probably cross post this fic as a oneshot over there to keep all my longer Hannie fics together.

Sorsha x.

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

@kayleefriedchicken @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @katsukis1wife @jeonginsleftcheek @ihrtlino @ivydoesit23 @gnab-nahc @skzstan12345 @youcanstayyeah @binnieonabike @hanniemylovelyquokka @moasworld @binniesbabe @courtnort455 @yongbokkiesworld @felixleftchickennugget @bangchans-angel @heerinnie @meilix

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[g1rld1ary]

1980s horror film - james potter x reader

wc: 1469 summary: you work at a video store and james works at a convenience store in a shitty small town. you're both bored as hell, but at least you work across the street. me: inspired by the movie clerks! set in the mid-late 90s (so title is a bit misleading LOL). kind of obsessed with this au so feel free to send reqs if you like it or want more!! a contribution to shop au for @acourtofchaos festival!

You tilted your head back, boredom overtaking your body. You’d already been on shift for, like, seven fucking hours, and you’d maybe leant out three videos. Like, who even goes to a video store in the middle of a Thursday?

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, you wished you could turn them off. Maybe you’d get cooler customers if you were in charge of the decorating. Your first order of business would definitely be to install some lamps or something, anything nicer than the violent white light you had to put up with every shift.

You twirled around in your swivel chair for a few minutes, watching the shelves blur into one multicoloured blob, surrounding you until you thought you might throw up.

Knowing you would be the one to clean it up if you did vomit on the aggressively eclectic patterned carpet, you stopped, standing on unsteady feet. You walked out of the store, not bothering to lock it. You weren’t going far.

You traipsed across the street, having learnt you didn’t need to look both ways before crossing long ago. Hardly anyone ever came by.

The bell jingled above you as you pushed the convenience store door open, the boy behind the counter looking up lazily. When he saw it was you, James’s face broke into a crooked smile.

“Slow day?” He asked, pushing himself off the counter he’d been leaning against. You nodded, heading straight to the row of fridges to grab a Coca-Cola, producing spare change to drop on the counter with a clang.

You cracked the bottle open with a satisfying hiss, hopping up to sit yourself on the counter in front of James. He made a teasing face at your audacity but let you do it anyway, taking a step to lean against the back wall, amongst the cigarettes and porn mags.

“How many customers have you had today?” He asked, pulling a bag of crisps from under the bench, sticking his hand in haphazardly.

“Three,” You answered plainly, stretching out your back with an aggressive twist. James laughed exaggeratedly in your face as if he was proving a point.

“I had seven,” he puffed out his chest as if it were a personal achievement.

“Right,” You stared at him, “Are you aware that you run a gas station and I work at a video store. On a Thursday.” James didn’t appear to see the ridiculousness of comparing your respective careers.

“It’s because of my superior personality and dazzling charm,” He crowed, circling some keys around his fingers to fidget with. You rolled your eyes, sliding off the countertop, examining the selection of chocolate bars under the register.

“It’s because you have gas, drinks and toilet paper. If I sold necessities, I’d be the most popular kid on the block, too, Potter.”

“Speaking of what you do sell,” James scanned the KitKat and started unwrapping it for you, “I’m meeting the guys tonight, got a recommendation?”

You paused, genuinely thinking.

“Well, if it’s the guys, then you’re looking for something ridiculous, right? Something to laugh at, like Scream or Wayne’s World. Remus will hate it and think it’s ridiculous, but the rest of you should like it.”

“Genius!” He cried, smacking the counter. “I thought we were gonna have to rewatch bloody Sleepless in Seattle again coz it’s one of the only tapes Peter actually owns — not that I don’t love Sleepless in Seattle, but we’ve probably watched it twelve times already.” You laughed, shaking your head.

“You’re all softies, the lot of you. I can’t believe you walk around acting all tough when you all pile into Peter Pettigrew’s basement and cry over Sleepless in Seattle.” You shook your head, biting a chunk out of the chocolate.

“Okay, first of all, fuck you, I’m just in touch with my emotions. And second of all, I only cried the first time, and that’s because we were all high.” You cackled, leaning on your knees for stability.

Oh, fuck! Customer!” You saw from the corner of your eye, waving quickly to James. “Softie!” You called over your shoulder as you darted back across the road, ready to greet with a smile.

You ran down an empty aisle, diving (and skidding) into the swivel chair behind the register, bringing up the membership page ready for the customer.

You watched the back of a head browse titles for ten minutes, umming and ah-ing over the romances before finally heading toward you. Your mouth dropped open when you recognised the miraculous head of hair.

“Do you have any thoughts on either of these? Just me and my wife at home tonight, so I thought I’d surprise her with a nice night in but I’m just not sure with all these new fangled ‘rom-coms,” Fleamont shook his head, sliding three different tapes across to you.

“That sounds nice, Mister Potter. You might like It Could Happen To You or Much Ado About Nothing, but My Girl is about two little kids; might not set the mood — oh my God, I cannot believe I just said that.” You slapped your hand across your face, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole. Fleamont Potter, hot dad that he famously was, only laughed.

“Alright, I’ll take Much Ado then, thanks for your help. It’s a good thing this store has such knowledgeable employees like yourself.” He winked, and you used all your self-control not to throw yourself under the desk and hide until he left. You stuttered through the rest of the renting process, avoiding eye contact as much as possible.

“Hey, uh, Mister Potter, would you be able to tell James to come in on his break?”

He nodded, silver hair attracting the light as he left the store.

“And then I fucking told him it’d set the mood. What the fuck is wrong with me?” You moaned, throwing your upper body across the counter in agony.

“It’s literally fine,” James said through a huge bite of his curry lunch, “Pretty much all of my friends wanna fuck him. You talking about him fucking his wife is probably a welcome change.”

“James!” You squealed, popping back up to face him, gesturing wildly. “You can’t just say that! Most kids don’t talk about their parents fucking that casually!”

James shrugged, mixing his curry around in the container and offering you a fork.

“It’s just life. Everyone has sex; they had to have sex to make me. Even you have sex. I assume.” He looked you up and down with a frankly sassy attitude, and you grew self-conscious of your long jorts and Jaws t-shirt.

“I can get laid, thank you very much, not that you’d know what that’s like.” James opened his mouth to speak but you cut him off, “I don’t wanna know where you’re sticking your dick, okay?” He raised his arms in surrender.

“Whatever, we all know you’d jump if you had the chance.” He rolled his eyes, wandering off to look for the films you’d recommended earlier.

You turned up the music playing over the store speakers, Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic pumping through the aisles.

Taking your hair out of its scrunchie, you loosened out your body, dancing around the store. James’ tall figure popped up from behind one of the aisles, watching you with an amused grin.

“Come on, Potter, not too good to dance, are you? Need to keep active if you’re gonna retain that athlete physique,” You teased him, miming freestyle strokes to travel over to him. James rolled his eyes, nevertheless holding his nose and wiggling his arm to imitate being underwater with you.

You danced for the duration of the song, laughing and enjoying being up and active amidst an otherwise very monotonous work day. James held his hand out like a gentleman, and you took it with exaggerated elegance, the two of you jumping about the store in a terrible waltz.

The bell to the shop door jingled, signalling a customer entering. You and James leapt apart, James returning to where the comedies were, and you practically flying back to your spot by the computer.

You both held coy smiles as you completed the transaction with mock-professionalism as you asked for his full name and membership number, biting your lip to stop your giggles as the old woman shopping inched further towards the curtained off pornography section.

“Make sure you return this by Monday, ‘kay?” You sent James off, rolling your eyes at his corny wink, smiling despite yourself.

[icallhimjoey]

please bestie i want some soft love that's so second nature joe doesnt even have his attention with you whilst he gives it, please can you write something like that?

im not allowed to write right now because work and stress and boundaries and mental health etc etc so 🥰fuck you🥰 for this Wordcount: 1.8K

---

Cotton Soft Touches Gentle Voices Smooth

“What are you doing?”

You barely even heard Joe ask the question from across the room. You were so buried in whatever was happening on TV, focus completely zoomed in, mind somewhere else entirely. It took Joe another try for you to register the question directed at you.

“Hey. What are you doing?”

“Hmm?” you turned your head to Joe before your eyes followed and for a moment, you just slowly blinked at him. Something about his face combined with the fact that it really took you a minute to find yourself back in the room made you smile. You were so cosy.

“Watching TV.” you answered innocently, because you were, eyes back on the screen already.

You were warmly nestled into the sofa, curled up, knees pulled in, all comfortable in your white ribbed cotton pyjamas. The throwpillows and blankets on the sofa created the perfect nest for you to happily curl up into.

Snug.

Soft ambient light from several lamps placed in strategic corners lit up the room just enough. If you stood and opened the curtains a bit more, you could still catch the faint and fading oranges of the sunset.

You were shower fresh, limbs covered by white clean cotton, nose still a little cold from the difference in temperature after getting out of the hot stream, and wet hair cool where it touched your skin.

But you felt so warm.

So fucking cosy.

When you’d walked back into the living room post shower, skin glossy and wet hair brushed back, Joe had installed himself at the dinner table with his laptop and a notebook.

He’d cleared away the mess from dinner and had turned his spot into a desk.

“Just need to do these e-mails,” he said after you’d let your arms curl around him from behind, arms that he grabbed hold of for a second, and you kissed the top of his head.

“Will only be a minute.”

You’d left him to it then, not minding that Joe had some work to do, just happy that he was in the same room instead of hidden away in what he called the office and you called the guest bedroom.

The ‘only a minute’ easily turned into an hour plus. Joe kept busy on both his computer and his phone, and would sometimes scribble some things down onto paper. There was a phone call or two, just quick “Sorry to call so late, but have you seen the...” and, “Hey, yea, I'm just reading it now, can I call you back in a minute?” type things.

Joe became background noise to you the second you snuggled up, and similarly the low sounds coming from the TV were just a nice reminder that Joe wasn’t alone.

But then, halfway through typing a response to an e-mail, something in Joe’s peripheral vision caught his attention.

Something moving slowly.

A little rhythmically.

When he peeked over his laptop screen and saw his girlfriend looking just about the most comfortable she’d ever looked, he didn’t even think you were aware that you were doing it.

In your layers of soft cream fabrics, head slumped to the side, Joe saw how you let your fingers softly skim over the area below your ear. They danced in circles and lines by your jaw, onto your cheek just a little before trailing back to your neck and—

That was what Joe always did.

That’s where Joe let his fingers draw shapes.

He would brush some hair from your face and would then let his fingertips linger, and it always made you hum. Made you relax. Gave you tingles that made your hearing go funny for a second.

Joe watched you lazily self soothe, and after a moment he decided that he’d actually done enough work. He could finish this e-mail tomorrow.

“What are you doing?”

“Hmm? Watching TV.”

Your eyes were back on the screen before Joe could’ve even said anything about how you were touching yourself.

It was nothing sexual - not really. Not what he was witnessing right now anyway. He imagined it just felt nice.

He closed his laptop and got up from his seat, and without looking away from the TV, you moved to make space for Joe next to you, knowing he’d make his way over to press himself into your side.

Joe smiled as you moved blankets aside but kept that one hand near your ear, index finger mapping out your hairline towards the nape of your neck and back.

Instead of sitting down though, Joe pushed a knee into the sofa right next to your thigh and placed his fingers right were yours were, pushing them aside.

“I do this,” Joe said as he hovered over you, and you grinned as you let your head fall to the side more. “This is my job.”

Joe tickled his fingers along your soft skin, fresh and clean from the shower, and it only took a few seconds for you to sigh into his touch.

It was nicer when Joe did it.

“S’nice?” Joe murmured, still with just one knee on the sofa, and you hummed, eyes closed, nodding.

“Is nicer when you do it.”

“Yea?”

Joe leant forward to press a kiss to your cheek, getting you just under your eye, and then he moved to sit down next to you.

After a shuffle of throws, pillows, and limbs, you found yourself under Joe’s arm, curled up into his side.

You were comfortable before, but this would always be infinitely better.

“Hmm, you smell nice.” Joe commented after taking a moment to press his nose into your still damp hair.

“Yea? What do I smell like? Shampoo?” you whispered, voice not wanting to be any louder.

Joe easily bit, taking the invitation to get another real good whiff of you, his whole face now pressing into the crook of your neck.

You relished the attention, feeling fuzzy on the inside, heat blooming in your chest.

“Yea, sort of lemony… all fresh and clean.”

You blushed and were unable to hide your smile as you settled together for some TV watching, warm bodies pressed together, always fitting just right somehow.

Joe’s arm rested on the back of the sofa and bent around your head just right for his fingers to play. To touch the skin around your ear like you’d been doing before. To lightly trail and leave goosebumps down your whole body.

You could easily fall asleep like this, legs intertwined, head on his chest.

You lazily watched TV in silence for a while and if Joe was going to keep up the barely there shapes drawn down your neck you knew you actually would fall asleep.

It was becoming difficult to keep your eyes open, every blink a comfortable invitation to just keep them closed, but then the soft buzzing of Joe’s phone pulled you both from your haze.

Joe had your earlobe in between his fingers when he answered, and for a moment you were fully expecting him to get up. Move to where his laptop lay shut to open it once more to maybe finish something he hadn’t yet.

But when you tried to sit up a little for Joe to slip out of this cocoon you’d created, you felt his arm tense. He wasn’t letting go of the soft skin of your ear and to make sure you stayed put, he bent a leg to keep yours in place.

“It’s past ten, mate,” Joe answered and although you didn’t know who was calling him, just from his tone of voice you knew it wasn’t work related.

Joe gently rubbed your earlobe between his fingers and it felt so nice, it turned the world blurry as you unfocused your eyes.

When you relaxed back into him, sinking into the line of his body, Joe tilted his head down to look at you, barely catching your little smile but happy to see you were still enticed by whatever was happening on TV.

You weren’t though.

Not really.

Because as Joe spoke, he let his fingers continue what they’d been doing and if he thought you were able to try to follow his conversation as well as what you were watching whilst he made you melt with his touch, he was wrong.

You were bad at multitasking on a good day, and you knew Joe was too. The fact that he was somehow able to keep you lax and floating whilst simultaneously being mentally present for this phone call was impressive.

Joe laughed through casual conversation with a friend who had some questions about future plans they’d made. Their chat quickly turned into a hey-now-that-I’ve-got-you-on-the-phone catch up.

The low vibrations from his smooth voice were nice. You felt them where your face rested on his chest and relished in the tender love you were receiving that felt like a second nature sort of thing.

“No, I’m just at home. Watching TV.”

Not being mentioned suddenly made Joes fingers feel a little scandalous. Like the person on the phone wasn’t allowed to know you were there and how he was making you feel right now.

It got a little worse when you felt how Joe let his fingers trail down your neck to disappear into your pyjama top where they slowly caressed over your collarbone.

Your voice let a little noise escape when his hand snuck back up again, finding its way into your hair, and Joe chuckled lowly.

You let yourself balance on the borders of consciousness, half asleep with thoughts so far removed from where you were, yet half laser focused on Joe’s fingers and where they tickled your skin.

Unsure of when you’d drifted off, or when Joe had finished his phone call, the next thing you registered was a soft and low far away, “Have I done a plait?” that pulled you back into the room a little more.

With your eyes still closed you reached a heavy hand up to feel what was essentially just a twirled strand of hair, not a plait at all.

You couldn’t hide the little smile that spread at how adorable you thought it was that Joe’d just been playing with your hair and thought he’d actually done something.

He hadn’t.

He just made you feel loved, which was actually far better than a plait.

“Mhm,” you hummed approvingly, snuggling up into Joe more, understanding that it was likely much smarter to just get up and find your way into bed, but you’d quite literally never been more comfortable before.

“I’ve done a plait.” Joe whispered, gleefully proud of himself and making sure that you knew, that you’d heard him, give him some praise.

“Well done.” You lied, because he’d not done a plait, but that was okay.

You weren’t going to shoot yourself in the foot, because you were about to sink back into sleep and there was just one thing that’d make you feel even more comfortable.

That would send you right back off into sleep.

 “Do another.”

---

The Taglisted

@alwayslindie, @babybluebex, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson, @demonsanddemogorgons

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@witchwolflea, @yunirgo

add yourself

[revelboo]

Hope your day is going well! I was wondering if i could get some tfp starscream crumbs 🤲 :3

Sure!

I might get my truck back this week- and the dealer actually admitted that their glass company might have broken my back window seal installing the last replacement

Bottom Feeder Pt 6

TFP Starscream x Reader

• Stretching lazily, you sprawl on your belly under the warmth of the oversized heat lamp you’d convinced the big turkey was absolutely necessary for your health. You’re pretty sure he’d fetch you a Ferrari if you could think of a valid enough sounding reason for needing one. Maybe enrichment? To be fair, you hadn’t straight up lied to get the lamp, claiming it was necessary because you needed sunlight to survive. Vitamins and mental health, right? Actual sunlight probably isn’t anything like a heat lamp, but you’re warm at least, pretending you’re basking on a beach. And it helps that he knows absolutely nothing about humans except what you tell him, so he just looks vaguely worried when you ask for weird stuff.

• Returning from overseeing a new mining operation, his optics slide to your little habitat on a corner of his desk. Your space now taking up a third of his workspace. And you sit up, stretching lazily. “Hey, Lord Starscream,” you begin as he covers his optics with a hand. Where are your outer coverings?! You’re exposed, all soft flesh with only minimal scraps of cloth covering everything. Including the mystery of what’s between your thighs that he’s absolutely not been wondering about. Hears you make a noise suspiciously like a snicker as he flicks his wings and gestures with his other hand.

“Cover yourself, Fluffy,” he demands as you try not to start cackling at his dramatics. Your squishy human body apparently offending his delicate alien sensibilities. Honestly, the big turkey would probably have had the giant, alien robot equivalent to a stroke if he’d walked in on you naked. It’s almost cute watching him freak out. “Have you no shame?” Not really, but he’s already acting like you’ve scandalized him like he’s a prudish, old Victorian lady.

• “Hey, be happy I’m not a nudist,” you mutter and he listens to you rustling around dressing yourself. He hopes. Risking a peek, you’re bent over tugging your lower coverings up, doing a little shimmy to get them over your hips. Primus. Can’t stop staring, he’d known you were flexible, but now he’s wondering how far you can bend. Shouldn’t be. Doesn’t want to think about such things. He’s not a deviant. Nothing like Megatron.

• “You okay there?” You ask, turning and watching his wings fidget and then flare out. Offended if you’re right about his body language. ‘I wasn’t staring,’ he snarls, heading right back out the door, wings held high. Alright then. Storming out even though he has to come back eventually. This is his habsuite, and you’re pretty sure he has nowhere else to go. Trying to figure out what his issue is, you land on your near nakedness. Because what else could it be? Maybe naked humans to him are like those weird naked mole rats to you. Just ew.

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[nipuni]

Hello time to yap about life and media again! 🥰

It's been a month and a half since we fully moved into this new old house and it's been a steep learning curve!! so far we had to learn how to care for a garden and grow fruit, how to deal with extremely humid weather, the mold!! also learning about various repairs, electricity and plumbing, we had a leak that turned one lamp into a waterfall, the rcd keeps tripping every time it rains, had to fix a door in the dark after Nicolas got himself trapped in a room when the handle broke during a power outage, the heating system is an air to water heat pump and it took us ages to figure out how to set it up correctly so we spent weeks wearing 3 layers inside the house, I even fell down the stairs!! I'm not used to having stairs inside the house lmao It's a big adjustment when you've always lived in small apartments in big cities all your adult life, but to be honest we love it!! everything feels like a new quest for us to tackle and it is so much fun figuring it all out as we go, reading technical manuals by candle light, the teamwork of installing and assembling furniture and networks, pruning the trees, celebrating every small mundane accomplishment and new skill learned every night over dinner, I may be corny as hell but it all feels like a privilege and an adventure 😭

Media wise we watched the second season of Arcane! This series never fails to make me fall in love with art again, not that I've ever fallen out but I can't say that the whole AI debacle hasn't been ass for the morale. Aesthetically it is a masterpiece. The character design, the cinematography, the mixed media montages aaaa Seeing the work, the skill and care that was put into every frame reminded me of how important and human the storytelling aspect of art really is. I wonder if we will see a shift to the more story driven or conceptual arts when we look back on this period, but I ramble, back to Arcane. I have mostly praise for it, wonderful characters and very touching relationships. I think our only issues were with the pacing being too slow at the start, every character climbing out of a very low point, and then too fast which made the second half feel a bit rushed. This season also felt a bit more tropey than the first one but still really solid. It remains one of the best animated series ever made and I am so happy to see it succeed in this current environment 😭 It feels like teenagehood condensed into a show, we really enjoyed it. I hope we get a season 3!!

Also there was an update in our David Tennant filmography quest! we watched The Politician's Husband and unsurprisingly we loved it!! It was gripping and the acting was brilliant. It is actually what I was expecting Rivals to be like, I realize 🤔 I think it could have used a 4th episode, felt like it ended too quickly and there was room for more, as if they ran out of time to tie things up so they picked the quickest route. But it was really good!! These miniseries are always so engaging and so short, I need mooreee.

We missed our DT nights!! Nicolas spent the last week hunting for more of David's work for us to watch. We've been hosting family for a few days again last week and on top of work and everything else we had to pause them for a bit. But now we are back to our nightly routine and he's over the moon!! Instant mood boost it's embarrassing lmao both of us falling this hard for this guy is too enabling, he even made his name our guest wifi password, we are besotted 😂

Oh! I also I saw a Veilguard Q&A was happening and read a few replies I saw posted here, and it proved to be a huge mistake! It was a disappointing and truly infuriating read. What even happened during the production of this game lmao How come the average fan seems to have a much better grasp on the lore, characters and plot than the people who made it 😭 There is this gaping disconnect between intent and execution. The way that fans are trying to make sense and give meaning to the complete mess that is the writing in an attempt to salvage and preserve the aspects they loved about it is saddening. I am mentally throwing tomatoes at John Epler as we speak. His answers felt so unserious and baffling at best and offensive and petty at worst. It's been eye opening, I could go on a two hour rant but the more I learn and dwell on it the more bitter I become about it all and I'm already seeing ten year old discourse resurface and people getting weird about it so I'll just ..🚶‍♀️ In my eyes this world and it's characters now belong only to those who love it and lives in my memory 🫡

Anyway, this ended up being at least twice as long as I was planning to make it again 😭 and I still have to catch up with asks aaaa it's been a busy month sorry I'll get to them soon!! Thank you for reading and for the support and for just being here!! I hope you all have a great week 🥺❤️