#this is the second part of a request post! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jacksabbotts · 11 hours ago

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SPENCER REID x FEM!BSF!READER . ᵒ . ➛ TW explicit sexual content, sexual themes involving power imbalance ( e.g., inexperience vs. experience ), intense psychological/emotional vulnerability, erotic language and descriptions, dubious consent fantasy elements ( phase one spencer’s secret masturbation / voyeuristic context ), praise kink, degradation kink, overstimulation, edging, etc. depending on phase, masturbation ( solo + mutual ), deep internal monologues bordering on obsession, insecurity-based arousal and shame, light manipulation ( reader teasing ), sexually explicit metaphors and imagery, reference to past trauma/insecurity ( emotional, not physical ), swearing, explicit dialogue

. ᵒ . ➛ AUTHORS NOTES this took absolutely forever, im sorrrry to the anon who first requested it. and to my first request anon ( i dub thee 🌟 bc you are a STARRRR! ) this is Freaky ( with a Capital F just like you asked 😏 and tumblr freakin ate your ask while i was replying to it lmao ). also every letter has four phases to coincide with each phase of spencer as shown on the series masterlist ( that is why it took literally forever for me to finish this ). it is not required to read the other parts of the series, but it will give some context. this is only A-L, part two is M-Z ( had break it up bc tumblr would let me post that many words lmao )

. ᵒ . ➛ WORD COUNT ~ 16.2k

masterlist | series masterlist | dividers by @cafekitsune | join the taglist | requested!!!

a is for aftercare ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

it takes spencer exactly one second after coming to regret it. not the act—never the act—but the idea that maybe he was too rough, or too quiet, or too eager, or not eager enough. that maybe you didn't enjoy yourself as much as he needed you to.

so the second your body stills beneath him, spencer is already scanning you for signs of distress. his breathing is heavy, uneven, and so is yours—but his is more panicked. yours is post-orgasmic. he can’t quite tell the difference yet.

his hand, shaky and trembling, cups the side of your face with the kind of delicate awe reserved for museum glass and rare books. 'did i—are you okay?' he asks. 'please tell me i didn’t… was it too much?'

you smile. you try to speak, but your lips are swollen and your body is jelly. he looks utterly torn, its almost adorable.

he doesn’t move off of you right away—he’s too worried that pulling away too fast will hurt you somehow. he’s never done this before. not like this. not with you. so when he does pull out, it’s slow, like he’s afraid you’ll break. his eyes flicker to where your bodies part, and he flushes from the neck up.

he doesn’t say it out loud, but something about seeing your slick on him short-circuits his brain and then he’s up—naked and fumbling, asking you where the towels are even though this was his apartment and they are his towels. he brings back a warm one from the bathroom, mumbling an apology every time he dabs too close to a sensitive spot.

'sorry—sorry. i’m so sorry. i shouldn’t have—no, wait, that’s not right, i wanted to, i just—god, i hope that was good for you.'

once he’s convinced you’re okay, he clambers back into bed with a gentleness that breaks your heart a little. he wraps himself around you, one arm across your waist, lips pressed to your temple like a benediction.

there’s a moment of silence. then he whispers against your hair: 'was it ok?' the question was actually quite ridiculous for the moment because your sweaty bodies were pressed together in every single way possible and you were almost a hundred percent sure you were still shaking in post-orgasmic thrill.

his soft cock had drifted while he wiggled to get comfort. now sitting comfortably between your slick hot thighs and you wondered if he could feel the way you were still leaking for him, despite your oversensitivity.

spencer reid in phase one is the kind of man who would tuck your hair behind your ear, ask if you need water, offer to rub your back, ask again if you're sure you're okay, and then lie awake for hours watching you sleep—not in a creepy way, but in a 'how did I get this lucky' way.

and just before he finally dozes off, he murmurs it. barely audible. barely brave enough. 'i want to be good at this for you.'

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

you’ve barely caught your breath before he’s already on you.

not sexually—affectionately. his fingers are already ghosting down your arm, across your waist, smoothing along the softest parts of you like he’s trying to calm a storm he started.

he’s flushed, hair damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead. you’re both a little wrecked—your legs shaky, your lips kiss-bruised—and yet spencer looks at you like he’s still starved.

'okay?' he whispers, even though your whimpering praise had all but answered that minutes ago.

his thumb brushes over your cheekbone, then down your neck—his hand slipping possessively over the curve of your shoulder. you nod, and he melts. 'you looked so pretty like that,' he murmurs. 'fucking beautiful.'

his words come easier now. praise and sweetness. he mumbles them into your hair. into your throat. into the flushed skin just beneath your collarbone as he starts to kiss you again—not like before, not hungry or rushed. but soft.

'i don’t want you to move,' he tells you. 'i want you to stay just like this.'

but he moves anyway. forces himself up and out of the warm tangle of limbs, tugging on his boxers as he heads to the bathroom to get a warm washcloth. he cleans you up with the kind of devotion that borders on religious—murmuring soft apologies when you flinch, even if it’s just from sensitivity.

after, he gets back into bed and pulls you onto his chest.

'you were so good for me,' he breathes. 'i hope i was good for you too.' and then he holds you like a secret. like he’s scared someone might take you from him if he loosens his grip. his hand draws slow, absentminded shapes over the curve of your spine, and he’s so close to sleep—but his mouth keeps going.

'i think about you all the time.' he breaks off, suddenly shy. 'not just like this. i mean… always.' you smile against his chest. he kisses your forehead, and that’s when you know : he doesn’t just want to be inside you. he wants to be in your life.

he wants the nights and the mornings and everything in between.

spencer reid in phase two aftercare is clingy, chatty, and deliciously lovesick. he praises you so much you nearly blush. he cleans you up like it’s a sacred act. and he falls asleep curled around you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded to earth.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

you're panting, wrung the fuck out and barely coherent.

and spencer is still looking at you like he wants more, but he doesn’t touch. at least not right away. because you’re trembling, and that makes something primal in him snap—the same way it did when he came into you ( in to a condom, because this is still fresh ) while growling how tight and perfect you felt around his cock.

his hand goes straight to your thigh, fingers splayed, grounding you. his touch is a brand now—you belong to me etched into your skin without a word.

'you’re shaking,' he says, voice low. almost scolding. he doesn’t mean to, but his voice is rougher now. post-sex spencer doesn’t speak with his usual soft concern—he’s wrecked. so gone for you he’s trying to hold himself together.

'you okay, baby?'

he waits. makes you meet his eyes and when you nod—barely able to muster the strength—he exhales like he’d been holding his breath since the second he came.

then he moves. fast, comically so.

he practically scoops you up, tucking you into his lap, one arm locking around your waist while his other hand starts rubbing down your back. he’s whispering now—urgent and reverent.

'you were perfect. you’re so perfect.' 'i don’t think i’ll ever get over that.' 'you’re not allowed to leave. you hear me? not after that.'

he keeps petting you—down your spine, over your ribs, behind your neck. he needs you close. needs to touch you. he’s not done claiming you, even if the sex part is over.

and when he finally lays you down to clean you up?

he’s all focus.

gentle hands. kiss to your knee. apology when he sees the marks he left. another kiss to each one.

'you okay?' 'you need water?' 'do you feel sore? i can—' he stops, swallows. then adds softly : 'i don’t want to hurt you. i never want to hurt you.'

it’s quiet for a minute while he takes care of you. you’re too soft to speak. too warm. too full of love and dopamine.

he climbs back into bed behind you—wraps his entire body around you like he can physically shield you from the world. you smile. then melt as his hand splays over your belly and pulls you back, snug against his chest.

he doesn’t sleep for hours.

he just holds you. watches you. breathes you in like a drug. and when you wake sometime near sunrise, you’ll find his fingers still tangled in yours.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

you’re gone.

totally used up—back arched, legs still twitching, your throat raw from begging him not to stop.

you’ve come more times than you can count. you’ve even cried a little and he hasn’t even come yet.

he’s too focused on you.

so when your body finally collapses into the mattress, trembling and marked from his hands, teeth, belt—spencer drops the act like a switch flipped.

his whole body softens.

'hey. you with me, sweetheart?'

he’s off the bed in seconds—wet washcloth in hand, water bottle already opened, blanket pulled over your shoulders before you can shiver. one of his hands rubs small circles into your back while the other brushes sweaty hair off your forehead.

'there you are,' he whispers. 'there’s my pretty girl.'

gone is the man who just made you cry while choking on his cock. gone is the man who called you his little slut while he fingered you until your voice broke and the sheets soaked.

now? now he’s your spencer. your everything. and he’s treating you like something fragile and holy.

'drink for me,' he says, voice low. 'just a few sips.'

you’re so far gone all you can do is let him guide the bottle to your lips. you drink. he watches.

then he kisses you.

soft, so fucking soft. barely there. not to start anything. just to ground you.

'you’re okay. you did so good for me. the best i’ve ever had.'

you start to whimper—emotional, overwhelmed—and spencer immediately hushes you. 'i know, baby. i know. you’re okay. i’ve got you.'

he lies beside you, pulling you into his chest, hand sliding over your chest to feel your heartbeat. not sexual—he just needs proof you’re real.

because after what you let him do to you? after the filth he spilled into your ear, the bruises he left behind, the way you smiled through it?

he’s never loved anyone more and he can’t let go. not now. not ever.

he presses a kiss to your temple. one to your neck. one to every fingertip.

you mumble something—half-conscious—and he whispers back :

'i’ll run you a bath when you’re ready.' 'you don’t have to move. i’ll carry you.' 'i’ll clean the sheets. just sleep, my sweet girl. just sleep.'

and you drift off—head on his chest, safe and warm—before you can even make it to the tub.

b is for body part ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

your thighs. specifically : the soft, warm, needy flesh of them grinding against him in your sleep.

he can’t un-feel it.

that night in the hotel bed changed everything. you were asleep, sure. dreaming. unaware. but your legs had wrapped around his like you were meant to be there. your knee had pressed right into his aching cock and your hips had rocked, and you had moaned, and he had listened to all of it—biting his lip and gripping the sheets while he jacked off beside you like a man possessed.

now he can’t stop looking at your thighs.

he stares when you wear pencil skirts. he flushes when you fold your legs beside him on the jet. he remembers the weight of your leg slung over his, how slick you’d been. how warm. how tight.

when you finally touch him again—really touch him—he’ll gasp when you climb onto his lap. his hands will go straight to your thighs. his mouth will follow.

because now he knows how they feel. he just wants to know how they taste.

his neck.

specifically : the spot just below his ear.

it started by accident.

you had leaned in to whisper something during a case briefing, and your lips had brushed that tender patch of skin. he’d flinched. his ears had gone red. and you’d smiled, because now you had intel.

you start doing it more often. leaning in too close. tilting your head so your breath tickles just below his jaw. he gets so flustered—and then you’re grinning to yourself for the next hour.

but then, he tells you what happened that night. the wet dream. the fact that he stayed perfectly still while your moans and movements drove him to finish in that shared bed.

you’re not mad. not at all.

in fact, the next time you two are alone, you tilt his chin, lean in, and press a kiss—right there.

his hands fly to your waist. his breath shudders and you whisper, 'told you that spot would kill you.'

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

your mouth.

at this stage, spencer is deep in the 'i should not be thinking this' phase. he is riddled with guilt and confusion—obsessed with you in a way that makes his stomach hurt. and it starts with your mouth.

he watches it constantly. when you talk. when you laugh. when you bite your lip while reading something. when you lick whipped cream off your spoon at the coffee shop and he nearly drops his book.

and then there’s your smile—that teasing little i know what i’m doing to you smirk that haunts him at night.

he’s not proud of it, but he thinks about it. ahat your mouth would look like wrapped around his cock. would you drool as he pushed it is as far down your throat as he could, would you gag. what you’d sound like if he kissed you, really kissed you, until your lips were red and swollen and desperate.

he knows he shouldn’t, but that’s what makes it worse. 'she probably doesn’t even mean to do it,' he tells himself. 'or maybe she does. god. maybe she knows. maybe she knows exactly what she’s doing.'

and suddenly he’s hard again.

for you, its his hands. no contest.

you stare at them all the time.

long, elegant fingers that twitch when he’s nervous, that spin pens and fiddle with sugar packets. that brush over file folders like they’re something sacred. that tug at his tie when he’s flustered.

and then you imagine them doing everything else. gripping your hips. curling inside you. pinning your wrists down. gripping the headboard while he finally loses control.

you’re not subtle about it either. you give him pens just to watch him fiddle. you touch his fingers unnecessarily when passing case files. you make excuses to show him things on your phone so he’ll hover behind you, hand braced on the desk beside your thigh.

you love his hands and you can’t wait to find out what else they can do.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

your hips.

specifically : the dip where your waist curves into the bone—where he can grip, pull, anchor.

by now, he knows. knows you’re teasing him. knows you want him just as bad. and when he finally gets to touch you, spencer’s hands will find your hips first. like he’s been waiting for permission to hold you still.

he’s bolder now. his hands splay over your curves like he owns them. not out of dominance, but worship—because they’ve haunted his dreams. he uses your hips like a map and a metronome: holding you down when you grind against him, guiding your pace when you ride him for the first time.

his fingers leave light bruises. his mouth presses kisses along every inch he can reach. and when you whimper and tell him you can’t take anymore, he digs his fingers just a little deeper into the flesh there and says:

'yes, you can. stay still for me, sweetheart. i need—god, i need to feel you take it.'

and when you do?

he falls apart all over again.

its still his hands. ( what can you say? )

specifically : his fingers. the ones that turn pages and cradle coffee cups—and now, fuck you so tender it makes your whole body tremble. because when spencer finally stops hesitating—when he chooses to put those brilliant, clever fingers on you—everything changes.

he learns fast. he asks questions. he watches your body and listens to what it needs. when you tell him how to touch you, he doesn’t just obey—he memorizes. he practices. he wants to be perfect for you.

and he is. you could write essays about his fingers. the way he curls them just right. the way his thumb finds your clit like he was born to touch it. the way he looks up at you from between your thighs, glasses fogged, tongue out, and murmurs, 'that’s it, baby. show me how you like it.'

you love his hands so much, you start holding them all the time. in meetings. on walks. under tables. over your chest while he fucks you slow.

one day you say, 'god, spence—your hands are perfect.'

he’ll blush, because of course he will, but later that night? he’ll say—

'you like them better here?' as he slides two fingers into your pussy.

'or here?' as his palm presses flat against your tummy while he fucks you from behind.

'or maybe…' as he brushes your hair back, cups your cheek, and kisses you so deep you forget your name.

and the answer is always:

yes.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

your throat.

and not just for the obvious reasons. ( though those reasons definitely count. )

in this phase, sspencer’s obsession sharpens. the playfulness of phase one, the awe of phase two, the worship of phase three—it all fuses into something hot and dangerous and feral in the best fucking way.

he loves your throat because he can watch it work when you swallow his cum.

he loves your throat because he can feel your moans vibrate against his palm when he gently wraps his hand around it.

he loves your throat because he can lean in during an argument and whisper—

'careful. you keep pushing, and i’m gonna fuck you until your voice breaks.'

and the next morning?

he’ll kiss your sore throat better. with tea and honey and guilt-laced affection.

but he’ll still smirk when you flinch a little at the memory of him growling 'open for me' with your head tilted back against the wall.

he touches your throat when he’s soft, too. when he’s falling asleep with your pulse against his fingertips. when you say something tender and he cups your jaw like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

because at the end of the day, it’s not just about sex. it’s about how you make him feel alive. how he wants to feel your heartbeat to remind himself : she’s real. this is real. i don’t have to be alone anymore.

his cock. there’s no delicate way to say it.

you love everything about him—his brain, his hands, his back, his mouth—but by phase four?

his cock is your new religion.

and it's not just about the size ( though it’s so good, thick and long and pretty, flushed pink with that slight curve that drives you insane ). it’s not even just how he uses it ( though that’s gotten filthy, hasn’t it? ). it’s the way he loses control when you give it attention.

you touch him and he unravels. you lick him and he whimpers. you ride him and he worships.

you love how vocal he is. how needy he gets. how he tries to hold back but always ends up begging.

'please—god, please, don’t stop.' as you hollow your cheeks and suck.

'feels so good, sweetheart. you feel so fucking good.' as you grab his thigh and force him to go further into you your mouth.

'i can’t—i’m gonna come. gonna come for you, baby—please—' as his tip grazes down your throat.

you can feel how much he wants you in every thrust. every twitch. every desperate grip on your hips, your thighs, your jaw.

you love how his cock fits in your mouth. how it stretches your cunt. how it leaks like he’s been ready for you—like he’s just been waiting for permission to ruin you.

you’ll tell him, breathless and smug and completely fucked-out :

'this is mine, spence. all of it.'

and he’ll say, without hesitation— 'yours. always.'

phase four is not about restraint.

it’s about relief.

the full-body exhale after holding back for too long.

c is for cum ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer hasn’t meant to cum in any of these early moments of phase one. he’s not even thinking about orgasm as a goal. he’s just trying to survive.

you’ve kissed him once—maybe twice. you’ve touched him barely. you’ve said a few devastating things that hit him square in the libido and then acted like you didn’t even notice. he doesn’t know what’s allowed, what’s wanted, what’s imagined, and what’s real.

all he knows is cock has never behaved this way before.

it’s always messy. always mortifying. always unexpected. he finishes :

in his pants in the jet bathroom after you text and ask he needs help with his hard on that you most definitely caused.

in his bedroom the night that you ask 'did you think about me when you touched yourself on the jet?' in the middle of the bullpen when he was supposed to be doing paperwork.

in his hand while guilt-jacking it to the sound of you moaning his name and fucking yourself on his thigh. and then again in the shower to the memory of your soaked thighs grinding on him in your sleep.

in your car, when your hand slips over his clothed cock and strokes him so sweetly he doesn’t even get the chance to warn you—he just chokes out your name, spills over his boxers, and pants apologies like a sinner in a confessional.

every single time, he’s horrified by how quickly he comes. every single time, he spirals afterward.

'i’m so sorry, i didn’t mean to— i can clean it up— i just— you— i— i didn’t—'

he doesn’t understand how you can stay so calm. he thinks he’s ruined everything. ( he hasn’t )

you’re just sitting pretty, pretending not to be the orchestrator of his entire sexual collapse.

his thoughts rang from, 'you’re disgusting' to 'you couldn’t even hold out thirty seconds' to 'she’s going to laugh in your face.'

you’ve seen it all—his stammering, his blushing, the way he avoids eye contact after he finishes like a schoolboy caught passing a dirty note.

you just smile.

'don’t worry, spence,' you tell him. 'we’ll work on your stamina next time.'

his soul leaves his body.

his cock twitches again.

he has no idea what to do with you.

he doesn’t just like cumming—he likes cumming because of you.

the way you say his name when you know he’s close.

the way your fingers wrap around him, just curious, just careful.

the way you don’t make fun of him when he spills too fast, too hard, too full of want.

he starts to crave the release—but also the praise. the tiny gasps you make when he moans. the way your lips part when you realize he’s close. the look on your face when you ruin him.

by the end of phase one, he’s still shy, still guilt-ridden, still unsure.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

you’ve had the talk.

you know that he knows about the wet dream. the handjob. the shower.

you were not mad. you were turned on. which honestly broke spencer’s brain for a second.

now you’re in this hazy, delicious middle-ground : not dating. not just friends. definitely not innocent.

and he’s discovering something about himself : you make him needy.

this is mutual masturbation territory. the first time you both do it in front of each other, it starts slow. you’re teasing him verbally like always—just soft whispers :

'show me how you do it when i’m not there.' 'do you touch yourself when you think about the car?' 'tell me what you think about when you come.'

he resists—at first. but he’s so worked up, he’s aching. you don’t touch him this time. not directly. you just sit there, legs parted, fingertips teasing your waistband.

and spencer—god.

he fists his cock, groaning your name before he can even stop himself. it’s messy. loud. gut-wrenching. he finishes fast again, but this time he doesn’t spiral.

this time you tell him :

'good boy.'

and spencer ascends.

she wants to see me come. she likes it. she touches herself thinking about me. she touches herself for me. i can let her watch.

his orgasm isn’t just physical anymore—it’s performative in the best way. he still feels a little shy, but he’s starving for your reaction.

he loves the gasp you make when he leaks down his own fist. he loves the tiny moan you let out when he pants your name.

he loves that you keep your eyes on him the whole time.

'don’t stop watching,' he begs one night, breathless.

and you don’t.

spencer doesn’t want to cum alone anymore.

he wants to be beside you, across from you, under you—whatever it takes to feel that connection when he finally lets go. he’s beginning to understand that pleasure isn’t something to be ashamed of, especially not when it’s with you.

and he’s starting to think…

maybe you don’t want to stop. maybe this isn’t just a phase. maybe this is becoming something more.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

at this point, the gloves are off—literally and metaphorically. you and spencer are doing it. regularly. desperately. obsessively.

he’s still your best friend, still sweet, still babbles post-orgasm, but now?

he begs. he curses. he cries when you edge him long enough. and when he comes—it’s an event.

spencer doesn’t just cum in phase three. he falls apart. he crumbles. he writhes. he gasps your name like it’s sacred.

you’ve figured out the exact way to ruin him :

two fingers under his jaw to make him look at you, a filthy praise-whisper in his ear ( like 'don’t you dare finish until i say so' )

a rhythm that he’s not allowed to break

he asks permission now, every time. he says it like he’s going to die if you say no.

'please, i can’t—please let me—i want to be good, i need—'

sometimes you say yes. sometimes you wait until he’s shaking so hard he’s tearing up. when you finally say 'now,' he explodes. and then he thanks you for it, breathlessly, repeatedly, until you kiss the words off his mouth.

this isn’t just about lust anymore. this is emotional. sensory. total surrender.

spencer doesn’t care if he whimpers, or moans, or sobs into your chest. he doesn’t care if he cums too fast or too hard or too loud.

he just wants you. every second. every nerve. every ruined breath.

spencer finally understands that pleasure can be exquisite and still be safe. that it’s okay to need something intense—because you make it okay.

he learns how far he can go. how much he can take. and that the second he looks into your eyes and says 'i can’t take it'—you’ll say 'yes, you can. just one more for me, baby.'

and he will.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

sex with spencer is no longer about discovery—it’s devotion. not just heat, not just hunger—it’s soul-deep, bone-shaking, terrifyingly good.

when spencer finishes now?

it’s slow. it’s tender. it’s devastating.

he comes with his face buried in your neck, your name whispered like a prayer, body trembling from restraint he’s long since lost. he holds you tighter than ever—like he thinks you’ll disappear if he lets go.

there’s no shame now. no guilt. no second-guessing. he wants you to see him fall apart.

you’ve seen him cry with your name on his lips.

you’ve watched him come so hard he can’t stay upright after. you’ve whispered things in his ear that he’ll remember on his deathbed. you’ve taken him apart and put him back together a hundred times—and he trusts you to do it again.

spencer cums with complete surrender in phase four. he holds eye contact. he holds your hand. he might say thank you, might say fuck, i need you, might just say more.

you don’t need a rhythm anymore. you just need him. and he just needs you.

he no longer begs to finish—he just asks where.

''inside you?' 'on your stomach?' 'your chest?' 'your mouth?'

and when you tell him?

he listens.

he obeys.

and he thanks you like you’ve given him a gift every single time.

d is for dirty talk ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer doesn’t mean to talk dirty.

he honestly can’t help it when he is around you.

it’s less about confidence and more about desperation—the kind that leaks out when he’s too worked up to self-censor. he’s not giving you a rehearsed fantasy; he’s muttering the exact, raw thoughts spinning through his spiraling brain.

his mouth moves faster than his filter, and that’s what makes it so devastating.

it’s accidental, breathless, panicked arousal.

'f-fuck, d-don’t stop—don’t stop, please—' 'god, do you even know what you’re doing to me?' 'i’m not gonna make it. i’m not—i can’t—'

he says the quiet parts out loud. things he meant to keep to himself, things like :

'i think about your mouth when i’m trying to work.' 'i’ve imagined you doing this since the first time i saw you.' 'you’re so fucking pretty it hurts.'

sometimes he gasps things he doesn’t realize are audible. whispers against your throat when he’s too far gone to care.

'you’re evil.' 'i’m so hard it hurts.'

and the worst part? he blushes as soon as he realizes he’s said any of it out loud. he’ll try to backpedal. stammer an apology. hide his face in your shoulder and groan :

'i didn’t mean to say that—oh my god—forget i said that—'

but you never do.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

he’s evolving.

there’s still shyness. still blushes. still that nervous energy thrumming just under the surface—but something’s shifted. he knows now that you want him. that you like him. that he doesn’t have to keep everything locked behind his teeth.

so he starts experimenting.

and once he gets a taste of how wrecked his words make you? he can’t stop. he doesn’t always say it smoothly. but when it lands? it lands hard.

'you wore that on purpose, didn’t you?' 'you like being a distraction? fine. now you’ve got my full attention.'

sometimes, it’s soft and reverent. other times, it’s ragged—growled through gritted teeth while he’s rutting into you with a rhythm that makes your toes curl.

'you’re so fucking soft.' 'you don’t even know what you do to me.' 'i think about you like this all the time.'

and sometimes—just sometimes—he whispers what he wants to do next.

'i want you to moan my name.' “let me be on top.”

he doesn’t realize how filthy he sounds. He’s still shocked when you moan louder in response. Still stunned when your eyes roll back because of a sentence that just slipped out of his mouth.

but god, does he love your reactions. they feed him. they build him. and the more he gets? the bolder he becomes.

there are moments in phase two where the dirty talk becomes domineering. not because he wants power—but because he craves your submission. not control. not force.

just need.

you’ll see it in the way he pants :

'tell me you want me.' 'say it. say it again.'

and when you do? he’ll lose every last shred of composure he worked so hard to keep.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

phase three spencer reid is dangerous.

not because he’s cruel—never that. but because he knows exactly what he’s doing now.

he’s past the blushing. past the guilt. past wondering if he’s imagining it when you tremble at his words.

he knows what gets you there and he uses it.

ohhh, he use it.

dirty talk in phase three isn’t just filth for the sake of it. it’s a fucking strategy. he says things that no man should say in that voice. that low, velvety, wicked voice.

'is that what you needed, baby? my fingers in you, nice and deep?' 'i can feel you clenching. you’re already close, aren’t you? you get off on this.' 'you’ve been teasing me for weeks. you earned this.'

he’s a scholar of your body now—knows how it ticks. he maps it with his mouth. marks it with his words.

'you’re my favorite thing to study.'

phase three spencer is a goddamn menace when you’re on the edge. he talks you there. keeps you there. then backs off, just to hear you whine.

'beg for it. say please, and maybe i’ll let you come.' 'look at you. fucking soaking. did i do this to you?' 'this pussy’s mine now, you know that, right?'

he’s smug. he’s relentless, but he’s so attentive.

when you fall apart?

he’s right there to whisper it into your hair :

'that’s it, baby. that’s my girl. so perfect for me, soakin my fingers.'

by now, he’s not afraid to name things. to ask for things. he’ll even suggest them with that casual, scholarly tone.

'next time, i want your hands tied.' 'would you let me film you coming for me?' 'let’s try that thing you looked up last night, sweetheart. i saw your search history.'

you will combust and he will smile.

because phase three spencer reid knows he’s got you wrapped around his long, clever fingers—and that his voice alone is enough to bring you to your knees.

he’s filth. he’s power. he’s a walking, talking thesis on how to fuck someone senseless using only words.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

phase four spencer reid is unrecognizable from the bashful, blushing boy he used to be. he's still sweet. still soft. but only after. because when he’s inside you?

he’s filthy. he's unhinged. he is fucking possessive.

and his dirty talk? it drips with ownership.

at this stage, you belong to him—and he makes sure you feel it in every word.

'you’re gonna take it, baby. you’re gonna take every inch, just like that.' 'so cockdrunk you forgot your own name, huh? good thing you only need to remember mine.' 'i love how loud you get when i fuck you deep. you know the neighbors hear you, right?'

he says it right into your mouth. into your ear. onto your skin as he bites your shoulder to keep from moaning too loud himself.

he doesn’t hold back anymore—not with his thrusts, and not with his mouth.

phase four spencer doesn’t ask. he tells.

'open your legs wider. that’s it.' 'put your hands behind your head—i want you to watch your tits bounce when you come.' 'rub your clit for me. come on now.'

and the moment you hesitate, he chuckles—darkly.

'what’s wrong, sweetheart? suddenly shy? you weren’t shy when you begged for my cock in the elevator.'

he talks you through every orgasm. describes it in real time.

'look at that. you’re shaking so hard. so fucking pretty when you come for me.'

he toes the line between worship and ruin.

'you’re such a fucking mess for me, baby. ruined that pretty pussy on my fingers alone.' 'you beg so well, i almost feel bad teasing you. almost.' 'god, i love it when you cry like this. you wanna come that bad, huh?'

then—without fail—he’ll pull you close, brush the hair from your face, and murmur :

'mine. all mine.'

because phase four spencer is possessive in the bedroom. gentle outside of it. but here? in the dark? on your knees?

he’s merciless.

and the worst part?

he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

e is for experience ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

he is, in a word, inexperienced. but don’t confuse that with clueless.

he’s a genius, after all and the fact that he hasn’t done much? only makes everything ten times hotter.

he knows the mechanics. he knows every scientific study on erogenous zones. can recite entire Kinsey reports from memory.

but when it comes to you?

to your bare skin under his trembling hands? he's overwhelmed to say the least.

'you feel… so much softer than i expected. not that i—i wasn’t imagining, i just—'

he blushes. he stammers. he can’t stop looking. you catch him staring at your bra like it’s a quantum puzzle. he’ll murmur things like :

'i didn’t think i’d ever get this close to someone like you.' 'are you… sure you want me to…?' 'what do you like? i want to… get it right.'

he’s terrified he’ll mess it up. that you’ll compare him to someone else. that he won’t know what to do with his hands. ( he doesn’t. )

so you guide him and when he listens? he really listens. the first time he kisses down your stomach, it’s not smooth. it’s hesitant and careful. like he’s afraid you’ll evaporate if he goes too fast.

but when your fingers thread into his hair and you sigh—he exhales like he’s been blessed.

'i didn’t know it would feel this… electric.'

afterward, he fumbles to pull your shirt down.

'are you okay? did i—was it… okay for you?'

you tell him yes. of course.

but that’s not enough for him. he wants proof.

he wants to memorize every twitch, every moan, every breath you took while wrapped around him.

because he doesn’t just want to be good at sex.

he wants to be good for you.

and phase one spencer reid?

he may be inexperienced but he learns very fast.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

he has done a lot of thinking and a lot of touching.

most of it? behind closed doors. in the shower. in bed. in hotel bathrooms with a hand clamped over his mouth while replaying your voice in his head.

'did you think of me when you touched yourself on the jet last week?'

yeah. that question lives rent-free in his brain. he absolutely did. he still does.

he's still not experienced in the traditional sense but he’s mentally catalogued every sound you’ve made near him. he’s committed your reactions to memory—filed under 'use this to make her shake'.

he’s a little braver now. a little bolder.

he touches himself with you in mind. not just a vague fantasy version—you.

your voice. your laugh. the way you looked at him over your coffee that morning.

he strokes himself with your name on his tongue. sometimes he finishes faster than he wants to—because your smile is enough to undo him.

he hasn’t actually had sex with you. not yet.

but you’ve palmed him through his pants. you’ve whispered filthy things in his ear. you’ve brushed your lips against his jaw and asked, 'what are you thinking about, spence?' in the most devastating voice imaginable.

and he has so much pent-up experience now—secondhand, yes, but sharpened to a dangerous point by longing.

if he ever gets the chance?

he won’t just be good. he’ll be unhinged.

phase two spencer can tell you, with academic precision, exactly how to make a woman orgasm.

but he doesn’t need to anymore because by now?

he’s dreaming of your moans on a loop. he’s memorized the tension in your thighs when you tease him. he knows how it feels when you grind on his thigh in your sleep.

and maybe, when he’s alone—tugging at himself in the dark—he wonders what it would be like if you really touched him. if you watched. and maybe, maybe… he comes with your name on his lips.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

spencer reid is no longer imagining you.

he has you.

your body. your moans. your praise. your nails in his back. he knows what you taste like, sound like, look like when you fall apart—and he is addicted.

he might not have been your most experienced partner in the beginning, but by now? he’s borderline feral and his experience is intimately, exclusively, dangerously tailored to you.

the quietest man in the room is now the one who pins you to the mattress and fucks you so slowly you forget your own name.

he’s so hungry for you it’s embarrassing. he’s been studying—you, your body, your sounds—and he uses everything he’s learned. Every angle. every breath.

he’s not just a fast learner—he’s a devoted one and now that he knows how to get you to shake?

he won’t stop until you do.

he wants all of it.

not just your body. not just the high.

he wants the learning curve. he wants to memorize how your breath hitches when he curls his fingers just right. he wants to build you from the inside out. he wants to write essays in his head about what your pleasure sounds like.

and then he wants to make you sob it all over again.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

by phase four he not just experienced.

he is confident.

not cocky or careless. but deeply, devastatingly self-assured in the way only someone who’s loved you—known you—worshipped you—can be.

he knows what you need before you say it. he knows how to pull it from your throat before you think to beg. he doesn’t ask, 'did you like that?' anymore.

he tells you :

'yeah you liked that. i felt it.'

and then he does it again.

he takes his time—every time—because he knows how much it ruins you when he drags it out. he teases you not because he’s insecure, but because he knows exactly how to hold you on the edge.

knows how to touch you until your thighs shake and your eyes flutter and you’re whimpering his name like a prayer. knows when to still his fingers and whisper, 'you’re not ready yet. be patient.'

he doesn’t need to prove anything anymore.

you already taught him that he’s everything you want. now he wants to show you just how much he’s learned.

and oh, does he show you.

he’ll push your body to limits you didn’t know it had. hold you through overstimulation. whisper corrections when your hands shake too much to undo his belt properly.

'eyes on me, sweetheart. that’s it. you’re doing so good.'

his voice is deeper now when he’s buried inside you. thicker. rougher. laced with years of yearning and practice and love. and when you clench around him and cry out, trembling?

he kisses your damp cheek, strokes your hair, and murmurs :

'perfect. just like that. you gonna cum on my cock again, baby?'

because you made him this way.

all that teasing in phase one? all the longing in phase two? the holy-shit-i-can’t-believe-this-is-real wonder of phase three?

it’s all still there. but now, it’s funneled into the man above you. the one gripping your hips. the one fucking you like you’re the last person on earth.

and when he comes, he always comes deep. pressed flush against you, whispering broken things against your skin. sometimes your name. sometimes a full dissertation on how tight you are and how good your squeezing him.

f is for favorite position ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

he is in the deep end of uncharted waters now—flustered, overwhelmed, barely holding on by the thread of his last clean pair of slacks.

he’s never had to think about this before. favorite position? It’s a miracle he’s not short-circuiting from just imagining you naked.

still, if you pressed him—if you leaned in real close, batted your lashes, asked all sweet and sly—

'spence, tell me your favorite position…'

he’d stammer for a bit, push up his glasses, mutter something about how it’s really just about proximity to emotional intimacy and mutual safety—before quietly admitting:

'uh… probably missionary.'

and it’s not because he lacks imagination.

it’s because it’s the one where he gets to see you.

its because he wants to know what your face looks like when you come. because he wants to bury his head in your neck when it’s too much. because the thought of holding himself above you—watching you squirm, cry out, wrap your legs around him?

it's enough to make him absolutely combust.

'i think about it,' he’d whisper later. 'your legs hooked behind me. your hands in my hair. you saying my name like that…'

he never finishes the sentence. but the pink blooming in his cheeks tells you enough.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

spencer is newly deflowered, in every possible way—emotionally, physically, spiritually ( you wrecked him, and he liked it ).

he’s no longer a trembling virgin, but he’s still awkward, reverent, and achingly in love with you. and now that he knows what it feels like—how your body fits under his, around him, on him—he’s hooked.

so what’s his favorite position?

You riding him. ( with his hands on your hips like you’re going to disappear. )

because it lets him watch everything.

your tits bouncing.

your mouth slack with pleasure.

your eyes—half-lidded, drunk on him.

and god help him if you grab his hands and press them to your chest. if you tell him to just relax and let you take care of him?

he melts. he melts.

he never realized how hot it would be to be so completely, deliciously used—until you leaned in and whispered :

'don’t think, baby. just feel.'

and now? he craves it.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

phase three spencer is a man transformed.

he’s confident and commanding. utterly insatiable. gone is the stammering virgin with trembling fingers. now he’s got your wrists pinned, your name on his tongue, and a roughness in his voice that should be illegal.

so what’s his favorite position?

from behind. but not just any kind of behind. chest to your back, one hand in your hair, the other on your throat or between your legs.

because he likes the control now. he likes watching your face in the mirror—your eyes fluttering, lips parted, that dazed expression he put there.

because it lets him guide your pace. whisper filth into your ear. wrap a hand around your throat and feel your pulse flutter every time he thrusts deeper.

he loves hearing you beg—loves how desperate you get when he slows down just to tease.

'spencer, please—' 'i know, sweetheart. i know. but i’m not done with you yet.'

and if you try to push back into him?

mistake. he’ll grip your hips so tight they’ll bruise, groan into your neck, and make you pay for being greedy.

in the best way, of course.

his second favorite?

over his desk. clothes bunched. legs shaking. he still files his reports at that desk—still thinks about it every time he sits down.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

phase four spencer is devastating.

he’s not just confident—he’s obsessed. comfortable in your body. in his own. in you. everything he does now is deliberate, filthy, and tailored to exactly what he knows makes you lose it.

so what’s his favorite position?

reverse cowgirl. with your back arched, his hands gripping your hips, and his eyes locked on the way you take him.

because spencer is completely gone for you.

it’s visual torture in the best way.

he gets to watch the drag of your body as you sink down onto him. see the bounce, the reverberation, the pure sin of it. trace every curve with greedy, possessive eyes and run his hands over your ass, your waist, your thighs like he owns you ( because honestly at this point, he does, and you love it ).

'jesus christ, you look unreal,' he pants, watching your slick thighs tremble. 'i want you to see what you do to me—look.' he no longer waits for permission and he grabs your phone. records it. just for him. just for you.

when you grind? his hands slip to your stomach. one travels up, between your breasts, over your throat. he doesn’t choke—he holds.

firm. reverent. worshipful.

'you’re so perfect,' he whispers, voice wrecked. 'so fucking perfect. you were made for this.'

he lets you ride him whenever you want because spencer lives to be used by you, but when he initiates?

it’s slow, deep. utterly unforgiving.

and after?

he kisses every inch of you. tells you how beautiful you looked, how good you were for him. strokes your skin like it’s priceless.

g is for goofy ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ all phases

goofy spencer is endearing in every single way, but in phase one—before either of you has admitted what’s going on—it’s especially adorable.

because he doesn’t mean to be funny. he’s just… spencer.

starts rambling mid-flirt because he’s nervous. you’ll say, 'you always this red when you get teased?' and he’ll launch into a fact about vasodilation and increased blood flow until he realizes… you’re grinning at him.

laughs like a dork when you poke his side. like full-on snort. then gets embarrassed about it.

says something wildly inappropriate by accident and immediately panics:

'god, you’re just trying to ruin me.' then it sets in. 'i–um—i don’t mean ruin as in—you know—sexually—like—um—emotionally, i guess? or intellectually? . . . i’ll stop talking now.'

you catch him watching you one day and say, 'see something you like, dr. reid?' and spencer, deadpan, says :

'i was admiring the structural integrity of your penmanship.'

then immediately blushes so hard he has to turn away. ( he was definitely watching the curve of your ass. he just panicked.)

sometimes you flirt too well, and he fumbles.

'i bet i could make you come in under two minutes.' 'you mean… arrive? like… come over? because i live… farther? from here?” ( brain blue screens )

He’s the king of awkward giggles, scientific facts in very wrong moments, and accidentally saying 'moisture content' when talking about kissing.

and you?

you love every second of it.

h is for hair ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer doesn't mean to notice your hair the way he does.

he tells himself it’s harmless—just an idle observation. a scientific curiosity. aesthetic appreciation. nothing more.

but then you lean over your desk and it falls ( he’s catalogued all your hair textures in his mind like a walking pantone wheel of temptation ). he gets distracted—loses his train of thought mid-sentence because the overhead lights just hit you so—and his hands twitch like they want to touch. just one strand.

he imagines what it feels like constantly.

wonders whether it’s soft like cotton or heavy like silk. if it smells like your shampoo or like something that’s just you.

wonders what you’d do if he asked to tug on it.

wonders what kind of sound you’d make.

and when you sit next to him on the jet, nodding off after a long case, your head lolled gently toward him and your hair brushing his arm?

he wants to bury his face in it. suffocate in it. he wants to know what it would be like if your head was on his chest, not just his bicep.

he also thinks a lot about what’s underneath.

your pubic hair, specifically. ( he’s mortified by how often he thinks about it. )

are you shaved? trimmed? bare? natural? do you wax? do you care? would you let him see it? touch it? mouth it?

he bets it’s the same shade as what’s on your head. he bets it’s beautiful. he bets it would drive him out of his goddamn mind.

as for him?

he’s self-conscious about his own body hair. always has been.

his curls? he those tame, gelled behind his ears in phase one. wild they frame his face, soften his jawline, fall into his eyes when he’s reading. while he is working, his ear length hair is slicked back.

you’ve told him—casually—that you like his hair this length. called it cute. tugged it once teasingly. he thought about that for hours.

( you don’t know that he almost offered to let you braid it one night on the jet. he chickened out. he still regrets it. )

below the neck?

spencer keeps things neat but natural.

he trims down there, mostly for hygiene, but he doesn’t go fully bare—he read an article once about skin irritation and ingrown hairs and decided he’d rather not risk it. besides, he thinks you'd like it. think you’d scratch your nails lightly through it while you kissed your way down—

( he stops that thought every time. it never works. )

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

it starts with your shampoo.

that first night at his apartment—your first almost-date—you'd washed your hair in his shower. left his bathroom foggy and fragrant, the scent trailing behind you like perfume.

spencer didn’t mean to sniff the air like a lunatic.

but he did and then he buried his face in the throw blanket you'd wrapped around your shoulders and inhaled like a man starved.

he recognizes that scent now. knows it better than anything. can pinpoint it when you walk by in the bullpen, when you leave his desk after teasing him senseless. when you lean over the evidence board and your hair brushes the paper beside his hand—he feels it like a live wire.

he doesn’t stop there.

he touches.

when you lie on his couch watching reruns, he’ll sneak his hand up to cradle the back of your head. pretend it’s about comfort. stability. but really? he just wants to card his fingers through it. slowly. absentmindedly.

he plays with the ends while you ramble about something that isn't him. he knots it around his finger like he's tethering you to him.

he brushes it back from your cheek just to see your face—just to look—and his fingers linger too long every time.

you never complain. you never pull away. ( that might be what ruins him most. )

he hasn’t touched your hair down there yet. but god, he wants to. he’s thought about it. desperately. vividly. late at night, he curls a pillow behind his head and jacks off slow to the thought of your thighs pressed open for him. imagines what your pussy looks like—bare or trimmed or messy and soft.

he’s ready for anything. doesn’t care what’s there or what isn’t. he’d mouth over it either way, tug at it gently with his teeth if you let him. he thinks he’d love the texture of it on his tongue.

you’ve seen the hair on his chest now. not all of it—just a flash that first night he peeled off his sweater and sat beside you on the bed, pretending not to notice the way your eyes dropped.

he caught your glance and now he keeps the top few buttons of his shirts open on purpose. he doesn't know what you'd do if you saw the rest of it—the trail down his stomach, the soft hair dusting his thighs. but God, he wants to find out. he wants you to touch. to kiss. to tug when he fucks you so slow he makes you cry.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

he fists your hair when he kisses you.

not hard. not at first.

it starts gentle—curious fingers weaving through the strands at the nape of your neck, thumb tracing the shape of your skull like he’s cataloguing it. he tucks the hair behind your ear just so he can lean in and whisper something filthy, and when you shiver, he smiles.

but when your mouth opens beneath his?

when your tongue meets his, needy and greedy, and you tug at his shirt like you want to climb inside him—

he grabs a handful and he pulls. he learns quickly what you like.

how tilting your head just right makes you whimper. how soft tugs at your roots make you melt, but sharp ones make you gasp and clench around his fingers when they’re inside you.

he’s obsessed.

obsessed with the way your hair tangles in his sheets. with the way it clings to your forehead with sweat when he’s got his mouth buried between your legs. with how it smells, how it tastes when it gets caught between his teeth because he won’t stop kissing your neck long enough to push it away.

you get your revenge.

your fingers in his hair—curling in those long chestnut waves he never quite manages to tame. you thread your hand through them when he goes down on you, encouraging him, holding him in place like he isn’t already starving for you.

he never knew his hair could be such a weak spot until you tugged—really tugged—right as he made you come. he groaned like it hurt, like you’d dragged it out of his soul, and now he can’t stop chasing that sound.

his body hair becomes another fixation.

he’s always been shy about it—but never shaved his chest or his stomach, never trimmed anything but what seemed polite. now, he sees the way your eyes trail over him when he pulls off his shirt. sees the way your fingers stroke lower and lower when you’re curled together in bed, lips trailing after them.

and when your nails rake through the hair on his thighs as you sink to your knees in front of him? the way you grab his wrists and guide his own hands into your hair, making a makeshift ponytail. the way you groan against his heavy cock when he tugs on it hard.

he swears he blacks out for a second.

and when it’s over, when the sweat dries and the sheets are soaked and he’s still wrapped around you like he’ll die if you leave—he strokes your hair for hours. twirls it, studies it, kisses your temple through it.

he’ll bury his face in it when he thinks you’re asleep and whisper the things he’s not brave enough to say aloud.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

spencer is addicted.

not in the bashful, hesitant, slow-burn way he used to be. not even in the reverent awe. this is different. this is need. this is the way your hair lives on his pillow, the way your scent clings to his sweaters, the way his fingers curl into the back of your head on instinct—like his body knows you’re his before his brain can catch up.

he loves all of it.

clean or messy. styled or tangled. damp from the shower or damp from sweat. he loves the way it gets in your mouth when you're laughing. the way it fans across your back when you’re face-down in the sheets. the way you let him brush it out after long days, humming under your breath while he works from root to end, gentle and methodical like it’s an equation with only one right answer.

and when it comes to what’s beneath the silk and strands—he’s got every inch memorized.

he kisses the soft skin behind your ear before curling his fingers into your hair and tugging you down onto him. he trails his lips down the path your part carves into your scalp. he mouths at your temple, your crown, your jaw, worshipping the parts of you others overlook. and when your hair sticks to your skin after he’s ruined you, when he pushes it back to get a better look at your face, he always murmurs—

'you’re so pretty like this.' 'please don’t hide from me. i wanna see everything.'

he lets you play with his, too.

sometimes he sits at your feet while you braid it, twist it, fluff it just because it makes you happy. he lets you use conditioner in the shower, even if it smells 'too sweet.' he groans when you tug on it, especially if you do it while straddling him with purpose.

and when you run your fingers through it absently while reading on the couch—his head in your lap, eyes fluttering closed—he’s convinced that nothing, not even sex, feels more intimate than this.

curtains and drapes?

he doesn’t care. never did. not about yours, not about his.

trimmed, bare, bushy, dyed—he loves you in every form you take. but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t notice. he notices everything.

the first time you dye it? he stares for ten minutes before saying a word, then spends the rest of the day touching it like it’s holy. the first time you cut it short? he keeps murmuring 'you’re still my girl' like you needed reminding. and when you get it done just for fun—maybe styled, blown out, twisted up—he cannot keep his hands to himself.

when he’s between your thighs, he uses your hair like a leash.

fingers wrapped. fist clenched. holding you steady while he whispers 'you’re doing so well for me.'

and when you’re on top, riding him slow and steady, he uses it to anchor himself—tugging you down so your foreheads touch, his mouth panting out half-formed praise against your lips, a whispered 'you’re mine, baby, mine—mine—' falling hot and broken between breaths.

he’s not afraid anymore.

he’ll tell you when you look good. he’ll groan when you fluff your hair in the mirror. he’ll drop to his knees and bury his face between your legs just because he loves how it smells.

i is for intimacy ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer is terrified of intimacy.

not because he doesn't want it. god, he aches for it—deep down, bone-deep, where he’s spent his whole life compartmentalizing. but he’s awkward. scared. still trying to convince himself that what you’re doing isn’t flirting. that you couldn’t possibly mean the touches, the teasing, the looks. that he must be projecting.

so the intimacy? it sneaks up on him.

it’s your hand brushing his when you pass him a file. the way your pinky lingers for half a second too long and he thinks about it for days.

it’s you falling asleep on his shoulder during the jet ride and him forgetting how to breathe. how your hair smells like shampoo and citrus and something soft and warm that makes him dizzy. how your weight against his arm feels better than anything he’s ever earned.

it’s your knees bumping under the conference table. your laughter when he nervously stumbles over a word and the way you nudge him like it’s an inside joke. like you’ve already memorized all his little tells.

you call him spence in a tone no one else uses. he thinks about that, too. he thinks about you, constantly.

but Spencer doesn’t understand intimacy in the casual, effortless way you seem to. for him, it's built from the ground up. studied. tested. analyzed. intimacy isn’t easy. it’s not even safe.

but you make it feel almost okay.

you sit too close. you touch his wrist when you laugh. you tuck his hair behind his ear once, and he damn near malfunctions.

you let him ramble. you listen.

you memorize how he takes his coffee and you never tease him when he double-knots his shoelaces or uses two straws for iced drinks. you ask how his mom is. you ask if he’s okay in a way that’s not just polite—it’s real.

and it terrifies him.

because this—this is real intimacy. and if he lets himself believe it’s more than friendship, if he lets himself hope . . .

well, he’s not sure he’ll survive it if he’s wrong.

so he pulls back sometimes.

he stammers. gets flustered. tries not to look too long when you lean over his desk and your perfume hits his nose and short-circuits his frontal lobe.

but late at night—alone, in bed—he replays it all.

the way you said his name. the brush of your fingers. the sleepy sigh you made when you curled into his side without even thinking.

and he wonders if you feel it too. if you're afraid like he is. if intimacy has ever wrecked you the way it’s already started to wreck him.

because he’s falling and it feels a lot like flying straight into the sun.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

he is beginning to understand that what’s happening between you isn’t just friendship.

you’ve crossed lines now—delicate, invisible lines drawn in jet cabins and late-night hotel rooms. there have been touches. moans. mutually broken silences. but still… no formal acknowledgment. no confessions. just tension that simmers under every word, every glance.

intimacy in phase two is unguarded vulnerability, cloaked in denial.

you come over for dinner.

you sit on his couch, your legs tucked beneath you like you belong there, and you ask about his favorite books. not just what he likes—but why.

and he tells you.

tells you too much. pens up about stories that saved him as a child. tells you about loneliness, about hope, about fear of losing control. he tells you things he hasn’t told anyone—because you asked. because you looked at him like his words mattered.

you listen without blinking.

you ask again.

and then you tell him something real—something about your past, or a fear you haven’t shared before—and suddenly, you’re sitting in the kind of silence that means everything.

this is the intimacy of shared laughter over dinner dishes. his hoodie on your shoulders because you said you were cold. your socked feet brushing under the blanket while you watch something neither of you are really paying attention to

and he notices everything.

he notices when you lean your cheek into your palm while watching him speak. notices when your eyes flick to his mouth. notices that your smile always comes slower, softer when it’s just the two of you.

he’s obsessed with it.

he’s terrified by it.

because he wants you now—not just physically ( though god knows that hasn’t lessened )—but emotionally. profoundly. intellectually.

intimacy for spencer is him stealing glances when you’re not looking, memorizing the way you laugh when you’re tired, the sleepy rasp in your voice when you call him late to say goodnight.

it’s the moment he confesses what happened in the hotel room. the one-bed incident. how he couldn’t help himself.

he expects you to pull away.

but you don’t.

you blink. you smile. you say you wish you’d been awake.

and he swears the earth tilts a little.

intimacy is inch by inch with him, especially now. it's the kind that lingers in the air after you’ve left. it’s a heartbeat louder when your fingers accidentally touch. it’s falling in love with someone who’s already halfway in your arms—but neither of you have dared to look down.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

this is where the dam finally breaks.

there’s no more plausible deniability. no more unspoken maybe’s. you’ve touched. you’ve teased. you’ve crossed every line you once pretended not to see.

and spencer is yours. emotionally, physically. wholly but the intimacy in phase three isn’t just about lust or even possession.

it’s about recognition.

this version of intimacy is quieter than people expect. spencer brushing your hair out of your face while you sleep. the first time you call him 'baby' and he blushes so hard you think he might combust.

the way he presses his forehead to yours and breathes you in after sex, like he’s trying to memorize what happiness feels like.

he’s still awkward. still rambles when he’s nervous. still stammers when you call him handsome like you mean it. but he wants to be close now. desperately. freely.

he touches you without hesitation : a hand on your back when you walk through doors, fingers tracing your knee when you sit beside him, lips pressed to your temple for no reason at all.

he smiles more.

he starts saying 'i missed you' even if it’s only been a day.

he learns to ask—not just about your day, but about your feelings. about your past. about your fears. he listens. remembers. repeats it back at the perfect moment to remind you he was always listening.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

spencer is now undone. he’s not shy about it anymore. not tentative, not afraid. there’s no mask left—only hunger, devotion, and a love so intense it borders on worship.

it isn’t just woven into your sex life—it’s in everything he does.

he touches you like he’s trying to memorize the soul beneath your skin.

he looks at you like you hung the constellations with your bare hands.

he speaks to you like there’s no one else in the world who could possibly understand.

this is the version of Spencer who slides into your side of the bed just to steal your warmth. grumbles if you leave the house without a goodbye kiss. puts your name in his phone with a heart next to it and checks it when he misses you ( which is always ).

you’ve become his safest place.

that’s what intimacy means now.

it means pulling your hand to his chest when he has nightmares. letting you hear him cry for the first time and not apologizing for it.

whispering 'i trust you' against your shoulder when the weight of the world gets too heavy.

physically, he’s more open than ever. he undresses slowly in front of you now—no hesitation, no shame. he lets you press your lips to the scars and the softness he once tried to hide.

he initiates more than he ever used to—not out of lust, but because he needs your closeness like breath in his lungs.

and when he talks to you? it’s vulnerable and messy and honest.

'i don’t know what i’d do without you.' 'sometimes i wake up and panic, because i think this is a dream.' 'no one’s ever loved me like you do. i hope i make you feel even half that.'

by now, spencer doesn’t just crave your body—he craves your presence. your voice. your opinion. your hand on his back when he’s stressed. your silence when he’s overstimulated.

he’s stopped hiding how much he needs you.

and every time he breathes you in, every time he whispers your name against your skin, you can feel the truth in it. you are his entire world.

j is for jacking off ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

spencer doesn’t plan on doing it. he doesn’t mean to. but lately, it’s become more of a necessity than a choice.

because spencer is frustrated and borderline desperate. teetering on the edge of a spiral every time you so much as touch his arm or say his name in that voice. and he’s confused—because you’re still his best friend, but now you’re also a walking temptation in tiny skirts and soft perfume and teasing eyes that linger a little too long.

so he jacks off a lot. shamefully and quietly and always to the thought of you.

it usually happens after the team goes their separate ways. after the tension from the jet or the hotel or the bullpen has nowhere else to go.

he’ll close the door to his apartment and immediately feel the weight of it pressing against his zipper—the ache that’s been following him around since you made that comment about how big his hands are. or how you leaned over to show him something on your tablet, and your bralette—navy blue, he noticed—was the only thing shielding your breasts from his face.

and suddenly his resolve cracks like a matchstick.

most of the time, he doesn't even make it to the bed. Sometimes it's the couch. Sometimes the bathroom. Sometimes the shower, turned too hot, his forehead braced against tile while his hand works himself in fast, angry strokes.

because he feels guilty. like a pervert. like a bad friend. but your name is right there on the tip of his tongue as he pants into his palm, and the fantasy is so vivid—so real—that his toes curl and his thighs tremble before he can even stop it.

he imagines you a couple different ways. you on your knees, tongue out, eyes wide. you straddling his lap, gasping into his mouth.

you asleep beside him, soft and warm, and—God—grinding on his thigh without even realizing it. ( that one isn’t a fantasy. that one actually happened. )

and afterward, he lays there. shaky. spent. sticky and ashamed.

he tells himself it has to stop.

but it never does.

because he’s already hard again the next morning—just from the sound of your laugh echoing through the hallway.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

spencer knows by now you want him. you’ve made it impossible not to. he still second-guesses everything ( because he’s spencer ), but the line between fantasy and reality has started to blur—and it’s driving him insane.

you’ve kissed. touched. you’ve even said things—filthy, whisper-soft things in the dark—that make his knees go weak just remembering. but you haven’t fucked yet.

and that’s the problem.

because now when he jacks off, it’s not from afar. it’s not fueled by guilt and secret shame. it’s fueled by you. the real, tangible, maddening you. and it’s so much worse.

he’ll be alone in his apartment, pacing.

because he wants to wait. because he wants it to be perfect.

because you said you weren’t ready—not yet—and he respects that, he does. but he’s already ruined three pairs of briefs this week thinking about your tongue in his mouth and your hand on his belt, unbuckling him with slow, teasing fingers while you whisper.

‘is this what you think about when your alone?’

( it is. )

so when he jacks off in phase two, it’s slower. needier.

he’ll lie in bed with the lights off, one hand fisted around his cock, the other clutched over his mouth to stop the whimpering. he’s embarrassed by how easily he unravels—how sensitive you’ve made him, how just the memory of your breath in his ear is enough to make his spine arch off the mattress.

he comes with your name punched from his lungs, like he’s apologizing to the air. and then he texts you :

‘im sorry. i thought about you again.’

and you always reply :

‘good. i hope you made a mess.’

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

he doesn’t have to imagine you anymore.

he shouldn’t have to jack off at all, not really—not when you’ve touched every inch of him with your mouth and your hands and your words. not when you’ve kissed him into moaning submission against your living room couch and ridden him so thoroughly he forgot how to spell his name. not when his sheets still smell like your shampoo.

and yet it’s worse now. because now he knows exactly what you look like when you whimper. how your hips stutter when you’re right on the edge. how you say his name when you’re about to fall apart.

now, when he jacks off, it’s no longer fantasy—it’s memory.

he’ll try to hold out. He will.

he’ll tell himself not tonight, you just saw her, and you can wait, you have a meeting in the morning—but his hand betrays him the second he pictures the outline of your thighs wrapped around his waist.

it starts with just a touch. just a little pressure through the front of his boxers. but soon he’s panting like a man fucking possessed, muttering curses under his breath, fucking up into his palm like it’s your fist around him instead.

he gets vocal now. he never meant to—but you ruined him. you told him he sounded hot when he begged. and now, every time he closes his eyes and hears your voice purring.

'are you gonna come for me, spence?'

he knows he’s lost.

he finishes fast and hard, a total mess—spilling across his stomach.

'fuck, baby—yes, oh god—ugh'

and bites down hard on the side of his hand to keep from saying your name so loudly the neighbors complain.

sometimes—especially the nights he misses you—he calls you afterward. voice still hoarse. breathing still shallow.

you always know and you always say :

'did you finish, sweetheart?'

to which he breathes :

'not enough. i need the real thing.'

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

spencer barely has time to jack off.

but when he does, it's because he physically has to.

because you’ve been gone all day lecturing at a conference in another city, and he needs you like he needs oxygen. because he spent all night replaying that moment in the hallway when you tugged his tie and whispered you wanted to ruin him after dinner—and then had the audacity to leave before dessert.

so now he’s in your shared bedroom, still in his slacks, fist clenched around his cock, fucking into his hand with quiet, determined gasps—head tipped back, lips parted, flushed pink all the way down to his chest.

it’s no fantasy. it’s memory soaked in devotion. he’s not imagining your tits bouncing above him or your mouth around his cock—he’s remembering it in four—fucking—k clarity. he knows exactly how you smell, how your voice trembles when you say his name. he knows what you look like when you come with your hand in his hair, your thighs trembling around his ribs.

and even then, even with all that—the realest reel of all reels playing in his mind—it still isn’t enough.

he finishes with a groan, his body curling forward with the force of it, cum streaking across his hand, chest, belly. he pants hard, shaky, and a little embarrassed at how fast he unraveled—how needy he still is after everything.

then he cleans up, tugs on one of your shirts, and crawls into bed on your side, pressing his face into your pillow, just to smell you.

because even after you’ve made love to him a hundred times, after you've taken him apart and worshipped every inch of him—spencer still jacks off like he’s starving for you and he always will.

k is for kinks ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

when this all starts, he honestly doesn't think he has any kinks. ( he absolutely fucking does. )

he's still telling himself you're his best friend. still pretending he doesn’t fantasize about your mouth or your thighs or the way you say his name when you’re tipsy and teasing. still convincing himself that the boners you give him in the bullpen are just unfortunate accidents, not evidence of some very specific desires bubbling to the surface.

but spencer’s biggest phase one kink? verbal submission. not yours. his.

he doesn’t know the term for it yet, but something about the way you talk to him in that silky, smug voice—the way you lean close and purr.

'is that a blush, dr. reid?' or 'did you just flinch when i said cock?' makes him un—fucking—ravel.

you talk him into things. you talk him off. you tease him until he’s squirming and then you coo, 'use your words, spence.'

and God, he wants to.

he wants to say he’s hard. that he’s aching. that he needs help, yours specifically. that if you keep edging him with your dirty little questions, he’s going to finish in his pants like a virgin.

he wants to beg, and that terrifies him.

he doesn’t know how much he likes being coaxed and bossed around until you start doing it in the smallest, most innocuous ways

'sit down, sweetheart.' 'hands on the table, baby, i’m not done talking to you.'

his brain short-circuits every time.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

things have officially crossed the line. you’ve kissed. you’ve touched. you’ve broken through the teasing and stepped into something far more dangerous: exploration.

this is the era of awkward confessions, blurted admissions, and getting caught staring. it's the phase where you're not fucking yet—but you're circling it, circling each other, slowly removing the layers of denial. and with that vulnerability comes the first real talk about what you like. what he likes.

and he really likes : praise kink ( his, not yours ).

spencer craves your praise the way a starved man craves sunlight. the second you whisper 'good boy', he is done. melting. blushing. eyes fluttering shut as if the words physically affect him.

you tell him he’s smart when he figures out how to undo your bra one-handed. you tell him he’s so good with his hands when his fingers slip into your panties. you call him perfect when he whimpers against your mouth.

he needs it—desperately—and you quickly learn how to weaponize it.

he is also a huge fan of consent play and gentle dom/sub dynamics. you ask for everything in phase two.

'can i touch you here?' 'do you want me to take it out?' 'spence… can i make you cum?'

spencer is already submissive, but now he’s discovering that the asking turns him on just as much as the act.

he’s never had a partner treat him like this before—like he’s worth asking, worth waiting for, worth ruining. you call the shots, and he follows beautifully, but only because he knows you’ll never push him too far.

mutual masturbation is a big one in phase two because of the fact that the two of you haven't actually fucked yet.

neither of you have had sex yet—not with each other at least. but you’ve watched each other. and oh God, Spencer’s kink for being watched begins to blossom.

he’s embarrassed. he hides behind his hands, pants still around his thighs, and he can’t believe he’s letting you see him like this. but the second you say, 'don’t hide from me, baby. let me see,' he moans so pretty you almost come on the spot.

watching you touch yourself? he nearly cries. he’s never seen anything more erotic in his life.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

by phase three, sex is on the table. and on the floor. and up against the wall of your apartment because you were arguing about who started it and now he’s got your thighs around his waist and you’re both panting into each other’s mouths like starved animals.

this phase is hungry. it’s messy. it’s greedy. spencer’s kinks start to go from soft-focus fantasy to full-throttle reality—and he is so ready to give you what you want… even if it scares him a little.

you’ve discovered that you love pulling the strings—and now you want to see what happens when he snaps.

he never in a million years thought that hair pulling would be one of his top three kinks but with you everything has been flipped upside down and turns on it's side.

he really didn’t know he liked it until you tugged during a particularly frantic make-out session. the whimper that left his mouth? ungodly. and now he can’t stop thinking about your fingers in his hair, scratching his scalp while he’s buried inside you.

number two is being pinned down. he still wants to be in control. but when you push him down on the mattress and straddle him? he lets go and when you lean over, whispering 'stay still or i’ll stop'—he’s not going anywhere.

you riding, though, that has got to be his all time favorite. this is a huge turning point. spencer starts to love watching you take what you need. he’s obsessed with the way you roll your hips, the way you grind slow at first just to tease him.

the view? immaculate.

the loss of control? delicious.

now things are starting to get nasty because phase three spencer, he's got a spit kink.

oh, he tries not to think about it. but the second you lick your fingers before stroking him? he’s fucking obsessed. gone fucking feral over it.

and when you ask him to lick yours too? he does it without question—eyes locked on yours, brain short-circuiting with the intimacy of it all.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

phase four is the final act of mutual ruin.

by now, you and Spencer know each other’s bodies better than your own. the sex is still sweet—but it's no longer tentative. the teasing, the boundaries, the experimental sparks have all collapsed into one deep, simmering inferno of obsession, comfort, and knowing.

this is when the dirty talk is fluent. where the bruises are intentional. where he doesn’t ask—he tells and you don’t hesitate to give it right back.

spencers phase four kinks consist of breeding kinks, mirror play and a good ole possession kink.

the breeding kink started as a whisper. a drunk mumble. a breathless, 'i want to fill you up' while he was too far gone to filter himself. now he says it sober. now he looks you in the eye when he says 'stay still. i’m not done with you yet.'

the mirror play is fucking feral. he doesn’t just want to watch you—he wants you to watch, too. wants you straddling his lap in front of the hotel mirror, wants to see your eyes when he ruins you from behind. wants to say, 'look how pretty you are when you’re mine.'

his possession, it’s subtle—but intense. his hand at your throat, not for pressure but for presence. his bite marks on your inner thighs. his cum leaking out of you hours later.

spencer is still soft, still slow, still sweet—but he’s deliberate now. every orgasm is a claim.

the mutual masturbation has also been turned up to an all time high. he used to be shy. now he asks to watch. sometimes it’s during long-distance calls. sometimes it’s just across the room, sprawled out, breathless, making eye contact while you tease each other. because now you both like to show off.

l is for location ⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase one

at this stage, you and spencer haven’t technically done anything . . . not really. but the tension? it’s nuclear. every shared space becomes a new form of psychological warfare—your favorite game.

phase one spencer is still clinging to the belief that he’s virtuous. you, on the other hand, are slowly dismantling that fantasy with your flirtation and well-timed positioning. so while the two of you haven’t officially crossed the line yet, certain locations are already branded with tension—and are destined to become the first battlegrounds.

the bau sanctioned jet is where you first teased him. where your bralette ‘just so happened’ to peek out while you leaned over to show him something on your tablet. where you asked if he needed help jerking off in the tiny airplane bathroom.

that seat—second from the left, near the window—is now forever cursed. he hasn’t been able to sit there since.

the bullpen, a technically public place. technically risky. technically very, very inappropriate ( even though it was very empty at the time of your little game. )

that didn’t stop you from sliding your foot up his calf one night, all soft and slow, while asking him the most mundane question about a file. you knew what you were doing. he almost spilled his coffee.

the hotel room was next. the night you rolled onto him in your sleep. the night you moaned his name into his neck. the night he jacked off right next to while you were sleeping and again in the bathroom like a sinner because he couldn’t handle how good you looked wrapped around his thigh.

this location haunts him. he sees the numbers two-fourteen and he fucking flinches.

phase one ends with a very memorable car ride. you offered him a ride home. he said yes and then your hand was on his cock, and he was too tired to stop it—too gone to care.

when he came in his pants just as you pulled into his complex, the location of your car became a personal circle of hell. one he’ll gladly visit again. frequently as he fucking can.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase two

now the line is crossed—and you’ve both leapt over it like it never existed. you’re no longer just teasing spencer; you’ve tasted him, touched him, unraveled him. and he’s hooked. addicted. willing to take you anywhere you let him.

but that doesn’t mean he’s reckless. oh no. phase two spencer is still spencer—anxious, calculating, obsessively thoughtful. which means he chooses locations with precision. and if he doesn’t get a say in the setting? he’ll still make the most of it.

his favorite spots with you include his apartment living room, specifically his couch. after your first time, spencer didn’t want to rush you. so instead of dragging you to the bedroom, he let it happen on his couch—slow and soft and nervous and needy. that creaky, secondhand couch has now become his altar.

it’s where he kisses your knees while you're curled up in his oversized sweater. where he lays his head in your lap after long days and lets you card your fingers through his hair. where you straddled him for the first time, whispering 'let me take care of you' into his mouth.

next is the shower, preferably his because it gives him some semblance of control.

spencer didn’t expect to like showering together as much as he does—but something about you all slippery and giggly under the spray of warm water undoes him. it’s the intimacy, the nudity, the trust. it’s the way you tilt his chin up to rinse shampoo from his curls. the way he uses his long fingers to massage conditioner into your scalp like you’re the most delicate thing on earth.

sometimes it leads to sex. sometimes it doesn’t. but it always leads to spencer kissing your wet shoulder with reverence.

the library has surprisingly because a favorite. you went in to help him shelve books for a lecture he was preparing. you came out wrecked—tucked into a corner behind the 306s, muffling your moans into his neck while he made you come on his fingers. the library will never be the same.

( and neither will dewey decimal classification 306.7. )

honestly anyway private enough to kiss you fucking senseless his a win for him. the office copy room? yes. you make some excuse about needing help changing the toner and he is the first one to volunteer. then your pulling him into the room and backing him up to the door and when he asked about the toner, your already kissing him. his lips his neck. your hand gripping his sweater vest like its the only think keeping you grounded in the moment.

an empty conference room after hours. that one secluded hallway in quantico with the weird vending machine no one uses. of course, your dragging him in there and before the door his even closed you grabbing at his belt and palming his cock through his slacks.

spencer doesn’t always plan these moments—but once he starts kissing you, once his hand slips beneath your blazer or under your skirt or around your jaw, he doesn’t stop. he can’t.

he needs to be touching you. holding you. anywhere you’ll let him.

even if he’s red-faced for the rest of the day.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase three

the game is gone. the teasing, the dancing, the uncertainty—burned up in the heat of full-blown obsession. you’re not just lovers now. you’re something dangerously close to addicted. to each other’s skin. each other’s voices. each other’s bodies.

as spencer spirals deeper into the messy, heady high of you, he stops giving a damn where it happens—so long as it does.

but the thing is? he’s still spencer.

so while he’ll let you pull him into a bathroom stall, or ride him half-dressed in a locked file room, he still remembers every single place you’ve ever touched him. every surface you’ve ever gasped his name against. and that memory? fuels him. it controls him.

his favorite spots, now that he is hooked, range drastically.

up against a wall. any wall. all walls. you’ve made him associate drywall with orgasms.

it started in his apartment—your back to the hallway wall, his hands in your hair, hips pinning you in place while you whispered, 'i want you to lose control.'

he did. he does. he will—again and again, every time you push him back with that look in your eye.

walls are sturdy. reliable. you can climb him like a tree, dig your nails into his back, grind against him until he forgets every word he’s ever learned.

he’s ruined at least one framed print that way.

your kitchen countertop? yes please.

it happened one night after dinner. you were tipsy. he was jealous. some guy at the restaurant had smiled at you for too long, and you had smiled back.

so spencer kissed you with his hands under your thighs and lifted you straight onto the counter. pushed aside your plates. fucked you slow and intense with his tie still on.

now he eyes that countertop every time you make pancakes. every time you sit there swinging your legs. he wonders if you know what you do to him—right there in your own home.

and his desk, that has become your favorite.

he didn’t plan it. god, he really didn’t.

but it was a late night. you were helping him with paperwork. you looked up at him like he hung the stars and whispered, 'would it help if i sat in your lap?' ( it didn’t help. )

not with the paperwork, anyway.

now his desk is stained with ink, your cum, and memory and the echo of your breathless whimper when he slipped a hand up your shirt and you told him you wanted to thank him properly.

and lastly the passenger seat of your car. there’s just something about you behind the wheel. all confident and in control. something about him sinking into the seat, exhausted from the day, and letting you drive.

it’s become your little ritual now. a hand on his thigh. soft music. the slow creep of anticipation every time you take the long way home.

once, you didn’t even wait. you pulled into the garage, unbuckled him, and made him come with your hand fisted around him while the engine was still warm.

now the passenger seat smells like sex and summer and your shampoo—and spencer has never loved a car so much in his life.

⤷ . ᵒ .༄ phase four

you could fuck spencer anywhere—and he’d let you. fucking gladly and desperately.

but that’s the thing : you don’t need to sneak anymore. there’s no hiding, no pretending. no more blurred lines or messy justifications.

you're his. he’s yours. fully. totally. irrevocably. how ever the fuck you want to define it.

now he wants you in the places that mean something.

not because he’s afraid of getting caught—but because being with you has finally started to feel safe. and still : he’s filthier than ever.

your shared bed is a big one. with the sheets half-peeled off. the place he makes love to you the most.

it’s not always sweet. sometimes it’s rough. sometimes it’s sleepy and slow. but always, always, it ends with him wrapping his arms around you like he’s never letting go.

spencer pulls the blankets up to your chins after. kisses your temple. traces circles over the bite mark he left behind.

it’s his sanctuary now. the safest place on Earth. because it smells like you. like sex. like lavender detergent and vanilla skin.

next is the bathtub. he’s a romantic, your spencer and now he’s got the confidence to show it. he’ll draw the bath himself. light a candle or two. say it’s for you, of course—but he slides in behind you anyway, letting you lean against him as warm water laps over both your thighs.

you ride him slow in that tub. whine against his neck. whimper his name while water sloshes over the rim and he fucks you deeper than you thought possible with just his hips beneath the surface.

when you collapse back against him, he holds you like treasure. washes you tenderly. massages your scalp. murmurs sweet nothings.

the living room couch, you clothes are still half on. you're both still shy about the possibility of guests—even if there are none.

which makes it all the better.

it’s always when you’re watching something—documentary, movie, nothing that matters—when he turns to kiss your bare shoulder. or when you toss your legs in his lap with a knowing smirk.

the tv still playing while he tugs your panties aside. one hand braced on the cushion. the other pulling your mouth to his to muffle the sounds of both your moans.

you’ve broken that poor couch in so many ways now. but neither of you care.

against the bookshelves in his apartment is a particularly filthy one. you were reading. he was watching you. then you were pinned.

your cheek pressed to the spine of crime and punishment. his hand wrapped in your hair. your moans muffled by dostoevsky.

one hand flicking your clit and the other around your neck as he drives you into the bookshelf. slapping skin and wood creaking is just the tip of the sensations.

after that, he swore you were never allowed to wear that sweater in his library again. the one that rides up when you stretch. the one he swears is cut just to tease him. the one you wear on purpose.

now you read in his lap. and the shelves hold more secrets than any of the books.

lastly, the elevator in your building. too many late-night visits. too many heated goodbyes.

one night you didn’t wait. you were kissing before the doors even closed. he had you against the mirror before the first floor dinged.

now he pulls you in by your coat collar every time you step inside. you pretend to protest—every time. but he knows better. you’re already lifting your skirt before the doors shut.

because fuck, you just can't wait any longer. your cunt is throbbing and you had been staring at his fuck hard ass cock for the last thirty minutes.

once, the elevator got stuck between floors.

neither of you minded.

🔖 . @sammyreidslut @mggskny @theburgundyonmytshirt1989 @nesiamenick @alastorssimp @oldmanbunnylover @nfwmb-gvf @kmc1989 @sillymuffintrashflap @reidsbabyhoney @qardasngan @cynbx @g3n3zshack

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x you #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you

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jareaufiles · 3 days ago

Text

AVN AWARDS • e.prentiss

PAIRING: (older) emily prentiss x female reader

PREMISE: You both win at the AVN Awards — you for Best New Performer, Emily for Lifetime Achievement. Emily corners you in the women’s bathroom between speeches, still in her floor-length silk dress, one hand around your throat, the other under your dress, teasing your pussy while whispering how she’s wanted to ruin you since your first scene went viral.

WARNINGS: pornstar AU, intense possessive dominance, established mutual obsession, public teasing, bathroom quickie, filthy dirty talk, breast play (sucking, biting), pussy worship, cunnilingus with detailed pussy descriptions (including trimmed bush), rough tongue-fucking, clit sucking, intense orgasm description (reader receiving), hair pulling, face riding, wet/messy oral, fingers in pussy (reader receiving), reader cumming on Emily’s fingers, cum-eating, marking (hickeys/biting), light public exhibitionism (bathroom at awards show), dirty flirting, mutual power play, post-sex clean-up scene, heavy tension and foreshadowing for more, and explicit sensory-rich descriptions throughout (clothing, makeup, ambience, background noise, and taste/scent detail).

WORD COUNT: 3.6K

NAVIGATION -- requested

The AVN Awards weren’t just an event — they were a performance in and of themselves. The biggest night in porn, a swirling, heady mass of strobe-lit glamour, sex-soaked energy, and decadence so thick you could almost taste it in the air.

The Grand Lux ballroom was packed, wall to wall with the most recognizable faces in the industry, bodies draped in shimmering silks, liquid latex, glittering chains, and barely-there mesh. The air was hot, heavy with the mingled scents of perfume, hairspray, sweat, expensive colognes and the unmistakable undercurrent of arousal.

The constant low thrum of conversation buzzed like a thousand hungry insects, underscored by the deep pulse of bass-heavy music bleeding in from the afterparty next door. Champagne corks popped, camera flashes burst like heat lightning against the high arched ceilings, and every few seconds, another burst of laughter or a shouted name cut through the thick atmosphere.

You stood near the edge of the room, your back to a velvet-lined wall, nursing a glass of something expensive and fizzy you didn’t remember ordering. Your latex gown clung to you like a second skin, black and glossy and so tight across your tits it threatened to spill them out with every breath you took.

The neckline plunged deep, your chest slick with a sheen of warmth under the hot lights. The gown hugged every curve and swell of your body, the material cool and slick under your palms as you occasionally smoothed it down over your hips, feeling it tug and cling to the slope of your ass.

Your hair was up in a deliberately messy bun, a few stray curls clinging to your damp neck, escaping to frame your face and soften the dark, smoky makeup you’d so carefully applied earlier that evening. Black kohl rimmed your eyes, making them sharp, predatory, while a smear of gloss clung stubbornly to your lips.

And then there was Emily.

You spotted her like a lightning strike across the ballroom — a ripple in the crush of bodies, the kind of woman you felt coming before you ever saw her. She was standing half-lit beneath one of the glittering chandeliers, her salt-and-pepper hair styled in effortless soft waves, the top half pinned back to show the elegant curve of her throat, her sharp jawline, the delicate studs glittering in her ears.

Her gown was a deep wine-colored silk that shimmered like wet blood in the low light, cut so it dipped between her breasts, showing just enough to tease and the endless length of one thigh through a slit high enough to be indecent. Every time she moved, the silk rippled and clung to her, and the world seemed to part around her like she was gravity itself.

Your cunt throbbed at the sight of her.

The tension between you had been simmering for over a year now — whispered comments beneath each other’s videos, late-night messages, the flirtation skimming the edge of professional, the way you’d brush shoulders at events like this and pretend not to notice. Emily Prentiss had been your first porn crush.

The woman whose scenes you’d watched in secret, one hand between your thighs, moaning her name into your pillow when you were barely old enough to understand what you were doing. And now? Now she was the queen of the room, and her eyes were hunting for you.

When her name was announced for the Lifetime Achievement Award, the room cracked like a whip. Applause shook the walls, people leapt to their feet, and you screamed louder than anyone else, your hands stinging from how hard you clapped. Emily rose like a goddess in a storm, wine-colored silk sliding around her legs, trophy glittering gold in one hand as she sauntered to the stage, her hips swaying in time to the applause.

The trophy was sleek and suggestive, the classic AVN silhouette; a tall, elegant figure of a woman, all smooth curves and gleaming metal, cool under the hot lights. Emily curled her fingers around it like she’d been born holding power.

"To every girl who watched my old scenes and thought, ‘I wanna be like her’ — you can. Just be better than me. And then come fuck me sometime."

The ballroom detonated into laughter and cheers. You bit your lip hard, your clit throbbing between your legs, panties already sticking damp to your folds.

And when your name was called for Best New Performer, the noise was deafening. The room blurred, all those faces, the glittering bodies, the haze of smoke machines, all melting into a single point as you found Emily’s gaze, heavy-lidded, dark, lips quirked in a smile so filthy it should’ve been illegal. She raised her glass in a silent toast.

You swore your knees buckled.

Your silver trophy was the same shape as Emily’s — tall, sleek, erotic but polished to a mirror sheen that caught the light with every tremble of your hand. The mic felt slick beneath your fingers, the room roaring and wild.

"I grew up watching women like Emily Prentiss teach me everything I know," you purred, voice low, breathy, deliberately sinful. "And now? I get to show her how the new generation does it."

Chaos. The kind of thunderous response that rattled the chandeliers. Emily tipped her glass again, and you watched her lips mouth “good girl” across the room. Your pussy clenched.

The rest of the night blurred into a haze of drinks and conversations, passing touches, the low constant throb of the bass from the ballroom floor vibrating through the soles of your stilettos. The other pornstars were visions of hedonism.

Crystal pasties, gowns made of literal chains, glitter clinging to damp collarbones, naked backs arched against the bar as flirty conversations bled into promises. The scent of sex and heat clung to every corner.

And then a hand curled around your wrist.

Emily’s voice was a growl in your ear, low and rough and silk-draped sin. “Bathroom. Now.”

You followed, the noise of the ballroom chasing you down the corridor, the pulse of the music, the echo of laughter, the soft clink of glasses. The air cooled slightly as you slipped away, down the hall where the heavy bass became a muffled thud against the walls.

The bathroom was empty when she shoved the door open and locked it behind you, the overhead light flickering slightly in its gilded fixture. The scent of expensive perfume and floral soap lingered in the air, mirrors fogged at the edges from the bodies that had passed through earlier in the night.

Emily didn’t waste a second. She spun on you, her hands catching your jaw, thumbs pressing against your smeared lipstick, dark eyes glittering.

“You have no idea how fucking good you looked tonight,” she murmured, voice like wet velvet. “Bet you’re soaked for me, aren’t you, baby?”

You grinned, your breath catching. “I’m dripping.”

Emily chuckled, a low rumble in her chest, and her lips crashed onto yours. Hot, filthy, tasting of red wine and sin. Her thigh pressed between your legs, and you ground down without hesitation, a slick smear of arousal marking her silk gown.

Your voice broke between kisses. “Been thinking about you all night. I’m so wet for you it’s obscene.”

Emily groaned, dragging your dress up in rough, impatient hands, latex clinging to your skin. She hissed when she saw you. Your pussy glistening, panties soaked, your trimmed bush soft and dark, a neat, feminine strip framing your flushed, swollen cunt. You were glistening, your folds slick and puffy, clit peeking out and twitching under the cool air.

“Look at that,” Emily growled, dropping to her knees like it was the most natural thing in the world. She hooked her fingers into your panties, pulling them aside to reveal how utterly drenched you were, your slick stringing between your folds and the ruined lace.

The first touch of her fingers made you moan — her thumb parting your lips, stroking the swollen flesh, so wet you made a sticky, obscene sound against her skin.

“Jesus Christ, you’re soaked. Been walking around like this for me?”

You whimpered, your hips rocking forward. “Since your speech.”

Emily’s teeth bared in a grin as she pressed two fingers inside you, the stretch making your knees buckle. She fucked them deep, curling them against your sensitive walls, the thick pads of her fingers dragging over every tender spot.

“Fucking perfect,” she murmured, her breath hot against your thigh. “You suck me in like you were made for it.”

You clung to the sink, moaning shamelessly, your slick squelching around her fingers. Emily’s thumb worked your clit in tight, perfect circles, and you felt yourself coming undone fast, too fast.

Your body trembled, your moans breaking into soft, desperate whimpers, hips grinding against her hand.

Emily’s pupils blew wide, her chest heaving as she watched you lose it for her. “C’mon, baby. Cum on my fingers. Let me feel you.”

You did, with a ragged cry, your cunt clenching down around her fingers, slick gushing out in wet, messy waves, drenching her hand. Emily growled in satisfaction, fucking you through it until you were sagging against the mirror, legs shaking.

She pulled her fingers free, coated in your cum, glistening under the overhead light. She licked them clean slowly, her tongue curling around each digit with a pleased hum.

“Goddamn, you taste like sin.”

Before she could say another word, you grabbed the front of her dress and hauled her up, crashing your mouth against hers. It was desperate and filthy, lips sliding, tasting yourself on her tongue. You bit her bottom lip, sucked it between your teeth, moaning into her mouth as your hand slid into her hair, tugging her close.

You left a dark, blooming mark just below her jaw, teeth scraping against the soft skin there until she hissed.

Emily grinned, voice rough and fond. “That’s my girl.”

And you knew, with your panties ruined and your scent still clinging to her skin, you’d just started your night.

The moment Emily’s smug, filthy grin ghosted across her lips, you knew you weren’t done with her. Not even fucking close. Your body was humming, still slick between your thighs, your breath ragged in your chest, your heart pounding against your ribs, but all you could think about was tasting her, owning her the way she’d just owned you.

Without a word, you grabbed her by the hips and spun her around, her back pressing against the cool marble edge of the sink. She let out a soft, amused sound in her throat, one brow arching, the challenge in her eyes making your cunt throb all over again.

“What do you think you’re doing, baby?” she purred, but you didn’t answer.

You reached up, fingers curling into the silky straps of her wine-colored dress, dragging them down her arms in one long, slow motion. The fabric gave like a sigh, the bodice slipping down to reveal her bare, beautiful tits — full and heavy, the pale skin soft with a slight, perfect natural droop that made your mouth water. Her nipples were a dusky, swollen pink, already pebbled tight from arousal.

You didn’t hesitate. You leaned in and latched your mouth onto one, the taste of her skin warm and faintly salty, her scent thick with perfume, sweat, and sex.

Emily groaned, her fingers tangling into your hair as you sucked greedily at her nipple, teeth scraping gently before you switched to the other, lavishing it with the same desperate, worshipful attention. The way her body arched against you, chest rising, made your head spin.

“Fuck— you’re starving for it, huh?” she hissed, voice breaking into a low, breathless sound. “Bet you’ve wanted these tits in your mouth since you were eighteen.”

You moaned against her skin, nodding because it was true, because you could barely remember a time you hadn’t fantasized about this exact moment.

But you needed more.

You dropped to your knees in front of her, the latex of your gown creaking softly with the motion, the cool tiles biting into your skin through the thin fabric.

The height difference between you made your blood rush, the sight of her towering over you with her dress bunched around her waist, tits bare, hair wild around her face, those dark, hungry eyes fixed on you like you were her next meal.

You lifted one of Emily’s legs over your shoulder, gripping the smooth, toned length of it, feeling the strength there, the faint, soft give of skin that betrayed her age. Not in a way that diminished her, but amplified it.

Those strong thighs were a little softer now, the muscles still firm but with the gorgeous, unmistakable texture of a woman who’d lived, who’d fucked and fought and earned every inch of herself. It made your mouth water.

And then you saw her pussy.

God, she was perfect. The neatly kept dark hair above her mound, trimmed but natural, soft against your cheek as you pressed in. Her lips were plush and slick, folds flushed a dark pink, glistening wet with arousal.

The inner lips peeked out slightly, puffy and tempting, and the scent of her made your head spin — a heady, earthy mix of clean sweat, expensive perfume, and pure fucking want.

You let out a broken, desperate moan as you buried your face between her thighs, your tongue lashing out to drag a slow, filthy stripe through her folds from base to clit. The taste of her exploded across your tongue, musky, slightly salty, rich and intoxicating.

The kind of flavor you’d crave, you’d dream about, that would haunt your mouth for days. You sucked her clit between your lips, flicking it with your tongue, feeling her legs tense against you.

“Jesus fuck, baby,” Emily groaned, her voice rough and cracking with pleasure. Her hand fisted tight in your hair, not guiding you, not controlling you — just holding on.

You moaned into her, the vibration making her hips jerk, the motion forcing more of her slick to coat your lips and chin. You licked it up greedily, tongue fucking her deep, pushing inside her, tasting how wet and hot she was. The way her walls clenched around your tongue made your cunt throb against the tight latex of your dress.

Emily rode your face like she owned it, grinding her hips down, her breath coming in rough, hungry little gasps. You could hear the slick, wet noises of your tongue working her cunt, could feel her thighs trembling, her foot flexing against your back.

The background noise of the ballroom leaked in through the walls — the distant thump of bass-heavy music, the occasional shout of laughter, the pop of a champagne cork. It felt impossibly filthy to be down on your knees in that bathroom while the party carried on just feet away.

Her grip in your hair tightened, pulling a gasp from you as she fucked your face harder.

“Don’t you stop, don’t you fucking stop—“ she growled, and you moaned, eager, desperate for her.

Your tongue worked her relentlessly, circling her clit, then plunging deep, then flattening against her folds, tasting every drop, making obscene sounds against her soaked cunt. Her slick coated your mouth, smeared across your lips and chin, dripping down onto your chest.

You could feel her getting close. The way her thigh tensed over your shoulder, the way her hips stuttered, the sharp, breathless sounds falling from her lips.

“Gonna cum, baby, fuck— just like that— don’t you fucking dare stop.”

You sucked her clit hard, tongue flicking mercilessly, and Emily came with a low, broken moan, her body locking up as her cunt spasmed against your mouth. Her slick flooded your tongue and you swallowed it down, greedy, drinking her like you’d die without it. Her fingers were knotted so tight in your hair they hurt, but you didn’t care — you wanted the sting, the ownership of it.

She rode your tongue through it, hips grinding until her breath stuttered and broke, until she finally sagged back against the sink, chest heaving, hair wild and face flushed.

You licked her clean, pressing soft, languid kisses to her folds, tasting her last few drops before you finally pulled back, your mouth shining with her slick.

Emily looked down at you with dark, heavy-lidded eyes, lips curling in a lazy, satisfied smile.

“Good fucking girl,” she murmured.

And you beamed.

The bathroom felt impossibly still after that. The thud of the bass-heavy music from the ballroom was a distant pulse now, muffled behind the heavy door, while the scent of sweat, perfume, and raw, lingering sex thickened the air around you.

The overhead light buzzed faintly, a low hum underscoring the heavy sound of your breathing, both of you wrecked in the most satisfying way.

Emily was still leaning back against the sink, her hair a gorgeous, wild mess of half-collapsed waves and loosened pins, the salt-and-pepper streaks glinting against her flushed skin.

Her wine-colored silk dress clung to her hips, straps fallen to her elbows, tits still bare and gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat, her chest rising and falling in deep, satisfied breaths. The mark you’d left just beneath her jaw was a dark, sinful bloom, already starting to color a deep wine-red against her pale throat.

Your mouth was slick with her, your lips swollen from kissing, your hair a mussed halo framing your smoky eyes. The mirror caught the pair of you in reflection, like a scene straight from one of your filthiest fantasies.

Your latex gown was wrinkled at your waist, bunched up where you’d knelt, thighs damp from the slick mess you’d made, and your lipstick was a blurred, ruined smear across your mouth and chin.

Emily let out a low, amused, satisfied hum as she watched you take yourself in. “You’re a fucking vision like that,” she murmured, voice rough with orgasm, a lazy, pleased grin tugging at her lips. “I should keep you like this all night.”

You smirked, licking your lips, still tasting her on your tongue. “I’d let you.”

That made her laugh. A dark, throaty sound that vibrated straight down your spine.

Reluctantly, you pushed yourself to your feet, your muscles trembling pleasantly, your pussy still aching, soaked lace clinging uncomfortably between your thighs.

You grabbed a handful of paper towels, blotting at your chin, your chest, catching the slick shine Emily had left all over you. Emily tugged the bodice of her dress back up with no urgency, letting it skim over her flushed skin before fixing the straps back on her shoulders.

You leaned into the mirror, fixing your lipstick with a practiced swipe, your gaze flicking sideways to catch Emily watching you with open, predatory interest in the glass.

“Keep staring, Prentiss,” you teased, smirking as you blotted your lips. “Might have to drag you back in here after the afterparty.”

Emily’s brow arched, lips curling into a knowing smirk. “Who says you’ll be able to wait that long, sweetheart?” she shot back smoothly, leaning in behind you, her hand warm and possessive on your waist as she pressed her mouth to your ear. “I already know how greedy you are.”

A sharp bolt of heat surged between your thighs all over again at her voice, at the feel of her breath against your skin, and you couldn’t help the soft, pleased hum that slipped from your throat.

You caught the smudged mark you’d left on her neck in the mirror, satisfaction curling in your gut. “You better cover that up,” you teased, grinning as you pointed to it. “Or the whole industry’s gonna know you got owned by the new kid tonight.”

Emily met your eyes in the reflection, smug as sin. “Baby, I want them to know.”

God, she made you ache.

You both finished cleaning up, straightening your gowns, Emily tugging a comb through her mussed waves with casual elegance while you fixed your hair as best you could with your fingers. The bathroom was still heavy with the scent of your encounter, the air thick with it and you knew it’d linger long after you both left.

When you opened the door, the noise from the ballroom hit like a wave — the deep pulse of music, the sharp burst of laughter, glasses clinking, the steady hum of conversation. The air out there was cooler, but still dense with perfume, smoke, and bodies pressed too close.

As you stepped back into the crowd together, the heads that turned weren’t subtle. Emily’s hair was still too wild, your lipstick still a little too red, your flushed faces and smug, knowing smiles giving away more than you should’ve. A few performers shot you grins, some with raised brows, others with approving nods.

A director you knew caught sight of you both and smirked. “Guess we know what took you two so long,” he called, raising his glass.

Emily didn’t miss a beat. She wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against her side, her hand resting low on your hip in a way that felt both possessive and absolutely filthy.

“What can I say?” Emily called back, raising her own drink. “Had to give the girl her own personal award.”

The laughter that followed was rich and knowing, and you rolled your eyes, grinning as you nestled in closer.

“You’re such a cocky bitch,” you murmured under your breath, biting your lip.

Emily chuckled darkly, leaning down so her lips brushed your ear. “And you fucking love it.”

God help you, you really did.

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hoperese · 1 day ago

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Starting Over Again LN4

A year after their breakup, she unexpectedly reunites with Lando Norris over the holidays. Old wounds resurface, but so do long-buried feelings. As Christmas nears, they face their past, open their hearts, and choose to begin again—promising to love each other better this time.

word count: 2640 (was too busy crying while crying this one)

pairing: lando norris x reader

content: second chance trope

warning: Emotional themes, Alcohol Use, Loneliness during the holidays, Implied past breakup, comeback

rese notes: Hi! finally done writing the part 2 of Maybe This Time and will soon post the part 2 of Multo. Enjoy with this one! mwa.

part 1 - Maybe This Time

ps. feel free to send request<3

Since that night they talked, she wished she hadn’t said a word to him. She really did. It felt like she’d reopened an old wound and let it sting all over again—another drop of alcohol on a cut that refused to heal.

Now, back in her apartment, she found herself staring at the box she’d shoved into a corner. The box that held every reminder of Lando: the photobooth strips, the monthsary letters, the plushie he’d won for her on that silly arcade date. She had packed it all away, hiding every piece of evidence of him—trying to erase his existence from her life.

But she couldn’t erase him that easily.

Sure, she could ignore the ache during the day, push him out of her mind as she kept herself busy. But at night? At night, she sometimes fell back into wanting him—needing him, as if he were the only thing that could make her feel steady again. Maybe it wasn’t really him she longed for. Maybe it was just the comfort, the grounding, the idea of him. Maybe she was just running from the what-ifs, from all the unanswered questions.

She thought she’d moved on. But in reality, she hadn’t. She wasn’t over Lando Norris—not even close.

London was cold, and she had grown used to it. The chill felt like an old friend, familiar and constant, greeting her as she walked through the market. She pulled her jacket tighter around herself, trying to stay warm, trying to keep moving—trying to ignore, like the coward she felt she was, the memory of that conversation with him. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t erase it from her mind.

It was December. The holidays were meant to bring joy and smiles, to light up the city and the hearts of the people in it. But for her, it all felt hollow. She had called her parents and told them she’d stay in London for Christmas. She promised she wouldn’t be alone. But that, too, was a lie.

She found herself in some pub, a week before Christmas, nursing a glass of whiskey while the world around her seemed wrapped in joy. Everyone else was with their loved ones, sharing laughter and warmth, while she was probably drowning herself in the burn of the drink.

Then she heard a familiar voice behind her, and her heart sank a little. She turned her head and saw Max—Lando’s best friend.

“It’s Christmas, and you’re here drinking like it’s some sad festive,” Max teased, sliding onto the stool beside her as he ordered himself a drink. It had been a while since they’d seen each other.

He studied her for a moment before adding, “You look… same as usual. Just missing a smile.”

She blinked at him, then tipped back the rest of her whiskey before replying, “I’m fine, Max… Just busy with work.” The last part came out as more of a mumble, unconvincing even to herself.

“You know…” Max began carefully, swirling his drink. “He mentioned something to me—that you and he talked at some party.” He hesitated, then added, “Made him overthink, you know? That night, he called me—drunk—mumbling about how maybe he should’ve held onto you, how maybe things would’ve been different…”

She cut him off, her voice firmer than she expected. “But it didn’t, Max. It didn’t. It’s been a year already.”

Max winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah… I know. No need to remind me.”

The bartender slid their drinks over. Max picked his up and glanced at her, a little awkwardly. “I—uh… happy holidays, I guess.” Then, quieter, as if he wasn’t sure he should say it, “He still loves you… he really does.”

And with that, he left her sitting there, the noise of the pub fading into the background as his words echoed in her mind.

She shook her head, trying to clear the thoughts, and took another sip of her drink. The alcohol stung, sharp and bitter.

Maybe… maybe there’s still a chance, she thought, the idea slipping in before she could stop it.

And fate was such a funny thing she thought as she finds herself in some store looking what to cook as it would just be her alone when she bump someone as she looks up and saw him, Lando, she blinks as she said “Sorry…” as she quickly moves as his hand grabs her wrist as he said “Wait- I thought you don’t live here?” which she turn her head and look at him “I still do… I kept the apartment, excuse me I need to go” as she quickly walks leaving Lando in the store confused as he thought there’s still chance as he knew where the apartment was as he debates as he sees her completely walk away.

It was Christmas—a holiday she once loved, but now could hardly stand. There was nothing about it that felt joyful anymore. She kept herself busy, making a simple Christmas dinner: just some pasta, maybe a glass of wine to go with it.

She sighed as she stirred the sauce, then turned off the stove when the doorbell rang. Groaning, she called out, “A minute!”

Wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, she made her way to the door. When she opened it, she froze, surprised at who stood there.

Lando.

He was holding a basket filled with little treats—things he remembered she loved. Chocolates, and a few other small comforts. He looked up at her, a little uncertain, as their eyes met.

“Hey… I remembered you liked these,” he said softly, offering her the basket.

She hesitated, then slowly accepted it. “Thanks… You’re here?” she asked, eyeing him, confusion and disbelief mingling in her gaze.

Lando held her eyes, unable to stop the words that spilled out. “I missed you… I really do miss you, love.” The honesty in his voice was raw. He hadn’t planned to say it, but he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

He needed her.

And with those words coming from him, she found herself that night no longer alone. Lando stayed. The air between them was awkward at first—hesitant, uncertain—but slowly, as the hours passed, they began talking. About life. About little things. She even found herself chuckling at some of his stories, and every time she laughed, he looked at her as if he couldn’t believe it—like it was a dream to be here with her again.

They sat at the table, eating together, the way they used to. She sipped her wine and spoke softly, almost to herself.

“I still love staying here. I could never bring myself to sell this place. It’s my first real home.”

Her voice lingered on the word home—because that’s what it had been. A home with him.

She glanced at him and added, more quietly, “It was different without you here. It felt… empty.”

Lando took a slow sip of his wine, trying to steady the rush of feeling that washed over him. Her words softened his heart in a way he hadn’t expected.

“You know… I still kept your charm with me—the one you told me to wear for safety and good luck,” He said softly, his eyes meeting hers.

She froze for a moment, caught off guard. She hadn’t expected him to still have it.

“The one I put inside your helmet?” she asked quietly, her voice tinged with surprise.

He nodded, his gaze gentle. “Yeah. I think… It reminds me to be careful when I’m driving. Like someone’s still waiting for me back home.”

Home. And in his heart, that was still her. It would always be her.

She looked at him, emotions swirling—love, sadness, regret—too many things she couldn’t name. She took another sip of her wine, trying to steady herself, and gave a small nod.

“That’s… great. You should be,” she mumbled, the words tasting bittersweet.

He looked at her, picking up on the weight behind her words. His voice was gentle, honest.

“I couldn’t get rid of some of your stuff. It felt… wrong to erase you completely from my life. It’s like… it’s sacred, somehow.”

Her gaze dropped, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of her wine glass. The question slipped from her lips, soft and uncertain.

“Do you… do you think we could’ve done something else? Maybe… maybe we’d still be together?”

Lando was quiet for a moment, thinking. His heart ached as he met her eyes again.

“Of course,” he said, his voice steady. “If we’d done something—anything—we’d still be together.”

Then, softer, almost like he hadn’t meant for her to hear it, he added, “I would’ve married you… I’d definitely marry you.”

“I… uh, can you stay?” she blurted out suddenly, surprising even herself.

Lando blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

She felt her cheeks flush, and for a moment she wondered if it was just the wine. She cleared her throat, trying to steady her voice.

“It’s not good for you to drive. You’ve had too much to drink, you know,” she pointed out gently, glancing at the nearly empty wine bottle.

Lando studied her for a moment, as if trying to read what she really meant beneath the words. Then he gave a small nod, his voice soft.

“You’re right… I’ll stay tonight.”

They both found themselves lying on her bed, the room dim and still. She faced him, watching him sleep, as if trying to memorize the moment—just in case he was gone when morning came.

Please don’t disappear when the sun rises, she pleaded silently, holding her breath as if saying it too loudly would break whatever fragile thread kept him there.

Her eyes roamed over his sleeping face—the way his features softened in rest, the way he looked so at peace. It was something she’d always loved about him. When he slept, it was like the weight of the world vanished from his shoulders.

Her fingers moved on their own, brushing a curl from his forehead with the gentlest touch, afraid to wake him but needing to feel he was real.

“Stay with me… please,” she whispered, barely audible, as if speaking to a dream.

She didn’t want to close her eyes. Not yet. Not if it meant waking up to an empty space beside her.

“I won’t…” he said suddenly, his voice low and steady.

Her eyes widened slightly in surprise as he slowly opened his, meeting her gaze with quiet certainty.

“I’ll be here,” he whispered. “I promise.”

It was a gentle assurance, but it wrapped around her like a blanket, soft and real.

Before she could say anything, his arm slipped around her, pulling her close until her body was tucked against his.

“Sleep now, love,” he murmured, his voice warm against her hair. “I’ll be here when you wake up. I’m not going anywhere.”

His chin rested lightly on her head, and he let out a soft sigh, as if trying to breathe out all the pain she still carried. His hand began to gently pat her back—slow, comforting, familiar. He knew she liked it that way. It was how she fell asleep best.

And tonight, more than anything, he just wanted her to rest… truly rest.

Because for once, he was there—and he meant every word.

For the first time in a long while, waking up didn’t feel like the hardest thing she had to do.

The soft rays of sunlight began to seep through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room—as if the morning itself was gently greeting her, answering a silent prayer she’d whispered into the dark.

Her brows furrowed slightly at the brightness, her body shifting under the sheets. She slowly blinked her eyes open, still half-lost in sleep, until she felt it—

The weight behind her.

The warmth of an arm wrapped securely around her waist.

Her breath caught as she carefully turned her head, eyes meeting the familiar sight of him—still asleep, still there.

He stayed.

Still half-asleep, Lando instinctively pulled her closer, a soft sigh escaping his lips as his face nestled gently into the curve of her neck. He missed this—missed her. Even in sleep, his body remembered.

“I’m here, love,” he murmured against her skin, his voice thick with sleep, but full of something steady—something real. He was keeping his promise. And he would keep it, always.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the comfort of his presence settle around her before whispering back, “I know…”

Slowly, she turned to face him, needing to see him—really see him. Her hand rose with caution, fingers lightly brushing his cheek, her palm cradling his face.

As if she were afraid it wasn’t real. Afraid that at any moment, she’d wake up and he’d be gone.

But he was there. Warm, breathing, hers.

The silence between them lingered in the soft light of morning, peaceful but heavy. She lay there for a moment longer in his arms, feeling his breath on her skin, steady and warm. But then doubt crept in—the kind that had been haunting her even before he showed up at her door.

She gently pulled away, sitting up. The sudden shift stirred Lando from his half-sleep, watching her as she quietly got out of bed and walked toward the window, wrapping her arms around herself.

He sat up slowly, sensing the shift in her energy. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice still hoarse from sleep.

She didn't turn around at first. “What if we just… repeat everything?” she said quietly. “What if it goes back to how it was? Distance, misunderstandings, the pain… What if we end up hurting each other all over again?”

Lando stood and crossed the room, his steps careful, as if not to startle her. “Then we learn from it,” he said, his voice gentle but sure. “We don’t run from the same fights. We talk. We grow through it this time.”

She finally turned to face him, eyes clouded with uncertainty. “But what if love isn’t enough?”

Lando stopped in front of her, close enough to touch but giving her space. “Then we make it enough,” he replied. “Love is the foundation—but now we know what it needs to stand. Trust. Patience. Effort.”

He reached out and took her hand, slowly, letting her decide if she would pull away. She didn’t.

“I’ve had a year to think about everything I did wrong,” he continued, eyes locked on hers. “And I know now—if I ever got to hold you again, I’d love you far better.”

She didn’t speak, not yet. But she didn’t pull away either.

Lando took a moment, his gaze never leaving hers, letting the weight of the past and the possibilities of the future settle between them. He could see the pain and regret in her eyes, mirroring his own emotions.

“But… we’re here now,” he said quietly, his tone infused with both hope and resolve. “It might not be what we imagined, but we have another chance.”

Then, slowly, he leaned in—hesitant, patient—giving her the space to stop him. She didn’t. Their lips met in a tender kiss, a silent vow, a quiet beginning.

Sunlight streamed through the window, bathing the room in warm, golden light as if the universe itself was blessing their reunion.

As he pulled away, his eyes searched hers, filled with a mix of determination and affection.

“This time,” he whispered, “I’ll love you the way you deserve to be loved.”

They stood there for a moment, hearts beating in sync, the silence between them now filled with something soft and promising. Lando’s arms remained around her, holding her close, forehead resting gently against hers.

“We may not have everything we lost back then,” he said, his voice low and sincere, “but we can create something new. Something better. Together.”

#lando norris imagine #lando norris x reader #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #lando norris angst #lando norris fluff

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rainrot4me · 2 days ago

Note

I Not sure if you’re taking requests right now, but I’d love to see your take on trans Jeff the Killer!”

AHHHHAHAHAHAH YES LET ME SPEAK LET ME SPEAK SIT AND LISTEN. This is long, I have a deep love for raunchy transmascs.

── .✦

Afab tomboy kid to bitter transmasc adult pipeline.™

Jeff was always rowdy. Always scraped knees, dirt under his nails, running with the neighborhood boys, never wanting to wear the pastel dresses his mother picked. He’d have screamed if he had to wear a bow. Every time one of the other kids said “You can’t play with us, girls aren’t allowed.” He’d be getting sat down and scolded by his mother because he had given that kid a bloody nose out of anger.

He was that “problem child” who never sat still, roughhousing and refusing to act “like a girl.” It earned him constant lectures from teachers and endless sighs from his mother—the “why can’t you just behave?” moments that felt like acid on his skin.

He liked toy swords, monster movies, getting his hands dirty—anything that let him feel powerful, even if he couldn’t yet name why it felt right. He would hide bugs and tiny critters in his pockets and bring them home to scare his brother.

The second puberty hit, Jeff’s sense of betrayal was off the charts. His chest came in. Periods started. Suddenly the adults were trying to mold him into a “young lady”—and the body that had always felt mostly neutral in childhood turned into a prison.

He became angry. Bitter. His room went from messy-kid-chaos to total rage den: holes punched in the wall, broken pencils, fists clenched so hard they shook. This is where the mask of apathy starts—Jeff acting like nothing bothers him, but inside, he is rotting with confusion and dysphoria. The worst part? He’s completely lost in it.

He doesn’t know what transitioning is, doesn’t understand that he could change, doesn’t have the resources or the patience or the want to seek help. All he knows is that he’s angry and he wears clothes way too big for him.

By high school, he’s full-blown spiteful. Short hair, baggy clothes, fights every authority figure tooth and nail. When he hears “you’re such a bitch,” it’s a death sentence in his brain. He’d weaponize his rage, becoming known as the scary teenager that you didn’t want to look at in the lunchroom for too long. He’d lean into the violence, because being feared felt better than being pitied.

It’s only when Jeff hears about the first trans person in his school that he stops and thinks, for once. Everyone badmouthed them, preaching how nasty and weird it was. He just stayed silent, slowly clicking every puzzle piece together when he didn’t even know there was a puzzle to begin with. It just all suddenly clicks.

The “killer origin” moment (burning off his face, slicing his smile) is also a transition metaphor. He chose his name, his body, his power. It was a permanent break from being what everyone demanded. Even though it’s bloody and horrifying, there’s a raw beauty to how Jeff reshapes himself—no more being a daughter, no more being a girl, no more being told “you can’t.”

He over-corrects, though, with aggression. A brutal, controlling masculinity that’s almost satirical—picking fights, dominating rooms, refusing to show vulnerability. If you ever see him truly soft, you’re seeing a side only his closest do. His entire life he’s learned that boys are mean, men are brutal, and masculinity in its whole is anger. So that’s what he embodies, because that’s what he’s learned.

THIS IS FOR THAT ONE ASK I GOT, HERE YOU ARE ANGEL: If you headcanon him Latino, mainly Catholic based, that adds such a sting—a family that saw girlhood as “pure” and “holy,” a church that said his feelings were a sin. That made Jeff’s rebellion even more violent. The guilt stays with him, even as an adult. Sometimes after a kill, he’ll wonder if God is sitting there watching him ruin everything. He’ll spit blood on a cross just to feel in control again.

Post transition? He’s proud as hell. He uses the scars from his face as a kind of armor—they distract from what he used to hate about his body, and make him feel permanently, violently other. They gave him ownership over his own flesh. He still deals with dysphoria sometimes—certain clothing, certain angles—but Jeff is the type to overcompensate with bravado and aggression. He’ll joke about “having a bigger dick than anyone here” and absolutely believing it.

He’s DIY’d more things than he should. Ben sometimes jokes about “Frankenstein hormone therapy” because Jeff refused to go through proper channels and took T from thrown away vials or by swiping them in drugstores. He binds, because even after he’s threatened murder on EJ, he still won’t give him top surgery because he doesn’t care, “you smell like a man, isn’t that good enough for you?” while snarling his nose (not in a transphobic way, in a you fucking reek way).

He binds so tight it hurts to breathe, but he likes it that way. It makes him feel secure. Pre-wrap and medical tape that nearly tears his nipples when he takes it off (if he does, he wear that shit for days at a time, only changing it when it begins to fall on its own). Kinda feels badass lounging around with no shirt and covered in bloodied tape.

Gets serious muscle tone and definition from missions and wrestling people to the ground, becomes incredibly lean and strong especially in his biceps and shoulders, which helps a lot with the “man” image.

All in all, don’t fuck around with it. It doesn’t matter who you are, what you are, or how close you two are—one word about any of it and you’re gone. It breaches a sort of delusional sense about his transition, he truly unshakenly believes he has a dick and he’s hormonally a male and that every childhood picture is somebody else. It’s the mental illness, but it’s also a safe-block on his brain to keep him from spiraling into anything messier. He has enough going on, there’s no point in stressing his body and psyche further.

꩜ .ᐟ

#rainspastathoughts #creepypasta #creepypasta fandom #creepypasta headcanons #creepypasta headcanon #slenderverse #jeff the killer #jeff the killer headcanons #jeffrey woods #jeffrey woods creepypasta #jeff the killer creepypasta

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lazysoulwriter · 2 hours ago

Text

center of his universe. - pedro pascal. ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: soft!pedro, established relationship, pre-red carpet nerves, gentle reassurance, protective energy, proud boyfriend vibes, reader attends her first premiere

---

You and Pedro have been quietly in love for months now. Private, not secret. At least, that’s how he always puts it.

Your hands held under tables. Your Polaroids framed on his nightstand, just out of the camera’s reach during interviews. Your name never spoken publicly, but always felt in the softest parts of him—his calmer voice, his gentler smile, the sparkle in his eyes when no one else knows he’s thinking about you.

But lately, things have been… shifting. The internet’s started to notice. A few side glances at parties. One (very grainy) photo of you walking behind him at the airport. A comment under one of his posts: who’s the mystery girl with the pink nails?

So when he comes home, flops dramatically on the couch, and says, “Come to the premiere with me,” your whole body stills.

You blink. “You mean like… with you. With you?”

He sits up, like he’s already bracing himself for the incoming spiral. “With me. Next to me. Holding my hand. Wearing something that’ll make me black out the second I see you.”

You swallow. “Pedro, that’s… I’ve never done that. I’ve never been on a red carpet. I don’t know how to stand, or pose, or what to do with my hands. I don’t want to ruin it for you.”

And his expression softens in that way it always does when you doubt yourself. Like it actually hurts him a little.

He reaches out and pulls you gently into his lap. Hands firm on your hips, grounding. “You’re not ruining anything. You’re making it better. I want you there, baby. I want the world to see the woman I’m in love with.”

You hide your face in his neck. “I’ll trip.”

“I’ll trip first.” “I’ll blink weird in the photos.” “Then we’ll be blinking together.” “What if I freak out and cry?” “Then I’ll hold your hand and remind you that you’re mine and you deserve to be exactly where you are.”

He tilts your face up to his, kisses your nose. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be there.” Then, smirking: “Besides, you’re gonna look so hot. Paparazzi lenses might actually melt.”

—

On the day of the premiere, you’re shaking in the backseat of the black SUV. Pedro’s fingers are laced with yours. Your dress is stunning—he helped pick it, obviously—and your stylist kept saying “ethereal” over and over.

But all you can think is: What if I look like I don’t belong next to him?

Pedro must sense it, because he leans in close, mouth brushing your ear. “You do belong. You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. The second we step out, people are going to fall in love with you. Just like I did.”

You glance at him, wide-eyed. “You really think so?”

“I know so.” He kisses your hand. “And if you get overwhelmed, squeeze twice. I’ll take you home. No questions asked.”

The door opens. The lights flash. The screams are loud.

But his hand is firm in yours, and his smile is calm and bright and proud. Like he’s not just introducing you to the world—he’s claiming you.

And later, when the photos are out and everyone’s talking and the internet’s buzzing, you find the moment he turned to you, eyes soft and glowing, while the cameras caught it all.

“Who’s she?” they ask. “Is this Pedro Pascal’s girlfriend?”

He doesn’t say anything on social media. But the next day, he posts the photo with your hands intertwined, your smile tucked into his shoulder. Caption: mine.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 3 days ago

Note

I have a dumb question: What does "main story campaign" mean ?

I understand that on 27/6 books 1-7 will get overblot animation but will there also the first part of book 7.5 ?

[Referencing this JP news!]

“Main Story Campaign” refers to a period of time where Twst runs a bunch of small things to promote reading the main story. The main attraction is a series of in-game rewards you can collect for each book of the main story you’ve completed on your Twst account. There will also be various boosts (such as to player EXP and madol/thaumarks gained from Lessons), as well as new temporary material packs in the Mystery Shop (which you can choose to purchase with real money). This is to incentivize players to catch up to the point where the main story has left off in preparation for book 7.5!

Please note that this is NOT the first Main Story Campaign Twst has had; if you have already collected the book completion rewards from previous campaigns, you are NOT eligible for a second round of rewards. There will, however, be a new reward added for completing book 7 (since it has now finished), which everyone should be eligible for.

To clarify on the timing of the events mentioned in the previous news post:

Again, the OB boys (🌹, 🦁, 🐙, 🐍, 👑, 💀, 🐉) will each be getting a solo character song 🎵. These will be released on the Aniplex Youtube channel over the course of July. We do NOT know the posting schedule yet.

There will be 🖊️ new overblot transformation scenes ✨(done by Cloverworks) added to the game on the 27th (June, this month).

The 🍔♦️ diner Cater + Chip and Dale 🥤🐿️ event has been announced for early July (July 1st).

🔥💀 SSR Guardian of the Underworld (aka Overblot) Idia banner will go live on the 27th (June). Please keep in mind that 🎂☀️ Kalim’s birthday banners will still be active until the 30th, so there will be roughly 3 days of overlap between his banners and OB Idia’s.

No news on when the first installment of 📖 book 7.5 will drop. We may hear about it in the July news or we might not, seeing as the Main Story Campaign lasts until early August. Speaking of…

The 📚 Main Story Campaign will last from June 27th to August 1st.

Regarding the new overblot transformation scenes: there is a note from the devs in an in-game news announcement asking fans to ❌ NOT share images or videos of these transformations to social media/publicly for the duration of the Main Story Campaign ❌!! We can still talk about them, but refrain from sharing images or videos until AFTER August 1st. Let’s please respect the devs’ wishes!

If you see someone has posted images/videos of the transformations publicly, you may kindly inform them of the devs’ request and ask them to take down their post 👍

💎 Blazing Jewel merch preorders are open from now until July 6th (11:59 pm, JST).

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adoresia · 3 days ago

Text

— ALEXITHYMIA ⋆ Nagi Seishiro

(n.) inability to describe emotions verbally

Just a boy who looks at you like you’re the only language he ever needed to learn.

based off of this request from @pastryiee !! I hope i didn’t disappoint 💔

˙🏷️ ̟ Nagi’s masterlist | BLLK masterlist | Main masterlist

Nagi isn’t a shy person, he’s just dismissive; unbothered you know? But he likes being your voice even if he can’t be bothered to be his own. He thinks there’s something so intimate about the idea of him being the only one to understand what you need without even having to tell him. he likes explaining you.

You don’t speak much. You linger in conversations, hovering beside them without stepping in; getting talked over more than heard. But he notices. He notices everything, surprisingly. The way you tug your sleeves over your hands when you’re anxious, and how your eyes dart to the door when you’re ready to leave but don’t know how to say it without being rude. The way your lips part like you’re going to say something — but you don’t. You’re quiet, but he hears you anyway.

So when someone asks if you’re okay, and you just nod with that same half smile he’s been able to read almost every time, Nagi answers for you. “She’s tired” he says simply, shifting so his knee bumps yours beneath the table. “Let’s go.” You stutter for a second, caught between his words and the startled faces watching you take your sudden leave. You blink once, twice, and then you glance back at the group with your mouth slightly opened as if you were trying to mumble a quiet “sorry...” or maybe even just a polite “bye” But Nagi doesn’t give you the chance to process. His hand is already wrapped around yours, and before you can shape a single word, he’s tugging as if it weren’t up for discussion.

Your breath catches as you stumble to your feet, dragged out of the room on steps not entirely your own. Your fingers only tighten instinctively around his and he doesn’t even look back or seem to have any second thoughts — he just keeps walking. And honestly, you’re thankful. Thankfull he didn’t make you say anything, thankfull he saw the way your words wilted before they bloomed, thankfull he moved before your heart had the chance to cave in on itself. Even if it meant you couldn’t do it yourself.

Later that day when you find yourself back in the safety of your room, you lay beside him, still a little dazed from how effortlessly he read you. still half laying on the bed, he stretches one long arm out and tugs you gently by the sleeve until your body folds next to his. His chin rests above your head, lips pressed passionately to your scalps when he speaks. “You don’t have to talk” he murmurs, his voice low and warm like a secret meant only for your skin. “I like knowing before anyone else does.” His fingers trace lazy shapes into your hip. Like you’re something fragile he gets to keep.

“You always look like you’re waiting for permission” he adds. “You don’t need it with me.” And you swear the weight of those words settles into your chest heavier than any kiss ever could. Because he doesn’t ask for much.

You don’t reply — not with words at least. You only turn into him more fully, pressing your forehead into his neck and letting your body exhale everything youd been holding in. He shifts so easily around you, arm curling like a shield at your back, like it’s instinct. Like the whole world narrows to your soft breaths against his throat.

Nagi listens to you like you’re everything. Because to him, you are everything; you deserve to be heard, even if it isn’t through your own words, but his instead.

GEN TAGLIST :: @livteracts @s6rine @mayyhaps @lizbix

click here to get notified whenever i post a fic !!

a/n :: wait i have nothing to say nevermind heh like and subscribe and make sure to hit that bell (gen taglist form) 😇 if u want

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camficdiner · 2 days ago

Note

Hi, could I request [1.5] [1.6] [2.1] (older reader), [3.4] [4.2] maybe with Will being cocky about his ability to pick up the reader and Mack betting that he won't be able to score (but it turns out the reader wants both of them)

☕️ Cam’s Fic Diner — Order 048

🍒 Thank you, angel — this one’s setting the kitchen on fire already. Age gap tension, cocky rookie energy, and the slow-burn hallway setup? Just the appetizer. Main course coming soon. 💌

💬 “You think I won’t pull her? Watch me.”

✨ Description and prompts (Part 1):

characters: Will Smith, Macklin Celebrini

prompt: hallway kiss setup; Will bets he can pull the reader (older, PR staff); Mack says he can’t

type: age gap tension, cocky-flirty energy, hallway build-up

tropes: bet, “older woman x cocky rookie,” mutual pining, hallway proximity

⸻

It starts with a clip.

You’re not even in it — not really — but it circulates all over Sharks TikTok within an hour. It’s from a light post-game interview, some rookie banter. Macklin’s half-drenched in sweat, hair curling against his cheekbones, grinning wide like the kid he still is.

The reporter asks, “What’s something about Will fans don’t know?”

Mack doesn’t even hesitate.

“Oh, he’s got a thing for cougars. Loves older women. Like, can’t shut up about them.”

You laugh when you hear it in the hallway.

Will does not.

⸻

You’re part of the Sharks PR team — not technically involved with the players, but close enough to manage them when they mouth off in front of a mic. You’ve been with the franchise long enough to be known — sharp suits, high heels, tight NDAs. You walk fast, talk straight, and make even the front office nervous when you raise an eyebrow.

And you’re not blind.

You know Will’s been watching you since camp.

You’ve seen the way his gaze tracks you through media days. The way he calls you “ma’am” with the dumbest smirk on his face. The way he adjusts his backwards hat when you walk by like he’s suddenly aware he’s twenty and you’re… not.

You’ve ignored it.

You’ve ignored him.

But that changes when you walk into the players’ corridor and hear your name.

“She’s not gonna look twice at you,” Mack’s voice is smug, cocky in its own right. “She’s older. She’s hot. And she knows it. You’re a kid in her eyes.”

Will snorts. “You think I can’t pull her?”

“I know you can’t.”

You pause just around the corner.

Hold your breath.

Listen.

Will’s voice drops, low and lazy. “You’re underestimating me, Mac. I’ve seen the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention.”

“She’s paid to look at you, dumbass.”

Will laughs. “You’ll see. She’s gonna fold.”

Mack claps him on the back. “Sure. And I’m winning the Rocket next week.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Bet what?”

Will doesn’t hesitate. “If I pull her before the end of this month, you owe me dinner — real dinner. Nice place. You wear a tie.”

“And if you don’t?”

“I pay. And I’ll wear whatever you want.”

Mack hums. “Even that ugly-ass turtleneck from media day?”

“Even that.”

They shake on it.

And you turn the corner like you weren’t just eavesdropping.

Both boys stiffen when they see you.

You smile — slow, sharp, professional.

“Gentlemen,” you say.

Will opens his mouth. Probably to flirt.

You don’t let him.

“Will, tuck your damn jersey in.”

He sputters. “It’s — it’s practice—”

“And Macklin,” you add, “next time you want to share my name in an interview, run it through me first.”

Mack grins. “Yes, ma’am.”

You walk away, heels clicking, eyes forward.

But your smirk gives you away.

Because for the first time…

You might be curious what would happen if you let one of them try.

Or both.

Will Smith is down bad.

And you? You’re thriving.

It starts the morning after the bet. You come in early for press coordination — sleek black blazer, heels sharp enough to kill. The boys are still milling around the lower hallway, sticks in hand, hair wet from morning skate.

Will perks up the second he sees you.

“Hey,” he says, jogging over. “You need help with that?”

He nods to your work tote.

You don’t even look up. “No.”

“I mean, I got time. I can carry it to the office—”

“I’m not walking into a press meeting trailed by a rookie carrying my bag like a puppy.”

He blinks. “So that’s a no?”

“That’s a never.”

You keep walking.

Behind you, Macklin cackles.

⸻

Day two: Will brings coffee.

You’re already at your desk, flipping through credential requests when he strolls in like he owns the building.

He sets the cup on your desk.

You look at it.

Then at him.

“You don’t know how I take my coffee.”

“I took a guess,” he grins. “You seem like an oat milk kind of woman. Balanced. Professional. A little sweet.”

You blink once.

“I’m allergic to oats.”

Will turns red. “Shit. Wait, seriously?”

You slide the coffee back toward him without breaking eye contact. “Try again, and I’ll consider not reporting you to HR.”

He sputters.

Mack, walking by with a protein bar in his mouth, just wheezes and slaps the wall.

“You’re 0 and 2, man,” he says through laughter. “She’s burying you.”

⸻

Day three, Will holds the elevator.

You’re in a rush. Your phone’s buzzing, your earpiece is in, and your hands are full of clipboards and folders.

Will sees you coming and jams his arm between the doors. “Got you.”

You step in. “Thanks.”

He smiles. Victory.

Then you add, “For once.”

Mack, leaning against the back wall of the elevator, loses it again.

Will glares at him. “Shut up.”

“She just bodied you in 4K,” Mack says. “Again.”

“She said thanks!”

“Pity thank. There was a tone.”

“There wasn’t a tone.”

Mack leans toward you. “There was a tone, right?”

You arch an eyebrow. “He’s adorable when he tries.”

Will makes a strangled noise.

The elevator dings.

You step off without looking back.

⸻

That night, Mack tosses his keys on the counter and yells before he even sets down his gym bag:

“Still losing the bet?”

Will, lying face-down on the couch, groans into a throw pillow.

Mack laughs so hard he nearly trips over his sneakers.

You’re still in the office.

The lights are low, the halls are empty, the silence thick in that post-game hush. You’re packing up final notes for the press team when Will’s voice breaks the stillness.

“You’re always the last one here,” he says from the doorway, casual, too smooth.

You glance up. “And you’re still here because?”

He steps in, hoodie half-zipped, damp curls falling into his eyes. “Waiting.”

“For what?”

“You,” he says.

You close the folder. “Cut the act, Will.”

He pauses. “What act?”

“The bet. The smirks. The stupid coffee attempts. You think I’m flattered by attention from a rookie who’s still got tape burns on his chin?”

That hits.

His jaw tenses. “You think that’s what this is? A game?”

You stand. “Isn’t it?”

Will steps closer — voice low, shaking. “You really think I’m doing this for clout?”

“Don’t act like you haven’t built your whole thing on it.”

“I want you.”

His voice cracks.

You freeze.

“I don’t give a shit about a bet,” he says. “Mack can roast me all he wants. I want you because you walk into a room and make me forget what I’m saying. Because you’re older, smarter, hotter than anyone I’ve ever met, and you don’t even see me.”

Your chest rises, slow.

Will exhales. “And yeah. I’m a rookie. I’ve never done this before. Not with someone like you. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I want.”

You stare at him. His face is flushed, eyes wild. He means every word.

So you step forward.

“You’ve never done this before?”

He swallows. “Not like this.”

You hum. “Good.”

Then you grab his hoodie and kiss him hard.

He whines into your mouth, body folding into yours like he’s starving for it. His hands hover, unsure where to touch. You guide them — hips, waist, thighs — and moan when he finally grips you like he means it.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “You’re so— I’ve thought about this so many times—”

“You gonna let me show you how it’s done?” you whisper.

“Yes—”

The hallway door creaks open.

You both turn.

Mack freezes in the doorway.

Will’s flushed, lips swollen, hoodie rucked up. You’re breathing heavy, blouse wrinkled, one hand still on his chest.

Mack blinks.

“Well, shit.”

You don’t flinch. “You here to gloat?”

Mack steps in, cool as ever. “Didn’t think you’d crack this fast.”

Will groans. “It wasn’t— I didn’t—”

You cut in. “What if I said I wanted both?”

They stare.

You glance over your shoulder, voice honey-slick.

“If I can have one rookie…”

You look Mack dead in the eyes.

“Why can’t I have two?”

---

Your office is dark now — just lamplight and silence and heat pulsing in the air.

Will’s on you first — fast, breathless, cocky, like finally tasting you has scrambled his brain. His mouth is rough against your collarbone, hands skimming your hips like he still can’t believe he’s allowed.

But then Mack closes the door behind him, and your whole body shifts.

You look at him over Will’s shoulder, blouse half open, lips kiss-swollen.

“Mack,” you say, voice low. “You’ve been watching all week.”

He hesitates — flush already blooming up his neck.

“I—yeah.”

“You wanna learn something, rookie?”

He swallows. “I’ve never— I mean— I haven’t… not yet.”

Will’s head snaps up, surprised. “Wait—seriously?”

Mack glares at him. “Yeah. Problem?”

You smile slowly. “Not at all.”

You lean back on your desk, skirt bunched around your thighs, and crook a finger.

“Mack. Come here.”

⸻

You undress him slowly.

He’s shaking. You kiss his jaw. Unbutton his shirt. Tell him he’s perfect. That you’re going to make him feel everything. He nods like he can’t speak.

Will watches from the couch now, shirt off, breathing hard — dick in his hand and zero shame as he watches you touch Mack for the first time.

You sit Mack on your desk chair and straddle him.

“You ever had someone ride you, baby?”

He shakes his head, wide-eyed.

You press your hand between your thighs, fingers slick, and guide him in slowly — watching his entire body shudder when he feels you.

“Fuck—” Mack gasps. “You’re so— I can’t—”

You stroke his face. “Shh. You’re doing so good.”

You move slow, grinding down just enough to make him twitch. His hands clutch your hips like he’s afraid to move. His mouth falls open.

Will mutters from the couch, “Jesus fucking Christ—”

You glance over. “You want a turn?”

He’s on his feet in seconds.

⸻

Mack’s still inside you, trembling, overstimulated and glassy-eyed, when Will kneels in front of you, and buries his mouth between your thighs.

You moan loudly — one hand in Mack’s curls, the other tangled in Will’s.

“Such good boys,” you breathe. “Letting me use you like this.”

Will groans into you.

Mack moans brokenly. “I’m— I can’t hold it—”

You cup his jaw. “It’s okay. You can come. You did so well.”

His whole body jolts — shuddering release, forehead pressed to your shoulder, whispering your name like a prayer.

Will stands, hard and leaking, panting. “Please—me next—”

You shove him onto the couch, straddle him, slide down in one slow, soaked motion — and ride him until he’s gasping, whimpering, kissing every inch of your skin he can reach.

You come with both of them whimpering underneath you. Ruined. Shaking.

Exactly how you like them.

⸻

After, Mack sits on the floor, dazed, flushed, a total mess.

Will lies shirtless on the couch, still breathless. “That was insane.”

You sip from your water bottle like nothing happened.

“I think I blacked out,” Mack says.

You smirk. “You did perfect.”

They stare at you like you’re unreal.

You fix your hair in your reflection.

Then: “Next time, I want to see what you two look like when I’m the one watching.”

Will chokes.

Mack just groans. “I’m not gonna survive next time.”

You smirk. “That’s the idea.”

#camficdiner #will smith hockey x reader #ws2 x reader #will smith hockey #wsmith #ws2 #macklin celebrini imagine #macklin celebrini x reader #willmack #macklin celebrini smut #macklin celebrini #mc71 x reader #mc71

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only-lonely-star · 3 days ago

Note

so your post abt your concerning amount of injured reader requests inspired me. you should totally do a gang x reader who just got out of surgery. like still under anesthesia that makes you act all high and stuff. i don’t remember if you do hcs involving the entire gang (separate ofc) or not, but if you don’t, then you could do this with dally or ponyboy— tysm ily and your writing 🤞🫶

Curtis gang x anesthetized!reader HCs

Curtis gang x gn!reader

Warnings: Reader is under anesthesia. Brief mentions of bruising and blood. Reader experiences mild pain.

Author’s Note: I decided to specify this request for wisdom teeth! I got mine taken out a few years ago so I have experience lol. enjoy!! <3

+ my little story time of when I got my wisdom teeth taken out at the end bc why not :)

✦ . 　⁺ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ 🦷 ✦ . 　⁺ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Ponyboy

As soon as he saw you being pushed outside from a wheelchair, he just felt bad. Not because he had done anything wrong, but because it feels so scary to see someone he cares about so out of it.

I feel like his idea of someone being anesthetized is like ‘they zone out for a bit and slur their words’, but your experience was totally different.

If you were crying, he definitely thought you were in pain from the surgery. (For reference, some people cry when waking back up from confusion, stress, etc.)

Just by hearing your rambling, he was genuinely thinking ‘What the fuck…? Did they put you on anesthesia or something else?”

He’d try to be as helpful as possible, especially at first when you were numb inside your mouth. I think he would make a great nurse for the day and help talk you through your discomfort.

Maybe Pony would read you a book once you calmed down enough to understand what he was saying. At first you can’t do much else besides lay there and mellow yourself out, so he could easily kill time reading to you.

Ponyboy would remind you of what you’re allowed and not allowed to eat/drink/do within the first few days. The thought of dry socket scares the SHIT out of him. He wants absolutely noooo part in that.

Johnny

Johnny would laugh his ass off when you’re first rolled out of the operation room. Deep down, he’s a little scared of the possibility that he might have to have his wisdom teeth removed, so he disguises it with laughter.

He would try to fuck with you a little bit because he’s aware you can’t form coherent thoughts just yet. He thinks it’s sooo funny to watch you panic like that 😭 “Where’s your tongue?? They removed that too?!”

Okay, after he’s had a good laugh, I think he would try to comfort you a little. Especially if you were more emotional when waking up, he’d probably feel slightly guilty for teasing. I can totally see him letting you rest your head on his shoulder or blab about whatever as his way of showing you he’s there for you.

If you WERE a crier right off the bat, Johnny wouldn’t joke like that. He imagines that would feel like pure torture.

Since you can’t smoke, he’d do you a favor and exhale towards you so that you can get your dose of second-hand smoke in until you’re better.

He isn’t fazed by your all-liquid diet. Hard times have led him to consume soup, broth, and whatnot even though he can chew. I think he might try and keep solid foods out of your sight as a sign of respect.

Dallas

Similar to Johnny, I think Dallas would take one good look at you before bursting into laughter. He’s familiar with various drugs and such, but anesthesia isn’t anything like the party drugs he’s used to.

He personally thinks your swollen, gauze filled cheeks are hilarious.

No matter if you’re crying or not, I think he would try to straight up interview you on the spot. “How’s your mouth? Does it hurt? You remember who I am?”

He would take advantage of your state and try to get you to confess the most embarrassing things. Stories he can recall from ages ago that he knows you would never retell would just slip out because of your lowered inhibition.

The never ending teasing Dallas would commit to is just ruthless. You’ll be “chipmunk cheeks” to him forever.

He wouldn’t know better when it comes to post-surgery rules. He would try and be nice for once by bringing you a milkshake just to find out you need to be spoon fed instead of using straws like normal. As much as it would grate at his nerves, he would go back and out of his way to find you a spoon to slurp from.

Sodapop

He would be concerned at first glance, noticing the bruising on your cheeks and the swelling around your jaw. Soda would try and comfort you physically whether it be holding your hand or letting you lean on him for support. (This can be interpreted romantically or platonically)

When you’re rambling, he would simply nod along and go “mhm” every few mumbles so you felt heard.

During the car ride home, he tried to keep you as calm as possible. Crying or not, there’s usually a bit of a panicked reaction when first waking up from the anesthesia. I actually think Soda may have gotten his taken out before, so he knows it’s not super pretty.

Constant reassurance if you were one to cry a lot. “No, no it’s okay. It’s over now. You’re doing great.”

Once you’re a little more conscious of your surroundings, he would sit and listen to you talk about how you feel, what you need at the moment, etc. Overall, I think he would be super caring (partly because he has experience).

Steve

He would make a 😧 face when he first sees you because of how fucked up you look. He would be on the more stunned/amused type rather than comforting.

He would poke at your cheeks in fascination. The slight bruising on your jaw is “tuff” according to his judgment. “Looks like you took a few blows. I mean, it looks pretty tuff if you ask me😼.”

I think he would save the teasing until after you’ve gained full consciousness again.

He would be the type of person to try and make you laugh/cheer you up if you were crying from the anesthesia. I assume he would think you’re crying in pain or because of the blood on your gauze because he doesn’t have personal experience in this area.

If this was a modern au, he would definitely try to sneak a phone in and record you to embarrass you with videos later. Not in a mean way, but in a playful & teasing type of way yk?

He leans your head against the seatbelt in the car, trying to NOT touch your puffy cheek. His worst fear in the moment is for your gauze to fall out of your mouth and land anywhere on him.

Two-Bit

He covered his mouth like 🫢 when he first saw you, trying his hardest to not laugh IN your face.

He would talk to you like a child, and it surprisingly worked well. The slower, more simple sentences could actually be comprehended even though you were still under anesthesia.

Tries to get you to open your mouth to show him where they operated on you because he thinks the concept of surgery is so fascinating.

Similar to Soda, I think he would play along with your loopy rambling. If you’re speaking straight up mumbles that only make sense to you he’d try to mumble back like you’re speaking a language only the two of you know.

He’s oddly gentle with you. I think he would offer you something to eat (liquid foods) right away. He would try to take care of your needs because being on anesthesia does NOT look like him to fun. Funny? Sure. But fun? He would pass.

He hypes you up HELLA. I’m thinking in an encouraging but also impressive way like, “Look at you, you’re all done. It’s over! I couldn’t ever get my teeth taken out.”

Two-Bit makes you feel ‘guilty’ when he assists you. Obviously he’s just teasing, but under anesthesia you can’t take the hint. He would wipe your drool or adjust your bloody gauze and proceed to say something like, “Who else would do this for you? Mhm, exactly. Exactly! You owe me.”

Darrel

He’s so gentle and attentive with everything. He’s used to the role of a protective, caring, selfless big brother, but it’s like something snaps within him when he sees you so drugged and out of it.

He tries talking to you immediately, surveying how you feel, if you’re in pain, etc. Bonus points if you’re crying- he’ll try to ask if there’s anything he can do to help.

He tries to read the little pamphlet with care instructions from the nurses but he can’t even focus on it because he’s so concerned about you.

I feel like Darry would try and shadow you 24/7 post-surgery. If you’re asleep or simply resting on the couch he would pop his head in just to make sure you weren’t laying on one cheek or eating solid foods.

Again, this is more of a modern au type of deal- I think Darry would try and scold anyone who tried to record you. BUTTT he would take a picture for himself to keep as a silly memory, not to tease you endlessly.

He would probably be the one to drive you home post-surgery. He volunteered himself since he trusts himself enough to bring you back safely.

He shushes you when you try to ramble, he doesn’t egg you on like the others.

Story time:

My story isn’t all that interesting, but it was pretty funny to me when I retell it from my own perspective. I wanted my parents to record me so bad, but my mom insisted on not doing so. Okay so— I was brought into the operating room and sat down like normal. After about 30 minutes, who I think ended up being my surgeon came in with a thick ass needle. I knew right then and there that was the anesthesia. He starts asking me about school, what grade I’m going into, and what my favorite subject is as he’s injecting the anesthesia into my arm. I was talking like normal and I swear I blinked ONCE and I was suddenly in the backseat of my dad’s car. I remember closing my eyes for .2938384882 seconds and opening them to find myself sobbing and asking something along the lines of, “but how did I get from there to here?” and “Is it over?” repeatedly. I was sort of hunched over my lap/the back of the passenger seat with my hand stuck out towards my dad. I remember him holding it and trying to comfort me because he thought I was in pain or something. I’m 99% sure I was just confused and a little overwhelmed with the surgery feeling like a LITERAL blink of an eye. I wasn’t sad or hurting or anything like that. What’s cute is that my best friend got her wisdom teeth taken out just months before I did and claimed she was crying for me. I ended up doing the same thing, asking both my mom and my dad if she was okay and if I could text her to tell her I was awake. I also remembered seeing my brother get escorted from the exit doors into the backseat next to me. He had his eyes closed and mouth open saying shit like “I am fully awake and fully conscious” knowing DAMN well he was nowhere near planet earth. He swears he never said that but I remember him trying to act all hard so vividly. OKAY THIS IS GETTING LONG—. To conclude my little story time, I have to specify that this happened the summer after 8th grade and my Outsiders obsession was still so new to me because I read it 4th quarter of 8th grade. I was a lot more awake by the time I got home, so I could somewhat slurp down some of the milkshake my dad bought me. My mom and I laid down in her bed and we binged the Karate Kid movies together since she grew up as a Ralph Macchio/Michael J. Fox kind of girl lol. She also knew that I was really into The Outsiders and said I would like Karate Kid because I thought Ralph was sooo cute. My cheeks were bruised and puffy for WEEKS and I literally hated every single second of recovery. It felt like I could taste my own flesh because there were literal holes in my mouth from where the teeth used to be. To end this (for real this time) on a better note, I think it’s safe to say the surgery wasn’t all that scary. I was really nervous beforehand, but it turned out just fine. I recovered quickly and safely, and that’s all that really matters. So if you’re scared, don’t be! It wasn’t bad at all.

IF YOU READ MY LITTLE STORY YOU HAVE MY WHOLE HEART LOL (ts was NAWTTT little, it was longer than all of the headcanons combined)

TYSM FOR READING!!!

-Sophia 🫶🏼

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wizard-email · 2 days ago

Note

heyy so im kinda going insane over here. a long time ago (like a few yrs i think) you or some other wizard themed blog (i think it was you cuz of the blog colors) wrote an og horror fiction post (i think in second person?) abt being chased through a forest by i think an ex? and the narrator ran into a cafe ran by fae. and there was some fuckery with how the barista looked and how they asked for a name. and there was a part where the narrator sat down with a drink and avoided looking at the blood of the ex slowly spilling onto the floor. and when they ran out the barista called "come back again!" like a command or like something that /would/ happen, not a request. it was really good and im lowkey losing it trying to find it, but its been so long that im struggling. sorry for the wall of text, any help would be deeply appreciated<3

Oh!! Yes, the midnight cafe. It got taken down by Tumblr for some reason but you can read it on my ao3 if you want

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never-stranger · 1 day ago

Text

Fondness and Friendship

Pairing: Loki x fem asgardian!reader

Summary: reader visits Asgard every summer and becomes friends with the princes. But one holds a special place in her heart.

Tags & Warnings: mild angst, mentions of blood, Odin, first kiss

Forenote: I actually SUCK at writing titles. Sorry. But I might write a second part/another oneshot vaguely connected to this one? Maybe. Long time no post. Barely proofread, but if I make any edits, I’ll log it in here. Also I actually cannot for the life of me write love confessions.

Word Count: 3,355

────୨ৎ────

Summers in Asgard were not nearly as terrible as they were where you were from. The warmth of the afternoon sun was always accompanied by the dusk-like wind, making it quite enjoyable to stay outside—whether in the markets, the labyrinthine woods, or simply within the comforts of the gardens.

Your mother and Queen Frigga had grown close over the centuries, the Queen’s fondness began with her favour of your mother’s handiwork as a perfumer, then she had sooner than later requested her frequently during special events that needed souvenirs for guests; sometimes the Queen would send flowers and new oils to your mother in order to aid in her scent-making innovations. And once she had discovered she had a daughter around her sons’ age, she had been overjoyed—even more so after being told you had a penchant for magic.

Both ladies had brought their children one summer. Asgard’s first prince took after the Queen greatly with his warm skin and boyishly cropped blond hair. Though as opposed to the Queen, he moved with most pride, as expected of a prince his age. After greeting your mother, he had all but run off despite Frigga’s protests.

His boisterous nature made you shy and you hid behind your mother’s skirts, the cloth tightly within your fingers— but it seemed you were not the only one.

Queen Frigga beckoned another, and after a few moments, he languidly strode into the light. He was more timid, graceful, like his mother. His eyes danced around as he bounced on his heels, a gesture you could have deduced to have been from shyness. It brought you comfort somehow—enough to give you courage to mirror his steps, letting go of your mother’s skirt to stand by her side instead.

You gave Loki a small wave, and he responded with a gentle smile.

From a distance, Thor called out for him. Loki looked at his mother for permission, and the next thing you knew, you were running along the halls with him.

You usually came in last whenever you’d participate in their little races or any games that involved running. Of course, you’d learn to run faster—they would, too. You could never really keep up with the two.

Thor had his way of bending the rules when you played, climbing trees to make it hard to find him, knowing that you were more physically limited. Soon enough, Loki would follow in his footsteps. But what you could not do physically, you made up for with your keen sight.

“That is in no way fair when you play games with a girl!” You cried out from below right before folding over as you caught your breath, hair unraveling as strands stuck to your skin.

In a moment’s concern, Loki almost hopped off the branch he’d been perched on, only to be halted by Thor’s commanding arm. “Let her breathe.”

“She’s hardly capable of it, would you look at her!”

As Loki spoke the last word, something snapped and sent them into freefall, followed by a harsh collision with the ground.

Thor groans as he stands on wobbly feet, rounding his arms. Loki remains on the ground, the wind completely knocked from his lungs. For a second, he expects to see the gates of Valhalla open before him, or perhaps to sink into the ground until he reaches Hel. But when he hears your laugh, he realises he is very much alive.

With a shake of your head, you offer him your hand. He grasps it firmly—then there is a twinkle in his eyes that you notice a bit too late.

You topple bluntly onto the grass—you pray to the gods that the bitterness in your mouth does not come from the soil. Then, with the sun right behind him, Loki beams at you with childlike innocence. You tarnish it by ripping a handful of grass and hurling it directly at his face.

“First you play dirty, then you defile my face?” He wipes a hand over his mouth. How dramatic.

“Dirty? Both of you climbed a tree, knowing how unladylike it would have been for me to follow!” You stand upright, dusting out your skirts.

“So you resort to using magic to take us out?”

“I used no magic. You know plenty that destruction is well beyond my… capabilities,” you say as though the admittance warrants embarrassment. Unlike Loki who was frequently dispatched on missions that required a set of skills to inflict harm, you were taught to sustain life, not to take it—and it was not lives limited to the sentient. And though you never said it aloud, you loved Frigga’s garden for that reason, it was always peaceful yet teeming with life.

Behind the both of you, Thor crosses his arms smiling to himself.

You take closer steps towards the younger prince, unaware of your spectator. “Mischief and foolishness are your thing. How foolish it would be for me to take that from you—look to the side, please.” With your thumb and forefinger, you tilt his face away before he could protest further. You could practically feel the words reverberating from his mouth.

But now you draw your attention to the wound on his face. Probably a few millimetres deep, though barely enough for someone like him to feel, at least without any interference.

“Ow!”

You swipe a thumb across his cheek, making him yelp, “What was that for!”

You show him your thumb, smothered with a drop of fresh blood. But when he wipes at his cheek with his hand, he feels nothing, not even a scar.

“Was that really necessary? Thought your healing magic wasn’t supposed to hurt.” He grumbles, gesticulating wildly. Thor approaches Loki, patting him on the shoulder. “Serves you right, brother.”

The younger prince shakes him off, his eyebrows knitted in annoyance as he watches the older prince walk off towards the direction of the palace—but you quickly dismantle him by leaning in close to whisper, “You know, you really ought to learn how to heal soon.”

The two of you follow Thor’s footsteps, and when you’re met with ponderous silence, you continue. “I hear you’re sent out by the King quite often, makes me a worry a little…”

“Save your worries for the heir,” he teases. “I assure you, my lady, today was a freak accident; a kind I do not come across on my expeditions.”

My lady.

The words make you scrunch your nose. “So formal,” you mutter.

He chuckles lightly, stopping in his tracks for a moment before calling out your name softly, fingers brushing against your sleeve discreetly, fleetingly, you barely felt it. “I mean it,” he says. The world is too quiet, Thor has gone far ahead. In the silence, you look him in the eyes, the wavelike crevices in his iris, often thrashing and wild, but for now they are calm like liquid serenity. Grounding. “But if it will help you sleep better, then I’ll consider doing a bit more learning.”

And until now, you spent most of your summers within the palace grounds, a guest room for yourself in the royal wing, and a dainty guesthouse when you came with your family.

Every year, something changed. Running in fields turned to cheering on the sidelines during sparring matches—sometimes followed by a scolding from your mother when you’d return with your garments tattered from participating in them, the time spent causing a ruckus in the halls was used to exchange books in the library or the courtyard, with passages and words underlined to convey cryptic messages of palace gossip and secret meeting places where the stars look the brightest.

These were changes you enjoyed and learned to love as a part of growing up, but one thing you dreaded, though never admitted to anyone, was how waiting for a couple of hours for Loki to finish training turned into whole days of standing by for his arrival from a lengthy mission. You hated how distant and cold he’d be to everyone and you, because by this time, you considered him one of your dearest friends—Thor close behind. You could only hope he felt the same way too.

That’s why you learned to distract yourself on days he wasn’t there. You’d made friends, other daughters of nobles visiting the palace. If they were new, you’d grant them the pleasure of bringing them to the best places around; then, in the back of your mind, you remembered who took you there first.

You were giving the girls fragments of palace gossip, something about a certain pair being caught in a very compromising position right in the halls you were walking in. But you’re interrupted by the sound of a familiar voice, loud and boisterous.

“A bunch of stealthy bastards, weren’t they!” Thor’s voice boomed, accompanied by a chorus of agreements and cheers from men. They gradually became visible as they came closer, and you quickly excused yourself from your group to approach Thor.

As you treaded towards his herd, you could see clearly their tattered clothing, the fresh scrapes and bruises blemishing their skin–yet, they were all smiles and laughter.

“Prince Thor?”

“Lady (Y/N)!” He greeted you with a grin.

“That’s the Lady (Y/N?)”

“She seems cordial with Thor; she must be.”

The men around him muttered, loud enough that it wasn’t easy to ignore.

“You’re earlier than I heard your expected arrival was.”

“Well, it’s the closest we get to a reward after being ambushed a short way from home,” he said, the enthusiasm laced in his words. “And I hear we have you to thank! Came back in one piece for the most part,” bellowed one of the men. The rest of them gave you their thanks, too. You were confused—you told them they might have had the wrong person; still, they persisted and you had no choice but to return their gratitude.

When the voices died down and you were near enough, Thor’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Can’t find a certain face in the crowd?”

The slight scrunch of your brows and the way your eyes darted everywhere but to his told him everything he had to know.

“Where is he?” You whispered hastily.

“He’s alright, I assure you. Just how he usually is after travesties like this one. He left his horse last, I suppose you’ll find him in the back—if he hasn’t wandered off.”

The second Thor said the prince was alright, you released a breath. He looked at you with a small, knowing smile, waving off his men to leave you two alone. “You should find him.”

You scoff, “You know better than anyone that the last thing he’d want right now is to be found.”

“Even a sulking serpent as he would have his exceptions.” Thor crossed his arms, carefully watching your expression to determine what you were thinking. “He may not want it; he may deny it, but he might need you as we speak.”

There was a gravity in his tone you couldn’t ignore, a stark contrast to his reassuring words that Loki was alright, you look at him with worried eyes. “You said he was fine.”

“The ambush was quick, but preventable. There was something we overlooked in the strategies, and he’s taken the blame for it.” Thor looks around the way he does before he shares a delicate piece of information. “He does not admit his faults to anyone, but at Odin’s questioning, as it has always been, he’ll be the one to answer. And you know better than anyone how that ends.”

You knew, of course you did. You’ve watched it happen before. It was scrutiny in full display to those who dared to watch. The Allfather would dissect him—piece by piece, where it all went wrong; then he’d mention the handful of other times he had failed under the throne’s orders. The first time you had watched it happen, you witnessed how Loki took all the daggers being hurled at him with full stride, his chin up, his words cold, his stance rigid. After he was dismissed, you followed him, wanting to express how well he did. But he walked away too quickly for you to even be able to fall into step next to him.

You called his name twice; by the third, he whirled around to meet your gaze with the same frigid glare he had given his father, melting only slightly at the corners where tears began to form.

He opened his mouth—to tell you to leave, perhaps, to apologise. You never knew. But after seeing him, you stopped dead in your tracks, allowing him to walk away first.

You did not see him for a week—the last week of the summer, when you had to leave soon. The next time you’d seen him was along the path to the Bifrost home. He stood awkwardly, his hands clasped behind his back and his face stricken with a kind of guilt you could not determine. It took everything in him to meet your gaze, metres apart from him.

“You’ll return next summer?” He said, but his words did not have the questioning tone, almost as if he were telling you to return, like he could not accept it otherwise. But it was not a command, either; he was not angry. His eyes spoke of hesitation—he was imploring you.

You hummed in thought. “Once in winter, and then again in summer.” you smiled meekly.

“In time for the Winter Ball, I hope.” He took a step closer, assessing you silently for any discomfort. You stood your ground. “You love your dresses. The perfect opportunity to flaunt your fashion, don’t you think?”

You laugh at his words, and Loki can’t help but return the sound. His eyes never leave your mirth-graced features. “You also speak fondly of snow,” he said. “It rarely ever snows back home. The most I’ve experienced it is from books and well… Your stories,” you replied.

“Well then, that’s something to look forward to.”

—

Thor could almost tell what you were thinking even without the thought-seeking powers of his brother. He hoped that it had at least convinced you enough to hear him out. So when you gave him a slight nod, patting him amicably on the shoulder before walking towards the palace doors, he felt pride in himself; relief for his brother.

The first place you checked was the stables. Loki’s horse was distinct from the rest, darker than—yet as quiet as an undisturbed evening. You found his horse unattended, nibbling idly at a stack of hay. It whinnied softly as you approached, offering a hand that it gladly nuzzled.

As you observed, the hay seemed to have been just placed there—compared to the others that had already looked a mess. You looked for any clues Loki might have left, and when you gave up, you scratched the horse’s face lightly at its sides. “Now where could you be…”

Right as the words escaped your lips, your eyes trailed down the horse’s chest, eliciting a gasp from you. There was a scar drawn right across. It looked like an old one that had taken years to heal, but you were not mistaken in remembering that it had not been there when they had initially left.

“What are you doing here?”

Despite the biting draftiness in his tone, a warmth swells in your chest. But it is quickly thwarted when you turn your gaze towards him—the sight of him, bloody and tattered. He must have noticed how your expression changed, how you pitied his appearance as his eyes hardened and made your heart feel brittle. You stepped closer to him.

“Don’t,” he breathed, “come any closer,” he says, but he does not make a move to step back or avoid you when you do so anyway.

When you’re close enough, your eyes travel across him entirely—the dents in his armour, the stains of amalgamated blood and grime, his torn cloak, his tired stature—his laboured breathing.

You lift your hands to hover at the sides of his face, but before you could get to touch him, he speaks. “I will taint your dress.”

You tilt your head, scoffing. “I don’t care.”

He melts at your touch, closing his eyes as he bows his head. You move closer so he can lean on your shoulder. Your fingers graze his scalp, you feel your sleeve dampen where his face lies, but you make no mention of it. When his arms wrap around your torso, yours wrap around his neck as you bask in his embrace.

“Are you hurt?” You whisper.

“No.” The strain in his voice tells you he isn’t saying everything. His arms remain around you as he pulls away slightly—and you’re blessed with those blue eyes, akin to the warmth of a lake in summer. “I mean I was, but… I’m alright.”

For a few moments, you stare at him in confusion, then you remember the healed scar on his horse and you break into a giddy smile; the puzzle falls into place. “You’ve learned to heal!”

Your joy infects him, warranting him to chuckle sheepishly. “It has helped the other soldiers and the horses, too.”

“That sounds wonderful. I’m sure your generosity won’t go unnoticed.”

“Neither will yours.”

Your eyebrows twitch in wonder moments before you scowl indignantly. “When my notes and books would go missing, that was you!” You ruffled his hair as he laughed. “But I would always return them in three days!” He argued.

“You were playing tricks on me.”

“I merely listened to your advice.” His words were slow and solemn. Your hands cradle his face once more; for a moment, you do not see the man—callous and cold, as they call him and as they make him up to be. You see the boy who would run to you with his wind-tousled hair and the brightest grin in the Nine Realms, donning a snake over his shoulders. You feel the warmth he had learned to hide within walls as time passed.

And then you see him again—the same boy, the same sheepish smile, just leaner, taller, older—wiser.

That’s all it takes for you to close the gap between your faces, your lips moving against his with a tenderness that surprises him, to which he gladly responds with his tongue and a part of his lips and a tighter grip on your waist.

You pull away, your noses still close enough to touch. “For what it’s worth,” he begins. “Every time they’d thank me, I would give them your name.”

“Ah, that would explain a lot of things.” You looked up in feigned thought, remembering the gratitude the men earlier had expressed towards you. Loki laughs in amusement.

“But I hear you’ll be answering to the Allfather again.”

Loki rolls his eyes—frantically, for a moment, you think you’ve ruined the moment. But he doesn’t let go. “It’s nothing new. Same story, same ending.”

You trace your thumbs over crest of his cheekbones. “It was an accident.”

“There was no room for an accident.”

“Then show yourself the mercy your father does not give.”

Loki stills in your arms, the wind knocked from his lungs for a moment as he tries to find his next words.

“Will you be there?” He asks earnestly.

“If you want me to be.”

His arms tighten around you as he whispers his next word, “Please.”

And you nod—giving him a chaste kiss. When you retract from his embrace, your dress is smothered in dirt and blood as he said it would be. He looks at it with guilt-ridden eyes, but you wave him off. “Nothing a bit of washing can’t fix.”

But still, his eyes are fixed on yours. He has fallen silent—the weight of the upcoming confrontation has settled on his shoulders, this time he’d have at least one more person to rely on.

You take his hand, gingerly lacing your fingers with his. Entering the palace, you feel the stares of people. Perhaps it is because you hold the prince’s hand—because for a moment you have forgotten the grime on your dress.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

End

#loki x reader #loki #loki laufeyson #loki laufeyson x reader #prince loki #loki x fem!reader #loki odinson #loki fluff #loki angst #mcu loki #loki of asgard

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alicenchanted · 1 day ago

Note

I love your Taryn series so much. I have a request you're free to reject. Would you do Nyx being outright rejected by his mate, completely refusing to give him a chance (Elucien style but unlike Elain, no trauma reasoning is involved) and the IC discussing it? He could potentially go insane over this so I am really curious about whether they would meddle. You could make her anyone at all, just not directly approachable so some High Lord's daughter, maybe Eris?

Lords of Choice, Part 1

Eris Vanserra’s Daughter X Nyx Archeron

Summary: Eris Vanserra's daughter Enid attends the Winter Solstice revel in the Hewn City to show respect to the Night Court. After finding out her mate is Nyx Archeron, she finds her respect slowly running dry. Her attempts to reject the bond spark concerns amongst the Courts, and their leaders most of all.

Pairings: Broken Mating Bond!! Nyx x Vanserra!OC, Feyre x Rhysand, Nesta x Cassian, Elain x Azriel

Word Count: 5,652

Warnings: mentions of groping, but nothing really terrible

Author's Note: Hello guys! This was my very first request so I hope I did it justice!! I absolutely loved taking this prompt, thank you so much lovely anon. I wanted to post the first bit so you don’t think I forgot about you bc this is lowkey getting long. Enid Vanserra is an original character. She and Nyx are both adults in this fic, which probably means second century of life? Idk Fae math. Also, I typically favor Elucien, but Elriel just worked too well for this fic... but no spoilers for part two. This is a little indulgent and slice of life-y but i couldn't help myself oops

Read on Ao3

“Agh, not so tight, Dad-”

Eris clicked his tongue at the grumble. “Hush now, it's almost perfect. And remember, you call me ‘father’ once we’re in the Court of Nightmares. ” He teased the strands of deep red hair atop Enid’s head into an elegant knot. She would need it out of the way at a revel, not swishing down past her waist with every twirl. Her hair gleamed, coated in some kind of pomade that smelled like nutmeg and horribly burnt herbs. “There… beautiful.”

“Thank you, father.”

“Better.” He smiled, his expression fond for only a moment, before dropping into a cool indifference. Enid wouldn’t- couldn’t- blame him for the distance her father had to keep from her. The Night Court could see her as his weakness.

Snow billowed outside the window of the Autumn Court’s manor as Enid made the necessary last minute fixes. Her dress, a satin burnt umber, made her look pale. That was the beauty standard in the Hewn City, where Night fae hated the complexions of those allowed outside the cavernous mountain. Her hair was perfect, pinned with brass leaves and chips of ruby. It was the Winter Solstice, but she felt proud to be a child of Autumn. Eris had an eye for this sort of thing. Elsewhere, it was a mother’s job to prepare a daughter for a gala. Enid did not know her mother, and did not need to.

Her father was very honest with her about her birth. Her mother was a high fae from the Autumn Court. Enid’s grandfather, the late Beron Vanserra, had coerced her into carrying Eris’s heir. Eris had many brothers, her Uncle Lucien was her favorite, but many of them were forced into the position of soldiers as soon as Eris’s strength gestured to his eventual lordship. A few of his brothers had died on the front lines in the war against Koschei almost a century ago, and the need for Eris to have an heir became urgent.

Not having a mother around didn’t really make a difference in her life, Enid felt. Whatever protective instinct that existed innately for a mother, Eris had ten fold. He was as doting as a hen… aside from the Court revels.

“Don’t wear those shoes,” Eris scolded, passing into Enid’s bedroom to chide her. “You’ll look like a fool. Wear these.” He held out a pair of slippers. “They’re enchanted,” he said proudly, a smug grin on his face that told her he knew exactly how perfect they were.

As she slid them on, she watched the color change, slowly darkening from a simple brown into the exact same shade of cinnamon as her dress. Enid’s eyes lit up at the sight, and she hugged her father tightly. Eris only indulged her embrace for a minute, but it was enough for her. She cleared her throat and stood up straight. “Thank you, father.”

He smiled, “You’re most welcome, Lady Vanserra.”

She did not bristle at the title, though it felt strange. Would it be High Lady, one day? The idea of leadership plagued her mind as Eris held her arm, winnowing them both to one of the entrances to the Hewn City.

They stepped through that invisible path through space, entering a snowy grove. Enid watched the white, grassy path in front of them fade into dull rock as they began the descent into the ground. Flickering sconces of cold, bright faelight flickered to life, guiding them into the mountain’s heart. She looked up at her dad- father, but he stared ahead, his eyes trained on the ballroom ahead of them. Eris was a picture of unyielding strength, everything she herself wanted to be when- if- she were one day High Lady.

As of right now, there was only one High Lady in the seven courts of Prythian. Enid made eye contact with her as they entered the ballroom. Feyre Archeron. She sat atop a throne of onyx, equally as impressive as the High Lord of Night’s throne. The High Lady held Enid’s gaze for a few moments, and she smiled just a little when Enid didn’t back down. And then the Lady’s gaze was elsewhere, searching through the crowd for someone else to torment with her stare.

Enid felt her father stiffen. It would be imperceptible to the crowd, but not to her. They walked carefully, neatly up a velvet carpet. She had practiced this moment. Eris halted at the end, standing before the Lord and Lady’s thrones. He dipped his chin, a show of respect to his equals, but only Lord Rhysand returned the gesture. Enid followed suit, curtseying as low as she could without faltering, a gesture proper for her own station. Everything about these ‘revels’ was rigorous social play. Calling it a party, or a festival, was so generous it became a lie.

Enid watched the entourage of fae behind Rhysand, the Inner Circle. According to her lessons, they would also be required to bow. Eris’s position trumped their own, even if the festival was hosted by their court. Only one did, though. A female that looked similar to Feyre, though much duller in Night Court black. Enid recognized her as her Uncle Lucien’s mate. They had never sealed the bond, though she wasn’t privy to the reason. The Morrigan did not look at Eris, nor did she look at Enid, and she felt her fire rise up in anger.

But she had practiced this, too. She took a breath as her father pivoted, leading her to the edges of the ballroom, and she let the fire inside her bank into smoke as she exhaled.

“Make sure you say hello to Lord Keir. I must keep up the pretense of alliship with him, he’s an important asset to Autumn.”

Enid tilted her head in a subtle nod. It was impolite to whisper, but more importantly, Eris didn’t want anyone thinking that their whispers were important. The man to Rhysand’s left… his shadows were spies. They coiled around his broad, scarred wings, searching without eyes. They frightened her. Eris followed her line of sight. He had put distance between them, playing the part of a bored, heartless father who was cursed to have a little brat instead of a son. Despite the distance, he still whispered, “Fire is the greatest fear of those who dwell in darkness, daughter.”

It was the reassurance she needed. She brightened, her spine straightening with pride. They would not dare touch her here.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･

There was something wrong inside the ballroom. Magic. The sharp tang of it filled Nyx Archeron’s nose, and he ducked behind the face of an elegant column. He had a gift for that sort of thing. Wrongness. He was a product of it, after all. Were it not for the Cauldron, he and his mother, his father too, they would have died. Nyx was the product of a bargain, and that made the circumstances of his life wrong.

He felt a sharp tapping against the bone white shields of his mind. He hated when Feyre used her magic on him. Pulling magical rank on family should have been outlawed centuries ago.

Nyx reinforced his shields, keeping her out. A few moments later, a dark, shadowy presence tried again. His father, too? How was he supposed to do anything with them breathing down his mind?

Something was wrong. He felt it pulling in his gut. Tugging at him. He tilted his head around the column, glancing at his parents. They were still atop the dais, but the rest of their Circle had moved into the crowd. They must not have felt it.

It moved. Rather, someone moved. The source of the tugging was across the ballroom, flitting back and forth, weaving through the crowd. It felt dangerous, it felt… hot. Burning. But it wasn’t the kind of burning that ate and ate until everything was gone. It was low and slow, something that would survive on scraps of whatever it could find. Somehow, he felt that kind of fire was more dangerous.

He joined the revelry, taking the hand of some nameless high fae. Nyx felt the presence of his parents fade from his mind, a great sigh of power. He must be in the sights of Feyre, or one of his aunts, and thus safe.

The female in front of him smiled, as flirtatious a look as she could give to someone like him. Nyx smiled back, the dimple in his cheek flashing as he pulled her in by the waist. Whatever it was, the wrongness, someone was carrying it with them on the floor. Nyx slid his hands along the fae’s back, down to her full hips. No secret trove, no deadly artifact or enchanted vials beneath the tulle. He spun her into the arms of another before moving on.

A lesser fae now. Gauzy wings draped down her back like sparkling cobwebs. She wore a dress that was certainly too scandalous for the Winter Solstice, but it worked in his favor this time. Nyx grazed her small thigh, his hand slipping under the skirt of her slip briefly. She cawed in delight as his fingers met her bare skin. No deadly ash weapons. She attempted to run her nails across the sensitive membrane of his wings before he shoved her off, moving to the next. The nerve.

He turned about the room with fae after fae, carefully groping for whatever it was that felt so strange. Nothing.

This wasn’t working. It was time to do what he should have done in the first place, let the High Lord and Lady deal with it. Nyx was weaving through the throng of fae, crawling back to his parents like a fool, when he bumped straight into Eris. The tugging feeling in his gut grew unbearably hot, and then it simmered out. Wait- that wasn’t Eris, it was a girl. Sometimes Eris looked like a girl from the back, but that was definitely not him. She was too young, too short.

Nyx pushed aside the people around him, keeping his eyes set on her as she moved. He was grateful that the crowd parted for him like water. He didn’t want to use his skills as a daemati right now. It would draw too much attention.

He found the Autumn fae, snatching her wrist up with a firm grip. “Where is it?”

She looked up at him with momentary shock before her face turned to steel. It reminded him of his Aunt Nesta. The look was cool. She was calculating him.

“Where is what?” She looked at him as if his title was the only reason she bothered answering. Prince of Night. It had its perks.

He grabbed her by the waist, skimming his fingers along her ribs. Daggers could be hidden in the boning of a corset. It was a trick the females of his court often employed. He felt proud to know such a secret.

The Autumn fae grabbed his hand, yanking it away from her body. He felt a searing pain bubble beneath his skin. Dim red flame skittered across his wrist, grazing the edge of his sleeve in warning. He snatched his hand back, biting his tongue to keep from bringing attention to it.

“Give it to me, and I won’t have you executed for treason.”

“Treason? I would have to be a member of your court for that to be my crime.” Whatever- it didn’t even matter what the technical term for it was. He’d have her head on a spike if anyone saw her embarrass him. It was a very beautiful head, though. Stunning, really. He liked her long red hair, the elegant curve of her face. Her eyes…

He watched those beady black eyes narrow. They were as sharp as coals, but not as sharp as her tone. “I have nothing to give you, run along.”

Who did she think she was? She was younger than him by at least half a century.

“You do realize I’m Crown Prince, right?”

“Do you take me for a fool, Nyx?” The posh apathy in her voice slipped. Fiery. He liked that.

“You’re a fool to lie to me,” he said, dropping his voice the same way his father did when he was threatening someone.

“You’re right about that. And I am not a fool.”

He took a breath, focusing on that feeling deep in his gut. It felt like a natal cord, like something forged along his soul. He gripped it with a shadowy hand. He pulled. The girl flinched and squeezed her eyes shut.

“You do have it!” A few eyes turned his way, and he lowered his voice. He shouldn’t be excited about an assassination attempt on his parents, but maybe they would finally trust him enough to send him out on real work.

He watched the girl clench her fists, grunting in anger at being caught. “I have nothing. What am I supposed to have?”

Nyx clicked his tongue. Each lie would only dig her into a deeper hole, but she didn’t seem to understand that. “If you keep denying it I’ll just have to find out for myself.”

Her brows crinkled in disgust. “Are you going to search me?”

“What? No.” He looked disgusted for a moment. “I would never do that.” He wouldn’t tell her about how he had been doing exactly that only a few moments ago. “I wouldn’t. Not when I can do this…” Nyx brushed against her mind, scaly darkness overtaking it.

The girl had shields. Thick ones, actually. Surprising. He pushed against them harder, slithered between the thick, ashen brambles until he felt her go still. He must have been improving with his daemati skills. A sudden wave of fear hit her. It was so strong that he somehow felt it, too. Deep in his gut.

I won’t hurt you, just confess.

A flickering ember billowed into shape, looking more and more like a figure, the girl, with each crackle of light. Nyx watched her soul take shape. This had never really happened before. Not when he practiced on Uncle Cassian, or Morrigan. He was definitely improving, then.

He could see only the vague details of her body, but he did not miss her glaring black eyes. She was remarkably stupid not to be afraid of him. That bothered him for some reason.

What’s your name?

That’s what you’re going to ask? She looked at him as if he were the stupid one, and he bristled. His shape here was strange. Some kind of beast, black and shiny, scaly but winged. He stretched his wings. They felt far bigger than usual. If you’re going to admire yourself, can you do that outside of my mind?

He rolled his eyes. The spectral ones. He wasn’t even sure what was happening to the real ones right now.

He turned away from her brightness, looking for her thoughts. Somehow, he couldn’t find the access point. That library full of memories was not reachable from where he was. It was a different space entirely. He could only talk.

He tried to play it cool. She didn’t need to know how royally he was fucking this up. You won’t even tell me your name? That sounds suspicious. I should just hand you over to the High Lord.

Do it.

Dammit. She wasn’t supposed to call his bluff. Why won’t you just cooperate…

Enid He blinked. The Autumn Court specialized in strange names, then. Something in his core sparked, turning warm again. She shivered a bit, cupping her abdomen. My name is Enid Vanserra. Now will you stop doing that? It’s making me sick.

Nyx left her mind, drawing back through flame and ember until he was looking at Enid. They were close, nearly shoved together by the press of bodies around them. The music had grown louder, the revel in full swing. Nyx grabbed her by the hips before she could get any ideas about slipping away. “Vanserra?”

“Don’t you know your noble families?”

“Of course I do,” he said flatly. “It’s not my fault you breed like rabbits. There are a million of you. Which Vanserra sired you?”

“Eris,” she said, almost smugly. She was the High Lord’s little brat then. Everyone knew how much Eris hated her. Nyx almost couldn’t blame him. She certainly enjoyed making things difficult. Now nothing made sense, though. Eris was an ally to the Night Court. Even the Court of Nightmares. She would never get away with disturbing the delicate balance of alliship.

Nyx reached deep inside himself again. That wrongness, it was a cord of pure light. It was easy to find, still remarkably present. He pulled on it again.

Enid gasped, made a small sound that had a blush rising beneath his tanned skin.“Is this some sort of strange trick to make me talk?” she grumbled.

“You feel that?” He pulled again and she leaned into him, bracing her hands on his shoulders in a mockery of a waltz.

“Yes.” She sent another glowering look his way. “If it’s supposed to hurt, you’re not doing it right.”

Nyx’s eyes narrowed. “I’m taking you to see my pa- The High Lord and Lady.” He wound his fingers around Enid’s wrist, dragging her through the crowd and toward the dais. She didn’t fight him, and he became less and less confident in the idea that she was up to something.

As they approached, he felt her straighten, almost instantly forging herself into fae nobility. Nyx followed a moment later, lifting his wings tight and straight.

His mother looked at him with a tinge of worry, though only amusement glimmered in his father’s eyes. “Nyx,” Rhysand said. “Lady Vanserra, to what do we owe the pleasure.”

Nyx spoke before she had the chance to, brushing back his dark hair until it was neat. “She has given me reason to be suspicious.”

Enid looked bored. Her gaze was trained on Mor, almost as if playing a game of chicken. Enid was winning.

“Suspicious?” Feyre said warily.

Nyx nodded. Now wasn’t the time to be uncertain. “Yes. I can feel the mark of the Cauldron on her. She has something dangerous, maybe something Made.” It sounded better than ‘I don't know exactly but there’s something wrong with her.’ It was a good guess. ‘Wrongness’ was usually the Cauldron’s doing.

Feyre looked to Aunt Nesta, who nodded. Nesta approached Enid carefully, her eyes flickering with liquid silver. Nyx felt a phantom flame breathe in his soul, an echo of the instinctual fire that rose to life in Enid. It was a strange feeling. Wrong. Rhysand watched carefully.

Nesta shook her head a moment later. “I sense nothing Made.” His mother nodded, pleased, but the look on Rhysand’s face was… delighted. Shocked, but delighted. Nyx could almost see the gears winding up in his father’s mind.

“Mates,” Rhysand breathed.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆

“What?” The High Lady of the Night Court sat up in her seat. Enid watched her nostrils flare, scenting the air. She swore, biting at a perfectly manicured nail.

Anxiety rose in her stomach, but she wasn’t sure now if it was her own, or if it belonged to the prince beside her. Nyx Archeron was her mate.

Enid felt the booming footsteps of her father echoing behind her. Eris marched his way up the dais, coming to a halt a few feet behind Enid, though he did not look at her. “Is something wrong, High Lord? Lady?”

“High Lady,” Rhysand corrected. His voice was tight, but she could see the glitter of stars in his eyes. His face smoothed into an almost cocky grin. “Welcome to the family, Eris.”

Prick… but Enid stayed quiet. She watched her father’s already rigid frame go still, like a petrified tree in an ancient forest. “What do you mean?” Eris said. He sounded calm, but Enid knew he was anything but.

“Your precious, darling girl is my son’s mate.” Rhysand crooned. “Will we be expecting you at family dinners from now on?” He was deliberately taunting her father, she knew. It was a cover for whatever plans had set themselves into motion behind his eyes.

“No,” the words left Enid’s mouth before she could stop them. It was impolite, but she found herself unable to care. Her father finally looked at her, one eyebrow lifting at the interruption.

She turned back to the High Lord and Lady. Feyre was smiling at her, looking at Enid like she was a little girl that had gotten lost in the woods.“Our families are allies, Enid, and we would be happy to see our courts united,” Feyre said softly, politely.

“No,” Enid repeated. The thought of being anywhere near them… she did not like it. She did not like that they played games with their allies, forcing Eris to stick his neck out at the risk of her Grandfather’s wrath many years ago. She did not like that their women were either caged or turned into weapons. She did not like that their kindness was just as lethal as their rage.

Nyx’s wings flared, the look on his face petulantly irritated. It seemed as though he wanted to speak, but wouldn’t dare interrupt the back and forth taking place in the minds of his parents.

After a few full seconds of silence, Rhysand propped his arm against the throne, resuming his apathetic surveillance of the crowd. “Enjoy the revel, we’ll be in touch.”

Enid looked at her father. The muscles of his jaw were clenched, though he said nothing. He put a hand on Enid’s shoulder, guiding her off of the dais with a light pressure, but a tight grip.

From behind her, she heard the High Lady mutter, “Stay.” The hesitant rustle of wings told Enid that Nyx had listened.

Eris led her straight out of the mountain. She felt herself finally able to breathe as they veered onto the rocky path. She wasn’t sure if the pause in her breath was because of her nervousness, or simply the dense air that swelled in the cavernous ballroom. Her father gripped her arm, winnowing them back to the Autumn Court as soon as they were past the mountain’s wards.

“Explain,” was all he said as they tunneled into the den. Fires crackled to life in the hearths of the Vanserra manor. It kept out the cold, but that was only an indirect effect. The hearths were black with soot and ash from every time Eris had needed an outlet for the magic building inside him.

Enid sat down in one of the plush armchairs, sinking into the archaic upholstery. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know.”

Enid just looked at him. She didn’t really know what to say.

“I suppose this could work for us…” Eris said as he began to pace. He had trained himself on stillness in front of rivals, but in the safety of their home he couldn’t keep himself from muttering. “Hmm, and then they wouldn’t involve themselves… might need to use my bloodhounds… trust her with information.”

She was only able to catch snippets of his whispers, but she quickly grew queasy with the thought of being sent to the Night Court. “Will I have to live there?”

Her father paused, turning to look at her. “Once you are mated you’ll never want to be apart.” He said it so openly, so matter-of-fact. It was as if the Cauldron had already tipped, its rough waters etching her future into stone.

“I thought we were already mates.” Maybe they were wrong, then? She wasn't at all looking forward to meeting Nyx again.

“Nyx is your mate, yes, but you still have to accept the mating bond.”

“I have to accept it?”

“You don’t want to accept it?” Her father looked at her curiously.

In all of Enid’s lessons, she hadn’t really been schooled much on mating bonds. She was taught the basics of court partnerships and romantic etiquette, but Eris had made sure to instill a sense of independence in her. He did not want her to be reliant on a male when so many of them were fools. He knew that from personal experience, of course.

“I don’t know,” Enid said, her voice coming out as a warbled murmur. She had never given thought to finding her mate. She knew one existed for her, as there was for all fae, but finding one’s mate in the vastness of Prythian- let alone all the other fae realms- seemed impossible.

Eris continued. “Different courts have different traditions regarding the acceptance of the mating bond. The Autumn Court’s tradition is… very dramatic.” He winced a little at the thought. “It’s called the Burning. The female is tied to an oak of the same age as her. She uses her magic to light the tree on fire, and the male must brave her flames to untie her. True mates cannot hurt each other, so if the male comes out unharmed and with his bride in hand, the bond has been accepted.”

“What if he doesn’t?” Enid asked as neutrally as possible, but she swore amusement flashed in her father’s eyes.

“If the female freely rejects the bond, the protection from her magic fades, and the male will likely run screaming.” His eyes softened, the corner of his lips quirked in a small smile of understanding. “I suppose it would be unwise to have Nyx attempt the Burning?”

Enid trained her eyes on her shoes. She didn’t want to be the cause of ruined relations between courts. The Night Court was often unpredictable, and her rejection could be seen as an insult. After all, she had allowed Nyx no grace period, nor the benefit of slow courtship. She had simply said no, and left.

Eris sat beside her, the fires in the blackened hearths having cooled. “I would never be upset with you for denying a male. The Night Court is known for treating mating bonds as… Cauldron-given rights,” his lip curled, “not that the Autumn Court was any better under my father. Beron’s roots run deep, and our traditions hold fast.” He turned to face Enid. “You are free to make your own decisions. However, I would ask you to consider. You are your own person, but you are also an extension of my court. Unfortunately, I cannot only back your decisions as your father, I must also support them as High Lord, which is far more difficult.” He stood, bending down to press a kiss to her hair. “Take your time, Enid. And rest. The answer will come to you with some reflection. Do not let the flame of your whims guide you, as the Vanserra’s too often do.” He squeezed her shoulder, then left the den.

The hearths turned to ash.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆

Please, Enid

Can I at least come to visit? You won’t even give me a chance…

Nyx watched her fiery form, the image of her along the bond, flicker and sputter out. A pang echoed across the tether of light, twisting in his gut. Enid would not be talking any more today.

Cassian snapped his fingers in front of Nyx’s face in annoyance, startling him out of that dream-like state. “It’s your turn. Nesta is creaming us, dude.”

His aunt smirked as her ball bounced against the long table, arcing gracefully before plinking into the center goblet. Liquor swished as the ball sank. Azriel gave Nesta a fist bump.

Cassian groaned. “Azriel is helping you cheat! I see his shadows moving.” Azriel’s shadows wriggled, as if insulted.

“We don’t need to cheat,” Nesta said smugly as Cassian lifted the goblet, drinking down sharp liquid. “You would think the Night Court’s General would have better aim.”

Cassian grimaced at his mate. “I should’ve thought twice before inviting you to play a drinking game.” He turned to look at Nyx. “What’s wrong with you today, usually we’re at least tied by now.”

Nyx looked down at the table. His Aunt Nesta and Uncle Azriel had only two goblets left to win. He and his Uncle Cassian still had five. Nyx tucked in his wings defensively, taking the ball from Cassian’s hand. “My turn.”

Cassian shrugged, stepping back to watch as Nyx carefully threw the ball into the polished surface of dark oak. His angle was off, and it merely skittered and rolled over the edge. Cassian groaned. “What was that?”

It was hard to focus. When Nyx had first met Enid on Winter Solstice, he had found it impossible to ignore that strange magic between them. Now, after almost two weeks of her refusal to talk, the cord that linked them felt… tight. His Aunt Elain had even caught Nyx pacing the halls of the River House, nearly ready to fly out to the Autumn Court.

Nesta and Azriel put Cassian out of his misery, each of their balls plunking into the final two goblets as they ended the game. “Drink up,” Azriel said, his shadows still tucked away, holding a grudge.

Nyx lifted one of the goblets, taking the shot as Cassian finished his own. It slid down with a burn. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as the burn of Enid’s presence. Cauldron boil him, he was a mess.

“I’m never playing with you again,” Cassian muttered to Nyx, but Nyx supposed the sentiment was also meant for his Aunt Nesta.

A tinkling sound echoed as the High Lady walked into the room, her silver bangles announcing her presence. “I thought I told you to stay out of the business wing with those games. And stop corrupting my son,” she said snappishly to the Illyrians, but mirth swirled in her eyes as she smiled. This had been his mother’s only dream. A family that stuck together, that truly lived.

“The tables in the personal wing aren’t as big,” Cassian said with a grin. Azriel grabbed one of Feyre’s fancy hand towels from Cesere, wiping down spatters of alcohol from the glossy table. “And Azriel will gladly clean it all up,” Cassian added cheerfully.

Feyre only rolled her eyes, turning to Nyx. “Any luck?”

A blush crept across Nyx’s cheeks, his tan skin flushed with rose. His mother had a habit of being nosy. “No,” he said sheepishly. “Not yet.”

Her eyes narrowed as she pulled Nyx into a hug, pushing his face into the shoulder of her soft, cable-knit sweater. “I’ll have Rhys visit the Autumn Court.”

“Not yet,” Nyx insisted. He kept himself from tugging on the bond, from calling to her. It was embarrassing.

“Eris needs to keep that girl in line.” Feyre turned to Nesta, “Or you could go, Nesta.” His mother smirked. “Eris tried to make her his bride once, you know. That would’ve worked out poorly for you, Nyx.”

Nyx stepped back from his mother’s hug with a grimace, but he smiled a little when he saw his Aunt bristle. “If you send me,” Nesta said, “the Autumn Court might declare war.”

Yes, Nyx thought, maybe sending a Valkyrie to his mate’s front door was a bad idea.

Nyx watched Azriel straighten as Elain walked through the door, a smile brushing his lips. Elain glided to his side, and he took one of her hands in his own, the scarred flesh of his fingers gently caressing her knuckles. “Dinner is almost ready,” Elain said. She noticed the charged energy of the room, cocking her head to the side. “Is something the matter?”

Feyre pursed her lips. “The Vanserras. Always causing trouble.”

Elain nodded, but it was a contemplative gesture, not one of agreement. Nyx had met his Aunt Elain’s mate before. Lucien Vanserra was one of the High Lord’s surviving brothers, and he occasionally came to visit Elain and Feyre. Though Elain had never fallen in love with Lucien, they were friendly with each other, and talked often.

Nyx waited for Aunt Elain to speak, but she didn’t, only adding after a few minutes that they should all reconvene in the kitchen.

Rhysand was already seated, nodding his thanks to the disappearing wraiths that had helped Elain cook. “I’ll go tonight, Nyx,” his father said by way of greeting. It seemed Feyre had already filled Rhys in, likely through their mating bond.

This time, Nyx did not object. He gripped his own bond, deep inside himself, wanting to see if Enid would answer. One more chance, he thought. Once his father went, hell would likely be raised by the High Lords. The line inside him was cold, but she couldn’t avoid him forever. Maybe it really was time for the court to intervene.

Rhysand’s brows furrowed as he saw pain flicker in Nyx’s blue eyes. They were soft and gentle, exactly like his mother’s. “I’m sure this is all due to some misunderstanding. Who knows what kind of vitriol Eris has spewed to her.”

Nyx nodded, settling into one of the plush seats at the dining table. He folded his wings around the back, letting the cartilage rest against the carved wood. “Wings up,” his father chided. “It looks lazy.”

Cassian and Azriel snickered. “You sound just like your mom, Rhys,” Cassian said. Nyx watched his father smirk, chewing thoughtfully on the roast duck carefully plated before him.

“My mother always knew everything,” Rhysand said proudly. Nyx barely listened, staring at his plate, digging the tongs of his fork into duck meat. It was perfectly cooked, well seasoned, but he couldn’t eat it. His stomach turned.

Azriel nodded to Rhys and Feyre, “As mothers always do.”

Feyre played with her wedding band, smiling quietly to herself. She seemed determined to keep their little family together. Perhaps a family was all Enid needed. He hoped that was the case.

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