melinewton54

[melinewton54]

🩷 very hungry rn, could I order a pink dragon fruit, pink gummy bear, pink velvet cupcakes, and rhubarb?

Atta Girl - l.n

Warnings: Smut, 18+, blowjob, innocent!reader, protected!sex

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!reader

Prompts: “that tongue’s had practise, hasn’t it?” 🩷 “you can take more angel” 🩷 “you’d look pretty on my bed, y/n” 🩷 “ill be gentle baby”

cafe prompt list

You were snuggled against Lando, watching as he scrolled through Instagram.

Your head was on his chest as you played with the hem of his loose t-shirt, the faint thump thump of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

“What’s on your mind?” Lando said, putting his phone down onto the side as you looked up. “Nothing,” you lied, your eyes not meeting his.

Lando raised a brow, a faint scoff on his lip.

He knew you way better than to just accept an off-handed ‘nothing’.

“Don’t give me that,” Lando said, “tell me what you’re thinking,”. You sighed, rubbing your eyes as you sat up slightly.

“Just, you know how you taught me how to give you head last week?” you asked shyly, your cheeks tinging a soft shade of pink as Lando nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat.

He remembered that well - how he’d taught you all the right places to lick and suck, and how well you’d learnt just for him.

He remembered that day well - it had been a Saturday night and your asked, in your innocent little voice, what Lando had meant when he said, “You’d look pretty in my bed, Y/N,”.

At first, he’d been embarrassed to admit the dirty statement.

But then you’d asked more and more, til eventually you’d almost begged him to teach you how to suck cock.

“When’s my next lesson?” you asked, “one lesson isn’t gonna be enough,”.

The way you referred to the little sessions as lessons was doing things to Lando, which he couldn’t quit explain.

“Yeah? Wanna have another go?” Lando asked, propping himself up on his elbows as he watched your tongue dart out to wet your lips, “c’mon, then, I taught you what to do,”.

You nodded, pulling the waistline of his joggers down just like he’d taught you to last time, his cock springing up semi-hard against his abdomen.

“Make it hard, that’s it,” Lando said, stroking your hair from your face as you pumped him, spitting onto his angry red head as he groaned. “That’s it, baby,” Lando said, his words full of praise.

You continued the movements til his cock was rock hands in your hand, twitching and leaking with pre-cum.

You swirled your tongue round his head, before taking him into your mouth, teasing his slit with your entrance. He had not taught you to do that.

“That tongue’s had practise, hasn’t it?” Lando groaned as he watched you toy with his head, his vein throbbing beneath our palm.

“A-Ah…f-fuck,” Lando groaned, his hand tightening in your hair.

You bobbed your head up and down on just his tip, licking over it too he was covered in your salvia, his salty pre-cum on your lips.

“You can take more, angel,” Lando said.

His hand half pushed your head down slightly, as if prompting you.

“Y/N- shit!” Lando gasped as you went fully down, taking his thick cock down your throat, ignoring how your eyes watered as he bottomed in your throat.

God, he hadn’t expected you to go all the way down.

“I w-wanna learn the next bit,” you panted as you pulled back, continuing with your hand where you had left off.

“Yeah?” Lando said, his voice shaky as he stroked your cheek.

“Sex,” you said, as Lando laughed breathlessly. “Yeah, I know,” he said, his legs parted as you sat back, still stroking his length.

“C’mere,” he patted his thigh, as you sat down, the hem of your shirt lifted off by Lando in the process.

“You just tell me to stop and I’ll stop, okay?” Lando asked, as you nodded, watching his attention drift to your cunt.

Your pussy was already slightly wet, your folds slick and moist as Lando hummed.

“So perfect,” he groaned, sliding a finger, with ease into your core as you gasped, hands instinctively coming to his hair, before you moved them to the sheets.

“You can put them in my hair, baby,” Lando said, using his free hand to move your hands to his hair as he pumped his finger in and out of you.

He could feel you become wetter and wetter beneath his touch, your eyes rolling as he fucked his fingers into your tight hole.

“Think you’re ready for my dick?” Lando asked, to which you nodded, almost desperately, clinging to his curls.

“Atta girl,” Lando smirked, pressing a proud kiss to your forehead as he manoeuvred you like fine china onto your back, legs pulled up against your chest.

“This means you don’t get pregnant,” Lando said, tearing open the condom with well-practised precision.

You giggled as he kissed your nose, rolling the latex onto his thick cock.

“Not against being pregnant,” you said as Lando groaned.

“Don’t say that when I’m just about to take your virginity,” he said, his voice husky as he aligned his cock with your entrance.

You let out a pathetic mix of a whine and a moan as Lando slid his cock into you, gently sliding his tip into you, stretching through your walls.

“I’ll be gentle baby,” Lando whispered.

He gave you some time to adjust, before he started moving, his movements precise yet hitting exactly where you wanted it to, your g-spot pulsing.

“Oh f-fuck,” you moaned, clinging tightly to his muscular shoulder as he brushed your hair from your face, pecking your jaw.

“Feels g-good, doesn’t it?” Lando said, his voice husky as you nodded.

“Lan, I-I can feel…” you trailed off.

“That’s your orgasm, sweetie,” Lando said, “it’s good, isn’t it? You want it, don’t you?”.

You nodded, a whimper on your lips as he slid in and out of you, your eyes fluttering shut as he kissed your cheek again, and then your lips. “Let it out, baby,” Lando said, giving you all the momentum you needed for your orgasm.

You let out a cry, eyes fluttering as your orgasm hit, chest rising and falling as Lando watched.

The sight of you in ecstasy alone was enough to send him over the edge, his cum spilling into the rubber as he panted, slowly inching his cock out of you.

“Fuckkkk,” Lando groaned, rolling the condom off of his dick, thrusting it into the bin as he kissed your jaw.

“How was it?” Lando asked, “sore? Or are you good?”.

“I liked it,” you mumbled as he kissed your cheek, lifting you onto his lap and hugging you close.

“Next lesson, i go down on you, okay?” he promised.

“Yes please,”.

A/N - Send any requests using these specific prompts!

[melinewton54]

Animals chap 3 | LN 4

cast: lando norris x minji nj

warn: PLS DONT READ IF U NOT INTO DARK FIC! SMUT 18+, NSFW, MDNI, toxic relationship, manipulation, obsession, controlling behaviours, mention of rape, suicide, and sa, rough sex, no-consent, kidnapping, full of madness, step-brother lando!, step-sister minji!

song rec: animals - maroon 5

chap 3/8

PLS DONT READ IF U NOT INTO DARK FIC!

Bianca returned her gaze to the city skyline outside the window. The cotton-like clouds had begun to scatter, revealing a clear sky—a perfect morning for their business trip to Thailand. She would be flying with a group of executives and, of course, Lando, who was leading the project.

Their company, Norris Automotive, was in the process of collaborating with Sainz Company, a luxury car manufacturer, to open a state-of-the-art factory in Thailand. This joint venture aimed to expand their market in Southeast Asia and establish a stronghold in the region’s automotive industry. Bianca knew this was a massive project, one that could shape her future.

"Wake me up when we landed, okay?" she said to her seatmate, a young production manager named Olivia, as she settled into her business class seat. Olivia smiled warmly. "Yes Bi. You look like you haven't slept all night. Rest up."

Bianca chuckled lightly. She hadn't had a proper night's sleep in days. The 11-hour flight to Bangkok seemed too far and long, and she barely had enough time to catch up on rest before the plane landed.

Upon arrival, they were whisked away by luxury cars arranged by the local team. The hotel Bianca had carefully selected was both beautiful and strategically located near the planned factory site. She had ensured every detail of their accommodations met the team’s needs, but Lando's unreadable expression left her wondering if her efforts were satisfactory.

“Here’s your room key, Sir,” she said nervously as she approached him.

Lando just taking the key without making eye contact before walking away.

Bianca sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Did I mess up again?" she muttered under her breath.

“Let’s get to our room,” Olivia said cheerfully, looping her arm through Bianca’s and snapping her out of her daze. They had agreed to share a room to make coordination easier.

****

As the hours passed, Bianca worked diligently to prepare for the afternoon meeting. The team gathered in a sleek, modern conference room in central Bangkok, where Lando presented a compelling proposal to Sainz’s stakeholders. His commanding presence and strategic insights impressed everyone in the room.

The meeting was a success. The company agreed to proceed with the partnership, paving the way for the construction of their new factory in Thailand. The deal promised to bring economic growth to the area and position Norris Automotive as a leader in the luxury car market.

“I need this report ready by tomorrow morning,” Lando said brusquely.

“Yes, sir,” she replied, masking her frustration.

****

After a long meeting the teams have all arrived in a quiet village near Chiang Rai, where they plan to visit the potential site for Norris Automotive's new factory. The company is exploring partnerships in this beautiful location surrounded by lush greenery and fields that seem to stretch on indefinitely.

The main road that runs through the village is impeccably maintained, their tour guide, Mr. Somchai, leads them to a resort-style facility built in harmony with its natural surroundings. The architecture reflects a traditional, Thai elements, with wide glass windows and teak wood accents. The air carries the scent of lemongrass and jasmine in bloom as Bianca and other teams explore the facility.

"Good afternoon," greeted a woman dressed in traditional Thai attire. Bianca and her colleague smiled politely in return. "We’ve arranged a complimentary spa for all the company staff,"

"This is amazing," Olivia whispered, nudging Bianca as they entered the spa’s reception area. "A fully paid spa session? I feel so lucky to be here!" Bianca chuckled, following one of the Thai attendants toward the massage rooms.

"This way, ma’am," the attendant said, guiding Bianca into a serene room filled with calming music and the faint aroma of essential oils. Bianca chose a traditional herbal compress massage, eager to experience the famed Thai therapy.

Half an hour later, Bianca decided to take a dip in the natural stone pool located in a secluded corner of the spa. She draped a soft cotton wrap over herself and stepped into the warm sun. But just as she was about to descend the stone steps leading to the pool, her foot is too slippery because of the spa oil.

But a pair of arms that suddenly wrapped around her waist made her body freeze.

"Sssh!" Lando! Bianca's heart fell to the bottom of her stomach. The danger alarm, set up on hear head. Because she is totally naked. Without a single fabric wrapped around her body. Bianca should have been able to escape as quickly as possible, but her reflexes suddenly dead. She could feel Lando's arms right under her breasts hugging her tightly,

"Shut up, if you don't want to be ashamed." Lando whispered right next to Bianca ear. What did that mean? Wasn't it Lando who was now make a shame on her?

"Well, well, Lando just getting a massage must be with a comfort woman." Max's sudden footsteps and voice alerted Bianca. She panicked and scared, what if he knew that the girl Lando was hugging was her own sister? But Lando's arms tightened around her.

"No matter where you are, there's always a girl who's willing to play with you. Including that woman, who spent the night with you in the hotel room."

Lando chuckled. "Of course. This woman deserves to be enjoyed." And the man's low laughter made Bianca tense up.

"So, can you go Max? My little business with this woman isn't done yet."

"Okay, I'll be waiting in my room." Max chuckled. "Make it easy, man."

Then the sound of his footsteps retreated, allowing Lando's voice to return to Bianca's numb hearing. This is wrong. This shouldn't be happening.

They were in the middle of a mistake.

"I have saved you from embarrassment," the man whispered in a low voice, while

whispered in a low voice, as he spread a strange all over Bianca's body.

"I deserve a thank you right? Lil sister?" Bianca steeled herself. "Let me go, Land-"

The man pulled her, and Bianca was about to say never came out because Lando silenced her lips first. Until the girl's eyelids widened as Lando crushed them passionately. With his rough tongue that insisted on playing around in her mouth. Lando kissed her.

After a few minute Lando came to his senses and broke the deep kiss, their gazes met. Bianca gasped, her tears welling up and her lips swollen.

Lando's breathing was just as bad, uncontrollable. But in those blazing eyes, there was not the slightest hint of regret for making her little sister cry.

Instead of clarifying his actions, Lando picked up the fallen fabric and draped it around Bianca's naked body. And his fingers put the flower that fall from the trees in his girl's ear. Before he left, without leaving a word.

next chap

[melinewton54]

as sick as it sounds, i loved you first. 2

LN x fem!leclerc reader

PART 2 OF 2 -> read part 1 linked HERE!

here we go again guys, you know the drill! follows directly on from part 1 because of the silly word count :(

warnings: warnings: 18+!! minors GO AWAY! smut, angst, fluff, kinda enemies to lovers? kinda? r is charles sister oop, miscommunication, both of them are down bad for eachother but they are also extremely dumb! breeding kink, size kink, pain kink (if u squint), unprotected p in v (don’t be silly!)

part 2: 6.1k words

8. i have you.

“you never told me why.” lando blurts.

the sun is setting outside, the pair of you sprawled out over your hotel bed. he’d been in your room for a few hours, tangled with you between the linen sheets. it’s thursday in brazil, and he’d made a beeline for your hotel room after media day wrapped up. he couldn’t explain the anxiety he felt, pooling thickly in the pit of his belly, but it subsided as soon as he saw your pretty face, peeking through the crack in your door.

he’d stayed after, a habit that had been developing of late, when you were both at home in monaco, but it was unusual on a race weekend. you’d pulled out your laptop to do some work, and chucked the remote at him, telling him to put something on netflix. he’d just smiled and obliged, more than willing to stay with you.

“told you ‘why’ what?” you look up from your laptop, confused.

“why you haven’t really been with anyone else.” his voice is small, scared he’s overstepping but he figures he’s seen you naked one too many times to get shy.

“oh.”

you stare off into the dim light of the room for a second, collecting your thoughts, reliving it all.

“you don’t need to tell me, sorry if that was weird-“

“no, uh, it’s fine. it’s a bit tragic really, embarrassing.” you start. “there was a guy, a couple of years ago. he was on my course at uni. he was perfect, flowers on my doorstep once a week, romantic dinners overlooking the harbour.” you reminisce, smiling sadly. “we went on a few dates and he was selling it all perfectly, it was like he was telling me everything i wanted to hear. i trusted him, so i slept with him. it was my first time.” your breath hitches. “next thing i know, he’s telling everyone that will listen that he’s best friends with charles leclerc and that he’s fucked an f1 drivers sister. and, you know, monaco is small. charles and arthur beat the shit out of him.” you laugh, but it doesn’t reach your eyes, which are now glossed over with fresh, stinging tears.

lando slides closer to you, tentatively wrapping an arm over your shoulder.

“it’s always been hard, you know? people trying to get close to me so that they could get close to charles. all my life, it’s been the same shit. i just wanted someone to want me for me, just once.”

you’re crying now, and lando wants to die for causing it.

“hey, ‘m so sorry, honey. i shouldn’t have asked.” he shushes you, pulling you close. he kisses the top of your head gently, and you snuggle further into him.

“no, it’s okay. wanted you to know. that’s why i like this. us.” it comes out just above a whisper.

“that’s why i like us too.” he murmurs. you look up at him, scanning his face.

“what’s your story? charles said something to me once about a bad breakup.” you ask softly. lando sighs.

“she wanted the lifestyle more than she wanted me.” he shrugs.

“i’m sorry.”

“don’t be. i’m better off.” i have you, he wants to add.

“i like the fact that we can’t hurt eachother that way.” you breathe, voicing the sentiment that you’ve both shared since the very first time you were together.

“i like it too, honey. more than you know.”

-

9. ache.

a weight lifts off of him in vegas.

brazil had been a shit show, one that he wanted to forget. one that left him awake for two days avoiding your calls, until you snapped him out of it by showing up at his place anyway, and giving him the best head of his fucking life. he’d slept like a damn baby after that.

he had a week off, after, which he spent in your bed more than his own, and then he was promptly off to nevada, awaiting your arrival a few days later and fixated on clawing something back after brazil, even if it was just pride.

well, that fixation didn’t amount to much, but at least you were there, somewhere, watching and waiting. charles is a wreck, though, storming away from parc ferme, which means you’ll be with him, instead of with lando. he feels selfish at the way it stings.

he’s exhausted when he leaves the track, dead on his feet in the elevator up to his room. he can’t bring himself to join max or george and celebrate. he’ll make it up to both of them another time. his phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out, recognising your contact. he doesn’t even fight the smile that pulls at the corners of his mouth.

packed something special for you. you gonna come find out what?

he’s in love with you. has been for a while.

the attention you pay to him for himl, the way you tease him and laugh with him and let him lose himself in unravelling you. your quick wit, mesmerising eyes, the way you switch languages when he scrambles your brain and you can’t think hard enough to keep speaking english. he’s a goner, and he knows it.

he doesn’t bother replying, just makes a beeline for your room. he’s spent enough time in it already this weekend to make it there without much thought. you’d even left him a keycard, which he retrieves with nimble fingers from his wallet, letting himself into your suite.

he calls your name, rounding the corner and he could die right there, just at the sight of you.

you’re lamplit, knelt on the middle of your bed, wrapped in nothing but intricate, baby pink lace.

“my god.” he pants, jaw dropped. you’re ethereal, gorgeous, a delicate gift wrapped up just for him to open.

“do you like it?” your eyes are wide, daunted.

“what the fuck did i do to deserve you?” he stalks to the end of the bed, shrugging off his jacket, his hoodie, until he’s left in a white vest and team joggers. he kneels down at the foot of the bed, ready to crawl over you. “i love it.”

you flush, grinning sweetly as he crawls over you, pushing you back into the mattress.

“you did this all for me?” lando asks, stroking over a lacy bra strap.

“thought you deserved it.” you purr, but your facade slips for just a minute. “is this okay? never done this before.” you glance up at him with round, doe eyes that make him swallow hard, melting further into you.

“‘s perfect.” he promises. “you’re so perfect.”

lando kisses you softly, his warm skin pressing into yours. you moan quietly into his mouth, holding him close. he thumbs over the lace adorning your bust, stroking it. you squirm every time he brushes your skin.

“wanna be on top. wanna try it.” you pant into his mouth, watching closely as he groans, eyes fluttering as he imagines the sight.

“only if you keep this on.” he bargains, flipping the pair of you over.

you sit up on his lap, smoothing your hands over his chest as his find your hips. he steadies you, playing with the band of your panties, tracing over the pattern.

“can’t believe you did this all for me.” lando coos, taking the opportunity to take it all in, you, flustered and breathtaking, straddling him. dressed up all for him, all his.

“you deserve it.”

“do you think you’re ready for me? lemme see.” his hand skates between your thighs, pressing the pads of his fingers against the crotch of your underwear. he applies pressure against the wet patch that he feels, licking his lips. “were you thinking about me when you were getting all dressed up? thinking about how i’d touch you?”

“yeah,” you nod frantically, grinding down on his fingers. “wanted you all day but i wanted to be good for you.” you pout. you’re gonna kill him, he thinks.

“always good for me.” he applies more pressure, toying with your clit through the lace, the sensation making you quiver, bucking your hips.

“just want you inside of me, lando. i’m ready.” you plead, palming over his sweats. your hand travels further, finding his between your legs. you tug your underwear to the side, and he feels just how wet you are for him.

“you sure, baby?”

there he goes again. baby. your tummy twists.

“yeah, lan, i want it to hurt a little.” you sound so sweet for him and it shreds the rest of his self restraint.

lando sits up just enough to rip off his vest, taps your thigh so that you lift up for a second, long enough for him to shrug off his sweats. when he’s bare, he paws at your hips, helping you to adjust. your fingers wrap around his length and he jolts, mouth falling open as you swipe the head of him through your slit. you sink down, taking just the tip, but it feels like the first time all over again, the angle creating delicious pressure that burns through your pelvis. your eyes squeeze shut and he swirls his fingers over your sides.

“take it easy for me, love.” lando urges, looking up at you with concern.

“i like it. promise.” you choke out, eyes rolling back at the pleasure, the burn.

you continue to slide down on him, sinking further and further until you’re flush against his pelvis. you roll your hips experimentally, your clit brushing against the thatch of hair at his base and you squirm, sensitive.

“want me to help?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“wanna do this for you.” you pant, rocking your hips against his.

the angle is brutal, so intoxicatingly good, and you can already feel yourself leaking all over him. you build up a rhythm, slow and steady, watching the ripple of his abs everytime you sink back down on him, the way his curls fan over his forehead, the veins in his arms bulging as he grips at your waist tighter and tighter.

“you look so pretty, baby, taking me like this.” lando sighs, helping you pick up the pace. you cry out, leaning backwards, fingers gripping his firm thighs.

“it’s so good, you feel so good.” you whine, arching your back.

he’s entranced by the way your breasts bounce, fighting against the skimpy bra and he sinks his teeth into his plush bottom lip, eyeing you hungrily. one hand leaves your waist and travels to the cups of your bra, tugging so harshly that you hear the threads break. he frees your tits, watching in delight as they fall out of the lace confines.

“you’re so sexy, honey, look so beautiful. you’re all mine, aren’t you? this is all for me, right?” lando’s eyes roll back in his head when he feels the way you clamp down around him at his words. he’s gonna fill you up, he thinks, mark you as his from the inside out.

“yeah, lan, all yours.” you slur, fighting the urge to cum. “‘m all yours.”

he can see that you’re tiring, the ache setting in, so he pulls you forward, until you’re chest to chest, wrapped up his his thick arms.

“i’ve got you, baby.” he swears, holding you close as he rolls his hips, fucking up into you.

it’s all too much like this, the constant pressure on your clit, the head of his cock tapping against your cervix, the thrumming of his heart, the cold sweat of his chest peaking your nipples. you let out a strangled cry of his name, and you see white, your nerve endings overstimulated and fried. all you can hear is his voice, pulling your through it and out the other side.

“did so good for me, baby, such a good girl. took it all so well, love.”

you’re limp on top of him, a dead weight curled around him like a life force. there’s nothing that could make him move you, and wouldn’t let you go unless you asked. you lay there in silence, your mixed release leaking out of you. your heart rate steadies, about as much as it can with him around, and you feel yourself blinking away sleep, exhausted. lando notices, of course he does.

“let’s clean up.” he suggests, sitting up carefully with you on his lap.

“carry me?” you request sleepily, a lazy smile painting your face.

“as you wish.” he jokes, bowing his head.

your legs wrap around his waist as he shuffles off of the bed, and he walks to the bathroom, setting you down on the marble sink top. he leans into the shower, adjusting the temperature and turning the water on. he lets it heat up and turns back to you. no words are exchanged as he peels your ruined panties off, as he unhooks your bra and drops its all onto the counter. he tugs you off of the side, guiding your under the stream of water, the warmth making you relax into him. he’s more than happy to prop you up.

“my legs ache.” you giggle, resting your cheek against his shoulder.

“was it worth it?”

“definitely.”

“good.”

he cleans you, massaging soap into your skin, and washing it off. you stay close while he does the same for himself, passing him different products as you clean up together. it’s quiet, nothing needs to be said, and you wonder if this is what life with him would be like. domestic and easy.

“stay.” you let yourself ask, croaking the request out into the silence. you’re both drying off, and he’s gathering he’s clothes.

“i thought you’d want me to go.” he looks like a deer in headlights. cute.*

“stay.” your repeat, and this time it sounds like a plea. he slides his boxers on.

“okay.”

he’s like a furnace under the covers and you can’t help but curl into his side, legs wrapping around eachothers. there’s no going back from this, you fear. he’s thinking the same thing. you kiss his chest as you fall asleep, just a quick press of your lips to his pec, but it makes him hot all over. if the lights were still on, you’d see him blushing. he returns the favour with careful peck to your hairline. you both nuzzle impossibly closer.

“has it ever been like that for you?” you whisper into the darkness. you hear the change in his breathing.

the question is loaded; have you ever felt like this before? was that just sex to you? what are we? what is this? do you want me how i want you?

“never.” it’s barely a whisper

you fall asleep with a smile on your face.

-

when you wake up, he stirs, bronzed arms tightening around you.

“go back to sleep.” he grumbles, pulling your back to his chest.

“i need to catch my flight.” you reply, turning around to face him.

you’re stunned when you see him smushed into the pillow, lips pouty, eye lashes fluttering to clear away sleep. he looks so pretty in the morning light, and you wish you’d asked him to stay the night sooner.

“just fly with me.” lando mutters. you freeze.

“lan, you know i can’t do that. what would that look like?”

“who cares?” he half shrugs behind you, and you wriggle away, sit up in bed.

“uh, me? i care, lando. i can’t be seen flying around with some other driver, do you know how much that would complicate things?”

“some other driver.” he huffs. that gets his attention, and he sits up. “what so we can sneak around, and you’ll let me fuck you, but being on an airplane together is crossing the line?” he grunts sarcastically. you narrow your eyes at him.

“don’t say it like that.” you scold.

“how should i say it, then? i thought maybe this meant something more to you.” he’s standing from the bed now, hurt thick in his voice, and you panic, reaching out for him, but he’s finding his clothes.

“it does! it does mean something to me but… lando, i can’t put charles in that position. i can’t put myself in that position.” you reason weakly, standing and rapidly moving towards him. you pull him to face you, holding onto his shoulders. “don’t go, please.” you whisper, cupping his cheek.

he stares down at you, dejected, a wounded animal, and pushes your hands off of him.

“i, uh. i care about you. a lot. too much, i think. i can’t go through this again, and you can’t hurt your brother. so…” he breathes shakily.

“so?” you plead, shaking your head. “don’t do this, we can…”

“i’m not gonna be ‘some other driver’, honey. ‘m sorry.”

“lando-“

“its okay. this was good while it lasted, and i know you’re gonna find what you’re looking for, without all of the, uh,” he gestures around blindly. “the complications.”

“don’t go.” you whisper, catching his hand. tears pool in the corners of your eyes, distorting him.

“go catch your flight.” he smiles sadly, finally dressed, and then he’s gone.

you stand frozen, taking stock of whatever the fuck just happened.

i care about you.

good while it lasted.

you’re gonna find what you’re looking for.

complications.

you choke out a sob, stumble backwards onto the foot of your bed when it hits you.

you’d already found what you were looking for, and now, he was gone.

-

you’re supposed to go straight to qatar with charles, but you beg him to get you a flight home instead.

he can hear that you’ve been crying, and tells you that he’ll kill anyone that you need him to. you promise it’s fine, through even more tears, tell him that you’ll fill him in when he’s got a minute to breathe.

the ticket lands in your inbox and you flee. you spend the twelve hour flight watching love actually, crying into a glass of wine, and wondering if you should get gracie abrams’ lyrics tattooed on your forehead.

i love you, i’m sorry would be quite fitting right about now.

when you land, you don’t even go home, making a beeline for alex and charles’ apartment instead. when alex lets you in, confused to see your face, leo does laps around your feet. you drop your bags and fall into her arms, sob until your throat is raw and your eyes are bloodshot.

“i fucked up.” you wail, breathing hard.

“lando?” she asks, tentative. she has a knowing look, and your eyes nearly fall out of your head.

“what? how did you-“

“well let’s just say that we saw the DM he sent you, and arthur was actually sat opposite me when you said you were with him.” she admits. you gasp.

“does charles… does he…?”

“oh, sweetie, charles knows nothing. although he did ask me what shoe size you wear after coming to your place a few weeks back. he said something about a pair of birkenstocks that looked huge compared to your other shoes, and i told him that was just the style.” she snorts, and you slap your hand over your forehead.

“oh, jesus.” you whine, hiding your face in your hands.

“wanna tell me what happened?”

“i don’t even know, he asked me to fly with him and then i said it would complicate things, that i couldn’t been seen with, quote on quote, ‘some other driver.’” you sigh.

“some other driver? oh, girl.”

“yep.”

“were you guys dating…? or?”

“no! lately things had been a bit more,” you pause, gathering your thoughts. “intimate? i don’t know. i definitely have feelings for him.”

alex looks at you sympathetically, strokes your knee soothingly.

“have you told him that?”

“no, i didn’t know how and now he’s done with me.” you wince, a fresh wave of tears pricking your eyes.

“maybe not, sweetie, maybe you if you told him how you felt, he’d understand. is charles what you’re worried about?”

“charles, the fans, all of it.” you whimper.

“the fans can be, well, intense, but take it from me, if lando’s worth it, none of that matters. is he worth it?”

you pause, weighing it all up. the way he’d been with you, so gentle and caring, considerate and interested in you. he’d made you feel safe and satisfied, and everytime you caught him looking at you, you felt that first initial spark all over again. you could laugh with him, push and tease and not just be charles leclerc’s little sister. you look forward to seeing him, feeling him, speaking to him. all of this together feels heavy, but you want to bear it.

“he is.” you whisper, looking at alex nervously. “oh, god, what do i do?”

“i think there’s a paddock pass with your name on it that you should make use of.” she tells you, wrapping you in a tight hug. “and if charles has a problem, tell him he has to go through me.”

-

10. pizza and pasta.

max fewtrell sips his coffee in the hotel lobby, waiting for keegan to join him. it’s hot in qatar, dry and bright, ornate.

his phone buzzes.

message request from: yourusername

HI SORRY ARE YOU IN QATAR????

he probably looks like a cartoon character, eyes bulging out of his skull.

another message comes through.

this sounds insane and i’m sorry that this is like, the first time we’ve ever spoken, but i need a huge favour. like a really really huge favour.

max scratches the back of his head, pulling a face at his phone. baffled wouldn’t even begin to cover how he feels.

he picks up his phone, and opens the messages.

-

lando over exerts himself keeping away from you. the sprint race had been a breeze compared to staying away, out of your reach. it hurts like hell, but it’s a necessary evil for both your sakes.

he wants to sleep, do nothing else but collapse onto his mattress, phone silenced and curtains drawn as tightly shut as they can go. he unlocks the door to his hotel room. the light flashes green, and he relaxes, finally. until, he doesn’t.

there’s a faint sound coming from down the short corridor that separates his front door from his sleeping area. it’s not max, he’s just left him outside his own hotel room, and it’s not keegan, either, for the same reason. he wonders if he has another stalker, braces himself and picks up the first thing he can find. a shoe. useless, he thinks.

lando creeps down the corridor, poised and ready, jumps out of his skin when you round the corner before he can get there. you yelp, bracing yourself against the wall.

“what the fuck, i thought you were a murderer!” lando huffs, throwing his head back.

somehow, the sight of you is worse than any murderer could ever be.

“putain! god, i’m so sorry! so sorry!” you squeak.

“how did you get in here?”

“funny story,” you tilt your head to the side, trying to look harmless. “max let me in.”

“verstappen?” lando asks, face twisting with confusion.

“no, idiot. fewtrell.” you reply, duh-like. “i can go, i know this is crazy and weird and a total violation, but i had to talk to you.” your voice softens and lando seems to finally relax. he’ll kill max later.

“this is batshit, actually, but i respect the grind.” lando shrugs. “what do you want?” he sounds harsher than intended, closed off, but you suppose you deserve it.

“i’m sorry about what happened last weekend.” you inhale shakily. “i… i care about you a lot, too, and i have done for a while but i was too scared to say it. i realised as soon as you left that i never ever wanna hurt you like that. never want you to feel like i don’t lo- care about you… like that.” you catch yourself, not ready to say certain words. he gets the gist.

“i don’t wanna be some hookup anymore. it was fine at first, when i thought that’s all i could have from you, but i know that it’s not. i want you.” lando states, his words poignant. “whatever pace you need, whatever you want from me, i wanna give it to you.”

the space between you dissipates.

“i saw you, you know, watching me from your garage all those months ago, like you were trying place me.” your voice is barely above a whisper. “admittedly, i kinda wanted to punch you for ruining that dress, but i also, really really secretly thought you were cute.”

“well, if we’re being honest, i really wanted to fuck you the first time i saw you.” he jokes crudely, and you slap his chest. “in my defence, i was blackout drunk.”

“asshole.” you mutter. you’re so close now that his nose bumps yours.

“i think you like it.” he whispers.

“yeah, i really do.”

your lips meet his urgently, homecoming. it’s been too long since you’ve had him in your hands, touched him and felt him breathe against you. the kiss is passionate, frantic, and you know you’re in love with him. you’re certain.

-

an hour later, you’re tucked into bed with him, a movie that you’re not paying attention to playing idly on the tv. pizza crusts lay on a plate, the leftovers of your impromptu dinner date.

you’ve covered your degree, how he got into racing, what you do for work, who you’re friends are, family dynamics.

you learn that his favourite colour actually is yellow, and he learns that you’re favourite drink is red wine. he prefers pizza, you prefer pasta. you like flat whites, and he doesn’t like coffee at all.

“after abu dhabi, i’ll take you on a real date. i promise.” he sounds excited as he says it, and you melt into his side.

“oh yeah?” you ask, looking up at him, your cheeks smushed against his shoulder. he tucks your hair behind your ear, thumb stroking your cheek tenderly. he just hums in response, gazing down at you.

“gonna talk to your brothers as well.” he murmurs, dipping down to peck your lips.

“not just yet.” you whisper. he furrows his eyebrows.

“why?” he doesn’t sound upset, maybe a little deflated.

“i wanna enjoy this a bit longer, at least go on a real date before, you know, they kill you.” you keep your tone serious, holding it together well. he bursts out laughing, squeezing you closer.

“and here i was worried that you were ashamed of me.” he’s grinning toothily, boyish and pure, and you kiss him again, deeper.

“never.” you coo.

-

11. daylight.

abu dhabi is a distant memory by the time you get back to monaco. you were happy for your brother and your boyfriend.

yeah, that’s what you get to call him now.

your first date had been effortless and yet so intricately perfect, lando planning it down to the last detail. flowers delivered to you the morning of, picking you up at the door, telling you just how beautiful you looked. your table had been waiting for you, candlelit, dressed immaculately. a bottle of red wine served as the centrepiece, your favourite kind. swoon.

he orders pizza, you order pasta. halfway through, you switch plates.

you wake up the next morning in his arms, content and satiated, still bare from the night before. your phone is buzzing, stirring your both out of your deep sleep. you ignore it.

“c’mere.” he begs, breath fanning out across your neck and you wriggle backwards, further into his arms. your naked skin moulds with his, and you can feel him, ready and waiting against the curve of your ass. he’s still half asleep, and so are you, but you spread your legs just enough for him to swipe himself through your folds and slip right in.

you groan at the stretch, he shushes you soothingly, clinging to your frame. everything is so warm and heightened.

“so ready for me.” he whispers, kissing over your shoulder, hips making the most minimal, languid thrusts that make you dizzy.

“want you like this every morning.” you purr, hiking your top leg up even further. he’s basically on top of you now, his body half covering yours.

lando drags your hips back to meet his, breathing heavily against the back of your neck.

“anytime you want me ‘m here. ‘m yours.” lando mutters, eyes rolling back in his head when you clench around him. lewd sounds are exchanged between your lazy bodies, so worked up, two powder kegs desperate to explode.

it happens in waves, powerful orgasms washing over your bodies like the sunlight through the curtains. it’s bright and warm and leaves you buzzing underneath him, electrified.

“good morning.” you smirk, rolling over to face him.

he’s already sunk back down into the mattress, a satisfied grin on his face, eyelashes dusting the tops of his cheeks where his eyes have fallen shut. he looks angelic, and if it wasn’t for his devious ways, you’d hail him a saint.

“very good morning, baby.” lando pants, scrubbing his hands over his face.

“you look so pretty.” you breathe, raking your nails through his hair. he groans, shivers of pleasure radiating through his scalp and down his back.

“not as pretty as you.” he surges forward, pinning you to the bed, the pair of you a hazy mess of limbs and laughter, so wrapped up in eachother. he’s peppering you with kisses, all over you face and your chest, further and further down your body.

round two is about to commence, and you’re more than excited, ready to welcome him back between your thighs, when you both here a loud, repetitive thud coming from faraway. lando pulls back, trying to pinpoint the sound.

“is that the door?” he says to himself. “sorry, baby. need to get that.” he frowns apologetically. you sigh, waving your hand in understanding, watching as he grabs a robe.

-

charles nearly chokes on air and fury when he gets the all caps message from arthur, followed by one from lorenzo, then his publicist.

arthur: HAVE YOU SEEN TWITTER? i don’t know if i should laugh or cry

enzo: be nice to her, don’t be a little bitch

publicist: Charles, we will need to address this news immediately and conclude whether the photos are out of context or not. Meeting scheduled on the shared calendar.

first question: what fucking photos? did someone catch him picking his nose in public?

second question: who does he need to be nice too?

third question: can he not go five fucking minutes without some impending media crisis?

he opens twitter and doesn’t need to look hard, because there on his screen is a picture taken the night before of his precious baby sister, and there is lando fucking norris with his tongue down her throat.

alex asks him where he’s going, watching him storm out keys in hand. he doesn’t respond with anything but a growl and a mutter of your name. alex’s eyes go wide, reached for her phone.

to: your number

girl he knows! idk how but he KNOWS!

for once in your life PICK UP THE PHONE

JESUS OKAY i just saw twitter…

OKAY im tracking charles location rn and looks like he’s near lando’s?

MISS LECLERC PLEASE! HELLO?????

it was nice knowing you babe.

-

you pick up your phone as lando leaves the room, scrolling absentmindedly through your notifications. your interest peaks, however, when you see about a million texts from alex, and even more missed call. in fact, you have literally thousands of notifications, and your blood runs cold.

you’d been so careful last night, surely it hadn’t leaked. your blood runs cold when you open your text chain with alex. the aggressive knocking on the door suddenly makes harrowing sense and you spring from the mattress just in time to hear the front door click.

“is she here?” you hear charles bellow, voice laced thickly with anger.

“uh… who?” lando tries, he really does, but he’s not a good liar. you wince, grabbing anything to cover your dignity: lando’s sweats and a t-shirt. you scramble out of the bedroom, sliding down the corridor from the sheer speed you’re moving at.

“fucking hell.” charles sighs, wincing at the sight of you. “of all the people on the planet, you pick my rival? you pick him?” charles barks at you. you close your eyes, focusing on your breathing as your chest constricts. “i told you. i specifically told you not to mess around with him, and c’mon, i don’t ask you for much.” charles throws his hands out in frustration.

“charles, listen to me,” you keep your voice calm and steady. “we’re not messing around, we… we’re together.” you confirm, watching his jaw tick.

“together? with him? do you know how many girls probably think they’re in a relationship with him? half of the portuguese modelling industry is linked to him.” charles laughs incredulously, disgusted. your eyes narrow, watching lando crumble into a million pieces in your peripheral.

“don’t you dare ruin this for me! and how can you come into his house and speak to him that way? my god, charles, you don’t get it, do you? i can never be happy with anyone because of you! everyone, everyone, uses me to get to you and, god, i finally found someone who cares about me and couldn’t give less of a shit about who you are and you don’t approve? shall i stay single and lonely and in your shadow forever? should i go for some greasy hedge fund legacy who wants to fuck any leclerc he can get his hands on? huh? i’m sorry if you don’t approve, truly, i am, but you will not have a say in this.”

charles stays silent, as does lando, the only sound in the hallway being your heavy breathing, a symptom of your monologue. you feel the ghost of lando’s touch on your waist, soothing you from your outburst, and you lean into his touch, looking up at him. his eyes are reassuring, the only source of comfort.

charles watches intently, the silent communication between you both, and it knocks him for six. ultimately, he wants you to be happy, but it begs the question: can lando make you happy? the way you truly deserve? he sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, lets out a muttered string of expletives.

“will you look after her?” he stares daggers at lando, watches the way the brit straightens up.

“i will.” lando nods firmly, eyes sincere.

“and you won’t hurt her? you won’t fuck her around?” charles looks like he’s desperately pleading, but his voice is commanding, no margin for error.

“i promise.”

“and you’ll make her happy?”

“i’d do anything for her.”

your head snaps towards lando, the tears you’d been holding back finally breaking the dam. charles watches closely, steps backwards towards the door. there isn’t space for him here right now.

“okay. i- okay.” you watch the way charles backs down, and he finally meets your eyes again. “ma chére, je suis désolé.” he tells you solemnly. you nod, lips in a thin, hard line. you can feel lando nudge you forward.

“come here, loser.” you groan, opening your arms for your brother. charles meets you half way, squeezes you tight. he gently kisses your forehead and turns to leave, not before shooting lando a look that says ‘i’m watching you.’

you turn back to your newfound boyfriend, tears still falling, but you pay them no mind.

“well done, baby.” he affirms, thumbing away your tears.

“i love you, lando.” you whisper, threading your fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck. “thank you.” his eyes glaze over, total adoration swirling in the pools of green.

“so glad you said that because i absolutely love you too.” he laughs, hauling you in for a kiss. it’s a mess of tears and laughter and a weird sense of serenity.

“you might wanna call your publicist. pictures of last night leaked.” you mumble against his lips.

“at least we don’t have to sneak around anymore.” he shrugs. “i’ll call later. got things to do.” he picks you up effortlessly, throwing you over his shoulder. you squeal, and he teasingly slaps your ass.

you catch sight of the apartment as he walks you through it, and you think about the first time you saw it, under the cover of darkness, covert and clandestine.

you much prefer it in the light of day.

you prefer lando in the light of day, too.

yourusername and landonorris just posted on instagram:

liked by: francisca.cgomes, alexandrasaintmleux, oscarpiastri and others.

yourusername: oops!

comments on this post have been disabled.

-

thank god that’s over lmfao - thank you for reading!!

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[melinewton54]

「𝚏𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛」

➥ Tailor!Minho x Reader (f) — 6.7k (~28 min. read)

➥ SKZerton Historical Romance, Opposites Attract, Smut with feelings

➥ The author chooses not to issue tags for everything that takes place in this work to preserve some element of surprise where applicable. By continuing, you accept to proceed at your own risk. Read full disclaimer here.

⚠ — Period-typical stereotypes, heavy pining and sexual tension, forbidden love-adjacent, explicit sexual content.

➥ Your wedding day is fast approaching, and your tailor is getting dangerously close to risking it all.

*Originally posted as part of Aphrodisiacs under exxxtraoddinary

What’s in a name?

Vast amount of textile knowledge. Impeccably dexterous hands transforming rolls of fabric into pure elegance with unmatched finesse, wearing the callus on the skin like a badge of honor representing the immense dedication to the craft. A fine art passed from father to son like the reigning throne. Generations of tailors, the family tree of which even included overseers of the royal wardrobe at one point.

That was what it meant to be a Lee. 

The name might have carried a reputation, but at the end of the day, it was the reputation of a mere merchant. The Lees didn’t come from old money. Even though their financial well-being granted them a social standing of slightly above common folk, they were by no means a member of the higher class, which meant no fancy schooling, no manners training, no socialite gatherings, none of that. They knew their place. If they dared get carried away, they would immediately be reminded of it anyway.  

…which was why the only son of the Lees had a problem with these brandy-drinking, business-debating, rent-collecting spoiled brats to begin with. He despised aristocrats with his whole entire soul.

They might have inherited all that land or those factories from their great-grandfathers who actually knew the value of manual labor, but it was the working class they looked down upon that kept them wealthy. Put these snobs in the middle of a field, and they wouldn’t know jack shit about harvesting the produce they were famous for. Their wives? No perceptible skills other than being china dolls and ordering the estate staff around, playing palace in their manors just to get a little taste of queendom.

Then again, these people were the ovens of bread and the barrels of butter to the Lees, so…

“Keep your mouth shut, son!”

If Minho could maybe give a pass to one family, that would be Lord Bang and her ladyship. They were the exception to the rule for treating the rest of the mortals like actual human beings, and they brought huge business to the atelier with the seasonal banquets they threw every three months. 

Damn, were those a big deal. It could quite literally make or break you.

Solely receiving an invitation was considered a huge honor by the socialite, let alone attending. These extravagant evenings were the place to be to retain status as well as for the freshly-turned-eighteen debutantes to be introduced to the public for marriage prospects. 

Or to flaunt themselves to procreate blue-blood inbreds, as Minho would call it. 

While most estates had their in-house dressmakers, throwing large sums of cash for a bespoke gown sewn by the renowned seamster of the town was a sign of…

They called it prestige, but Minho knew they meant something else.

It was that time of the year again. The atelier was buzzing like a beehive with all the gowns needed to be made for the upcoming Spring Banquet. Even though catering to a bunch of demanding ladies and their overindulged daughters was not his favorite thing in the world, Minho still clenched his teeth and worked his magic out of the endless respect he had for his father. Once the Spring Banquet was over, he could at least work with more decent people who were truly appreciative of his craft since summer was usually the wedding season. Six more weeks of this hell, then he could take genuine pleasure in his work again.

Nevertheless, life always had a way of derailing plans for better or worse.

“Mother, stop it!”

“This is the first time we have received an invitation, and we are going!” the woman dragged her daughter into the shop while turning several heads in her direction and flashed a forced but syrupy smile at Minho, “Good afternoon. We would like to have a gown made for this pretty young lady here and immediately, please. Money is not an issue.”

Immediately. Sure. As was common knowledge, money had the magical power to make one work faster and much more efficiently.

“I understand, my lady, but I’m afraid the earliest immediately I can offer you is four weeks,” Minho calmly responded.

“I don’t think you understand, young man,” the woman clenched her teeth through her smile and widened her eyes psychotically, “This is for Lord Bang’s banquet.”

“Mother!”

“So is everything else we have underway,” Minho pointed at the large leather-bound notebook on the counter filled with names of customers and the specifications of their orders.

“Now you listen to me,” the woman took two slow steps towards him and spoke menacingly, “This is going to be my daughter’s debut in the high society, and if she makes a poor impression because of your incompetency, I will burn this place down with you in it.”

Sure. As was common knowledge, money was the number one instrument of arson.

Minho’s blank eyes watched you leave the shop and wait outside as soon as this pretty on the outside rotten on the inside lady’s sentence was punctuated. Not only were you clearly dying of embarrassment, but also you couldn’t have been more reluctant for this unlike literally everybody else who came in for a banquet gown. He took a deep breath to muster a little more patience and explained.

“The banquet is in May. Simple math would dictate the gown shall be finished by the time of the event, but you have the liberty of seeking an allegedly faster seamster, my lady. You will end up here when you’re inevitably unsatisfied with the results anyway, but by then it will be too late to have everything ready in due time,” he went behind the counter and grabbed a quill, “Four weeks. Would you like to put your name down?”

The woman muttered something under her breath and gave him the details he requested regarding fabric choices and style. Once Minho was done scribbling with his less-than-legible cursive, he glanced outside the shop window again and saw you petting a stray cat. 

A cat. A furball that velvet-loving ladies wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole, but it was rolling around in your lap as you were tickling it, not giving a damn how your skirt was getting ruined. He smiled to himself.

“Please have the young lady come here tomorrow at noon for her measurements.”

“Tomorrow?” the woman cocked a brow, “I thought you said four weeks.”

“That’s when you will receive the end product, my lady.”

“Oh,” she finally grasped what this subtly insolent tailor meant all along, “Very well then. I shall send her along.”

As she was leaving the shop, she let out a loud shriek seeing all the fur on her daughter’s dress, and scared the life out of the poor kitten. All Minho could do was snort, having no idea why he was this amused.

The next day you were a no-show at the agreed-upon time, and after waiting for maybe five minutes out of courtesy, Minho sent the staff away for lunch, refusing to have them bend to someone’s whim just because they were a paying customer. When you finally showed up five more minutes later, rather than the delicate elegance of a maiden, you barged into the shop with the manners of a delinquent.

“Please… excuse… my tardiness!” you managed to utter some muffled words while heavily panting and took a minute to catch your breath.

Judging by the hair in slight disarray and the beads of sweat on your forehead, you’d obviously been running. Minho reached for the copper water jug on his desk and poured a glass for you.

“Are you always this punctual to all your appointments, my lady?” he attempted to pass his annoyance as humor while handing you the cold drink to rejuvenate yourself. You downed the entire thing in three large gulps.

“I had to make a little detour to buy some liver for the little guy outside,” you heaved a deep sigh and handed the glass back to him, “I’m actually in a hurry. Can we get this over with, please?”

So you technically missed your appointment that you almost didn’t get in the first place… because of a cat?

Really?

“I’m afraid we don’t have any of our female staff available right now,” he informed you, “If you prefer, you could come in after—”

“Just take the damn measurements so that my mother can shut up, will you?”

Huh?

Minho didn’t know what to be befuddled over first—your complete disregard for proper language or your nonchalance over the prospect of a man semi-intimately touching you. He would have to help undress you so that he could take precise measurements over the corset, and just the mere thought of it was categorically scandalous.

“I can’t possibly do t—”

“Yes, you can,” you interrupted him and looked at him with pleading eyes, “Listen, I have somewhere I really need to be, and I have to make it look like I was here the entire time. I am most certainly not after damaging your reputation. I beg you to help me with this.”

“What can possibly be more important for a young lady than the Spring Banquet?” Minho creased his brows in confusion.

“Madame Laurent.”

“Who?”

“Madame Laurent!” your eyes gleamed with childlike wonder, “She is coming all the way from France to give a lecture about feline health at the university hall, and I simply cannot miss it. Please!”

Well, that connected a lot of dots for Minho, and a part of him was utterly endeared. He was used to the high class acting like they owned the goddamn place wherever they went and making life decisions based on what was going to happen to their last names. Then there was you, sneaking around to go to some cat class. He bit inside his cheeks to stop himself from laughing.

“Fine. Follow me, please,” he led the way towards the back.

The small room you entered looked like it functioned as half a storage unit and half a changing room with rolls of fabric stacked on top of each other, various instruments laid on a large wooden desk, and a tall Cheval mirror in one corner. There was also a neatly made mattress on the floor in stark contrast with the overall untidiness of the place. Minho placed his notebook on the table, picked up a measuring tape from a drawer, and proceeded to hesitantly undo the ribbons on your back, entirely clueless about how not to make this more awkward than it already was.

“Care to divulge your name?” you attempted small talk to diffuse the condensing tension in the room.

“It’s Minho, my lady.”

“Minho,” you echoed his name, “Do you live here?” 

“For the time being,” he responded, “There is so much work to do for the next couple of weeks, so I don’t want to waste time commuting.”

You could tell he was trying to be mindful to the best of his ability, standing as away from you as he could, not even directly touching your skin but over the measuring tape. An utter professional. You caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror as he was doing his job. Very stern expression like he was angry and his lips slightly pouted due to how focused he was, yet still extremely good-looking. You forgot why you were there and what you were doing for a second, and just admired his sharp features with the tiniest of butterflies flapping their wings in your stomach.

Whereas for Minho, this was hell on earth with how hard he was repressing every unholy thought duplicating itself in his brain to prevent having an erection right behind you.

“All done,” he tied the last ribbon on your back, “You can come back in a week for your first fitting.”

“I will not forget this,” you impulsively kissed him on the cheek and dashed towards the front door, “Thank you!”

Minho felt a hard kick inside his ribcage, and the small piece of skin you pressed your lips on burned for days.

Your encounters outside the atelier, however, were limited to mere coincidences. 

The first time, Minho ran into you in the town market where he had no business being other than overhearing your mother telling you to buy spices during your fitting one day. The second time, you spent an unnecessarily long time at a haberdashery because the owner said something about Mr. Lee’s son dropping by sometime in the afternoon to pick up a package.

Then Minho started regularly visiting the university hall to check if they were holding any lectures about anything remotely related to animals because you seemed to be attending every single one of those. He would wait for you outside just so he could see you from afar as the circle of ladies surrounding you kept knowingly giggling while nudging you.

Then you started passing by the tavern garden every Friday evening just because Minho’s friends loudly asked if he was coming to their usual Friday gatherings one time. You couldn’t do much besides making prolonged eye contact, but the gentlemen at the table were having the time of their lives smacking Minho’s back with rowdy teasing laughter.

The one time you unknowingly crossed paths was at the park on a warm June evening. Minho wanted to unload his mind watching the swans after a long day at work whereas you were on your way home walking through it. Having complete tunnel vision on you, floating much more gracefully than all the swans in the pond, he blurted out without thinking.

“My lady!”

Your heart skipped a beat hearing his voice. There was no one around, and even though you were in public, it felt more secluded than the dressing room at the atelier. After exchanging pleasantries, it was so obvious you were both trying to come up with a conversation topic so that nobody had to leave just yet.

“We didn’t have a chance to talk after the banquet,” Minho finally found one and held onto it for dear life, “I hope I was able to do a decent job dressing you.”

“Please, decent would be an insult to your magnificent work, but I am not sure if I was able to carry it well enough during all that waltzing,” you spoke while internally reciting every prayer you knew that he wasn’t able to hear how fast your heart was beating, “Do you know how to waltz?”

“No.”

“Would you like me to teach you?”

“I don’t dance.”

“Yes, you do!”

You suddenly grabbed his hands and pulled him close, showing him the very basic steps as he clumsily followed along. You were laughing so much that his heart was about to give out.

He wanted to kiss you. He wanted to kiss you so bad.

But…

Even when your steps came to a halt, he couldn’t stop staring at your face. At your eyes. At your lips. Curled into a bright smile that rendered him too stunned to talk.

“Are you waiting for me to ask?” you finally pierced the silence.

“Ask what?”

“To kiss me.”

Do not say that. Do not say such things. Your lips are no joking matter to me.

“That would be highly inappropriate,” he averted his eyes instead.

“It would, wouldn’t it, my good sir?” you faked a gasp and carried on with exaggerated manners, “Yet you are waltzing with a fair maiden where no one can see you. What ulterior motives must you harbor?”

His cheekbones raised ever so slightly, but he was visibly blushing even under that pastel dusk. Well, if he wasn’t going to make a move for fear of being highly inappropriate, then you could be inappropriate enough for the both of you. You would gladly take the matter into your own hands. You would gladly take his beautiful face in between your hands.

And kiss him.

“May you have a pleasant evening,” you casually spoke after that lightning-fast peck, “I certainly will have one.”

All he could do was touch his lips as he watched you walk away. What a woman, he thought to himself. Beautiful. Fearless. Nothing like the rest of her kind.

The last name Lee might have carried a reputation, but at the end of the day, it was the reputation of a mere merchant. Minho knew his place. Case in point, a lady and a seamster could never end up together. He was fully aware of that and had to act accordingly.

Yet nothing was able to stop him from falling hopelessly in love with you. More and more with each passing season. It was summer, fall, winter, then spring again.

You were due for a visit again.

Minho was at least guaranteed to intentionally meet you four times a year. You were the first to arrive at the atelier every couple of months for a new banquet gown, yet always late for your measurement appointments so that no one would be around.

And he was getting a little less professional with each encounter. 

No more over-the-tape touching. It was only the silhouette of his fingertips, but it was still skin-to-skin, and you were shuddering when he touched you. You would steal glances from each other in the Cheval mirror, trying to see the other’s reaction to the subtle baits you were throwing at one another. Sometimes you would tilt your head to the side, and he would inhale that flowery essence you loved wearing. God, you smelled so good.

He just knew you tasted good, too.

“Tell me something. You have been going to these banquets for a year now,” Minho uttered while working on your waist behind you, “How come no gentleman has asked for your hand in marriage yet?”

“Because I tell them I am not a virgin,” you leisurely shrugged.

“WHAT?”

You burst out laughing loudly at how scandalized he was, more or less the same reaction you would elicit from the young lords trying to approach you.

“Calm yourself, I’m as untouched as a cactus,” you clarified while wiping the tears from your eyes, “but nobody needs to know that.”

“Why would you even do that? Your–Your reputation—”

“If your appendix bursts, it does not damage your reputation, does it? Why do I not get the same treatment, then?” you continued more seriously, “If I get married, they will chain me to some manor, and I will be treated as a breeding factory. God forbid if a woman has aspirations…”

“Do you have aspirations?”

“Yes,” you smiled at him in the mirror, “I would like to study veterinary medicine.”

Why was he even surprised? Of course, you did. You lost your entire mind whenever you saw a stray animal on the street. You were sneaking out to university hall lectures while your peers were at a church listening to Sunday sermons. Minho felt his heart swell to the point of combustion. 

But all of those wholesome feelings instantly disappeared when he kneeled before you. 

His face was directly in front of your crotch, and he noticed a familiar scent emitting from you. Tangy. Not quite sweet, but carried those notes nevertheless. A bit intense. He instinctively looked up at you trying to read your face. You weren’t showing any color, but your pupils were blown wide and your lips were slightly parted.

He swallowed.

His urges started running wild. Even you knew they did with how his breathing became slightly irregular. The thought of getting under your skirt and burying his face between your legs was rapidly consuming him.

Maybe it was for the best that the loud ringing of the phone echoed in the atelier, scaring the life out of both of you, but it at least managed to clear the reddish-pink haze that was about to invade every single corner of that tiny dressing room.

After he closed the shop that day, Minho sat on the pavement and let the kitty he now named Grape climb onto his lap, thinking to himself how he could let you know about his feelings for you while petting him. He had to do something since they were getting a bit more untameable with each passing day. Maybe you would go to the park again. Maybe he could take you to some lecture on human emotions or something. Maybe Grape could be his accomplice, but how was he supposed to go about this? Say he made his little confession, then what? Would you accept it? What would your family say? You were a little rebel, but did you have it in you to stand up to them if he promised to be by your side through everything?

Minho couldn’t sleep that night even though he exhausted himself with a hundred different scenarios, but little did he know his world was about to shatter before he got to do any of that.

Merely several days after the Spring Banquet, a small crowd of people dropped by the atelier with you among them. Minho knew one of the women accompanying you—that was Lady Seo without a doubt, but something wasn’t right at all.

You weren’t supposed to be here for another few weeks. Why were you—?

Your eyes were puffy and the skin around them was raw red like you were harshly rubbing it, the perfect evidence of you crying over something. There was resentment written all over your face. Concern crawled all over his body, and Minho started burning with the early shades of rage.

“A little earlier than usual for the next banquet, I see,” he calmly greeted the circle of women, “To what do I owe the pleasure, my lady?”

“Oh, we are here for a much joyous occasion this time,” Lady Seo chirped and lifted your hand for Minho to see better, “The young lady is joining the Seo family, and we wouldn’t have anything less than a wedding dress carrying the Lee signature!”

You were staring at the floor blankly like you had given up all hope. The second Minho caught a glimpse of your ring-adorned finger, he felt his heart getting ripped off his chest.

“A… A wedding dress…”

“Why, yes! Mr. Lee couldn’t speak highly enough of his son’s niche, and we simply must have the best for our future bride.”

Future bride. Minho was in sheer disbelief and rampant denial that those words were referring to you. Deep inside he knew this day was going to come, but it still felt like…

It felt like this was his fault for being too late.

“Certainly,” he forced a levelheaded smile to the best of his ability and turned his gaze on you, trying to stay still while he was stabbing himself in the chest with his own words, “Does the young lady have anything in mind, or would she like to receive recommendations?”

You finally looked up at him, bloodshot eyes utterly grief-stricken like you had just come back from a funeral. It was a funeral if you thought about it—a forced visit to Dr. Yang to prove you were lying and your hymen was in fact very much intact. All your dreams, all your hopes, all your love for Minho were mercilessly slaughtered by a conversation that took place between two families, and you had absolutely no say in the matter.

“Do you make black wedding gowns by any chance, good sir?” you asked through the most broken of smiles lacing all your features.

“She is surely jesting,” your mother let out a loud laughter while pinching your arm and loudly whispered, “This is barely appropriate. Stop offending your mother-in-law.”

“I am sure whatever you come up with will more than suffice,” your voice cracked as you slightly bowed your head at Minho, “I will be in your care.”

Care? In his care? This was not how he wanted to take care of you. You were going to go to school. He was going to wait for you and take you to the park afterwards, then ask you to tell him all about it. He had the utmost faith in you that you would be giving lectures on feline health someday. He wanted to take you to Paris when he saved enough money so that you could meet Madame Laurent again, and maybe ask you to marry him while he was at it.

Yet the reality was colder than the harshest winter.

“Then I will work on some patterns today, and we can discuss them tomorrow with the young lady,” he scribbled your name in his notebook and uttered emphatically, “At noon.”

You had done this many times before. You knew what it meant at this point.

Come five to ten minutes later when nobody’s here.

The next day you arrived at the atelier to allegedly get your measurements taken when there was absolutely no need; Minho already knew everything by heart. He just wanted to touch you again.

Maybe for one last time.

You didn’t even exchange pleasantries because there was nothing pleasant about any of this, and just proceeded to the dressing room in deafening silence. Minho wanted to ask you so many things, but all the words he couldn’t utter formed a gigantic knot in his throat. If he so much as made a sound, he was afraid he was going to break down crying.

And the last time he cried was when he was twelve years old.

It was a simple and professionally required act, measuring. Measuring your chest. Measuring your waist. Measuring your inseams for whatever reason as though bridal gowns came with dress pants, but he was measuring anyway. That seemed to be the only way to carve the exact outline of your body into his mind forever. Get indecently close to you, memorize the notes of your scent, kneel in front of you with begging eyes as if he was about to hit you with another proposal, and importantly…

Most importantly…

Watch the way goosebumps broke on your supple skin every time he touched you.

Each time you were in this room, the distance Minho kept between you two was noticeably shrinking, and this time around there was nothing left to shrink anymore. You had never felt him this close to you, flush against your body as he was measuring your bust from behind you. You could feel his body temperature seeping through you. His scent. His cologne. 

His entire existence. 

You leaned back into his chest and touched his hand while holding his gaze in the mirror. The room was so quiet that you could hear the screaming heartbeats of each other perfectly clearly. You watched how his hand reached for your chin in the reflection to turn you around. It hurt so bad when you looked into his deep brown eyes. It hurt so good when he brushed his thumb on your cheek.

You were dying in agony when he pressed his lips on yours. 

Much different than that one kiss you stole from him all those months ago. It felt like sinking in a bottomless ocean. Deep. Slow. Wet. Neither of you had the courage to open your eyes, and the darkness made it feel like you were kissing for hours. It was supposed to be an innocent show of affection maybe, but it was deteriorating way too rapidly. A little deeper, a little harder, a little quicker, and a little wetter. He was burning and so were you and you were letting him touch you and he was trying so hard to abstain, but…

He was a man. He was a man in love.

He dropped the tape tangled around his fingers and harshly pulled you in, throwing gallons of gas on the fire that was barely containable as it was. You felt the coldness of the wall he pressed you against on your back, giving you instant shivers, but you didn’t care. You had dreamed about this for so long. He had dreamed about this for so long. Touching you, kissing you, tasting every inch of your skin until he diminished you into a panting moaning mess, desperate to feel him in the worst ways and—

One touch between your legs, and reality hit Minho like a freight train about to be derailed.

“God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me,” he jolted in his place and backed away, “I–I couldn’t help it.”

You didn’t know what exactly it was you were feeling. Sadness? Anger? Disappointment? A nauseating concoction of them all?

”Do you… not want me?”

“No, it’s not that! It’s never that!” 

Minho was between a rock and a hard place. He knew what he wanted, but there was also the undeniable truth. What was he supposed to do? Disregard everything all at once, or be a decent human being and…

Let you go?

“You are… engaged,” he managed to say with an almost inaudible voice.

All this time, you hoped. You hoped he would protest to making this godforsaken dress. You hoped he would ask you not to go through with this. You hoped he would tell you that he loved you. Maybe you even foolishly thought he would want to marry you instead.

But apparently, you had hoped in vain.

“A fact you should have remembered before initiating, don’t you think?” you scoffed with disdain.

“Please…”

“If you are done with the measurements, I shall take my leave,” you quickly put your linen dress back on and walked out without looking at him to hide your tears threatening to fall, “I won’t be back again until the day of my final fitting.”

When the front door closed, the four words Minho couldn’t say out loud to save his life turned into a fist, and declared his throat as its residence for the foreseeable future.

Please don’t leave me.

He was losing sleep, and you were haunting his every waking thought. Every piece of fabric he cut was another breath taken away from him. Every stitch he sewed was another wound inflicted on his skin. The day of delivery was fast approaching, but Minho felt like his life was ending.

On the day of your final fitting, he was expecting you to come around noon again, but you were nowhere to be found. You didn’t show up in the afternoon. You didn’t show up in the evening. He never thought he would feel this way about seeing you in a fucking wedding dress, but he was getting worried.

“I need to run. Take care of the place,” Minho entrusted the shop with one of his apprentices, “I don’t know when I’ll be back. Lock the door and leave if I’m late.”

He scoured all the places he could think of. The park. The market. The tavern area. Even the university hall to see whether there was one of those beloved animal lectures of yours. You weren’t anywhere. His last resort was to pick up the dress and go to your estate to check on you with some excuse. He was going to make something up on the way. 

But before it even came to that, seeing you by the closed shop door, Minho was so relieved that his knees almost gave way. 

“There was a lecture series today,” you looked at him with blank eyes, “About loss.”

He wanted to say something. He needed to say something, but Minho forgot all the words he knew. You weren’t talking. You stood there in front of the atelier for god knows how long, and it seemed like it fell upon you to break the silence once again.

“I came for my fitting.”

Minho’s gaze slowly turned from your face towards the floor, and his shoulders drooped in resignation. You proceeded in silence. He fished for the keys in his pocket and opened the door, locked it from inside after you walked in, then led the way to the dressing room. Your gown was neatly pressed and placed on a hanger. He gave you some privacy to change, and when you opened the door again to signal him to come in for the final adjustments, Minho felt like he was walking towards a gallows tree. There you were, in all your glory, shining like you never had in pristine whites. He took slow steps towards you and knelt before you to check the length of the hem of the skirt.

God, you were beautiful.

You were in a wedding dress. A wedding dress. If he didn’t do something, you were going to slip away. Forever.

He had been such a coward ever since he lent his heart to you, never having the courage to do the things he was yearning to do, yet you were… you were nothing but…

Minho had enough.

“Please don’t do this,” he whispered.

It was a whisper, but he may as well have screamed at you. His eyes were fixated firmly on the hem. You were stunned like a bolt of lightning just struck you, incredulous at what you just heard. 

“Don’t get married,” his voice quivered like he was on the brink of crying as he hugged your legs, “Please.”

As if he was controlled by some unknown entity, his hands slid your skirt up. He finally looked up at you. You met his gaze, not knowing what to anticipate. You didn’t want to hope; he could step back at any moment like he did the last time, but a part of you just couldn’t help it.

“Minho…”

That was enough for him to risk it all.

He began to place little kisses up your thighs. Your skin was even more supple than he had always imagined. You heaved a very deep sigh and closed your eyes while leaning against the wall.

It didn’t feel that cold this time around. 

Minho was in a complete trance. Just kissing, kissing, and kissing everything his lips came across. Your legs, your thighs, the barely noticeable wet trace on your underwear. His fingers clutched the waistband of the thick fabric and slid it down, and down, and down, in disbelief that he was actually looking at the most intimate part of you fully exposed for him. Soft. Warm. Inviting.

There was no turning back from this anymore.

“I love you,” he whispered against you and closed his mouth on your cunt.

You felt those three words everywhere on your body.

Your fingers were tangled in between his silky locks, guiding his head instinctively. The amount of pleasure you were feeling was in lethal doses, much more intense than anything you were able to provide yourself. So wet and slippery, much warmer compared to your own fingers.

Minho, on the other hand, was dying.

He had an inkling about what you would taste like when your scent dissolved on his tongue, but he never thought it would be this savory. This condensed. This right. Unable to get enough, he was sinking deeper into your pussy, thinking he could maybe feel you like he was supposed to if he occupied the same space as you.

You clasped your hands on his shoulders and pulled him up, tasting yourself on his mouth as he swirled his tongue around yours, but it wasn’t enough. You wanted to see what he looked like naked. You wanted to feel him inside you. You wanted to belong to him.

And Minho wasn’t stopping this time.

“Can we…?” he took one look at his mattress on the floor then at you again.

“Yes.” 

You placed your hands on his beautiful face and felt how much he was trembling under your touch. From anticipation. From excitement. From nerves. 

“I love you, Minho,” you stressed the word while looking deep into his eyes.

That was the moment he said a mouthful of fuck you to everything.

You stripped each other as fast as you could, never leaving each other’s lips alone. Sitting on the mattress, you ran your hands on Minho’s bare torso and admired his naked figure for some time. He was so beautiful it made you want to violently cry. 

He laid you down on your back and quickly descended between your legs to pick up where he left off, locking his arms on your legs, too afraid to let you go. His tongue glided all over your folds first, making sure he replaced all your slick with his saliva before his lips trapped your clit. He was slurping on the engorged bundle of nerves with lazy swirls of his tongue, ears intently listening to how deep your moans were coming from. The harder he sucked, the more you were tugging at your own hair. The uneven ground your sounds of pleasure were stacked on eventually collapsed, and you found yourself arching into his mouth with cries ripping through your throat, wet mess staining all over his chin and glistening under the dim light of the room.

“Touch me,” Minho pleaded while hovering over your body, “Please.”

Then and only then did you notice the abysmal condition he was in, and it tickled you inside that he wanted you this much. So concerningly hard you could trace the veins on his cock. Tip flushed dark pink and about to leak. Utterly mouthwatering. You held him in a firm but careful grip and listened to his quiet moans when he made you stroke his girth. If you kept it up, he was actually going to cum before… before he could even…

He guided his cock to your soaked entrance and pressed his tip against you, proceeding with very shallow thrusts to make sure you were comfortable with his pace. His thumb was gently caressing your clit to compensate for the mild discomfort as he paved his way into you. More. A little more. Halfway in. Just a bit more. Almost there.

Then a cul-de-sac.

You felt like a long-lost piece of you clicked into its place whereas Minho almost lost his mind when he disappeared into you completely. The sensation was too intense. 

“Not enough,” he lowered his face down to kiss you and pressed his forehead against yours, “I’m finally inside you, but it’s just not enough.”

How could it ever be enough when you violently loved someone from afar for that long? How could it ever be enough when all the I love yous you were able to utter to their face were in your dreams? How was he ever going to be able to avenge all the lost time if not by desperately making love to the love of his life, sweaty, loud, drowning each other in kisses?

“Be my wife,” he spoke into your lips, “I swear on everything good and pure I’ll spend the rest of my life to make you happy.”

Too consumed with desire. Too overwhelmed with emotion. You were on the brink of happy tears, trying to produce a single word, but your mind wasn’t cooperating.

“Marry me,” he beseeched while quickening his thrusts, and buried his face in the crook of your neck, “Marry me. God, I love you!”

You held him in your embrace as tightly as you could and let him run towards his high however fast he wanted. Minho barely managed to pull out at the last second, and finished on your chest, shooting milky white drops to trickle down your breasts. You were both so deliriously happy in each other’s arms, not being able to get enough of one another at any cost. 

Just kissing. Kissing. And kissing some more while waiting for your feet to touch the ground.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do from this point on,” he intertwined his fingers with yours, “but do you want to start by ripping your dress to shreds?”

You uttered the words you’d been practicing so hard to come across as convincing, but without having to pretend for once.

“I do.”

You kissed into one another’s smiles again. You knew what kind of obstacles you needed to face before you could be at peace, but you weren’t dreading it. You had Minho, and he had you. Nothing else mattered other than how much you loved each other.

Longer than tomorrow.

Further than forever.

「© 2023-25, cb97percent · No translations, rewrites, or reposts permitted」

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[melinewton54]

Skz fake texts ── bf! SKZ Photo convos between bullies lovers

Warning: mentions of suggestive, playful banter/bullying

── all fake texts

[melinewton54]

Baby Daddy Era (Maknae Line)

summary: cute texts between dad!skz and their missus

pairing: skz maknae line x reader

genre: fluff

hyung line

Masterlist

~°~

han jisung

lee felix

kim seungmin

yang jeongin

[melinewton54]

Hello - let us introduce ourselves again Stray Kids rock the world, bow your heads

(thank you to anon and @imfoive for your help with this!)

[melinewton54]

a kids’ fairytale - l.n - p.8

Warnings: crying, angst, swearing

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!reader

Summary: Having a child so young hadn’t exactly been Lando’s idea of a fairytale, but what happened next, well, more suited to his kind of story ✨

other parts

It felt like it was all coming back.

When you’d woken up, 7 months pregnant, your ex not in your bed, just a note reading, ‘I can’t support a child’ on your bedside table.

The feeling of self-hate when you’d had to give birth alone, with no one to hold your hand.

It was horrid.

And not it was coming back, you just standing there, wrapped in your blanket, shaking.

You didn’t know where Lando lived.

And his number…you’d deleted it after the whole argument…had he really just left?

Like that?

Like it was nothing?

Scrambling for your phone, you opened it with shaky hands, going to his Instagram, which you’d never messaged before.

Y/N: Lando??? Where did you go???

Nothing.

Of course it’d be nothing, he was a celebrity. His PR team managed his account.

Had he gone out of his way to really humiliate you like that?

A sob tore from your throat as you fell to your knees, hands covering your face - you felt so disgusting.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

“You good?” Max raised a brow as he eyed his best friend in confusion.

“You’ve been smiling like a prat for a bit,” he added.

“Oh, me?” Lando said, the smile never leaving his face, “I’m all good,” Lando said, giving Max a thumbs up.

“Right…” his best friend blinked, “you sure? Coz you’re really happy,”.

“I slept with Y/N,” Lando said, the smile gracing his lips reaching all the way to his eyes as Max raised a brow.

“What?! You got the girl?!” Max said, realisation dawning upon him as Lando nodded.

“You bagged her! Dude!” Max said as Lando stood up.

“It’s great, isn’t it?!” Lando said, matching his friend’s excitement as he clapped his hands.

“Hey darling,” Lando said, turning his head as Honey walked in.

“Hey daddy, why’re you and Uncle Max shouting?” she asked as Lando picked her up, spinning round as she laughed, clinging onto him.

“Because,” he kissed her nose softly, “your daddy just got the prettiest girl in the whole wide world,”.

“Y/N?! You and Y/N are gonna get married?!” the little girl gasped as Lando blushed. “Not yet,” he laughed, “maybe one day, but not yet,”.

“Shall we get some chocolate to celebrate?” Max grinned, holding up the bars as Honey squealed.

Always had to be the fun uncle.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You must’ve showered at least 4 times that day, washing yourself again and again, as if trying to wash off how dirty you felt.

It was horrible.

You didn’t understand. You just…didn’t.

Had he really gone out of his way to get you the rose, and write the letter, albeit it one word, for just head and some sex?

It didn’t make sense.

It just…didn’t.

“Mama’s okay, I promise,” you said for the hundredth time as Alec watched you, worry etched on his tiny face.

“Okay,” he finally admitted defeat, jumping off of the sofa and leaving the chocolate bar by your side as you smiled, wrapping up in your blanket. You hated this feeling so much.

“Oh yeah,” Alec said, “did you know it’s Honey’s birthday soon?” he said, grinning.

“Yeah?” you looked up.

“She invited me to her house, she gave me the invite at school,” Alec held up the bit of paper.

“Can’t go, baby, we’re busy,” you said, making an excuse as his face fell.

You felt bad, but Lando had hurt you.

“Wait,” you paused.

“Let me see that?” you took the piece of paper from his hand, eyes scanning across the page. Then you saw it. The address.

“Baby, I’m just gonna go round to Lando’s house,” you said, “can i leave you with my mum again? You can play your games with her,”.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You composed yourself as you approached the door, ringing the doorbell.

“What the-?” a different, brunette, curly-haired man answered as he raised a brow, looking you up and down.

“Oh, I thought-,” you started.

“Mate, who is it?” you heard Lando’s familiar voice yell out from the lounge. Your eyes widened.

“Uh- some chick?” Max said. There was a pause, before heavy footsteps rang out.

“Y/N-?” Lando blinked, “How d’you know where I live-?”.

You said nothing.

You needed to talk to him but not in the middle of the street.

“Come in, baby, what happened?” Lando said, seeing the distressed look and the red rings around your eyes.

You shrieked, slapping him right across the face, his head jerking to the side.

“What happened- you left me?!” you said as soon as you were inside, balling your fists into his shirt.

“Baby, calm down- what are you in about?!” Lando prised your hands off of his chest, practically wrestling you off of him. He’d never seen you so angry, yet it was kinda hot.

“You left me! Don’t act oblivious! You said you’d stay and you left-!” you said.

“Y/N!” Lando said, holding you firmly, giving you a shake.

His hand wrapped round your neck with ease as he yanked you forwards, smashing his lips against yours, your eyes widening.

You whimpered but didn’t fight it, eventually squeezing your eyes shut.

“For a smart girl like yourself, you’re being really dumb,” Lando said, his hand still round your neck.

“I told you,” Lando said slowly.

“I told you I had to pick up Honey in a few hours,” Lando said, his voice low.

Shit, you felt dumb.

“And, baby, you really didn’t look at the other pillow? I left a note on it,” Lando sighed.

Ah. Shit.

Blood filled your cheeks as Lando sighed, a humoured smile on his face.

“Thanks,” Lando said, “for this,”.

He was pointing to the red mark on his cheek from your slightly unnecessary slap as you blushed.

“Y/N!” Honey cheered as she rushed into the room in Max’s arms, Lando’s grip on your neck releasing as she hugged your legs.

“Hey baby,” you smiled, hugging her back.

“You lot definitely had a good talking,” Max smirked as Lando rolled his eyes.

“Now,” Lando turned to you as Honey sat on the sofa with a smile, “can I trust you to go back to your place and bring Alec without slapping the shit out of me?”.

You rolled your eyes, cheeks still red.

“Shut up,” you mumbled as Lando smirked.

“Believe we have some celebrating to do,” Lando said, “with the kids and then some later,”.

“You wish,” you said as Lando rolled his eyes again.

“Alright, little Spitfire,” Lando said, giving your ass a firm smack as you left to get your son, a grin on his face.

And that was where Lando developed the use of the nickname for you.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

“Makes them siblings then, doesn’t it?” Lando smiled, peeking through the door as Honey bossed Alec about, commanding to have the top bunk.

“Guess so,” you said, swirling the champagne in your glass around as Lando smiled, kissing your cheek softly.

“I’m guessing no sex,” Lando said, “you’ve been walking weird,”.

“Someone’s fault,” you said, “I’d rather not today, if that’s fine?” you asked as Lando nodded immediately.

“‘Course it’s fine, you muppet,” Lando said, nudging you.

“Ain’t gonna make you do anything you don’t want,” he added as you smiled, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Let’s say goodnight to the kids,” Lando smiled.

“Night sweetie,” you knelt down to Alec as Lando kissed Honey’s forehead. “Night mama,” Alec yawned, kissing your cheek.

You looked to Lando. He looked to you.

You nodded. He nodded.

That was the green light to switch.

“Night Honey,” you said, kissing her on the cheek as Lando stood on the ladder, hugging Alec. “Night buddy,” Lando smiled.

“Night papa,”

“Night mummy,”

You and Lando froze, looking to each other.

Honey had just called you ‘mummy’. Alec had just called Lando ‘papa’.

You wished your final good nights, before rushing out the room, eyes sparkling. “Oh my god!” you whisper yelled, wrapping your arms round Lando’s neck as he kissed you.

Neither of you had ever felt better than now, in each other’s arms, with two amazing children.

The kiss lasted a few seconds, your eyes squeezed shut as Lando rocked you from side to side subtly.

“Holy shit, baby,” Lando pulled back, “oh my god!”.

“Daddy!” Honey called out, “we can still hear you!” she giggled as you and Lando laughed.

“Sorry, sweetie! Night!” you said, taking Lando’s hand and following him to his room.

Sweet love.

[melinewton54]

Well hello

[melinewton54]

Champagne Kisses

A night involving champagne gives you the perfect excuse to end up naked after weeks of harmless flirting. Spencer thinks one night isn’t enough.

category: smut, fluff word count: around 8k content: softdom!spencer, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v (but no creampie he’s testing his pull-out game), alcohol consumption, food play (more like drink play), and i wanna say spit kink but they’re using champagne instead so does that count? a/n: merry 2025 please tell me you remember me or else i might actually cry

You’re doing it again.

You’ve been clawing at his face for the past hour, stealing fleeting glances and looking away just as quickly, because every time you do, you find the same thing.

Brown eyes. Chocolate, marbled in hazel with tiny golden speckles. Pinning you in place. Dismantling you layer by layer. And somewhere in the quiet heat behind them, in the barely-there twitch of his jaw, you’re pretty sure he’s already mapping out the fastest way to get you out of your clothes.

It’s nerve-racking. Smart Spencer you can handle, awkward Spencer you can charm. But flirtatious Spencer? Flirtatious Spencer is dangerous.

Even more so when you’re squashed between Penelope and Luke at the overcrowded booth of O'Keefe's, who are mid-argument over something you can’t even muster the energy to care. Not when long legs stretch in front of you, and strips of neon lights slice across the table in a glow that crosses his form, curving around handsome features that make him look far too inviting.

Because that’s what your mind keeps drifting to. Taking him back to your place, where the only thing glowing would be the dim light of your bedroom.

Or maybe the pale light from the hallway.

Perhaps the soft flicker of the lamp in your living room.

Either way, your mind is already drawing images of him doing whatever it is he’s picturing in his own head. The location doesn’t matter.

“Don’t you agree?”

Your gaze fall over him once more before you force yourself to look away, catching Penelope staring at you expectantly. “Agree to what?”

“That margaritas are objectively the most fun drink and clearly better than boring beer.”

This is the argument they’ve been debating for the last five minutes?

Luke scoffs from your left. He doesn’t look angry though, his expression is more amused than irritated, lips formed in a cheeky smirk. “I can tolerate margaritas if we’re on a beach. But beers are solid all year round, pop a cap and you're good to go."

“You’re such a guy."

“I'm telling you, you don't need fancy ingredients or a blender. No little umbrellas."

“Literally proving my point. Beer has no personality.”

“Are you saying I have no personality?”

Bright pink-framed glasses shift as Penelope tips her head. “If the shoe fits.”

You’re at the point where you’re no longer surprised by their arguments. Loud and pointless, is how you'd describe them. You suspect Luke does it to get a reaction, and normally you’d add fuel to the fire, because Penelope is a pretty fire-cracker when her nostrils flare in absolute indignation. But your attention is elsewhere tonight.

Knees brushing yours under the table. A small smile curled at the corner of his lips. Deep set of eyes dragging over your face, your neck, the spot between your collarbone and shoulder where the pulse of your heartbeat seems to echo louder each second.

You slide with your back against the chair, thighs clamping shut. 

You feel him imprinted on you, heated gaze traveling beneath your skin. You wonder if he realizes what he’s doing, if he’s even aware of the effect all the time his eyes fall on you. Since the moment he walked in the room, since he took that seat directly across from you, and if you’re being completely honest, that glint in his eyes has been there probably for weeks now. The when of it all is a bit fuzzy.

Tonight feels adamantly different though, and you feel like you might just need a little extra something to quiet the nervous hum beneath your ribs.

But you’re not entirely sure whether it’s nerves or something far more indulgent that has your mind secretly leading you to a very unholy place. A place where you wonder if the rough, scruffy drag of his jaw feels the same below his navel.

You’re a hundred percent certain that it does.

“You know what’s a better drink?” your voice cracks, desperately needing that extra little something. “Champagne.”

Penelope’s head whips toward you. “Champagne? Here?”

You glance around the bar and raise a hand, trying to flag down the bartender.

The wood-paneled walls are covered with vintage beer advertisements, and the sticky floor is dotted with peanut shells from the complimentary bowls on every table. It’s the kind of place where the closest thing to champagne is probably prosecco poured into a plastic flute for a wedding after-party.

“What’s wrong with champagne? It’s a classic drink, great for celebration.” You order a bottle and four tall glasses before fixing her with a look. “It’s the New Year.”

She snorts. “We’re already halfway through January.”

“Penelope, we had to work on Christmas and New Year’s. We finally have this night to breathe, let me have this.”

There’s a beat of silence before she sighs dramatically. “Fine. But it still feels weird drinking champagne in a bar where the most sophisticated cocktail is a rum and coke.”

“Which is exactly why we’re elevating the night,” you reply, watching as the bartender sets the bottle down with (thank god) proper crystal flutes. You pour the first glass, the golden bubbles racing upward like tiny fireworks as you pass it to her.

Luke accepts the next glass without the same hesitation, but when you offer one to Spencer, the curly-haired man shakes his head.

“Right. I forgot you don’t really drink alcohol.”

The faintest smile tugs at his lips. “I don’t have anything against alcohol, just not in large amounts.” His gaze shifts to the bottle on the table. “I also happen not to like champagne.”

Penelope looks mildly offended. “Why not?”

“Because the carbonation overpowers the flavor. It’s hard to enjoy a drink when it’s constantly popping on your tongue.” You stifle a laugh before you can stop yourself. He looks at you. “What?”

“I think you’re overthinking it,” you reply with a grin. “Here, maybe this will change your mind.”

You pour him a glass and nudge it toward him. He simply looks from the glass to you.

“Come on,” you coax. “We’re celebrating the New Year.”

“Seventeen days late."

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes.

"Do not ruin the fun. We’re still celebrating, and you can’t toast with water. That’s practically begging for bad luck.”

He exhales sharply, lips twitching in what might be defeat or mild amusement, before reaching across the table. Everyone raises their glasses. The instant the bubbles hit his tongue, his nose scrunches in subtle distaste, and the sound of your laughter flies through the small space.

“It’s not that bad,” you insist.

“I still don’t understand the appeal.”

Champagne isn’t exactly your first choice either. You’ve always been more of a wine person. A good wine. A rich Burgundy that makes you close your eyes on the first sip to taste the faint of autumn in a glass. But champagne feels right for the occasion.

This taste blooms on your tongue, crisp and bright with hints of green apple and citrus and that faint yeasty richness at back of your throat. They dance across your palate, leaving a lingering sweetness through your veins that doesn’t soothe your nerves so much as ignite something beneath them, something warmer, deeper, curling into your bloodstream.

It makes you very bold.

Bold enough to hold his gaze without flinching. Bold enough to let your tongue flick across your lips. Bold enough to let your foot glide slowly up the length of his long, long leg.

You’ll have him taste his own medicine.

You, too, can play with fire.

“Maybe you’re drinking it wrong,” you hum, feeling him tense for the briefest, tiniest moment before he relaxes. “There’s another way to make champagne better.”

He grips the stem of his glass. “Something tells me you have a suggestion.”

“I do.”

He tilts his head. The din of conversation around you slowly fades into a muffled hum, the clinking of glasses and Penelope’s laughter barely registering as you notice the curve of his smile, the question lingering in his eyes.

Will you show me?

And that’s how you find yourself naked between his thighs two hours later.

It started innocently enough—or at least that’s the lie you fed yourself when you watched Penelope and Luke stumble their way to the dance floor, giggling as they poured yet another round of sparkling wine. But the champagne didn’t keep your attention for long. A few more stolen glances later, you found your hand wrapping around his arm, the other clutching a half-full bottle of champagne like some reckless lifeline.

It is reckless. Even you can’t deny that. You’ve always been cautious when it comes to bringing a man home. But this isn’t just anyone. This is Spencer. Someone who already knows too many pieces of you, someone who doesn’t need to be deciphered or explained.

And maybe that’s why you couldn’t stop yourself from dragging him out of the bar.

The ride in the stuffy cab felt like an eternity and a blink at the same time that the moment your apartment door clicked shut behind you, his mouth was already on yours. You barely had time to process how surprisingly good he tasted before your clothes started to disappear.

It’s a dizzying rush of hands and heat, and you’re now standing over him, knees brushing his as he sinks into your couch.

Yes, your couch. The soft, slate-blue one you’ve spent countless evenings curled up on, legs tucked under a blanket, flipping through books or half-watching shows you never finish. But now it cradles a completely different weight—the heavy heat of him radiating with tension-laced curiosity and a barely contained lust that seems to bleed right into the fabric.

“I can’t believe I’m kissing you,” he mutters dazedly, trailing his lips along your jaw with a hand resting on your naked back.

“I can’t believe you can unhook my bra that fast.”

He catches the sheer black fabric now hanging haphazardly over your lamp where he’d tossed it aside moments ago. “It wasn’t that hard.”

“Should I be concerned about how much practice you’ve had?”

“Not really. I’m a fast learner.”

That, you believe. But you’re not entirely sure if it’s his innate skill or the way your body seems to respond to him so effortlessly that leaves your lungs feeling like they’ve forgotten how to work. Breathing is no longer instinctive now. It’s a function you have to remind yourself to do as his tongue dances along the curve of your breast, and by the time he takes the achingly hard tip into his mouth, your chest tightens.

You suck in a desperate need of oxygen while he sucks the last thread of composure from you.

“Sweet.”

“Huh?”

“You—” He pulls back just enough to let his teeth graze the delicate skin before soothing it with a slow drag of his tongue, “taste sweet.”

Your hand slides to the back of his neck with a sigh. “You’re exaggerating.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bodies don’t taste like anything, it’s skin.”

Spencer shakes his head as he cups the weight of your other breast with the same care you’ve come to expect from him. Taut nipple rolls under his thumb. “How do you explain this then?”

You don’t respond. Not with words, anyway. Your body speaks first as you arch into his touch, chasing the warmth of his hands before you can form any thoughts.

“How do you explain,” he continues, his lips trailing down the slope of your stomach, “why I can’t get enough of how sweet you taste?”

Your mind finally catches up, and the words settle over you like honey itself.

“You think so?”

“It’s not a thought, it’s a fact.” He presses a kiss to the soft skin just below your navel. “I don’t know how you can taste better than this.”

Your laugh is breathless, barely steady enough to be called one. “You’re laying it on thick now.”

“I’m just being honest.”

It’s cute how he says it with such conviction, like it’s the simplest truth in the world and not a line that’s turning your legs to liquid. Your knees threaten to buckle as you step away, reaching for the half-empty champagne bottle perched on the coffee table. The glass feels cool against your overheated skin as you twist the cork free.

“What are you doing?”

“Considering your words.” You hold up the bottle, the champagne fizzing invitingly at its neck. “What do you say we make this even sweeter?”

His eyes light up with interest. “Is this where you show me the right way to drink champagne?”

You nod and sink back between his thighs. “I know you’re not big on sharing food, but I think you’re gonna like this.”

“You do realize I’ll share anything with you.”

Your lips curl into a soft smile. You’ve already learned that kissing Spencer feels deliciously messy. It’s sloppy in the way passion tends to be when control is the last thing on either of your minds, with tongues and teeth colliding in an unpolished rhythm that’s as raw as it is consuming. Adding champagne to the equation doesn’t feel like much of a stretch.

You step forward at the same time his hands fall to your hips. “There’s a trick to drinking champagne.”

“I’m listening.”

The bottle’s rim grazes your lips as you take in his appearance. His shirt is wrinkled, hanging just a little more loosely around his chest with two buttons undone. He’s the very definition of disheveled that’s entirely your doing. He looks absolutely irresistible.

“You need to linger on the taste,” you start, your voice dipping into something softer as your eyes meet his again. “Be patient. Let it sit and overwhelm your senses before you swallow.”

“You mean marinate it in my mouth?”

A giggle burst out of you. “Exactly. The longer you let it linger, the more it softens, and the sweeter it gets.”

You tilt the bottle to your lips. The sweetness starts to bloom on your tongue, subtle at first, but then richer, fuller against the roof of your mouth. There's a flicker of recognition in his eyes when you pull him closer by the nape of his neck, the exact moment he realizes what you’re about to do.

Your lips meld seamlessly with his as the Champagne slips from your mouth.

His lashes flutter briefly. There’s a soft flush spreading across his pale cheeks, and you feel the faint hum of pleasure, vibrating against the delicate curve of his skin as a liquid thread drips down your chin.

And then you’re kissing him. Or he’s kissing you. It’s hard to tell who moved first, but it doesn’t matter. His lips part further, and you swear you can taste every nuance of the champagne in a way you've never experienced before. Sharp citrus, a whisper of honeyed sweetness, and beneath it all, something clean and cool that reminds you of first snowfalls.

His lips are swollen and wet and perfectly shiny when you finally pull back.

“What do you think?”

“I think we should drink champagne every day.”

Your hand drifts to the side of his neck with a smile, thumb brushing lightly against his pulse. “Even when we’re working?”

“Especially when we’re working,” he counters, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, tasting what’s left of you. His gaze flickers to the bottle in your hand. “Can I try it?”

You pass it to him, your eyes fixed on the way he tilts it to his mouth. You’re sure the bubbles in your system aren’t the reason your pulse races as he sets the bottle aside and rises to his feet. You’re also sure that no amount of champagne is responsible for the way your lips part eagerly when his hands cradle your cheeks.

There it is again—that sweetness. It hits you the moment his mouth captures yours, but it fully overwhelms you when he tilts his head and gently coaxes the champagne from his lips to yours.

You’re not surprised at how quickly he picks this up. It’s common knowledge that he’s a very diligent person, but it’s still a bit astonishing how he’s taken to playing with a drink he supposedly doesn’t even like. This is nothing like solving cases or flexing his impossibly sharp brain, nor the crosswords you’re used to seeing him hunched over at his desk at lunch.

This requires a different kind of finesse that involves his lips and tongue rather than a pen and paper.

It also seems like he might be enjoying this even more. He leans back just enough to let his tongue sweep across the seam of your lips, collecting the last trace of sweetness clinging to you.

A thumb swipes over the wet trail under chin. “I could get used to this.”

“Champagne or me?”

“Both.”

Satisfied with his answer, your fingers trail down to undo the last few buttons of his shirt. “Do you wanna try something else?”

He quirks an eyebrow as you push down the fabric down his shoulders. You don’t say anything all the while you start to unbuckle his belt, peeling every layer of his clothing until you’ve stripped him completely bare—and would you look at that? The faint trail of hair down his belly matches the scruff shadowing his jaw.

There’s a brief pause as your eyes travel down his body, lingering on his surprisingly impressive size, and a comment sits at the edge of your tongue. You decide to let your actions speak for you.

Your delicate fingers wrap around his delicious thickness. You swipe the first signs of precum glistening over his tip with your thumb, and a low sound of pleasure rumbles in his chest.

“Is this what you had in mind?”

He sounds like he’s in pain, and you shake your head with a playful smile curling at your lips. “Sit back on the couch.”

Spencer sinks into the cushion.

“This might get a little messy.”

His brow furrows slightly, and for a moment, he looks genuinely intrigued. What he doesn’t expect is the way you slowly pour the remaining liquid down your chest. His mouth parts in surprise, and then his gaze follows every single drop like it’s gravity itself pulling him in.

You’re mesmerizing. Always have been, actually. There is no doubt in Spencer’s mind that you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever met in his life. Your mind is brilliant. Your heart is kind. But watching the champagne mix with the sheen of sweat on your skin, you’re something else entirely. You look lethal. A different kind of captivating.

He’s already pulling you by the waist, and you’re a mass of giggles as you twist out of his grip to set the bottle safely aside. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Can you blame me?”

Honestly, you can’t. If the roles were reversed, you’d probably look at him the same way.

When his hands finally find your hips again, there’s no point in pretending you don’t want to be caught. You bend your knees and shift on the couch. He helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap.

Desperate is a good enough word to depict for him because as soon as you're close enough, he’s tasting you all over again. His tongue drags slow over the curve of your shoulder, across the hollow of your throat, and down to the soft swell of your breasts. Goosebumps ripple across your skin with every pass, every flick of his tongue, his touch leaving a trail of heat that you swear you can feel seeping into your bones.

You don’t even realize when you start to move until you feel the slow, unintentional rock of your hips into him. His cock fits snugly between your folds that you start grinding as the words fall from your lips without much thought, “What do you think of sex without a condom?”

His pupils dilated, lips parting, but no sound comes out right away.

"Spence?"

His gaze flickers to where your wet bodies are pressed together. Damp moisture from his tip smeared erotically between puffy lips, clear liquid coating his hard length.

“I think… it’s very intimate."

“Too intimate?”

"No." His fingers trail along your skin before his thumb settles just under your breast, in the delicate curve where your rib meets, and finally looks at you. "Is that what you want?"

You're bobbing your head up and down.

“Then I'd really, really like that.”

You shift your weight on your knees. “So you trust me?"

"More than anyone."

“I trust you too,” you say, your voice dipping low as your fingers wrap around his cock, guiding him to your entrance. “Can I request something, though?"

"Anything."

You pause just long enough for your words to land. “I don’t want you to come inside me.”

He exhales a soft laugh. “That can be arranged.”

His answer makes your lips twitch, but as you start to sink down, your body seems to have other ideas. There’s a resistance you didn’t expect, a sudden tautness that refuses to give.

Your eyes widen in surprise.

Oh my.

“What’s wrong?”

When you first wrapped your hand around him and took in the full reality of his size, you’d been impressed. Now you wonder if maybe you underestimated just how much he has to offer.

You bite the insides of your cheeks and try again.

“It’s been a while,” you confess quietly. You can’t even recall the last time you were this intimate with someone that the hesitation feels foreign, like a hiccup in a moment you’ve been eagerly anticipating.

And you are eager. Maybe a little too much. It feels almost ironic, considering how much you’ve thought about this, how your imagination has filled in the blanks a hundred times over. Now that it’s real, your body seems to be having second thoughts your mind absolutely isn’t entertaining.

You shift your hips, determination flaring as you take a slow breath. Left, right, up, down. But then a sharp sting shoots through you. Your face quickly twists into a grimace.

"Hey,” he calls gently, thumbs brushing gentle circles against your hip. “We can stop. You don’t have to push yourself.”

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? You want him to push past whatever invisible barrier your body is putting up. The idea of stopping now feels more unbearable than the sting itself.

Your lips press into a stubborn frown. “No,” you say firmly. “We are not stopping.”

"Are you sure?"

"Mhm. I think my body's just being weird. I'm sorry."

His brows knits together almost immediately. “I should be the one apologizing.”

Frustration suddenly wells up in your chest, and this time your teeth sinks into your lip, unsure whether it’s the tension in the muscles between your legs or the ache of wanting him that feels stronger.

And you want him. So fucking bad.

“You need to relax,” he soothes, running his hands up your waist, past your ribs, across your back.

“I am relaxed,” you huff.

“I don’t think you’re relaxed enough.”

Before you can respond, he carefully lifts you from his lap and settles you back onto the couch. The cushions dips under your weight, and you barely have time to process the change before he gracefully drops to the floor.

“Should we move to your bed?”

He grips one of your ankles, his thumb brushing along the soft curve of your bone before he leans down, pressing warm lips to the skin above it.

“After this,” you reply, glancing at the sticky champagne trail still glistening faintly on your skin. “Don’t want my sheets getting sticky.”

There’s a flicker of amusement on his handsome face. “After this?”

“Did you think we’d be stopping after one round?”

His laughter vibrates against your calf. “How many times are we talking then?”

“Until I can’t feel my legs.”

The smile he gives you is slow and warm. It curves one corner of his mouth first, almost shy, before spreading fully, lighting up his face in a way that steals the breath right from your lungs.

“You’d let me have my way with you all night?”

“I’d probably let you have me anytime you want.”

His grin is almost blinding that you can’t help but give him a pleased smile of your own.

“Let’s focus on tonight first.” He moves to your other the leg. Delicate bone and tendon brushes against his lips. “I need to get you ready for me. Would you let me do that?"

Words fail you as his mouth moves closer, and the heat of his breath against your skin makes your entire body tense in anticipation. He presses another open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

"You're still tense."

Kiss. Kiss.

“Really need you to relax.”

You try, but then again, it's impossible when his lips are so close, yet still not where you need them the most.

His name slips in a desperate whisper.

"Hm?"

"Stop teasing."

His lips quirk in response, but he doesn't argue.

He dips his head and finally— finally! —drags his tongue along your achingly wet folds. Your eyes almost roll to the back of your head.

"Better?"

The question is entirely rhetorical.

You don’t bother answering. Words seem sparse when his actions are spelling out everything you need to know in bold, underlined strokes. His touch is distinctly different from the playful, champagne-dampened kisses he had gifted your skin.

Now he’s utterly focused. He’s researching, and it appears his diligence isn’t confined to his academic when the same focus he applies to his studies is translated so flawlessly into reading your body like a favorite book. One he’s intent on memorizing every line of, delighting in every pause and whisper between the chapters of your sighs.

It’s this thought that tickles the back of your mind when he slips a finger in. He’s always been about comprehensive understanding, and well, you’re all about empirical evidence. Right now is proof of a hypothesis you’re too pleased to confirm that Spencer Reid might just be a genius in more ways than one.

Especially in how his steady thrust of his finger syncs perfectly with the hot, wet pull of his mouth, scratching such a carnal itch that it resonates deep in your brain. You sigh in pleasure when he adds another finger, and he lifts his head then, lips shiny and pink from his ministration.

"Do you think you can take a third?"

Your heart gives a few extra thuds in your chest cavity. “Please, please.”

Look at you, reducing yourself into begging, but really, how could you resist? Who could withstand the intensity of his gaze, the way his voice dips low like velvet wrapping around your senses?

Your head tips back against the couch, a soft whimper lashing out as he adds that third finger. The stretch is almost overwhelming but oh so good.

"Does it hurt?"

You let out a loud exhale. "No."

"Tell me if it hurts."

"Feels good." Your legs fall apart even further. "Don't stop."

He smiles, and then he's doing things to your body that have you questioning how you're even still breathing. The wet, sticky slosh of your arousal fills the room, a sound so explicit it should mortify you. But then three knuckles press deeper, stroking against that rougher patch of nerves and all rational thought dissolves.

A sound you didn't even know you could make escapes your throat. You're gasping, moaning, a little bit squealing as his free hand slides up your plush thigh before finding your puffy clit. And dear god, you’re choking on the breath that lodges in your throat. You're so close it's almost unbearable. A hand shoots out, and you’re gripping his forearm with a desperation you can't even pretend to hide.

You need him inside you.

“I'm ready," you gasp harshly, your lips parting in quick, desperate puffs. "I'm ready. I’m ready.”

He has the audacity to shake his head.

"I'll decide when you're ready."

Your breath stutters even more.

Why does that sound so hot? Why does that simple, infuriatingly calm statement make your thighs clench, your pulse race, and a fresh wave of heat roll through your body?

Before you know it, he’s coaxing your orgasm from you with just the right pressure, and every movement feels like it’s designed to bring you right to the edge. You’re not surprised by how wet you are, you’ve been dripping for what feels like hours. But what does surprise you is just how much your body can take. The intensity that doesn’t wane, that keeps pushing you higher, drawing out gasp after gasp until hot syrup gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his fingers, down to the couch.

It’s endless, relentless, and you can’t even tell where one orgasm ends and the next begins. Your hand claw at his wrist.

“Spencer,” you whine, your voice breaking on the syllables. “Sensitive.”

He stops immediately, his fingers still inside you, his other hand slipping from your clit to rest on your thigh. “Too much?”

“A little,” you smile breathlessly. “C’mere.”

He crawls towards you as you lay on your back, relaxing your thighs.

His eyes trail over you, scanning your sweat-slicked skin, lingering on your perky breasts, moving down to where your legs are fallen apart, waiting for him. The sight is so overwhelmingly enticing that he finds himself wrapping a hand around his cock, muttering a low praise under his breath, “I don’t think I’ve told you how beautiful you are.”

Your eyes flick downward, and a spark of confidence—or maybe pure desperation—pushes your reply out without hesitation.

“Tell me again while you fuck me.”

You’re so blunt and shameless that a part of you might have blushed if you weren’t so far gone. Spencer doesn’t seem fazed, though. If anything, his eyes flash with a knowing sparkle that only deepens as he presses his bulbous head right at the shy of your entrance.

“I think I’m going to enjoy telling you,” he muses.

And Spencer is one to keep his promises.

He thinks you’re devastatingly pretty when he’s sinking into you. There’s a dazed look in your glossy eyes, and the sweetest sound coming from your lips as he stretches you in a way that leaves no part of you untouched.

He sings praises under his breath when the heavy weight of him finally settles deep inside your body. He patiently waits as your walls flutter around him, all the while his lips brushes the delicate curve of your collarbone, between low, broken whispers of how perfect you are.

Although perfection might not even capture the essence of what he sees in you at this moment. You’re a breathtaking array of contradictions. Powerful and vulnerable, fierce yet tender. You’re nothing short of divine as he gives another smooth, long thrust that pulls a sound from your lips that he knows will echo in his mind long after.

The heat of you surrounds him completely, and he swears he feels every pulse of your body welcoming him deeper. You’re slathering his entire cock with your slippery slick, and the dampness imprinting against his pelvis only seems to spur him on. He moves in steady, languid strokes, and your toes curl at the sensation burning in your belly.

He’s hitting you so good your ankles find themselves running down his back.

“Spence,” your voice is raspy and wet. “Fuck me harder.”

His quiet groan harmonizes with the rhythm of your heart. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t—”

You stop, and he looks through the mist of bliss you've shrouded him in. Your face twists, eyes going wide, lips parted to take in sharp breaths. He panics for a moment.

“You’re in pain,” he decides, reading the way your brows knit together, the way your breath stutters in your chest. It seems the most logical conclusion—until he realizes how wrong he is.

Because you’re writhing under his weight when he pushes in deeper, and your mouth trembles, not with discomfort, but with something devastatingly good.

“Oh,” he exhales. His smile is uncharacteristically smug. “It’s not pain, is it?”

You shake your head.

“You want it rough.”

It’s more of a statement than it is a question, but you’re nodding vigorously.

His restraint snaps like a frayed thread.

The next thrust is sharper, it pounds into you with enough force to shift your body slightly back against the cushions. Your lips mouth around another shaky breath he drinks dry with a wet kiss.

Still. Not. Enough.

“Harder,” you slur against his tongue.

What’s a hot-blooded man to do when asked so sweetly? He answers in the only way he can.

A hand curls around the back of your knee to pull you open just enough for him to drive deeper. The angle makes you feel impossibly full, how the folds of your vulva hugs around his shaft greedily, letting him claim all the space you didn’t even know existed. You can even feel the wet drag of his cock against your swollen clit with each hard thrust, a sensation so piercing it rips a gasp from your throat and a plethora of groans wailing from the couch.

“Like this?”

The relentless thwack-thwack-thwack of skins colliding is making you delirious.

“Yes,” you cry out. “Fuck—Yes. Yes.”

Your vision blurs as you blink, and—god, you think you might actually cry. And honestly, with how full you feel, with how every nerve is sparking to life under his loud rhythm, it wouldn’t even surprise you.

Your lashes feel wet as you squeeze your eyes shut, but you force them back open, unwilling to miss the way he looks above you. Jaw tight, sweat beading at his temples, eyes locked on you like nothing else exists.

Nothing probably does, not when he moves with a rhythm that feels both gentle and crude, like he’s savoring every second so sweetly while simultaneously chasing the most carnal kind of pleasure known to mankind.

Pleasure that has you melting, pleasure that has your body fully acclimating to his size. And now you’re teetering on the edge of another intense orgasm that begins its ascent from the tips of your toes and fingertips, spiraling a tingling rush up through your legs and arms, gathering force at the pit of your stomach, and exploding into the point where you’re intimately connected.

It happens all at once.

You’re trembling.

You’re shattering.

You’re pathetically whining.

Euphoria floods every inch of your body until you’re drowning in it. A liquid fire in your veins. Your cunt clenches around him, so tight you swear you feel every ridge and vein of his cock as keeps pressing you into the couch. Again and again and again, until you’re nothing but an incoherent mess, your words blabbered in a breathless rush of pleasure-induced nonsense.

One heartbeat stretches into two, then the muscles in his arms flexes as his pace falters. He’s shaking now, his pelvis moving in hurried, shallow thrusts as though he’s chasing something he can’t quite reach before the heat of him presses into you one last time.

He abruptly pulls out, his cock visibly pulsing in his hand and strokes himself with a stuttering groan as thick, pearly ropes splutters across your stomach. His fingers dig deeper into the back of your thigh while he continues to paint your skin in messy streaks, and you watch in fascination the moment his head tilts back in pure, unfiltered pleasure.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him quite this beautiful.

His brows pinches in concentration for a few more seconds before his gaze slowly meets yours again, and a faint, blissful pink colors his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly, looking a little out of breath. Devastatingly handsome and sweaty. Flustered in the best way.

You brush the damp hair sticking to his skin with a small, satisfied smile. “Are you kidding? That was extremely hot.”

His laughter fills every corner in the room. Then his hand drift down a comforting path down your thigh as he leans to capture the giggle tumbling from your lips with his own. It’s then you realize that kissing Spencer isn’t just enjoyable, it’s downright addictive.

You’re beginning to think he’s just as addicted to you too, because when he pulls away, it’s reluctant, his lips leaving yours with a faint, wet sound that lingers as sweetly as the kiss itself.

“Will you really let me have my way with you all night?” he asks gently, and you can’t help but wonder why he even feels the need to ask.

“Was I not obvious enough?”

You feel his smile before you see it. “Bedroom now?”

To tangle your naked limbs with his again sounds pretty close to heaven. Absolute, indulgent heaven, except for the distinct stickiness of champagne, sweat, and a cocktail of other body fluids clinging to your skin. The thought of sinking into cool clean sheets in this state makes your nose scrunch.

“We need to make a stop to the bathroom first,” you say, running a hand up his arm to squeeze his bicep. “Have you ever tried shower sex?”

“Can’t say that I have,” he admits truthfully.

You make a sound of disapproval.

“We definitely need to change that.”

-

Spencer realizes a lot of things can change in one night.

He also discovers how much he’s capable of learning in such a short period of time. Granted, he’s always been a quick study, but this is different. The hours between midnight and sunrise completely upend his understanding of things he’d only ever read about—sex, intimacy, the intricacies of how touch can feel as much like a language as words.

But beyond the newfound knowledge (and let’s face it, an entirely new appreciation for his muscles), there’s something else. Something that surprises him even more.

He likes waking up with another warm body beside him. More than likes it. There’s a strange kind of peace in the way your leg drapes over his, your hair a tousled mess against the pillow. Peace that makes him wonder if this, too, is something he could get used to.

Even if you’re hogging the blanket. He can feel the cool air on his back while you’re wrapped in most of the covers, leaving him to soak up whatever body heat he can steal by staying pressed against you. Not that he’s complaining. He’d happily stay like this for hours, but the sun is already creeping higher through your window, and your phone has been vibrating nonstop ever since he opened his eyes.

The sheets rustle as he shifts closer, mouth puffing warmly on your cheek with a breath of your name folding into your skin. You blink through heavy eyelids, and Spencer thinks you look adorable all wrapped up like a cocoon in the tangled linens.

“Hey," you croak, then clear your throat. “Morning.”

The soft rasp of your voice is even as endearing as the sight of you.

“I think we’ve already passed morning,” he says, slipping a hand under the covers, finding the goosebumps prickling on your upper arm.

“We slept in?”

“My guess is it’s almost noon.” There’s another buzz vibrating from the bedside table that stops him from pressing you against his chest. “Someone keeps calling you.”

He wonders if you can sense the slight annoyance in his voice. He wonders if he even has the right to be annoyed. It's Saturday. You clearly have plans—or at least someone thinks you do based on how persistent they've been.

If you catch the flicker of irritation in his voice, you don’t acknowledge it. You stretch lazily for your phone instead, and his attention is momentarily snagged by the way the sheet slips down your shoulder, revealing the constellation of freckles and moles he’s spent the entire night memorizing with his lips.

"Nobody’s calling.” Your thumb scrolls through the notifications. "Penelope just doesn't understand the concept of personal space when she texts."

Spencer feels the tightness in his shoulders ease, though he doesn't miss the way your eyes narrow into sleepy slits at the screen.

"Oh."

That one syllable is enough to set his mind buzzing.

"What?"

"Um."

It’s the subtle crack in your voice that hooks him. He’s never been good at sitting with unanswered questions, especially not when your expression shifts just enough to make him wonder what could possibly warrant that little noise.

He finally curls an arm around your waist, and the faint trace of your scent fills his lungs as he gently draws you back against his chest. A relentless stream of messages glares up at him over your shoulder.

Penelope [Sent 23:37]: Where are you?? Penelope [Sent 23:45]: Is reid with you? Penelope [Sent 00:05]: Did you leave? WITH HIM?? Penelope [Sent 00:17]: You did, didn't you? Penelope [Sent 00:33]: You can’t just vanish like this, you know I have questions!!!

Spencer barely registers the way his hand drifts down to rest against your stomach. He pulls you in unconsciously as his eyes scan over the flood of texts that started piling up this morning.

Penelope [Sent 09:19]: Good morning. Penelope [Sent 09:25]: Answer me. Penelope [Sent 10:24]: Seriously, are you alive? Penelope [Sent 10:39]: YOU OWE ME DETAILS. Penelope [Sent 10:48]: Last chance. Calling you in ten.

"I think she's onto us."

It’s not so much a matter of thought as it is a fact. Your words are less a theory and more a confirmation of reality, as undeniable as the relentless stream of texts lighting up your phone.

"What should I tell her?"

Spencer leans in closer. The soft scent of your shampoo drifts up, clean and faintly sweet, wrapping itself around him in a way that makes his chest ache, though he’s not sure why. He’s inhaling everything—your warmth, the curve of your shoulder brushing his chest, the way your voice carries an edge of hesitation that feels so out of place for someone like you.

And that’s what truly catches him off guard. Not the fact that Penelope is practically banging on a metaphorical door with her texts, but that you’re hesitating. You, who rarely second-guess yourself, now unsure about sharing the details of last night with one of closest people in your life.

Or maybe the surprise lies closer to home. How easily the words form in his own mind, bypassing the overthinking that usually rules him.

He has ten minutes to think before Penelope supposedly calls, but he doesn’t need ten minutes, or even ten seconds, because the answer is already there, so obvious it practically tumbles out of him.

"The truth," he hums against the crown of your hair. "You should tell her the truth."

You’re quiet for a while.

“Are you sure?"

For someone who invited him into your home, who let him press you into the couch cushions, spread you out on the cool tiles of the bathroom, and pull every sound he wanted from you on the soft give of your mattress—on your back, your front, even sideways—you seem awfully uncertain now. Very out of character.

So what’s changed this morning? Is it the stale morning breath he’s sure he hasn’t fixed yet? The mess of his curls sticking up in every direction from a night spent pressed into your pillows?

Or is it something much deeper that he hasn’t quite put his finger on?

The thought clings to him as his thumb brushes your stomach. "I’m sure," he says. "Are you?"

You hesitate for a beat too long, and that tiny pause lands heavy on his chest.

"This is going to change everything," you finally say, sounding somewhat like a warning.

He frowns. "Didn’t you want it to?"

"I did. I do." You pull in a breath that shakes on the way out. "Maybe we should discuss this before we say anything to anyone."

Your phone slips quietly onto the bed as you twist in his arms. Face to face.

"Do you like me?"

What kind of question is that?

"Did I seem not to like you last night?"

"No, Spencer, I need to hear it. Do you like me?"

He studies the delicate fold between your brows. He watches the quiver on your parted lips. And your eyes—watery and glossy and wide. Soft lashes framing the quiet expanse of irises that shimmer like glass.

He knows what you need. Spencer has spent most of his entire life reading people, pulling truths out of their silences and decoding what they can’t (or won’t) say. And even though he hates applying that skill to you, he knows this isn’t just about reassurance. You’re not only questioning what happened between you last night. You’re questioning what comes next.

The time glares from your phone over your shoulder: six minutes. That’s all he has to convince you that his feelings go far beyond fleeting lust or the heady haze of alcohol. Six minutes before Penelope inevitably interrupts.

But he’s not the greatest with words, is he?

Sure, he’s read more books than most people will touch in a lifetime. He can recite Edgar Allan Poe by heart and dissect layers of meaning in Dostoevsky’s prose like it’s second nature. But his own feelings don’t come wrapped in poetic declarations. That’s not who he is.

What he can do, though, is tell you the truth.

“You know how you told me I could have you anytime I want?”

A strand of hair brushes against your cheek as you nod.

“You’ve already had me from the very beginning.”

Your gaze softens, then you sigh sweetly, and he knows without a doubt that the truth is exactly what you need. “Before all the sex?”

“Before we even kissed.”

The distance between you slowly becomes nonexistent. You slot your knee between his thighs, a lick of smile curling at the corner of your lips.

“So… when I ran my foot up your leg?”

His lopsided smile is no different from yours. “No.”

“Last week when I wore your cardigan because the AC got too cold?”

“You looked really pretty in it, but no.”

“Last month?”

“Even before that.”

You click your tongue. “Give me a clue. A hint.”

But you don’t need clues. Clues are for puzzles, for cases that demand solving. This has never been a mystery. He’s known it for longer than he cares to admit, and he wonders if you’re asking because you genuinely don’t see it or because you just want to hear him say it.

Either way, he’ll happily say the truth as plainly as it exists in his mind.

“From the moment you joined the team.” You pause for just a heartbeat, and he reaches out to brush away the stray of hair slipping down into your eyes. “You probably didn't notice, but I couldn't stop staring at you.”

“You’re lying,” you accuse softly.

“I’m a terrible liar.”

He watches as you mull over his words. He knows you’re trying to decide whether to believe him, though he doesn’t think it’s really a question of if. You already know he’s telling the truth.

Your voice is awfully quiet that he has to perk his ears for it.

“What took you so long then?”

Because while he’s a terrible liar, he’s always been painfully good at keeping his heart to himself. Years of compartmentalizing, of burying emotions under layers of logic and detachment, have made it almost second nature. And maybe that’s why it took him so long.

That, and bad timing.

Countless abductions.

A never-ending chase after unsubs.

Death of a team mate.

And prison.

God, prison.

He wonders if these are valid reasons or just excuses. Had there ever been a perfect moment? Or had he let his fears and the chaotic nature of his job push his personal happiness to the sidelines too often?

The words knot in his throat, and in the end, all he can muster is an apology.

“I’m sorry.”

For waiting so long.

For not saying this sooner.

For only finding the courage to make a move under the guise of flirtation and champagne.

He’s selfish. He is. Because he's reaching for you based on his time, his terms, waiting until he was ready to fit you neatly into his schedule. But you simply shake your head. Because that's what you are, isn't it?

You’re selfless, and so profoundly lovely that you offered yourself to him last night without reservation. And now you’re even more radiant, wrapped in the soft light of vulnerability, tinged with doubt, yet always so giving. Pulling him closer to your chest with a hand on his back. Fingers splay across his skin, nails dragging idly along his spine.

“Don’t be,” you reply, feeling his body expand and deflate under your palm when he breathes. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

See? Selfless. The least he can do now is give you back the words you need to hear, the assurance you deserve to hear. Your foreheads press together, and he reverently lays his hand on your cheek, spreading lean fingers into your hair.

“If you must know, I do like you.”

But the word feels so inadequate for what he’s finally trying to tell you. Like doesn't even scratch the surface of how much space you take up in his mind.

"I more than like you,” he decides to add.

It doesn’t take long before you kiss him. Soft petals bloom warmly against his mouth, puffing humid breath he tastes on his tongue. A blissful moan he swallows greedily, lets it settle deep in his chest, his bones, his veins, filling every corner of him with the sweetest weight of you.

A flutter of lashes skims against his cheekbone when you tilt your head, pulling back by the barest inch. “You’ve made a huge mistake, by the way.”

The pad of his fingers presses gently on your scalp. “Why?”

“You’re never getting rid of me now.”

His thumb moves against your hairline as he takes in your words. For a moment, all he can do is absorb them, replay them, savor them. Then his eyes soften, the corners crinkling with genuine delight, and he lets out a soft huff of laughter that melts right into the narrow space between you.

He scoots impossibly closer, hoping your skin will somehow mold with his. Because after all the surprisingly creative positions he discovered with you last night, it’s the only conclusion he can come to: you fit into him. Perfectly. Soft curves finding their place against the lines of his frame, every piece of you adhering like glue to his skin.

Chest to chest, nose to nose, and lips so maddeningly close to yours that he can still taste the warmth of your breath, sweet and intoxicating in its nearness. It’s enough to drive him a little insane, though he’d argue he’s always been slightly off-center where you’re concerned.

His fingers twitch, ready to close that infinitesimal gap when the sharp buzz of your phone suddenly slices through the moment.

Six minutes.

That’s all the time the universe has granted him, and it’s woefully too short.

"Might need to block her number," you mutter under your breath as you shift slightly to reach for your phone. He watches the way your fingers fly over the screen rapidly before placing the device back on the side table.

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth." Then you drop on him like a dead weight, limbs tangling in the most inconvenient ways until your head is tucked in the crook of his neck. "Also sent her an eggplant and water emoji.”

A crease forms between his brows. “What does that mean?”

You fail to keep in your laughter. “You don’t want to know.”

He’s fairly certain he does want to know. In fact, he’s starting to realize he wants to know everything about you now that you’ve given him the chance. Beyond the pull of bodies and the way they slot together so seamlessly, beyond the electricity of skin against skin.

Though he can’t deny his curiosity at one precise moment, the way you’d slightly gasped when his fingers accidentally brush around the base of your throat. He wouldn’t mind knowing what that meant for you, and, surprisingly, what that even implied for himself.

But as intriguing as that is, it’s not what lingers the most. It’s the subtleties he wants to unravel, the pieces of you he hadn’t even realized he’d been aching to explore.

Your wit, your thoughts, your mind—that lovely, intricate thing he’s admired for so long. Full of nuances and depths he hadn’t even realized he’d only been skimming the surface of. He’s sure there’s something far greater than even his endless mind could have imagined that ties to the beautiful shape of you.

And you’re so beautiful. He’s known that for years, but mere hours ago, he learned it in an entirely new language. Even when he understands seven different ways the world chooses to communicate and speaks four fluently, yours is his favorite.

Yours doesn’t need words or perfect pronunciation. It’s instinctive and warm, written in every sigh, every glance, every unspoken verse that linger in the subtle shift of your body. In every nuance of your taste.

God, your taste.

He knows you’re right, skin can’t be sweet. The dichotomy isn’t lost in him. Yet it doesn’t matter, because not even the crisp, effervescent bite of champagne compares to the warmth of you. Not even sugar, and he basically lives on sugar. In chocolate-sprinkled donuts that he grabs on the way to work, in the endless cups of coffee that fuel his day.

You’re something else entirely, beyond comprehension.

And if one night was enough to saccharine his senses with you, he can only imagine what forever could do.

[melinewton54]

Champagne Kisses

A night involving champagne gives you the perfect excuse to end up naked after weeks of harmless flirting. Spencer thinks one night isn’t enough.

category: smut, fluff word count: around 8k content: softdom!spencer, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v (but no creampie he’s testing his pull-out game), alcohol consumption, food play (more like drink play), and i wanna say spit kink but they’re using champagne instead so does that count? a/n: merry 2025 please tell me you remember me or else i might actually cry

You’re doing it again.

You’ve been clawing at his face for the past hour, stealing fleeting glances and looking away just as quickly, because every time you do, you find the same thing.

Brown eyes. Chocolate, marbled in hazel with tiny golden speckles. Pinning you in place. Dismantling you layer by layer. And somewhere in the quiet heat behind them, in the barely-there twitch of his jaw, you’re pretty sure he’s already mapping out the fastest way to get you out of your clothes.

It’s nerve-racking. Smart Spencer you can handle, awkward Spencer you can charm. But flirtatious Spencer? Flirtatious Spencer is dangerous.

Even more so when you’re squashed between Penelope and Luke at the overcrowded booth of O'Keefe's, who are mid-argument over something you can’t even muster the energy to care. Not when long legs stretch in front of you, and strips of neon lights slice across the table in a glow that crosses his form, curving around handsome features that make him look far too inviting.

Because that’s what your mind keeps drifting to. Taking him back to your place, where the only thing glowing would be the dim light of your bedroom.

Or maybe the pale light from the hallway.

Perhaps the soft flicker of the lamp in your living room.

Either way, your mind is already drawing images of him doing whatever it is he’s picturing in his own head. The location doesn’t matter.

“Don’t you agree?”

Your gaze fall over him once more before you force yourself to look away, catching Penelope staring at you expectantly. “Agree to what?”

“That margaritas are objectively the most fun drink and clearly better than boring beer.”

This is the argument they’ve been debating for the last five minutes?

Luke scoffs from your left. He doesn’t look angry though, his expression is more amused than irritated, lips formed in a cheeky smirk. “I can tolerate margaritas if we’re on a beach. But beers are solid all year round, pop a cap and you're good to go."

“You’re such a guy."

“I'm telling you, you don't need fancy ingredients or a blender. No little umbrellas."

“Literally proving my point. Beer has no personality.”

“Are you saying I have no personality?”

Bright pink-framed glasses shift as Penelope tips her head. “If the shoe fits.”

You’re at the point where you’re no longer surprised by their arguments. Loud and pointless, is how you'd describe them. You suspect Luke does it to get a reaction, and normally you’d add fuel to the fire, because Penelope is a pretty fire-cracker when her nostrils flare in absolute indignation. But your attention is elsewhere tonight.

Knees brushing yours under the table. A small smile curled at the corner of his lips. Deep set of eyes dragging over your face, your neck, the spot between your collarbone and shoulder where the pulse of your heartbeat seems to echo louder each second.

You slide with your back against the chair, thighs clamping shut. 

You feel him imprinted on you, heated gaze traveling beneath your skin. You wonder if he realizes what he’s doing, if he’s even aware of the effect all the time his eyes fall on you. Since the moment he walked in the room, since he took that seat directly across from you, and if you’re being completely honest, that glint in his eyes has been there probably for weeks now. The when of it all is a bit fuzzy.

Tonight feels adamantly different though, and you feel like you might just need a little extra something to quiet the nervous hum beneath your ribs.

But you’re not entirely sure whether it’s nerves or something far more indulgent that has your mind secretly leading you to a very unholy place. A place where you wonder if the rough, scruffy drag of his jaw feels the same below his navel.

You’re a hundred percent certain that it does.

“You know what’s a better drink?” your voice cracks, desperately needing that extra little something. “Champagne.”

Penelope’s head whips toward you. “Champagne? Here?”

You glance around the bar and raise a hand, trying to flag down the bartender.

The wood-paneled walls are covered with vintage beer advertisements, and the sticky floor is dotted with peanut shells from the complimentary bowls on every table. It’s the kind of place where the closest thing to champagne is probably prosecco poured into a plastic flute for a wedding after-party.

“What’s wrong with champagne? It’s a classic drink, great for celebration.” You order a bottle and four tall glasses before fixing her with a look. “It’s the New Year.”

She snorts. “We’re already halfway through January.”

“Penelope, we had to work on Christmas and New Year’s. We finally have this night to breathe, let me have this.”

There’s a beat of silence before she sighs dramatically. “Fine. But it still feels weird drinking champagne in a bar where the most sophisticated cocktail is a rum and coke.”

“Which is exactly why we’re elevating the night,” you reply, watching as the bartender sets the bottle down with (thank god) proper crystal flutes. You pour the first glass, the golden bubbles racing upward like tiny fireworks as you pass it to her.

Luke accepts the next glass without the same hesitation, but when you offer one to Spencer, the curly-haired man shakes his head.

“Right. I forgot you don’t really drink alcohol.”

The faintest smile tugs at his lips. “I don’t have anything against alcohol, just not in large amounts.” His gaze shifts to the bottle on the table. “I also happen not to like champagne.”

Penelope looks mildly offended. “Why not?”

“Because the carbonation overpowers the flavor. It’s hard to enjoy a drink when it’s constantly popping on your tongue.” You stifle a laugh before you can stop yourself. He looks at you. “What?”

“I think you’re overthinking it,” you reply with a grin. “Here, maybe this will change your mind.”

You pour him a glass and nudge it toward him. He simply looks from the glass to you.

“Come on,” you coax. “We’re celebrating the New Year.”

“Seventeen days late."

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes.

"Do not ruin the fun. We’re still celebrating, and you can’t toast with water. That’s practically begging for bad luck.”

He exhales sharply, lips twitching in what might be defeat or mild amusement, before reaching across the table. Everyone raises their glasses. The instant the bubbles hit his tongue, his nose scrunches in subtle distaste, and the sound of your laughter flies through the small space.

“It’s not that bad,” you insist.

“I still don’t understand the appeal.”

Champagne isn’t exactly your first choice either. You’ve always been more of a wine person. A good wine. A rich Burgundy that makes you close your eyes on the first sip to taste the faint of autumn in a glass. But champagne feels right for the occasion.

This taste blooms on your tongue, crisp and bright with hints of green apple and citrus and that faint yeasty richness at back of your throat. They dance across your palate, leaving a lingering sweetness through your veins that doesn’t soothe your nerves so much as ignite something beneath them, something warmer, deeper, curling into your bloodstream.

It makes you very bold.

Bold enough to hold his gaze without flinching. Bold enough to let your tongue flick across your lips. Bold enough to let your foot glide slowly up the length of his long, long leg.

You’ll have him taste his own medicine.

You, too, can play with fire.

“Maybe you’re drinking it wrong,” you hum, feeling him tense for the briefest, tiniest moment before he relaxes. “There’s another way to make champagne better.”

He grips the stem of his glass. “Something tells me you have a suggestion.”

“I do.”

He tilts his head. The din of conversation around you slowly fades into a muffled hum, the clinking of glasses and Penelope’s laughter barely registering as you notice the curve of his smile, the question lingering in his eyes.

Will you show me?

And that’s how you find yourself naked between his thighs two hours later.

It started innocently enough—or at least that’s the lie you fed yourself when you watched Penelope and Luke stumble their way to the dance floor, giggling as they poured yet another round of sparkling wine. But the champagne didn’t keep your attention for long. A few more stolen glances later, you found your hand wrapping around his arm, the other clutching a half-full bottle of champagne like some reckless lifeline.

It is reckless. Even you can’t deny that. You’ve always been cautious when it comes to bringing a man home. But this isn’t just anyone. This is Spencer. Someone who already knows too many pieces of you, someone who doesn’t need to be deciphered or explained.

And maybe that’s why you couldn’t stop yourself from dragging him out of the bar.

The ride in the stuffy cab felt like an eternity and a blink at the same time that the moment your apartment door clicked shut behind you, his mouth was already on yours. You barely had time to process how surprisingly good he tasted before your clothes started to disappear.

It’s a dizzying rush of hands and heat, and you’re now standing over him, knees brushing his as he sinks into your couch.

Yes, your couch. The soft, slate-blue one you’ve spent countless evenings curled up on, legs tucked under a blanket, flipping through books or half-watching shows you never finish. But now it cradles a completely different weight—the heavy heat of him radiating with tension-laced curiosity and a barely contained lust that seems to bleed right into the fabric.

“I can’t believe I’m kissing you,” he mutters dazedly, trailing his lips along your jaw with a hand resting on your naked back.

“I can’t believe you can unhook my bra that fast.”

He catches the sheer black fabric now hanging haphazardly over your lamp where he’d tossed it aside moments ago. “It wasn’t that hard.”

“Should I be concerned about how much practice you’ve had?”

“Not really. I’m a fast learner.”

That, you believe. But you’re not entirely sure if it’s his innate skill or the way your body seems to respond to him so effortlessly that leaves your lungs feeling like they’ve forgotten how to work. Breathing is no longer instinctive now. It’s a function you have to remind yourself to do as his tongue dances along the curve of your breast, and by the time he takes the achingly hard tip into his mouth, your chest tightens.

You suck in a desperate need of oxygen while he sucks the last thread of composure from you.

“Sweet.”

“Huh?”

“You—” He pulls back just enough to let his teeth graze the delicate skin before soothing it with a slow drag of his tongue, “taste sweet.”

Your hand slides to the back of his neck with a sigh. “You’re exaggerating.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bodies don’t taste like anything, it’s skin.”

Spencer shakes his head as he cups the weight of your other breast with the same care you’ve come to expect from him. Taut nipple rolls under his thumb. “How do you explain this then?”

You don’t respond. Not with words, anyway. Your body speaks first as you arch into his touch, chasing the warmth of his hands before you can form any thoughts.

“How do you explain,” he continues, his lips trailing down the slope of your stomach, “why I can’t get enough of how sweet you taste?”

Your mind finally catches up, and the words settle over you like honey itself.

“You think so?”

“It’s not a thought, it’s a fact.” He presses a kiss to the soft skin just below your navel. “I don’t know how you can taste better than this.”

Your laugh is breathless, barely steady enough to be called one. “You’re laying it on thick now.”

“I’m just being honest.”

It’s cute how he says it with such conviction, like it’s the simplest truth in the world and not a line that’s turning your legs to liquid. Your knees threaten to buckle as you step away, reaching for the half-empty champagne bottle perched on the coffee table. The glass feels cool against your overheated skin as you twist the cork free.

“What are you doing?”

“Considering your words.” You hold up the bottle, the champagne fizzing invitingly at its neck. “What do you say we make this even sweeter?”

His eyes light up with interest. “Is this where you show me the right way to drink champagne?”

You nod and sink back between his thighs. “I know you’re not big on sharing food, but I think you’re gonna like this.”

“You do realize I’ll share anything with you.”

Your lips curl into a soft smile. You’ve already learned that kissing Spencer feels deliciously messy. It’s sloppy in the way passion tends to be when control is the last thing on either of your minds, with tongues and teeth colliding in an unpolished rhythm that’s as raw as it is consuming. Adding champagne to the equation doesn’t feel like much of a stretch.

You step forward at the same time his hands fall to your hips. “There’s a trick to drinking champagne.”

“I’m listening.”

The bottle’s rim grazes your lips as you take in his appearance. His shirt is wrinkled, hanging just a little more loosely around his chest with two buttons undone. He’s the very definition of disheveled that’s entirely your doing. He looks absolutely irresistible.

“You need to linger on the taste,” you start, your voice dipping into something softer as your eyes meet his again. “Be patient. Let it sit and overwhelm your senses before you swallow.”

“You mean marinate it in my mouth?”

A giggle burst out of you. “Exactly. The longer you let it linger, the more it softens, and the sweeter it gets.”

You tilt the bottle to your lips. The sweetness starts to bloom on your tongue, subtle at first, but then richer, fuller against the roof of your mouth. There's a flicker of recognition in his eyes when you pull him closer by the nape of his neck, the exact moment he realizes what you’re about to do.

Your lips meld seamlessly with his as the Champagne slips from your mouth.

His lashes flutter briefly. There’s a soft flush spreading across his pale cheeks, and you feel the faint hum of pleasure, vibrating against the delicate curve of his skin as a liquid thread drips down your chin.

And then you’re kissing him. Or he’s kissing you. It’s hard to tell who moved first, but it doesn’t matter. His lips part further, and you swear you can taste every nuance of the champagne in a way you've never experienced before. Sharp citrus, a whisper of honeyed sweetness, and beneath it all, something clean and cool that reminds you of first snowfalls.

His lips are swollen and wet and perfectly shiny when you finally pull back.

“What do you think?”

“I think we should drink champagne every day.”

Your hand drifts to the side of his neck with a smile, thumb brushing lightly against his pulse. “Even when we’re working?”

“Especially when we’re working,” he counters, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, tasting what’s left of you. His gaze flickers to the bottle in your hand. “Can I try it?”

You pass it to him, your eyes fixed on the way he tilts it to his mouth. You’re sure the bubbles in your system aren’t the reason your pulse races as he sets the bottle aside and rises to his feet. You’re also sure that no amount of champagne is responsible for the way your lips part eagerly when his hands cradle your cheeks.

There it is again—that sweetness. It hits you the moment his mouth captures yours, but it fully overwhelms you when he tilts his head and gently coaxes the champagne from his lips to yours.

You’re not surprised at how quickly he picks this up. It’s common knowledge that he’s a very diligent person, but it’s still a bit astonishing how he’s taken to playing with a drink he supposedly doesn’t even like. This is nothing like solving cases or flexing his impossibly sharp brain, nor the crosswords you’re used to seeing him hunched over at his desk at lunch.

This requires a different kind of finesse that involves his lips and tongue rather than a pen and paper.

It also seems like he might be enjoying this even more. He leans back just enough to let his tongue sweep across the seam of your lips, collecting the last trace of sweetness clinging to you.

A thumb swipes over the wet trail under chin. “I could get used to this.”

“Champagne or me?”

“Both.”

Satisfied with his answer, your fingers trail down to undo the last few buttons of his shirt. “Do you wanna try something else?”

He quirks an eyebrow as you push down the fabric down his shoulders. You don’t say anything all the while you start to unbuckle his belt, peeling every layer of his clothing until you’ve stripped him completely bare—and would you look at that? The faint trail of hair down his belly matches the scruff shadowing his jaw.

There’s a brief pause as your eyes travel down his body, lingering on his surprisingly impressive size, and a comment sits at the edge of your tongue. You decide to let your actions speak for you.

Your delicate fingers wrap around his delicious thickness. You swipe the first signs of precum glistening over his tip with your thumb, and a low sound of pleasure rumbles in his chest.

“Is this what you had in mind?”

He sounds like he’s in pain, and you shake your head with a playful smile curling at your lips. “Sit back on the couch.”

Spencer sinks into the cushion.

“This might get a little messy.”

His brow furrows slightly, and for a moment, he looks genuinely intrigued. What he doesn’t expect is the way you slowly pour the remaining liquid down your chest. His mouth parts in surprise, and then his gaze follows every single drop like it’s gravity itself pulling him in.

You’re mesmerizing. Always have been, actually. There is no doubt in Spencer’s mind that you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever met in his life. Your mind is brilliant. Your heart is kind. But watching the champagne mix with the sheen of sweat on your skin, you’re something else entirely. You look lethal. A different kind of captivating.

He’s already pulling you by the waist, and you’re a mass of giggles as you twist out of his grip to set the bottle safely aside. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Can you blame me?”

Honestly, you can’t. If the roles were reversed, you’d probably look at him the same way.

When his hands finally find your hips again, there’s no point in pretending you don’t want to be caught. You bend your knees and shift on the couch. He helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap.

Desperate is a good enough word to depict for him because as soon as you're close enough, he’s tasting you all over again. His tongue drags slow over the curve of your shoulder, across the hollow of your throat, and down to the soft swell of your breasts. Goosebumps ripple across your skin with every pass, every flick of his tongue, his touch leaving a trail of heat that you swear you can feel seeping into your bones.

You don’t even realize when you start to move until you feel the slow, unintentional rock of your hips into him. His cock fits snugly between your folds that you start grinding as the words fall from your lips without much thought, “What do you think of sex without a condom?”

His pupils dilated, lips parting, but no sound comes out right away.

"Spence?"

His gaze flickers to where your wet bodies are pressed together. Damp moisture from his tip smeared erotically between puffy lips, clear liquid coating his hard length.

“I think… it’s very intimate."

“Too intimate?”

"No." His fingers trail along your skin before his thumb settles just under your breast, in the delicate curve where your rib meets, and finally looks at you. "Is that what you want?"

You're bobbing your head up and down.

“Then I'd really, really like that.”

You shift your weight on your knees. “So you trust me?"

"More than anyone."

“I trust you too,” you say, your voice dipping low as your fingers wrap around his cock, guiding him to your entrance. “Can I request something, though?"

"Anything."

You pause just long enough for your words to land. “I don’t want you to come inside me.”

He exhales a soft laugh. “That can be arranged.”

His answer makes your lips twitch, but as you start to sink down, your body seems to have other ideas. There’s a resistance you didn’t expect, a sudden tautness that refuses to give.

Your eyes widen in surprise.

Oh my.

“What’s wrong?”

When you first wrapped your hand around him and took in the full reality of his size, you’d been impressed. Now you wonder if maybe you underestimated just how much he has to offer.

You bite the insides of your cheeks and try again.

“It’s been a while,” you confess quietly. You can’t even recall the last time you were this intimate with someone that the hesitation feels foreign, like a hiccup in a moment you’ve been eagerly anticipating.

And you are eager. Maybe a little too much. It feels almost ironic, considering how much you’ve thought about this, how your imagination has filled in the blanks a hundred times over. Now that it’s real, your body seems to be having second thoughts your mind absolutely isn’t entertaining.

You shift your hips, determination flaring as you take a slow breath. Left, right, up, down. But then a sharp sting shoots through you. Your face quickly twists into a grimace.

"Hey,” he calls gently, thumbs brushing gentle circles against your hip. “We can stop. You don’t have to push yourself.”

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? You want him to push past whatever invisible barrier your body is putting up. The idea of stopping now feels more unbearable than the sting itself.

Your lips press into a stubborn frown. “No,” you say firmly. “We are not stopping.”

"Are you sure?"

"Mhm. I think my body's just being weird. I'm sorry."

His brows knits together almost immediately. “I should be the one apologizing.”

Frustration suddenly wells up in your chest, and this time your teeth sinks into your lip, unsure whether it’s the tension in the muscles between your legs or the ache of wanting him that feels stronger.

And you want him. So fucking bad.

“You need to relax,” he soothes, running his hands up your waist, past your ribs, across your back.

“I am relaxed,” you huff.

“I don’t think you’re relaxed enough.”

Before you can respond, he carefully lifts you from his lap and settles you back onto the couch. The cushions dips under your weight, and you barely have time to process the change before he gracefully drops to the floor.

“Should we move to your bed?”

He grips one of your ankles, his thumb brushing along the soft curve of your bone before he leans down, pressing warm lips to the skin above it.

“After this,” you reply, glancing at the sticky champagne trail still glistening faintly on your skin. “Don’t want my sheets getting sticky.”

There’s a flicker of amusement on his handsome face. “After this?”

“Did you think we’d be stopping after one round?”

His laughter vibrates against your calf. “How many times are we talking then?”

“Until I can’t feel my legs.”

The smile he gives you is slow and warm. It curves one corner of his mouth first, almost shy, before spreading fully, lighting up his face in a way that steals the breath right from your lungs.

“You’d let me have my way with you all night?”

“I’d probably let you have me anytime you want.”

His grin is almost blinding that you can’t help but give him a pleased smile of your own.

“Let’s focus on tonight first.” He moves to your other the leg. Delicate bone and tendon brushes against his lips. “I need to get you ready for me. Would you let me do that?"

Words fail you as his mouth moves closer, and the heat of his breath against your skin makes your entire body tense in anticipation. He presses another open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

"You're still tense."

Kiss. Kiss.

“Really need you to relax.”

You try, but then again, it's impossible when his lips are so close, yet still not where you need them the most.

His name slips in a desperate whisper.

"Hm?"

"Stop teasing."

His lips quirk in response, but he doesn't argue.

He dips his head and finally— finally! —drags his tongue along your achingly wet folds. Your eyes almost roll to the back of your head.

"Better?"

The question is entirely rhetorical.

You don’t bother answering. Words seem sparse when his actions are spelling out everything you need to know in bold, underlined strokes. His touch is distinctly different from the playful, champagne-dampened kisses he had gifted your skin.

Now he’s utterly focused. He’s researching, and it appears his diligence isn’t confined to his academic when the same focus he applies to his studies is translated so flawlessly into reading your body like a favorite book. One he’s intent on memorizing every line of, delighting in every pause and whisper between the chapters of your sighs.

It’s this thought that tickles the back of your mind when he slips a finger in. He’s always been about comprehensive understanding, and well, you’re all about empirical evidence. Right now is proof of a hypothesis you’re too pleased to confirm that Spencer Reid might just be a genius in more ways than one.

Especially in how his steady thrust of his finger syncs perfectly with the hot, wet pull of his mouth, scratching such a carnal itch that it resonates deep in your brain. You sigh in pleasure when he adds another finger, and he lifts his head then, lips shiny and pink from his ministration.

"Do you think you can take a third?"

Your heart gives a few extra thuds in your chest cavity. “Please, please.”

Look at you, reducing yourself into begging, but really, how could you resist? Who could withstand the intensity of his gaze, the way his voice dips low like velvet wrapping around your senses?

Your head tips back against the couch, a soft whimper lashing out as he adds that third finger. The stretch is almost overwhelming but oh so good.

"Does it hurt?"

You let out a loud exhale. "No."

"Tell me if it hurts."

"Feels good." Your legs fall apart even further. "Don't stop."

He smiles, and then he's doing things to your body that have you questioning how you're even still breathing. The wet, sticky slosh of your arousal fills the room, a sound so explicit it should mortify you. But then three knuckles press deeper, stroking against that rougher patch of nerves and all rational thought dissolves.

A sound you didn't even know you could make escapes your throat. You're gasping, moaning, a little bit squealing as his free hand slides up your plush thigh before finding your puffy clit. And dear god, you’re choking on the breath that lodges in your throat. You're so close it's almost unbearable. A hand shoots out, and you’re gripping his forearm with a desperation you can't even pretend to hide.

You need him inside you.

“I'm ready," you gasp harshly, your lips parting in quick, desperate puffs. "I'm ready. I’m ready.”

He has the audacity to shake his head.

"I'll decide when you're ready."

Your breath stutters even more.

Why does that sound so hot? Why does that simple, infuriatingly calm statement make your thighs clench, your pulse race, and a fresh wave of heat roll through your body?

Before you know it, he’s coaxing your orgasm from you with just the right pressure, and every movement feels like it’s designed to bring you right to the edge. You’re not surprised by how wet you are, you’ve been dripping for what feels like hours. But what does surprise you is just how much your body can take. The intensity that doesn’t wane, that keeps pushing you higher, drawing out gasp after gasp until hot syrup gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his fingers, down to the couch.

It’s endless, relentless, and you can’t even tell where one orgasm ends and the next begins. Your hand claw at his wrist.

“Spencer,” you whine, your voice breaking on the syllables. “Sensitive.”

He stops immediately, his fingers still inside you, his other hand slipping from your clit to rest on your thigh. “Too much?”

“A little,” you smile breathlessly. “C’mere.”

He crawls towards you as you lay on your back, relaxing your thighs.

His eyes trail over you, scanning your sweat-slicked skin, lingering on your perky breasts, moving down to where your legs are fallen apart, waiting for him. The sight is so overwhelmingly enticing that he finds himself wrapping a hand around his cock, muttering a low praise under his breath, “I don’t think I’ve told you how beautiful you are.”

Your eyes flick downward, and a spark of confidence—or maybe pure desperation—pushes your reply out without hesitation.

“Tell me again while you fuck me.”

You’re so blunt and shameless that a part of you might have blushed if you weren’t so far gone. Spencer doesn’t seem fazed, though. If anything, his eyes flash with a knowing sparkle that only deepens as he presses his bulbous head right at the shy of your entrance.

“I think I’m going to enjoy telling you,” he muses.

And Spencer is one to keep his promises.

He thinks you’re devastatingly pretty when he’s sinking into you. There’s a dazed look in your glossy eyes, and the sweetest sound coming from your lips as he stretches you in a way that leaves no part of you untouched.

He sings praises under his breath when the heavy weight of him finally settles deep inside your body. He patiently waits as your walls flutter around him, all the while his lips brushes the delicate curve of your collarbone, between low, broken whispers of how perfect you are.

Although perfection might not even capture the essence of what he sees in you at this moment. You’re a breathtaking array of contradictions. Powerful and vulnerable, fierce yet tender. You’re nothing short of divine as he gives another smooth, long thrust that pulls a sound from your lips that he knows will echo in his mind long after.

The heat of you surrounds him completely, and he swears he feels every pulse of your body welcoming him deeper. You’re slathering his entire cock with your slippery slick, and the dampness imprinting against his pelvis only seems to spur him on. He moves in steady, languid strokes, and your toes curl at the sensation burning in your belly.

He’s hitting you so good your ankles find themselves running down his back.

“Spence,” your voice is raspy and wet. “Fuck me harder.”

His quiet groan harmonizes with the rhythm of your heart. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t—”

You stop, and he looks through the mist of bliss you've shrouded him in. Your face twists, eyes going wide, lips parted to take in sharp breaths. He panics for a moment.

“You’re in pain,” he decides, reading the way your brows knit together, the way your breath stutters in your chest. It seems the most logical conclusion—until he realizes how wrong he is.

Because you’re writhing under his weight when he pushes in deeper, and your mouth trembles, not with discomfort, but with something devastatingly good.

“Oh,” he exhales. His smile is uncharacteristically smug. “It’s not pain, is it?”

You shake your head.

“You want it rough.”

It’s more of a statement than it is a question, but you’re nodding vigorously.

His restraint snaps like a frayed thread.

The next thrust is sharper, it pounds into you with enough force to shift your body slightly back against the cushions. Your lips mouth around another shaky breath he drinks dry with a wet kiss.

Still. Not. Enough.

“Harder,” you slur against his tongue.

What’s a hot-blooded man to do when asked so sweetly? He answers in the only way he can.

A hand curls around the back of your knee to pull you open just enough for him to drive deeper. The angle makes you feel impossibly full, how the folds of your vulva hugs around his shaft greedily, letting him claim all the space you didn’t even know existed. You can even feel the wet drag of his cock against your swollen clit with each hard thrust, a sensation so piercing it rips a gasp from your throat and a plethora of groans wailing from the couch.

“Like this?”

The relentless thwack-thwack-thwack of skins colliding is making you delirious.

“Yes,” you cry out. “Fuck—Yes. Yes.”

Your vision blurs as you blink, and—god, you think you might actually cry. And honestly, with how full you feel, with how every nerve is sparking to life under his loud rhythm, it wouldn’t even surprise you.

Your lashes feel wet as you squeeze your eyes shut, but you force them back open, unwilling to miss the way he looks above you. Jaw tight, sweat beading at his temples, eyes locked on you like nothing else exists.

Nothing probably does, not when he moves with a rhythm that feels both gentle and crude, like he’s savoring every second so sweetly while simultaneously chasing the most carnal kind of pleasure known to mankind.

Pleasure that has you melting, pleasure that has your body fully acclimating to his size. And now you’re teetering on the edge of another intense orgasm that begins its ascent from the tips of your toes and fingertips, spiraling a tingling rush up through your legs and arms, gathering force at the pit of your stomach, and exploding into the point where you’re intimately connected.

It happens all at once.

You’re trembling.

You’re shattering.

You’re pathetically whining.

Euphoria floods every inch of your body until you’re drowning in it. A liquid fire in your veins. Your cunt clenches around him, so tight you swear you feel every ridge and vein of his cock as keeps pressing you into the couch. Again and again and again, until you’re nothing but an incoherent mess, your words blabbered in a breathless rush of pleasure-induced nonsense.

One heartbeat stretches into two, then the muscles in his arms flexes as his pace falters. He’s shaking now, his pelvis moving in hurried, shallow thrusts as though he’s chasing something he can’t quite reach before the heat of him presses into you one last time.

He abruptly pulls out, his cock visibly pulsing in his hand and strokes himself with a stuttering groan as thick, pearly ropes splutters across your stomach. His fingers dig deeper into the back of your thigh while he continues to paint your skin in messy streaks, and you watch in fascination the moment his head tilts back in pure, unfiltered pleasure.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him quite this beautiful.

His brows pinches in concentration for a few more seconds before his gaze slowly meets yours again, and a faint, blissful pink colors his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly, looking a little out of breath. Devastatingly handsome and sweaty. Flustered in the best way.

You brush the damp hair sticking to his skin with a small, satisfied smile. “Are you kidding? That was extremely hot.”

His laughter fills every corner in the room. Then his hand drift down a comforting path down your thigh as he leans to capture the giggle tumbling from your lips with his own. It’s then you realize that kissing Spencer isn’t just enjoyable, it’s downright addictive.

You’re beginning to think he’s just as addicted to you too, because when he pulls away, it’s reluctant, his lips leaving yours with a faint, wet sound that lingers as sweetly as the kiss itself.

“Will you really let me have my way with you all night?” he asks gently, and you can’t help but wonder why he even feels the need to ask.

“Was I not obvious enough?”

You feel his smile before you see it. “Bedroom now?”

To tangle your naked limbs with his again sounds pretty close to heaven. Absolute, indulgent heaven, except for the distinct stickiness of champagne, sweat, and a cocktail of other body fluids clinging to your skin. The thought of sinking into cool clean sheets in this state makes your nose scrunch.

“We need to make a stop to the bathroom first,” you say, running a hand up his arm to squeeze his bicep. “Have you ever tried shower sex?”

“Can’t say that I have,” he admits truthfully.

You make a sound of disapproval.

“We definitely need to change that.”

-

Spencer realizes a lot of things can change in one night.

He also discovers how much he’s capable of learning in such a short period of time. Granted, he’s always been a quick study, but this is different. The hours between midnight and sunrise completely upend his understanding of things he’d only ever read about—sex, intimacy, the intricacies of how touch can feel as much like a language as words.

But beyond the newfound knowledge (and let’s face it, an entirely new appreciation for his muscles), there’s something else. Something that surprises him even more.

He likes waking up with another warm body beside him. More than likes it. There’s a strange kind of peace in the way your leg drapes over his, your hair a tousled mess against the pillow. Peace that makes him wonder if this, too, is something he could get used to.

Even if you’re hogging the blanket. He can feel the cool air on his back while you’re wrapped in most of the covers, leaving him to soak up whatever body heat he can steal by staying pressed against you. Not that he’s complaining. He’d happily stay like this for hours, but the sun is already creeping higher through your window, and your phone has been vibrating nonstop ever since he opened his eyes.

The sheets rustle as he shifts closer, mouth puffing warmly on your cheek with a breath of your name folding into your skin. You blink through heavy eyelids, and Spencer thinks you look adorable all wrapped up like a cocoon in the tangled linens.

“Hey," you croak, then clear your throat. “Morning.”

The soft rasp of your voice is even as endearing as the sight of you.

“I think we’ve already passed morning,” he says, slipping a hand under the covers, finding the goosebumps prickling on your upper arm.

“We slept in?”

“My guess is it’s almost noon.” There’s another buzz vibrating from the bedside table that stops him from pressing you against his chest. “Someone keeps calling you.”

He wonders if you can sense the slight annoyance in his voice. He wonders if he even has the right to be annoyed. It's Saturday. You clearly have plans—or at least someone thinks you do based on how persistent they've been.

If you catch the flicker of irritation in his voice, you don’t acknowledge it. You stretch lazily for your phone instead, and his attention is momentarily snagged by the way the sheet slips down your shoulder, revealing the constellation of freckles and moles he’s spent the entire night memorizing with his lips.

"Nobody’s calling.” Your thumb scrolls through the notifications. "Penelope just doesn't understand the concept of personal space when she texts."

Spencer feels the tightness in his shoulders ease, though he doesn't miss the way your eyes narrow into sleepy slits at the screen.

"Oh."

That one syllable is enough to set his mind buzzing.

"What?"

"Um."

It’s the subtle crack in your voice that hooks him. He’s never been good at sitting with unanswered questions, especially not when your expression shifts just enough to make him wonder what could possibly warrant that little noise.

He finally curls an arm around your waist, and the faint trace of your scent fills his lungs as he gently draws you back against his chest. A relentless stream of messages glares up at him over your shoulder.

Penelope [Sent 23:37]: Where are you?? Penelope [Sent 23:45]: Is reid with you? Penelope [Sent 00:05]: Did you leave? WITH HIM?? Penelope [Sent 00:17]: You did, didn't you? Penelope [Sent 00:33]: You can’t just vanish like this, you know I have questions!!!

Spencer barely registers the way his hand drifts down to rest against your stomach. He pulls you in unconsciously as his eyes scan over the flood of texts that started piling up this morning.

Penelope [Sent 09:19]: Good morning. Penelope [Sent 09:25]: Answer me. Penelope [Sent 10:24]: Seriously, are you alive? Penelope [Sent 10:39]: YOU OWE ME DETAILS. Penelope [Sent 10:48]: Last chance. Calling you in ten.

"I think she's onto us."

It’s not so much a matter of thought as it is a fact. Your words are less a theory and more a confirmation of reality, as undeniable as the relentless stream of texts lighting up your phone.

"What should I tell her?"

Spencer leans in closer. The soft scent of your shampoo drifts up, clean and faintly sweet, wrapping itself around him in a way that makes his chest ache, though he’s not sure why. He’s inhaling everything—your warmth, the curve of your shoulder brushing his chest, the way your voice carries an edge of hesitation that feels so out of place for someone like you.

And that’s what truly catches him off guard. Not the fact that Penelope is practically banging on a metaphorical door with her texts, but that you’re hesitating. You, who rarely second-guess yourself, now unsure about sharing the details of last night with one of closest people in your life.

Or maybe the surprise lies closer to home. How easily the words form in his own mind, bypassing the overthinking that usually rules him.

He has ten minutes to think before Penelope supposedly calls, but he doesn’t need ten minutes, or even ten seconds, because the answer is already there, so obvious it practically tumbles out of him.

"The truth," he hums against the crown of your hair. "You should tell her the truth."

You’re quiet for a while.

“Are you sure?"

For someone who invited him into your home, who let him press you into the couch cushions, spread you out on the cool tiles of the bathroom, and pull every sound he wanted from you on the soft give of your mattress—on your back, your front, even sideways—you seem awfully uncertain now. Very out of character.

So what’s changed this morning? Is it the stale morning breath he’s sure he hasn’t fixed yet? The mess of his curls sticking up in every direction from a night spent pressed into your pillows?

Or is it something much deeper that he hasn’t quite put his finger on?

The thought clings to him as his thumb brushes your stomach. "I’m sure," he says. "Are you?"

You hesitate for a beat too long, and that tiny pause lands heavy on his chest.

"This is going to change everything," you finally say, sounding somewhat like a warning.

He frowns. "Didn’t you want it to?"

"I did. I do." You pull in a breath that shakes on the way out. "Maybe we should discuss this before we say anything to anyone."

Your phone slips quietly onto the bed as you twist in his arms. Face to face.

"Do you like me?"

What kind of question is that?

"Did I seem not to like you last night?"

"No, Spencer, I need to hear it. Do you like me?"

He studies the delicate fold between your brows. He watches the quiver on your parted lips. And your eyes—watery and glossy and wide. Soft lashes framing the quiet expanse of irises that shimmer like glass.

He knows what you need. Spencer has spent most of his entire life reading people, pulling truths out of their silences and decoding what they can’t (or won’t) say. And even though he hates applying that skill to you, he knows this isn’t just about reassurance. You’re not only questioning what happened between you last night. You’re questioning what comes next.

The time glares from your phone over your shoulder: six minutes. That’s all he has to convince you that his feelings go far beyond fleeting lust or the heady haze of alcohol. Six minutes before Penelope inevitably interrupts.

But he’s not the greatest with words, is he?

Sure, he’s read more books than most people will touch in a lifetime. He can recite Edgar Allan Poe by heart and dissect layers of meaning in Dostoevsky’s prose like it’s second nature. But his own feelings don’t come wrapped in poetic declarations. That’s not who he is.

What he can do, though, is tell you the truth.

“You know how you told me I could have you anytime I want?”

A strand of hair brushes against your cheek as you nod.

“You’ve already had me from the very beginning.”

Your gaze softens, then you sigh sweetly, and he knows without a doubt that the truth is exactly what you need. “Before all the sex?”

“Before we even kissed.”

The distance between you slowly becomes nonexistent. You slot your knee between his thighs, a lick of smile curling at the corner of your lips.

“So… when I ran my foot up your leg?”

His lopsided smile is no different from yours. “No.”

“Last week when I wore your cardigan because the AC got too cold?”

“You looked really pretty in it, but no.”

“Last month?”

“Even before that.”

You click your tongue. “Give me a clue. A hint.”

But you don’t need clues. Clues are for puzzles, for cases that demand solving. This has never been a mystery. He’s known it for longer than he cares to admit, and he wonders if you’re asking because you genuinely don’t see it or because you just want to hear him say it.

Either way, he’ll happily say the truth as plainly as it exists in his mind.

“From the moment you joined the team.” You pause for just a heartbeat, and he reaches out to brush away the stray of hair slipping down into your eyes. “You probably didn't notice, but I couldn't stop staring at you.”

“You’re lying,” you accuse softly.

“I’m a terrible liar.”

He watches as you mull over his words. He knows you’re trying to decide whether to believe him, though he doesn’t think it’s really a question of if. You already know he’s telling the truth.

Your voice is awfully quiet that he has to perk his ears for it.

“What took you so long then?”

Because while he’s a terrible liar, he’s always been painfully good at keeping his heart to himself. Years of compartmentalizing, of burying emotions under layers of logic and detachment, have made it almost second nature. And maybe that’s why it took him so long.

That, and bad timing.

Countless abductions.

A never-ending chase after unsubs.

Death of a team mate.

And prison.

God, prison.

He wonders if these are valid reasons or just excuses. Had there ever been a perfect moment? Or had he let his fears and the chaotic nature of his job push his personal happiness to the sidelines too often?

The words knot in his throat, and in the end, all he can muster is an apology.

“I’m sorry.”

For waiting so long.

For not saying this sooner.

For only finding the courage to make a move under the guise of flirtation and champagne.

He’s selfish. He is. Because he's reaching for you based on his time, his terms, waiting until he was ready to fit you neatly into his schedule. But you simply shake your head. Because that's what you are, isn't it?

You’re selfless, and so profoundly lovely that you offered yourself to him last night without reservation. And now you’re even more radiant, wrapped in the soft light of vulnerability, tinged with doubt, yet always so giving. Pulling him closer to your chest with a hand on his back. Fingers splay across his skin, nails dragging idly along his spine.

“Don’t be,” you reply, feeling his body expand and deflate under your palm when he breathes. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

See? Selfless. The least he can do now is give you back the words you need to hear, the assurance you deserve to hear. Your foreheads press together, and he reverently lays his hand on your cheek, spreading lean fingers into your hair.

“If you must know, I do like you.”

But the word feels so inadequate for what he’s finally trying to tell you. Like doesn't even scratch the surface of how much space you take up in his mind.

"I more than like you,” he decides to add.

It doesn’t take long before you kiss him. Soft petals bloom warmly against his mouth, puffing humid breath he tastes on his tongue. A blissful moan he swallows greedily, lets it settle deep in his chest, his bones, his veins, filling every corner of him with the sweetest weight of you.

A flutter of lashes skims against his cheekbone when you tilt your head, pulling back by the barest inch. “You’ve made a huge mistake, by the way.”

The pad of his fingers presses gently on your scalp. “Why?”

“You’re never getting rid of me now.”

His thumb moves against your hairline as he takes in your words. For a moment, all he can do is absorb them, replay them, savor them. Then his eyes soften, the corners crinkling with genuine delight, and he lets out a soft huff of laughter that melts right into the narrow space between you.

He scoots impossibly closer, hoping your skin will somehow mold with his. Because after all the surprisingly creative positions he discovered with you last night, it’s the only conclusion he can come to: you fit into him. Perfectly. Soft curves finding their place against the lines of his frame, every piece of you adhering like glue to his skin.

Chest to chest, nose to nose, and lips so maddeningly close to yours that he can still taste the warmth of your breath, sweet and intoxicating in its nearness. It’s enough to drive him a little insane, though he’d argue he’s always been slightly off-center where you’re concerned.

His fingers twitch, ready to close that infinitesimal gap when the sharp buzz of your phone suddenly slices through the moment.

Six minutes.

That’s all the time the universe has granted him, and it’s woefully too short.

"Might need to block her number," you mutter under your breath as you shift slightly to reach for your phone. He watches the way your fingers fly over the screen rapidly before placing the device back on the side table.

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth." Then you drop on him like a dead weight, limbs tangling in the most inconvenient ways until your head is tucked in the crook of his neck. "Also sent her an eggplant and water emoji.”

A crease forms between his brows. “What does that mean?”

You fail to keep in your laughter. “You don’t want to know.”

He’s fairly certain he does want to know. In fact, he’s starting to realize he wants to know everything about you now that you’ve given him the chance. Beyond the pull of bodies and the way they slot together so seamlessly, beyond the electricity of skin against skin.

Though he can’t deny his curiosity at one precise moment, the way you’d slightly gasped when his fingers accidentally brush around the base of your throat. He wouldn’t mind knowing what that meant for you, and, surprisingly, what that even implied for himself.

But as intriguing as that is, it’s not what lingers the most. It’s the subtleties he wants to unravel, the pieces of you he hadn’t even realized he’d been aching to explore.

Your wit, your thoughts, your mind—that lovely, intricate thing he’s admired for so long. Full of nuances and depths he hadn’t even realized he’d only been skimming the surface of. He’s sure there’s something far greater than even his endless mind could have imagined that ties to the beautiful shape of you.

And you’re so beautiful. He’s known that for years, but mere hours ago, he learned it in an entirely new language. Even when he understands seven different ways the world chooses to communicate and speaks four fluently, yours is his favorite.

Yours doesn’t need words or perfect pronunciation. It’s instinctive and warm, written in every sigh, every glance, every unspoken verse that linger in the subtle shift of your body. In every nuance of your taste.

God, your taste.

He knows you’re right, skin can’t be sweet. The dichotomy isn’t lost in him. Yet it doesn’t matter, because not even the crisp, effervescent bite of champagne compares to the warmth of you. Not even sugar, and he basically lives on sugar. In chocolate-sprinkled donuts that he grabs on the way to work, in the endless cups of coffee that fuel his day.

You’re something else entirely, beyond comprehension.

And if one night was enough to saccharine his senses with you, he can only imagine what forever could do.

[melinewton54]

introducing the song joong ki cinematic universe

[melinewton54]

[melinewton54]

I was an idiot for believing her.

[melinewton54]

You're telling me this fucking man just turned fucking 39?!?!?!

Happy Birthday to our corn salad🎂🎉🥰

[melinewton54]

Category: Kdramas filmed in foreign countries

Crash Landing on You | Goblin | Queen of Tears | Descendants of the Sun | Legend of the Blue Sea | Little Women | Vagabond | The Package | Are You Human Too? | King the Land

[melinewton54]

GIANNA'S KINKTOBER '24 SEASON

Folks! Welcome to my Kinktober 2024, my first ever fic event! I will be posting 3 (probably short) fics every week during the month of october.

You can find my prompt list here. Please vote for your favourite so I can know the ones you are interested in!, and you can even make your own (short) request.

Here you can find every fic written for this even. I will be updating it as they are being posted! I will also use ♯ giannaln4 Kinktober so you can browse that hashtag with all the fics.

Warnings: mature themes, 18+, MDNI, smut, lando norris only!

Disclaimers: post days will be wednesdays, thrusdays, and fridays ⋆ long requests prompts will not be taken into consideration ⋆ i might add prompts if i get more ideas.

⤷ Muscles (821 words)

⤷ Hair Pulling (455 words)

⤷ Special video (2.1k words)

⤷ Cockwarmimg (1.5k words)

⤷ Thigh Riding (1k words)

⤷ Shower Sex (5.2k words)

⤷ Dry Humping (1k words)

⤷ Car Sex (1k words)

⤷ Toys (1.7k words)

⤷ Jealous Lando (2.2k words)

⤷ Coming In His Pants (613 words)

⤷ Hands + Mirror Sex (2.2k words)

⤷ Ass or Tits? (1.4k words)

⤷ What A Sight (2.2k words)

⤷ Good Girl + Wearing His Clothes During Sex (2k words)

⤷ Breeding Kink (3.2k words)

⤷ Sub Lando (2.9k words)

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