#<- GO TO BED... find some dinner... whatever

[allgremlinyaps]

the post-canon jetko dynamic I'm crafting is like. ok so these two men who both feel things WAY too much can function well when separated [either through distraction/hierarchy of priority/conscious refusal to acknowledge certain feelings about certain people (at least on Jet's end, Zuko isn't emotionally savvy enough to CONSCIOUSLY repress his emotions)] but when you put them in a room together its like splitting the atom. like you have a certain amount of time before they cant ignore each other any longer.

THAT or they just slot back together like nothing has happened or no time has elapsed at all. maybe they make a creepily professional and efficient duo. maybe the smooth working-together (a la "we made a good team" Ferry dynamic) is like. the Prelude to the eruption. What I'm saying is they both have the POTENTIAL to be incredibly possessive people but would also never admit to it so instead they'd just have to have crazy reunion sex all the time.

[yeyinde]

caging a wolfdog

Simon Riley x Babysitter!Reader

18+ | groping. dubcon. infidelity. blue-collar Simon in a loveless marriage finds another way to entertain himself when his wife is too busy fucking her Pilates instructor to come home. victim blaming. future wife grooming. breeding. implied contraceptive tampering. spitting/spit kink. gross/mean Simon.

It's something to mend the gap between paying for college tuition, and surviving on more than air and the stale crackers they give out at the food bank. A job that takes up less space in your calendar than studying for finals or finishing up last-minute projects due before the end of the term.

And, in all honesty, the kid makes it easy.

Tommy doesn't fuss like most his age. He sits on the couch with his iPad perched on his knees, watching grown men scream in front of a camera for hours. Sometimes he stirs, asks for snacks. Something to drink. But mostly, he just scrolls YouTube Shorts, and puffs out peals of childish laughter at whatever he finds amusing.

It's the easiest job you'd ever had, really. He has no complaints about eating chicken nuggets and Kraft dinner on the nights when you stay later and have to cook something for him. Even when you try to make it healthier by chopping up celery with homemade ranch on the side, it barely makes him whine.

He eats. Scrolls. Pouts about his bath. Negotiates bedtime for ten more minutes with his iPad. And then he's sleeping by ten, hugging the device tight to his chest as a man hollers about Minecraft beneath him.

And that's the extent of it.

An easy job. An easy kid.

The problem, really, is his father.

And more specifically, the way he can't seem to stop touching you.

You're not sure why it happens, just that it does. Becomes some strange staple in this arrangement where you never leave his house without having his hands on you at some point.

But maybe the writing was always on the walls because even as he was showing you Tommy's bedroom, he folds himself over you, spine pressed against his chest, and murmurs in your ear about bedtimes and baths and all the things a babysitter is meant to hear—

But not with the hard, firm outline of their employers cock against their ass.

You should have said something then. Put your foot down. Rained hellfire and retribution over this man and his gross, foul perversions.

Should have done a lot of things, probably. But in the end, the span of his hand over your belly, so wide it threatened to swallow you up, kept you quiet. Docile as he shifted his hips—wife down the hall, flatly informing him she has a class tonight and probably won't be home, so don't bother waiting up, Simon—and rubbed his cock against you, grunting in your ear about how pretty you are. Such a sweet girl, too.

So good for his baby boy.

Keeping quiet seems to spur him on. Spreading the thick, heavy length of his body against your spine isn't enough to quench whatever sticky, awful desire brims in his chest. Insatiable now that he's had a little taste, he gorges himself on what he can get away with.

What you let him get away with.

(if you didn't want this, pretty thing, you'd have said so, wouldn't you? big, strong girl like you. you can 'andle yourself. but you ain't because you want this—)

Broad hands cupping your breasts as he leans over your shoulder and pretends to instruct you on how Tommy likes his lunches. Little more, he rasps, calloused fingers slipping under the band of your bra, and pinching your stiffening peaks between a too-big thumb and forefinger. The rough, dry graze of his scarred skin was some awful amalgamation of stinging, abrasive pain and pleasure. Likes his sandwiches cut up jus' like tha'—

Grabs a handful of your asscheek on the way out the door, pinching the flesh so hard, it aches when you sit down. Rutting into you like a beast when he comes home, and Tommy's already in bed. C'mon, he grunts, hefting you up from the couch. Gotta go an' check on 'im. But it's just an excuse to bend you over banister as you peer into Tommy's room, groaning as he shoves his clothed cock against the cleft of your ass.

Husks in your ear about how good you are for him. He and Tommy both. Such a good girl, ain't you?

It's strange. All of it. And maybe that's why you let it carry on. Continue even though you know he's married, and has a child. And—

He's odd. Intense. Weird.

Looms in the corners of the room sometimes, content to just watch you. Eyes dark, endlessly black. Fixed on every move you make. A wolf wearing a man's skin. A monster in faded blue jeans and black steel-toed boots.

Uncanny.

Scary.

Massive in a way that stole your breath the moment you laid eyes on him. A full body bloom of dread at the scale, the size, of him. Like staring at the face of a mountain, mind reeling over the incomprehensible height of it. Vertiginous. Dizzying.

Thinking about him always makes you feel a little bit sick. Lying on your back and staring up at the sky. Cosmic quasiness. Unease that trickles down from your ancestors and fills your pores with the bitter, acrid tang of fear.

But between the noxious, rolling worry—the unmistakable feeling of a starving man staring at you like you're nothing but a scrap of tender, fresh meat—is a heavy, sick sort of heat congealing in your belly.

It was easier, at first, to lie and say you stayed for the money. Broke college student with a sinkhole of debts already growing on the periphery, biding its time before it sucks you into an unfathomable, inescapable chasm. Bled dry. Used up. It'll crush you.

But this—

Simon works around your schedule. He's gone for most of the day—pulls twelve-hour shifts Monday to Saturday at the oilfield—and is fairly lenient when you have a test, sending Tommy to his uncle's instead. Staying the night is an unorthodox arrangement, you're sure, but it works itself out in the end. Being here to take Tommy to school before heading to your morning classes (the rest all available online), and then free to pick him up after and wait for Simon to come home eases the stress of a long commute to your dorm and then here, to the dorm and then back again. A small respite, sure.

And if he pushed, insistent, that you sleepover, well—

You can hide it behind a wall. Pretend he's just looking out for his son even if you have to lock the door in the spare bedroom at night, and wake up sometime to the sound of the knob rattling.

He lets you use his spare truck whenever you need it. There's always a pot of coffee waiting for you in the morning. He keeps a tidy house and a strict schedule, but money is always in your bank account or tucked into an envelope on the counter a day ahead of when you agreed he'd pay you.

But living on top of each other like this is almost unbearable.

You see more of Simon than you do your own family. Friends. Even his wife. A woman made of contradictions, it seems. Dutiful mother, but only when it matters��parent teacher conferences booked in advance, the darling starlet of his birthday party that passed—and you try to keep out of her way. Shame, maybe.

Do you know what Simon does to me when you're in the next room? Do you know what he says when you're bent into downward dog as your Pilates instructor fucks you on the matt?

Or just the knowledge that both of you, in your own way, are adulterers.

But having something in common with the woman who is more of a guest in her own home, her child's life, than you are is a sickening thought. So you squash it. Ignore it.

All of it—

His hands on you, rough and proprietary. The foul, dirty things he whispers in your ear—Tommy's been askin' for a baby brother, 'bout time we gave 'im one, don't you think? Spread your pretty pussy around my cock and keep ya nice an' plugged until it fuckin' takes—when no one is around. How these incidents keep getting progressively closer to his bedroom door, his marital bed, and one day, you think he might drag you in there and not let you out again until those promises he forced from your lips are fulfilled.

You bite your tongue. Taste blood between your teeth hours after he leaves for work, and curl into the couch as the minutes tick by until Simon's supposed to come home. Trying to distract yourself as much as you can, but there's no escape from it. From the way there was something different about him this morning. Something heady. He didn't touch you, but just quietly observed you with those strange, unfathomable eyes of his. Sinkholes wanting to swallow you down.

Hungry.

And when you asked him if he wanted breakfast, he'd just said, oh, I'll eat, birdie. You can bet on that, and then left out the door without another word.

It takes you until noon to unravel the knots in his expression, and what you find makes your heart jump like a trapped rabbit in a snare.

Possessiveness. Want. Hunger.

But most damning of all—

Anticipation.

In the room over, Tommy giggles, high and shrill, at a video. The noise jars you back into reality. A car drives down the lonely street. The timer on the oven dings. Tommy gurgles again, the sound pasted over a loud, pitchy shout that rankles down your spine. Slowly, achingly, you unfurl your body from the tense crouch you collapsed into, head thick. Underwater. In a fog. Thoughts dripping down the sides of your skull in a slow, syrupy crawl.

Your eyes dart to the clock. Three hours.

oh, I'll eat, birdie.

"Come on, Tommy," you warble out, gingerly moving towards the kitchen. Three hours. There's a buzzing inside your head that grows louder, more restless with every step. "The pizzas done."

On the fridge, a neon pink post-it note mocks you. PILATES TONIGHT AND DRINKS WITH THE GIRLS!!!! DON'T WAIT UP!!

Three hours.

You lick the blood off your teeth.

oh, I'll eat, birdie—

He doesn't bother cleaning up before he goes home.

Caked in grime, sweat, dust from the fields, crudeoil glued under his nails—a walking biohazard of filth, but he lumbers into his truck the moment he's finished, cock already thickening, straining against the harsh fabric of his jeans. Sticky on his thigh where it lays, twitching at the thought of his little birdie sucking his dirty fingers clean.

And you'll do it. He knows you will.

You've been so good for him, haven't you? Sweet little thing.

He scrapes the top of his tongue against his teeth, pulling up the taste of stale, bitter coffee. It's acrid, sour in his mouth. Swallowing around it, he grips the wheel tightly and sifts through the multitude of things he wants to do to you as he navigates the familiar path home. Muscle memory, but there's an emptiness in his belly. An itch under his skin. If fizzles, cracks; want and desire thick in his throat.

He's been thinking about this all day. You—laid out on his bed, fingers gripping the sheets tight as he folds you in half, kneecaps to your ears. Feet kicking out behind the heft of his shoulder. Bearing all his weight down on you. Crushing you.

Pumping you so full of his cock, his cum, that you whine afterwards—too empty, Mr Riley—and he has to stuff you full again just to shut you up.

Whiny little thing, he'll coo, nasty and mean as he fucks you again and again and again—

Another scrape. Tongue against teeth pulling over tastebuds. Sourness in the back of his throat. So bitter, so nauseating, he can't wait to make you swallow it down and beg for more as you try not to dry heave all over his dirty boots and onto the clean floor.

More, please, more even as you gag.

He's too hyperaware for the drive to pass in a blur—it's all startling present, each second ticking down in technicolour—but when he finally slows to crawl in front of his house, he has everything he wants to do to you laid out in a neat, concise list. Left you a defiled mess in his head, leaking cum and begging for more.

Anticipation is a maw in his gut that growls and snaps its jaws, too eager to sink inside the pretty thing that's been playing House in his mind. In his home.

He left it unfed for too long.

And now, it's time to eat.

You're not in the living room when he enters.

It's silent. The idling television paints the room in a pale, neon pink.

The clink of his keys, the thud of his boots, are the only sounds popcorning through the dim, quiet room. He casts his gaze towards the stairs to the left, sees light spilling out from Tommy's room down the hall. The nightlight burning away.

He shifts on the balls of his feet, hums something under his breath. A relic from a bygone era when the man Tommy was named after might have pulled him aside and said man, this isn't you.

Simon keeps his boots on as he trudges through the still, winter night of the house, eyes shifting past each corner, every crevasse. More muscle memory he can't shake. All filed away. Catalogued. Meticulously scoured as he shifts through the hall, pausing only to crack Tommy's door open and steal a glance of his son. Knows he won't be able to sleep without it.

He finds him tucked safe and sound in his bed. iPad on the floor connected to the charger. The screen is frozen with the image of some brightly coloured game that'll hold his interest for another day before it becomes yet another thing Simon packs away. More memories on shelves. Something to feel scraped out, hollowed, when he grows another inch and Simon starts to see more of Tommy in him than he can stomach.

The air stings his nostrils when he breathes in. The burn gives him time to shift around the potent ache of fatherly affection he never thought he'd feel back into the guarded lockbox he keeps it in whenever Tommy isn't in view. With it tucked back in, safe and sound, he lets the thrill of the pursuit fill him again.

Another hum. He peels away from the door.

"Hidin' on me, birdie?"

He knows you're here. Your boots are still drying by the front door. The air still clogged with your scent. He follows it like a bloodhound until he reaches his bedroom door where he finds you on the bed. Waiting. Uncertainty clinging to you like a second skin he can't wait to peel off, run his fingers through the bloody mess until you're raw and aching; shiny new toy stripped bare just for him.

Your mouth pops open. The inside a pretty ring of pink. He thinks about it, about sinking inside that soft little hole, making you gag around the thick of him as he feeds you his cock.

Clean it up f'me, birdie

But it's clear from the way you flit nervously on the comforter that he'll have to work you up to that.

Slow and steady. It's not his usual approach—he's in the habit of taking what he wants. Still. He slows. Glacial. Notches his shoulder against the doorframe, staring. Waiting. Waiting—

And finally:

A shift. You tense. "Mr Riley—"

"Take your clothes off."

Your throat shifts when you swallow. "Mr—"

If you didn't want it, he reasons, you wouldn't be in his bed. Waiting for him.

"Now, birdie."

There's that pause he expects. The hesitation as you stare, searchingly (pleadingly), at him, trying to take a measurement of just how serious he is about this. But he knows he gives nothing away. Just stares with streaks of dirt on his brow, washed down by thick trickles of sweat. Eyes lazy, lidded. Mouth flat. Even.

You demure after a moment. Hands falling shakily to the hem of your sweater, curling beneath the fabric. Gaze downcast, staring wide-eyed at the curve of your jean-clad knees. Bemused, maybe, that it got this far. That you let it get this far.

He doesn't give you time to think about it. Cocks his head to the side, puffs out an impatient breath. "Hurry up. Ain't got much time before my wife comes back."

It's a low blow. He feels it skim his knuckles, a sucker-punch.

You suck in a sharp breath. He wonders if you'll make things difficult now. Fight back. This isn't right. What you're doing to me isn't right. We should stop, Mr Riley—

Instead, you peel the sweater off.

It's artless. Clumsy. Each movement wracked with nerves, uncertainty. There's no coyness to the action. It's not even sexy, or coquettish; nothing about it is done to entice, to seduce. This is an action completed twice a day, every day. Routine. It's mundane, perfunctory.

And yet—

"Fuckin' hell, birdie—"

Something about the latent unwillingness of it all chokes the air from his lungs.

Cock thick in his trousers, throbbing like a wound, he steps into the bedroom, making his way towards you in nothing short of a prowl. It's been building up since you first appeared at his doorstep, eyes wide and bright and scooped Tommy up into your arms until he squealed with laughter.

"I got him," you chirped when he reached out reflexively, dancing artlessly out of the way of his snatching claws. "Don't worry. He's fine with me."

This is your fault, of course. For looking the way that you do. For burrowing under his skin like a parasite. A festering itch. Being close to you always felt like a toothache. Dry socket. Something that made his head split.

"On the bed, birdie," he grunts, hands falling to his belt with a urgency he hasn't felt since he was a clumsy, knobby-kneed teenager. "An' spread your legs f'me."

You give a startled gasp that makes his cock throb, and he groans low in his throat at the waxen look in your eye, the slight quiver to your lip. You look queasy—torn between disgust and fear, eyes slipping to the scarred hands that yank hard on his zipper, cup the bulge that splits through the spread seam, dirty fingers gripping himself tight—and he has to roll his head back to keep from snapping at you to roll over.

A noise does spill out—an impatient rumble gnashing between jagged teeth—when you sit there, bared from the waist up, and watch him with wide eyes. Making no move to show him that pretty pussy he cupped in his palm before. That soft, wet heat in his hand that felt too delicate, too sweet, to be touched with his dirty fingers. Something that rankled down his spine, buzzed in the back of his head when he pulled them free—stained, nails blackened with dirt, crude oil, and glistening in the low light of the kitchen.

He wants it again—on his cock this time. Wants to see that soft pussy get him all wet as he ruins it. As he peels back, sitting on his haunches, and takes in the awful mess he left you in. Poor cunt swollen and abused from from being forced to take the full, fat length of him as he bullies it inside over and over again; puffy lips all sticky with his cum. Sore and stretched and used. Raw after such a vicious pounding—

"Pants off, birdie," he bites out, yanking his jeans down beneath his aching balls. "Ain't gonna like what 'appens next if I 'ave to ask again—"

You give a startled gasp at the rough, callous growl hewing his words, and he wonders if anyone has ever spoken to you like this before. So demanding. With an edge of cruelty slithering out. Demeaning—

No. No one but him, he decides, stroking his cock as he watches you clumsily kick out of your pants, demurring in a faux show of bashfulness as your fingers skim the hem of your panties. The picture of coy shyness as you drop your chin to hide the wobble in your lower lip, the glistening wetness in your eyes as you grapple with indecision. Child's play of modesty.

A farce.

Just the mangled growl of your name is all it takes for those trembling fingers to inch into the hem of your panties, tugging them clumsily down your thighs.

He could come, he thinks, to just that. This. The bloom of fear etching across your brow, panties tangled against the knob of your knees. Unwilling to bend down and push them off the rest of the way. Scared to, maybe.

It buzzes in the back of his head. The idea of paralysing you with nothing more than a sharp bark and crook of his finger; your fear as delectable as that little sliver of skin he can see peaking out at him.

"ain't go' all night," he cuts in with only a quarter of the ice he uses on the field, and feels a deep thrum of satisfaction purr through his chest when you squeak, flinching at his rough, brassy tone.

Your panties fall to the floor in a rumpled pile between your feet, toes curling into the carpet as you try to close your knees as tightly together as you can get them to hide yourself from his heavy-lidded gaze. A last play at modesty. Gaze inward, nervous. A skittish little rabbit with nowhere else to run.

The way you stand before him on shaking knees, trembling like a leaf, makes him want to sink his teeth into you and shake. Little virginal offering to a rapacious god. A feast all for himself. He wants to chew you up. Eat you alive.

But he opts, instead, to bite his tongue until he tastes blood, and bark at you to get on the bed as it oozes between his teeth. Feels something animal split open inside his chest when your eyes widen as he steps into the room, a slow pursuit, a prowl, and has to bite down on the urge to give chase when you flinch, backing away from him quickly. Naked and scared. Running from him with a nervous tremor, but he doesn't miss the way you make, quietly, for his bed.

Eager. Obedient. Fleeing from him like a scared little animal unaware of just how enticing you are.

"Good girl, birdie."

It takes three fingers to open you up, but even that doesn't feel like it's enough.

Not when he knocks your knees apart, wedging his too big, too thick body between them (and then stares, and stares, and stares at your bare cunt, slick and sticky from his hand; flesh left swollen from the brutal spear of three thick, dirty fingers shoving inside—less of a stretch and more a carve: he carved you open) and spits.

You weren't expecting it. Nothing could have prepared you for the suddenness of this degrading act—the nasty, demeaning way he spits on your pussy, and huffs, amused, when the foamy mess slides down your swollen clit to pool between your folds. His finger chases it, rubbing it into your skin, pushing it into your hole.

Ain't got lube, he says, words bordering on a strange equinox of bluntly nonchalant and utterly caustic. Should be thankful m'doin' this much.

Thankful.

Your fingers curl into the sheets, and you try not look at his cock again when he grips himself tight in his big, dirty hand.

He's too big. Too fat. It makes you a little nauseous to stare at it, him—his cock. Marbled like a bruise. Thicker at the base. Veiny. The head is swollen. The tip is soaked in a thick, paste-like spill of precum, and for a horrible second, you almost thought he would make you lick it off.

(later fills the empty space in your head, and you try to mould yourself around the idea until you can decide whether or not the feeling that blooms in the pit of your belly is really dread.)

His hands were rough. Scarred. Dirty. Caked in oil. Stained. He didn't even bother to clean up before he lumbered onto the sheets behind you, one hand falling to grip his cock through his dusty pants, the other heavy on your neck, pushing you down into the mattress that reeks of fabric softener and stale cigarette smoke. Old sweat.

He doesn't need to tell you that she doesn't sleep in this bed anymore, but the idea of it prickles in the back of your head as he pushes you against the sheets and undoes his jeans with an ease that's more muscle memory than thought. Practiced.

You don't have the right to be jealous, but it hums through you like a sickness when you think of him doing this to her. His wife, you add, just to make it hurt. A knife in your gut that aches when you breathe—

"keep breathin', birdie," he grunts, spreading his fingers wide apart inside of you. "Don't get all tense on me now, or I'll have to start over."

You're not sure what that means, but you think you know better than to test his tenuous patience anymore than you have, and so you still. Go quiet. Breathe as he spears you deep, deeper still, and carves a space for that monstrous looking cock to fit—

where it belongs, he'd said, hunched over you like a nightmare in the daytime. All shadow and sinew. Stitched from broken daydreams of a brassy voice in your ear murmuring soon, birdie as his wife pretended to pack a lunch in the kitchen and he rubbed your nipple through your shirt before he slipped off to work.

But it's over too soon. His dirty, stained fingers slipping free from your aching, sopping cunt, leaving you empty—bereft—for a moment as he shuffles up the bed, splitting your knees wide apart to make room for the asburd width of him to fit.

An impossibility, really, but as Mr Riley—call me Simon—is wont to do, he makes it so. Wedges his wide thighs beneath yours until your hips tilt up in his lap, opening you wide. Obscenely so. And—

A grunt.

He stared. And stared. And stared.

Just looked at the split of your cunt sitting invitingly in his lap, wet and messy from his fingers, the cruel push of his palm against your clit. Swollen. Aching already—

"Want it, huh, birdie?"

The words I'm not so sure anymore hitch in the back of your throat, rearing up as he reaches between your legs to grip himself tight, too tight, until he turns a sickly shade of purple around the head that looks wider than anything you'd ever had inside of you before. But he doesn't give you a second to think before notching himself against you, giving a little push that forces the swollen head to sink inside of you—

Just the tip, really, and it already hurts. Stings like a papercut as he stretches your cunt around him, sharp and sudden.

"Too big—" you whimper, tossing your head to the side, breathing in the tang of fresh linen and musk as he grunts above you, pushing and pushing—

Something has to give.

It doesn't surprise you much when it ends up being you.

"Tha's it, birdie. Open up f'me."

It's not so much an opening as it is a siege. A conquest. And with him perched above you, heaving like bull and bathed in shadows that glue alone the mismatched asymmetry of his face, making him look less like a man and more like a figment, a statue—this Stygian being that swoops down and presses his palm against your throat, the other digging into the pillow beside your head, grunting—you feel ever bit of the battered receptacle he turns you into.

Forcing himself into you with a rough grunt, a brutal shove that—for one dizzying, awful moment—you swear you can feel inside your throat, taste on the back of your tongue. Choking on it. But then he's sinking in. Splitting you apart with brute force and that little bit of slick that you know must be stained pink—

"Good girl," he's grunting again, shoving another inch into a space much too small for him to fit. Savouring it. Relishing in the whimpers, the hiccups punched out of you with every flex of his hips. Eyes rolling a little, just a touch, when you feel something warm tickling your cheek and realise you're crying. Shush, birdie, he says, a quiet coo, but he looked delighted. Don't cry. Not yet—

another flex. two more inches. it feels like being speared open; flayed alive. it hurts. it hurts so much, you can't even begin to think through the pain, but he's huffing. groaning low in his throat as he adds:

"—'cause m'not even halfway in yet, pup."

The admission shocks you so much, you barely notice him spreading his knees beneath yours, squaring his stance, until it's too late.

"Wait—!"

If it weren't for his hand tightening around your throat before he speared the last several inches into you, you're sure the wail you might have let out would have woken Tommy. A good thing, you think, dazed, still soundlessly howling around the burning ache of him using his absurd weight to drive into you (balls deep, birdie, he grunts, and sounds so ridiculously proud, you nearly preen—), making you take every last inch. Selfishly carving more space for himself inside of you. Hollowing you out until his whole cock is drenched in your pink-stained slick—

"Makin' me all pretty, aren't you?" Huh, birdie? Nice and fuckin' pink.

A sob bubbles up beneath his palm, and he coos when he feels it, shushing you with a groan as he keeps an awful rhythm, flexing into you. Grinding deep. Carving and cutting and hollowing you out—

"Tha's it, pup," he grunts, eyes masting in leonine pleasure as he bucks into you without respite, taking his bliss from the burning stretch of your cunt. And stupidly, you think about preening. Smiling wide and big and lying to yourself about how bad you want this, him, even as the tears dribble down your chin.

Siphoned satisfaction, maybe. Or just the press of his fingers against that little thing inside of you that made you turn your cheek to his touches. Letting a married man shove his hands down your pants while you made breakfast for his kid and his wife called out to him from the next room about not waiting up for her too late.

Giving in.

That's what this feels like. A slow corrosion from the moment you knocked on his door and said you were here to help him with Tommy to now, buried under his bulk as he batters into your aching cunt, splitting you apart.

Sweat drips down his nape, pours off his face, and when it hits your skin, it feels like battery acid against your cheeks. But with his hand still lodged around your neck, there isn't much you can do except take it. Like his cock, his spit, his sweat. Let him ply you with all of it, every inch, until your body becomes accustomed to the ache.

"Fuckin' stranglin' me."

His cock hits something inside of you, and it isn't really pleasure that blooms in the pit of your belly, but something like a panacea. A wound that's soothed through touch.

Like a knife that hurts more coming out than it does stuffed inside.

But it' saws and it splits. Tears flesh. Rearranges your insides until you're wrapped tight around him, throbbing like bruise against the thick of his cock. A tight fuckin' fit, he says, and inches his fingers up to grab your cheeks. Squeezing until your mouth pops open, mewling at the deep, aching pain, and then he spits.

You don't need him to tell you what to do this time. You just close your mouth and swallow what he gives you, whimpering around the sudden ruck of his hips, a harsh jerk that slides his cockhead against the seal of your womb, dredging up a wave of pain that's soothed by the kiss of that fattened tip pressing against the sting once more. Soothed by touch. By the flood of endorphins.

Fitting, you suppose, since it feels a little bit like being eaten alive when he fucks you, grunting and snarling like a beast as he pounds into you, half-mad and starved, and you remember reading somewhere that people rarely experience any pain when they're bitten by a shark.

An oddly serene experience, out of body almost, as they're taken apart by razor-sharp teeth.

That's how you feel looking up at him, feeling the drip, drip, drip of his sweat splat on your cheeks. Warm, milky breath ghosting over your forehead. A barely there kiss when he bends down, growling into your hairline that he's gonna fill you up, pup; that Tommy's been begging for a little brother, 'asn't he? and ain't it time we gave 'im one?

You think no and don't. please don't, please, but your hands stayed curled into the duvet instead of reaching up to push him away. Knees dropping further apart as he bends down with a brassy grunt that you feel in your belly, between your hips, like molten lead. A pulsing flutter—sore muscles gripping tighter and tighter as he grunts again, and tells you to keep opening that pretty cunt up for him, birdie. Let him get even deeper.

The collar of his shirt dips low, unveiling a mass of moulted flesh suffused together in a pink ribbon array of crisscrossing scar tissue and burns. It's an odd time to notice that he hasn't bothered to undress, just shoved his jeans down his thighs and pulled his—monstrous, ugly—cock out, and forced it into you. But you do. And you feel it so acutely in your chest that even without his hand on your throat, you doubt you'd have been able to breathe. It just—

It says something, you think. Means something.

And maybe it hits you like a fist, too. A bludgeon to that little thing in the back of your head that keeps reminding you this isn't okay. That you're not supposed to be in this bed, with this man.

Marital vows, it says, all wrapped up in the scent of stale sweat and detergent. A whisper of Candy Kiss peppering the room when you arrive; a sweet sillage that tickles your nose whenever he leans down, cupping your breast in the palm of his hand. The flash of metal sitting snug on his thick ring finger. Cold and dry against your damp skin.

It crumbles under the sway of his big, thick body sawing away between your hips; turns to dust, dissolving into soot as the growls spilling out his chest tremble through your bones. The ring doesn't matter. It never did.

Not when he's decorating the space he hollowed out inside of you with these dizzying daydreams—weaving a damning tapestry with fingers bleeding from cuts made by the knife of his own artifice. Staining it red.

Pretty pink.

And eventually the ring warms between his hand and your heated skin until you can't tell the difference between metal and flesh.

(but in the smeared residuum of ash and rust, something stirs, asks if you ever really could at all—)

"Gonna make me a dad again, ain't you, pup?" Huh? He growls, rough and mean. Gonna have t'start callin' me daddy soon—

You're not sure when it started building, but the edge is suddenly there. Within reach. And he tells you in rasping groans that he feels it too. Gonna cum, biride, he says, and it sounds like a threat. A warning. It's a razor scraping against your nerves, pooling heat between your hips.

No, you think again, but your hips roll as much as they can with him bearing down above you, cradled between your slick, damp thighs—roughened up, chafed by the repeated scrape of denim. Eager for it. Hungry. Like you're starving.

And what did he say before? Oh, yeah—

Oh, I'll eat, birdie.

You feel that gnawing, gaping emptiness in your belly as he huffs, breath sticky and warm, glueing to your skin as he pants his desire over your flesh, inside your body. Pace stuttering on his next exhale, morphing into a choppy, clumsy grind—just the desperate, furious graze of his cockhead digging into that bruised, tender spot inside of you where pleasure and pain suture themselves together until one is almost indistinguishable from the other. Fear and desire warping around the edges until you're trembling from the urge to flee, but bearing your neck at the vicious spread of teeth gaping open above your caught jugular.

Simon presses his face against the side of yours, smearing sweat and spit over your heated, damp skin from where a cut in his upper lip leaves his teeth in a constant snarl, bared to the world in a vicious, brutal display of aggression, and the nudge of it against the softened, ripe apple of your cheek is what sends you over the edge before you're ready.

It's mean. A nasty, ugly climax that throbs more like a wound than a satisfying end; pulsing and spitting fire as you yowl into the bubble bulging along his ear, clawing at the duvet, and bringing your other hand up to twist into the wet fabric clinging to his broad back. Needing to hold on. To find purchase as he grunts into your skin with each brutal plunge of his hips, and then sinks his teeth into your pulse, drawing blood—

You're still clenching around him, throbbing like an infected wound, when he lifts his pinked up muzzle, bearing his crooked, bloodied teeth, and grunts with his release. Filling you with a burning, stinging heat. Painting the tapestry he hung on chiselled flesh. A home of his own making. The apex of your being is a crevasse for him to sink his desire inside until something grows.

Tommy wants a baby brother, he'd said, and as you knot your hand tighter around his sweaty shirt, you wonder if maybe you should have paid more attention to the pills you shoved into your mouth each morning, making sure they all looked exactly the same—

"Fuck, birdie," he snarls into your neck as he throbs inside of you, cock jerking until it lodges against the battered, bruised seal of your womb—soothing the ache, you think, giving a weak pulse, a little, desperate clench around him—grunting like this is all your fault.

And maybe it is. But he doesn't give you much of a choice when he ruts into you still in rolling, feverish humps that knock your teeth together each time you unhinge your jaw to tell him to stop.

(But you won't, of course—)

His hands are hot against your clammy skin, searing and rough as he pulls you back into his chest with a grunt, mumbling something about a cigarette as you pant into the sweat-slicked nook of his arm, trying to make sense of what happens next.

You should leave. And really—you're a little surprised he hadn't kicked you out already. Shoved you off of him, told you to pack your things. He'll call when he needs you next because with this burning desire of his sated, what else does he need you in bed for?

But he tightens his grip when you try to wiggle away from him with a salt-crusted, sleep-drenched noise of dissent.

He isn't done with you, he mumbles, pawing at the end table for the carton of cigarettes he left there this morning. Blue Zippo still tucked neatly inside.

It's something you'd noticed during the first week when you opened a drawer looking for Tommy's iPad charger and found his hidden stash—along with the rest. Little clues that piled up until the pieces fell, and you realised this was a strange, habitual thing of his where he needs to leave things lying around the house—a carton of cigarettes with a lighter; a duffle bag full of clothes for him and Tommy. Non-perishable food stuffed inside a rucksack. Cash. Knives. All within reach.

Most people live in their homes. Clothes in the drawers. Shoes on a rack or piled by the front food. Food in the cabinets. They carry their smokes with them or keep them in a convenient place for whenever they need them next. But Simon seems keen to uproot himself at a moment's notice. Bags within reach. Necessities all packed by the front door, ready to go. Each room has a satchel hidden somewhere. A carton of smokes. A lighter.

It means something, you're sure. Nestled between the layers of a restless, caged tiger circling its iron-barred domicile for the first chance at escape is a travesty written in spoiled ink. Chiselled into the bars, imprinted there like braille for you to run your fingers over until pockmarks make sense.

Like why Candy Kiss is left on the vanity, sitting atop a drawerful of untouched clothes. The smell of fresh linen. Pilates on a weekly basis. Don't wait up peppering the air; a soft echo cradled in the harsh snap of a door closing. Eyes barely blinking away from the flashing screen.

Or—why your clothes disappear each time you do the laundry. Lace panties and satin bras first—an almost banal perversion that barely made a gurn at. Then tights. Sweaters. Shirts. Jeans. All missing with a nonchalant shrug of a massive shoulder, and a stare that didn't much pin as it skewered. Flayed. A flat, even dunno, birdie. Maybe the ghost knicked it.

Tightly wound artifice you'll never make sense of beyond the bags and the cigarettes. The stares that make the hair on your neck stand on end—

"Fuckin' hell, pup," he grunts suddenly, pinching the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger as the other slides down your curved spine, grabbing a handful of your asscheek in his palm, giving a vicious, painful squeeze. "Can feel your little cunt leakin' all over my leg—"

He slips the filter between his teeth with an appreciative hum when you jerk, a mocking huff spilling out when you try to clamp your legs shut around the thick split of his hip wedged between them. You can feel it, too—the thick, sticky ooze of him leaking out of your sore cunt, smearing pink-tinged cum all over his jeans. He hadn't let you get up after rolling off of you—just barked at you to leave it. Keep it, birdie. Gotta take, don't it?

A barb you hadn't said anything to, opting to ignore that, like everything else he does. Did.

Will do because you can tell, even beneath all those hidden layers, that this isn't a one-time thing. No. This isn't just a man stuck in a bad marriage fucking the nanny because he can. It's deeper. Worse, somehow, than a gross older man with a fetish for younger women he can financially control. Another pervert slaking his lust on whatever artless little thing falls into his web.

No. No—

This is missing clothes stuffed inside bags kept around the house. Pills that leave a strange aftertaste on your tongue of something a shade too sweet—

You think about running. Slipping out of his hands, this bed that reeks of stale sweat and sex, putting on your clothes, and leaving this house. Burying yourself in debt again, schoolwork, and limping (with your tail between your aching thighs) back to your landlord. Never looking twice at an ad for a babysitter in your life.

—and maybe spend your whole life wondering why people mix wolves and dogs to create something that never truly feels at home in the patchwork skin it wears; pieces of ancestors it can't relate to;

But you don't.

(—you never do.)

You lie there and take it. Like the leers he aimed at you when you first showed up on his doorstep, reeking of financial desperation and swallowed down the litany of things he said to you under his breath with a wobbly grin and your eyes fixed on the tile, convincing yourself it would pass. That you were more than just a pretty face he couldn't wait to cover in his cum. A soft ass he wanted to sink his teeth into before getting his cock in there next. Tight little pussy he was so eager to break in. Pantin' like a bitch in heat, ain't you, pup? can hear you gaggin' for it a mile away—

Biting your lip so hard it bled. Blood between your teeth. Your hands curling into the coarse, starchy fabric of his work shirt when he leaned down, permanent snarl on his face from the manmade cleftlip, and reached down to grab a handful of it. Testin' the merchandise, he cooed, low and mean and ugly. Words wrapped up tight in barbed wire. Brassbound. Said nothing as he pinched your nipples through your shirt, or when he shoved his hand beneath the hem and groaned at how soft you were.

Dirty hands leaving stains all over your skin you couldn't see, but felt like a fresh, weeping tattoo. Pulsing with infection.

(Such a needy little thing he trusts with his son while his wife is gettin' railed by 'er Pilates instructor, huh? But that's fine, ain't it? Need another one, anyway. A better influence for Tommy. Someone who'll give him that little brother he's been buggin' for—)

And so, you slacken your jaw when he grunts, barking at you to open up. Say nothing when he drags his hand back up your body to grip your jaw tight in his palm, squeezing your cheeks until they pop open. Let him spit in your mouth, and swallow down the foul, stale tobacco taste of him on your tongue.

Nod, like an obedient little pup, when he says good, ain't it? and let him roll you onto your back again, wrenching your thighs apart so he can see for himself the mess he made. The one you let spill all over his jeans.

Good ones, too, he huffs, eyelids slicing over the jaded edge of obsidian into a derisive pantomime of a contented cat squinting to show affection. Half-mast in pleasure as he says he'll wear them again tomorrow an' let all the boys see what a mess you make of me—

His gaze drills into the wet, slick seam of your puffy, bruised cunt, grip tightening—vicious, possessive—until his blunt nails sink into your skin. Branding. Bruising. His fingers clench down until it almost feels like he'll break through muscle to touch bone, but just when it starts to really hurt, pushing past that strange equinoctial point where pleasure and pain wrap around each other on a razor's edge, he peels back with a grunt. Leans over you to spit in your mouth again, a wet, foamy glob that hits your bottom lip before it oozes into your mouth, tasting of stale smoke and bitter tobacco. A flavour that reeks of permanence, and smells of an incipient wolfpack—all animal musk and wildness brimming up against stale sweat, laundry detergent, cigarette smoke, and sex.

Cruel, almost, like the gurns etched into his face by the missing chunk of flesh on his upper lip. Snarled and deadly. Mocking in a certain light. Like a constant sneer. Derisive and dangerous.

But not nearly as terrifying when he lists forward, dropping down to catch your jaw in his hand, the other planting itself in musty pillow beside your head, caging you in, and says:

"—and now you're makin' me a daddy again, birdie."

There's a taste in the back of your throat that's much too sweet for the dirty, oil-stained fingers he slips between your slack lips, scratching over your tongue. It reminds you of a spoonful of sugar. Grape-flavoured medicine poured over the top. And you wonder how quickly the pills you have been taking would dissolve in water when you sprinkled the white granules down the drain.

Something else you won't mention even as this house he burrowed inside changes shape—clothes in drawers, bags in the closet; the lingering scent of Candy Kiss a spoiled, stale sillage hidden under the smell of newborn and warm milk. Crushed animal crackers and Nicorette. The sound of a gaping, newly formed maw yowling for attention clashing sharply against the exaggerated screams of a grown man howling about a video game on Tommy's iPad.

thanks for hiring me and don't worry, Mr Riley, I can manage him morphing into a new sound, a continual echo of welcome home, and she called again asking about custody, daddy.

Something that throbs like a fresh wound before knitting itself together again into a thin, pink line; skin all shiny and new. Pulsing with the echoes of everything you dipped your chin again, mumbling around the malformed words of please, and don't, and now,

don't stop, please don't stop

What else are you supposed to do, really, other than lettingnhim slake the remnants of his lust between your sore, slick-stained thighs until he grunts, coming inside of you again to the damning symphony of a creaking bed, heels against the floorboards, and the sizzle of a cigarette burning away in an ashtray.

"Wait—" swallowed down by a mangled mouth. A hooked, crooked nose slides along your sweaty cheek as he all but purrs in satisfaction.

All his, he says.

And you don't fight it even as the blood pools between your teeth because you knew that from the start.

[kkusuka]

more roommate simon!

i love the idea that simon thinks he's super open and available with his emotions and reader thinking he's really cold and disinterested. is he ooc? yeah. do i care? no. if you want cannon ghost, play the game!

simon riley doesn't know when you became so important to him.

the only reason he even put out the ad for a roommate was because his landlord though he'd moved out while he was away and he'd rather have some bird in his place than deal with that again.

you were just so easy; showing up to the coffee shop (where you requested to have your first meeting just in case he was some crazy murderer) face flushed, strands of hair all over the place, and sweater a mess; rushing to explain how you got sprayed by a sprinkler on your walk over then chased by a dog. and just as you repeat sorry for the 30th time simon thinks he's in love. you're officially his roommate 30 minutes later.

but it's so out of character for him. he hasn't been around anything other than hard ass military men since he was a teenager. fuck, he's killed hundreds of men in his line of work, tortured thousands more. (he doesn't like to think that that's why he's so drawn to you. that you're so different from who he has to be, someone he's been for so long, that being around you lets him breathe. that he feels like he can actually sit and enjoy his moments away from the field in your tiny manchester apartment.)

he thinks it actually started with the decorations.

the small trinkets you let around the common spaces when he was away. it starts with your room obviously; fairy lights above your bed that spills light into the hallway when he comes home in the early morning hours, paintings on the wall that eventually flow over into the living room, the small plants in your window sill that you ask him to water one day after you leave for work.

then the dinner table suddenly has checkerboard placemats and a vase of flowers that change with the season. and his run-down couch has decorative pillows and a throw blanket (both words he learned from you when he questions what the fuck is on his couch). then the bathroom in the hallway gets a new soap stand, and a mat is placed at your front door, next to the shoe organizer and coat rack.

so he starts buying things too; the penguin plushie in the supermarket window, the vase that matches the curtains in the living room, and a small skull magnet to rest on the face of your fridge.

and before simon knows it his dreary, cold apartment actually looks lived in. and instead of coming home to a dark hallway and an empty fridge, your flower lamp is on, some random show from the 90s is playing, and there's food on the table.

he gets to know you more than he thought he would; he knows what foods you don't like, the books you're reading and the ones you refuse to read again, and even that dick from work he promises to take care of if he bothers you again (it's evident that you think it's a joke and not something that he would genuinely do but simon doesn't think he's ever been more serious).

but he never lets you know too much about him, you don't need to know about it and the less you find out the better.

then came dinners, actual dinner not just him showing up while you already had food ready. you would ask if he wanted whatever you had made ( 'i'm already making food and i normally don't eat is all anyway, so i might as well share' ). so suddenly he was spending his nights at your table with a homecooked meal and simon doesn't think he could ever let this go.

then he gets sent away again, for way longer this time. he makes sure to update his paperwork, changes his emergency contact, your name swirled onto the spouse line. you were probably as close as he'll ever get to one and if you're there they'll tell you if anything happens to him faster. he doesn't want to think of how nice your first name looks with his last name. and you'll probably never even know, simon's never gotten that injured before and he doesn't plan on it now.

months in the heat of the middle east return him to hard shell of a man he was. coming home caked in dirt, blood speckled on his clothes; he doesn't want you to see him like this, he doesn't want you to know this version of him. and for the first time he regrets letting you come into his life.

you are home when he gets back, 2:30 in the morning and every light is off, he opens your door to make sure. you're asleep, not shocking, cuddled into the giant octopus you won at an arcade. he tries not to move, he just wants to look at you for a little bit.

he wakes up the next morning to breakfast and a new pair of combat boots. he's only home for a week this time, not that he's ever home for longer than a month, and he tries to soak up all of your time. you complain about your car, he's on it. the heater started being testy, that's fine he'll take care of it. he's going grocery shopping with you, he watching that weird hospital show, and he enjoys his time in domestic bliss before getting thrown back into some random country.

somehow that all led him here. laying in a hospital bed with two bullets lodged in his shoulder with you sitting in some shitty chair pulled as close to the bed as you could.

"so uh, i'm mrs. riley now?"

"yeah, ya are. 'av been for a while."

[lxnarphase]

━━ ❝ sweet, sticky, thick, and pretty ❞

☾₊‧⁺...synopsis : toji wants to give you another baby

☾₊‧⁺...cw : toji fushiguro x fem!reader, smut, penetrative sex, pre-established relationship, overstimulation, unprotected sex, breeding kink, dirty talk, rough sex, begging, smug and cocky reader, feral toji

☾₊‧⁺...a/n : this is a post from my old blog but i revamped it and i really wanted to share this again because i was really proud of it. and yes, it's another breeding kink + pregnant kink. consider it a part two, since it takes place after megumi is born

toji never thought he’d get off on the idea of having another kid with you.

yet here he is, dick hard in his sweatpants as he thinks about you carrying his baby again...how you'd start to fill out all over again, that cute chubbiness coming back, how he'd have an excuse to dote on you whenever you complained about the simplest of things.

it starts off with how he sees you coo over megumi, calling him your sweet baby. you're such a good mother, too, it's clear you'd likely be the favorite parent to that little brat.

but god, does he find it attractive just seeing you be a mom to the kid that he gave you.

the day you ask megumi what he wants for his upcoming 4th birthday at dinner, neither one of you is prepared for the words that come out of your son's mouth.

“i want a baby sister,” he states bluntly as he chews on the steamed carrots, looking at you and toji. it was clear from how confident the little guy is that he's put a lot of thought into this.

“but, i don’t want her to look like daddy. he’s ugly, i want her to look like mommy.”

little brat. you straight up choke, trying to stop the laugh-coughs as toji looks at his son, offended. this really is his son, because who else but you and the kid he made with you could have the nerve to say shit like that to him?

“twerp, you look just like me, you realize that, right?”

megumi huffs, looking at his dad in the cutest little glare. “that’s 'cause i'm a boy, though," he explains as if it's obvious, his precious little cheeks puffed up as he stuffs more of his food in his mouth.

"my sister has to be like mommy. you’d be an ugly girl, daddy.” toji just rolls his eyes, pinching the cheeks of the mini him, ignoring his protests. as the two bicker, you think. would it...really be that bad to have another baby? you always wanted a girl, after all, and toji took such good care of you and megumi...it couldn't be that bad. “well, uhm,” you begin, catching the attention of toji, an unfamiliar smile on your face.

there's a mischievous look on your face right now, his eyes narrowing as he waits for your response. whatever you're about to say is either going to haunt him for the next few days or make him roll his eyes at you.

“i'm sure daddy and i can work something out for you, 'gumi, but let’s think of some other things, too, m'kay?” 

ah.

you went the haunting route.

ignoring the little cheer his son let out, toji can't hide the disbelieving look that crosses his face when he processes what you just said.

'daddy'?

you've said the word, sure, usually when you talk to megumi about him. but something was different about how you said it, the way you looked at him when you said it, the barely visible flutter of your eyes...a silent promise there'd definitely be a deeper conversation about it later.

the very day megumi has a sleepover with the neighbor's kid, yuuji, toji is mentally cheering. he loves his son with all his heart, he truly does, but having a toddler in bed meant limited contact with his pretty wife.

it's only been 3 days since that little comment you made and it's been on toji's mind constantly. every time he tried to bring it up with you, megumi would interrupt and toji was not being the reason his son ended up traumatized because he overheard mommy and daddy talking about making babies in the kitchen.

"bye, gumi! make sure you behave for mr. nanami, okay? have fun with yuuji," you coo as you press two kisses to your son's cheeks, snapping toji back to the present.

"see ya, kid, be good," toji says, giving a nod of acknowledgement to nanami. megumi barely says goodbye before he runs after yuuji to the car, his run a bit awkward because of his overnight backpack.

waving goodbye to nanami, you shut the door, turning to look at toji with that smile as you.

"hi, toj."

you think you're so cute, don't you?

"hey, mama."

toji can't even lie, you are. wearing his t-shirt and sweatpants? yeah, your the cutest thing he's ever laid eyes one. his hands rest on your hips, pulling you flush to his chest. fuck, you weren't even doing anything but he could already feel himself getting hard just from looking at you.

he's never been so whipped in his life.

"d'you wanna talk," you murmur lowly, your finger running over the thin silver chain on his neck. "we could go to the bedroom...and talk about the baby thing."

toji's eyes darken at the suggestion, knowing exactly what would happen the moment you both go into the bedroom. "yeah. think it's 'bout time we talked about it," he hums as he grips your wrist, tugging you to your room.

as soon you both step foot into the bedroom, toji hungrily presses your lips against his, letting out a deep groan. "had me thinkin' about knockin' you up again all fuckin' week, mama," toji sighs against your lips, tongue running over your lower lip.

"wanted to stuff you full so fucking bad."

feeling you sigh so prettily into the kiss, his doesn't hesitate to shove his tongue in your mouth, hands busying themselves as they push your (his) sweats down off your hips before guiding you back to the bed.

you knew he would get excited over your comment, but you didn't think it would be to the point where he was rutting into you as he practically devoured you, feeling your back hit the bed.

“you want to give our 'gumi a sister? wanna be a mommy again," he questions, breaking the kiss to press his forehead against yours. one of his hands slithers up under the oversized t-shirt to cup one of your tits and roughly knead it, his thumb just barely grazing over your nipple.

"wanna have another kid with big, bad toji? tsk, poor cunt missed gettin' stuffed full of cum?" 

you just hum a little breathless. your hand comes up to cup his cheek, looking from his lips back up to his eyes. he's so handsome when he's over you like this, his chain dangling right in your face.

“maaaaybe. megumi just made me think about it, 's all. you've been a good dad t' him, how could i not want to give you another one,” you coo, guiding him closer so you can press a kiss against the scar on his lip. 

“besides…”

toji grunts when he feels your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him flush against you so you can feel the thick, heaviness of his arousal through his sweatpants.

“don’t you want me to make you a daddy again, toji? c'mon, knock me up, big guy.”

after those words leave your pretty little mouth, toji is on you as he realizes that you're 100% going to give him the worse breeding kink ever.

"'m gonna fuckin' ruin you," he growls into your ear. you aren't given a second to protest before he's ripped your panties off, complaints falling on deaf ears. the tips of his fingers gently run over your puffy pussy lips, your slick wetness coating his fingers.

"fuck, mama, you're soaked already." his eyes are focused on your face as you squirm and whimper when he swirls little circles into your clit, an evil smirk on his face. "can't wait to fill you up 'til you're dripping with my cum, doll."

you can't stop your hips from trying to grind into his hand, eyes rolling back when he teased your entrance. "toji, c'mon, baby, i need you s'bad."

"baby, you know you can't take me without prep," he coos at you. he can feel how hot and slick you are, finally, finally slipping two of his fingers inside your cunt. and oh, the way you arch your back a little bit with a pleading whine of his name is so, so pretty, you're so fucking cute.

"mmn, maybe y'don't need prep, you just sucked my fingers right in," he says huskily before pressing a little kiss to the corner of your mouth. "you wanna try, mama? wanna see if you can fit my cock in you? really gonna feel that stretch, though, babe," toji warns, knowing you can't give a sensible answer when he starts pumping his fingers in and out.

when it seems like your about to answer him, the only thing that escapes your mouth is a shaky moan, his thick fingers curling to hit just the right spot inside of you that has you gushing. unable to form words, you tug on his shirt and nod frantically, just wanting to feel toji stuffing you full.

"yeah? you wanna try?" toiji pulls his fingers out of you, chuckling when you whine at the sudden feeling of emptiness. he pops his fingers in his mouth, cock throbbing at the addictive taste of your cunt on his tongue. "c'mon, we're both wearing too much, let's get you outta that shirt, ma."

you waste no time throwing the shirt off, not even giving him the chance to undress you. but once your shirt is off, you're practically ripping off his stupid black t-shirt that made his pecs look fucking delicious and those damn sweatpants and boxers that hid your prize.

as you fuss over his boxers, toji takes a moment to look at you spread out on the bed before him. you still had a bit of chub on you, tummy nice and soft and cute, just how he likes it. if he knew where his phone was, he'd take a picture of you right now; frustrated, horny, naked, and pretty. all for him.

"tojiiii, stop staring and kick off your stupid boxers, you're getting on my nerves!"

you can't even look him in the eye as you say that because you're too busy staring right at his cock, a thick bead of precum formed at the tip. the lick of your lips told him everything he needed to know, but he wasn't fucking your mouth, not tonight at least.

"what? i can't look at my own wife," he asks with a raised eyebrow, biting back a laugh when you swat at his hand that pinches one your puffy nipple. "tch, so rude, doll."

before you can snap back at him, he brushes the swollen head of his cock against your slick folds, smearing your wet over the tip. that shuts you up quickly and toji has to hold back another laugh. always so fussy until he finally gives you what you want. he's spoiled you rotten.

"toji," comes a soft whine, so soft he nearly misses it. your eyes are focused between your legs, lower lips between your teeth as he teases you with his cockhead. you huff, pushing your hand against his chest to give you enough space to shift positions, knowing exactly what would get him to stop teasing you.

once you roll over, you shift so that you're face down, ass up, you hand slipping between your thighs to spread your sticky pussy open, slick dripping down your fingers. "tojiiii, please? please, baby, stop teasing an' put a baby in me...please, hubby, give your wife what she wants."

any other whines or begs are interrupted when his hand comes down hard on your ass. he was going to give you what you wanted, what you both wanted. he was going to fuck you, fill you up with all his cum and whatever leaked out? he’d make sure to push it back in, whether with his fingers, mouth, or tip of his dick. 

when he finally pushes into you, he just lets out the most wrecked groan you’ve heard from him yet, each inch sinking into you stretching those tight walls just a bit more.

"holy shit...fuuck me, baby, too fucking tight, you're strangling my cock," he hisses, fingers digging into the fat of your hips as he gave you inch after inch.

god, just the thought of fucking you not just to feel good, but to fill you up, get you to take his seed deep inside to give him another kid? it's fucking with his head, his wife was gonna be the death of him.

both of you moan once he's all the way inside. you feel so full, his cock is too fucking big it doesn't make any sense and you genuinely think you should've let him fully prep you...but shifting your hips just a little bit has his tip pressing against something sinful. you whine and reach back to grab at one of his hands on your waist, turning to shoot him a mean glare as you demand, “stop stalling n’ knock me up, toji." 

who is he to deny what his wife asks?

using a hand to steady himself on the headboard, his hips begin to move slowly, pulling out just an inch and pushing forward again. "so tight 'n' warm..." each thrust hits deeper and more powerful than the last as toji begins to pick up speed, the thickness of his cock hitting every deep part of you.

it's almost too much, but you don't want him to stop, especially not when toji started running his mouth.

“shit, look at you, baby…takin’ it like a champ.”

now you really wish you stayed on your back, then at least you could've slapped a hand over his mouth to shut him up. you drop your head down against the mattress with a moan, starting to move your hips to match his thrusts, the room filling with the sound of skin slapping on skin.

“fuuck, c'mon, throw that ass back on me, thaaaat’s it, good girl.” 

he starts pounding into you harder when he feels you tightening up on him. the sweet moans and adorable words of “gimme more,” “baby, please,” or “s’ too good, toj,’” only pushing him to get even deeper, to get you to cum so he could stuff you full.

he coos when he sees you starting to scramble up further on the bed, away from his relentless fucking. he knows that he found that sweet spot that would have you creaming in minutes.

"tsk, you just never fuckin' learn, huh? 's always gonna be too much for you, isn't it," he huffs as his hand finds its way into your hair, tugging your head back to keep you from moving more. “hey. hey, nonono, don’t run away from it, lemme have it," he coos at you, following you up the mattress.

you never change, always swearing up and down that you wouldn't run from his cock, that you'd be able to take him. you wanted this, you wanted your precious husband to fuck another baby into you, t'give 'gumi a little sister, s’ i’m gonna give it to you.”

toji may sound like he’s still put together, but he’s just thankful you can’t see his face since yours is pressed into the pillows at the top of the bed.

you can’t see how he’s barely holding himself together, trying his hardest not to let himself go too much. the last thing he needs is to cum before you, knowing that while you wouldn’t mind, he’d be annoyed for breaking his streak.

he’s brought back into the present when you manage to turn your head a little, able to look him in the eye, and god, does he love what he sees.

your mouth is open as you moan for him, eyes lidded and focused on only him. he sees the little tears gathered in them, not quite spilling over but the fact that they’re there tells him he’s the one making you feel that good. 

“tuh-toji, ’m gonna cum, gonna cum—!”

"yeah?" hearing you moan so sweetly for him only makes toji smirk, fingers digging into your hips as he helps you meet each thrust. “gonna make a mess f'me already? poor little cunt can't handle gettin' fucked so good? mmn, shit, 's okay, baby. let go for me, mama, cum on daddy’s cock.” 

"t-tojiiiii," you shakily moan, nearly ripping the sheets as you cum suddenly. it was his voice, the way he tried to sound put together but you could hear how desperate he was to feel your pussy clamp down on him and get his cock nice and messy.

toji's deep, guttural moans mix with your cries when he unexpected is pushed over the edge, the way you desperately grinded back against him causing him to swear under his breath as he lost his pace, groaning your name as he emptied into you. it felt so hot, the pulsating warmth of his tip nudging against your cervix paired with his thick cum filling you up dizzying the both of you. 

you expect some kind of snarky comment from toji, trying to catch your breath so you could reply when he said it. but nothing comes (you have to stop yourself from laughing at the pun). you turn to look back, sighing when toji pulls out of you. usually he stayed inside, leaning down to tease you for cumming so fast...but he didn't.

something was wrong and for some reason, you felt like your pussy was in danger.

“toj…?”

he didn’t answer. he probably didn’t even hear you, not with the way he was looking so intensely at the mess between your thighs. the mess he made. toji doesn’t know what comes over him, his hands practically moving on their own as he moves you over onto your back, then moving his hands down to your sensitive hole and spreading. 

the scene in front of him just breaks him. you let out a soft whine, hips gently rolling into his hands. his eyes stay stuck between your legs—sharp and focused—as they watch the thick globs of his hot cum drip out of your hole and down onto the bed sheets.

the groan that leaves him is sinful, and once you make eye contact with him, you realize how fucked you are. he’s hard again, almost making you believe he didn’t cum if it weren’t for the creamy sheen of his cum on his throbbing dick and the hotness of his dripping out of you. before you know it, toji’s climbing over you, making sure your legs get pushed over to his shoulders as he pushes you into a mating press.

yeah.

you're fucked.

you keep making eye contact, and now that he’s so close to you, you see how crazed he looks. his eyes, completely black due to his blown pupils, have an unhinged look in them, and the half smirk on his face only makes you worry about your ability to walk the next day.

“t-toji, if you need a break to calm down, then-oh!” 

he shuts you up by pushing himself inside you, loving how your eyes cross so prettily. he has you now, you can't run away from the overstimulating feeling of him fucking you in this position. and when you feel his hands come up and lock together on your head to really keep you in place, you feel yourself gush all over his cock at the simple display of how strong he was compared to you.

you're so fucked.

all you can do is moan and cry out his name, hands grabbing whatever part of him they could reach. but he doesn't let you break eye contact, keeping you close to his face so he could see every little expression. and fuck, does he like what he sees.

“t-tojiii, t’ deep, t’ deep!”

“wan’ me t’ stop? t’ stop fuckin’ this messy hole?”

“fuck, y-you stop, and I’ll c-choke the shit out of yo-ouh!”

“that’s it, take it, take daddy’s cock, mama, lemme breed you.”

everything about this position is driving both of you crazy.

the closeness has you reeling, the way toji just cannot bring himself to break eye contact, needing to see what he was doing to you.

his thick cock is hitting deep, almost too deep, with the way each thrust of his hips causes the tip to press into the sweet spot inside you every. single. time. 

he has you for the whole day and the whole night, he's going to make sure you're stuffed entirely and doesn't plan on stopping until either you tell him you need a break or until he can't cum anymore. and even then, he doesn't think anything will be able to get him out of your cunt.

but with the way he just moaned into your mouth, thick spurts of more cum coating your insides…and the way he didn’t get soft, instead pressing you even deeper into the mattress as he began to pound into you with a groan of how much he loved your pussy…

you were sure it would be a while until he was done with you.

all rights reserved © lxnarphase | do not repost, copy, translate, or alter my work

[kamaluhkhan]

ONCE BITTEN, TWICE SHY

pairing: vi x fem!reader word count: 10.5k summary: after years away, vi returns home for the holidays and reunites with you, her ex-girlfriend. the universe (*cough cough* and your meddling families) push you together again, and neither of you can ignore the feelings that linger. (or: you, vi, and the ghosts of christmas past, present and future.) warnings: reader is ekko's older sister but not necessarily biological so appearance isn't specified; childhood friends to lovers + second chance romance; reader gets hit on by a creepy guy + gets into a fight (injury + blood mention), smut [strap mention (reader receiving), oral (both receiving), fingering (both receiving), biting, spitting, tribbing, sub!vi makes an appearance...kinda rough + possessive sex but there's aftercare too <33] (18+) ! a/n: HAPPY NEW YEAR GIRLS AND GAYS <33 tbh i debated whether to post this now bc xmas was like....3 weeks ago but figured i might as well. so pls enjoy what is essentially an x-rated sapphic hallmark holiday movie.

♪: ‘tis the damn season by taylor swift (sun); winterbreak by MUNA (moon); last christmas by wham! (rising)

track 1: thank god it’s christmas by queen

(winter — age 17)

“okay, just relax your fingers — no, but keep some tension, apply a bit of pressure on the string….yep, that’s better. now, straighten your back….”

it’s dark and snowing outside, and the cold’s seeping in through the window of her attic bedroom, but vi still almost melts into the floor when you follow her advice and press against her chest. she worries that you can feel how fast her heart is beating — faster than it maybe should for someone she’d been calling friend ever since she could remember. 

you shift in her lap, her arms still wrapped around yours from when she offered to guide you through an instrumental version of wham’s “last christmas.” you tilt your head towards her, nose almost brushing against hers. 

“vi?”

“....yes?”

“maybe we should finish our lesson another time. we better hurry up, anyways. i bet ekko and powder are already arguing over whether we should watch home alone or home alone two.”

vi snorts. it’s practically a tradition at this point, along with the annual post-christmas-dinner pyjama movie night.

you try to hand her the bright pink guitar pick, but vi shakes her head.

“it’s yours. you’re gonna need it if you want more lessons.” 

“hm, or maybe i could sell it for a billion dollars once you’re a big rockstar,” you tease. “i can picture thousands of fangirls painting your portrait and writing mrs. violet lanes in their notebooks.” 

you get up, shoot her a wink, and leave vi on the bed, clutching her guitar and trying to get her pulse under control. 

neither of you say anything as you both get changed. the stereo plays the mixtape you’d made for her — you got her for secret santa this year.

“my mom loved this song,” vi hums, a warm ache growing in her chest when the next song plays. this is the second christmas without her, but vi is still not used to using past tense. “she thought freddie mercury was the best rockstar of all time.”

“i remember. you…you must miss her.” 

of course she does, and she could run through a million reasons why.

“vander says you’ll be spending new year’s at your dad’s,” is what she says instead.

you let out something between a scoff and a laugh. “yeah.”

“your mom going, too?”

“just me and ekko. i swear, it’s like he’s trying to be this perfect dad to his new stepkids, meanwhile he’s the one who left us here to deal with his mess, the one who just ran away, and….whatever.” this time, you do scoff. “hey – do you have a shirt i could borrow?”

vi looks over to find that you’ve switched from the velvet dress you wore during dinner into a pair of flannel plaid pants; her cheeks flush when she sees that you’re only wearing a black lacy bralette on top. 

she clears her throat and pulls a clean jersey from her dresser, tosses it over to you. 

“that’s a shame. i was looking forward to spending new year’s eve together.”

you hum and slip the shirt over your shoulders. the only sources of light are the moon and the stars and the multicoloured christmas lights strung along vi’s walls, but she swore that your eyes flick down to her lips. 

“why’s that?” you ask. 

there’s something absolutely dizzying about being this close to you, the way your sparkly eyes wait patiently for her to respond. joni mitchell sings about skating away on a river, and vi wishes she could skate away from this conversation, but there’s nowhere to go. 

vi blinks away from your gaze and fixates on one of the many things she’s pinned up on her bedroom walls throughout the years. it’s a page torn from an old notebook of yours, something from seventh grade math class, but vi always loved your little drawings in the margins. 

vi?” you prompt, never one to let go easily.

“i want to kiss you at midnight,” she confesses.

“yeah?” 

vi nods. she’s tempted to walk out of her room, down the stairs and out into the winter night, until you weave your fingers through hers and squeeze her hand. she looks up — and you’re beaming, a smile that brightens vi’s entire being. 

“i want that too.”

vi finally, finally crashes her mouth onto yours, lips sticky with marshmallow fluff.

you taste like vanilla and gingerbread and hot chocolate that is definitely not spiked with irish cream that vi slipped into your mugs while you distracted the adults. 

you taste like home.

….

so, slight change of plans….i’m gonna stay here in london with the rest of the band. apparently the kirammans throw a super fancy holiday party with super fancy people every year, and cait convinced her parents to let us perform. fingers crossed someone important discovers us.

merry christmas, baby. and, if i don’t get the chance to say it: happy new year.

….

track 2: winter wonderland by darlene love

(winter — age 12)

you’re supposed to be looking after ekko while your parents are at work, but all that really means is making a big bowl of kraft dinner and stove-top s’mores for lunch and watching old christmas specials on the worn-out living room couch while you draw in your sketchbook and your brother, only 7 years old, programs the doorbell to play ‘jingle bells.’ 

when someone rings the doorbell, the tune floats through the house and wakes up your dog who starts barking like it’s the end of the world. 

“easy, ziggy.” you click a marker closed and run a hand through the husky’s fur, attempting to calm him down. “let’s go see who it is.”

you open the door, and there’s vi: snowflakes sparkling on her eyelashes, pink hair hidden under a knitted hat, and a toothy grin that brings out the dimple in her flushed cheeks. she’s also got a split lip and crooked nose from her last hockey game.

“we’re building a fort,” she tells you. she shuffles to the side so that you can see powder, who’s making a snow angel. “well, we’re going to. wanna join?”

you nod, smiling. “ekko!” 

your brother’s already behind you, slipping on his chunky boots and oversized coat that used to be yours before running outside and collapsing onto the fluffy snow next to powder. ziggy bolts outside, too, running circles around them. 

you stumble to get your winter gear on as fast as possible, the cold air rushing inside your front hallway as vi waits for you, kicking her snowy boot against the concrete entryway step. not even a heartbeat after shutting the door behind you, vi takes your gloved hand in hers and pulls you forward, the two of you a flurry of laughter.

…..

hey, pretty girl. i was at this party and one of your songs came on! every time i hear it, i’m in awe of how amazing it is….how amazing you are. i’m basically walking home in a snowstorm, so i’m gonna go before my fingers freeze off, but i just wanted to say that i’m so proud of my rockstar girlfriend.

i was also wondering: are you coming home any time soon? the holidays are coming up, and i really miss you. we all do.  

…..

track 3: last christmas by wham!

(winter — now)

vi should have learned from sonic youth and fleetwood mac: 

no sex or romance between bandmates. it never ends well.

it was bad enough giving into the rumors and fooling around with cait, but it’s another layer of messiness now that cait and maddie dating. meanwhile, cait is very much still bitter towards vi, vi is very much pining after someone whom she’s pretty sure never wants to see her again, and steb and lorris are very much caught in the middle. it’s no wonder the band’s manager suggested everyone take some time apart to ease the tension. frankly, while others protested, vi was almost relieved at the suggestion.

so cait’s off to london, maddie’s off to glasgow, the boys are going god knows where, and vi —

vi’s heading back home, back to you.

she wakes up in the bed of her childhood for the first time in a long time. her dad put on fresh sheets, but they’re still the same ones from back then — worn flannel with cartoon penguins. it takes a lot of willpower to untangle herself from the warmth and cloud-like softness, but eventually she heads downstairs to the kitchen.

powder still has exams so she’s not home from college until tomorrow, and vander’s gone to work. it’s just vi in her too-small christmas pyjamas (she has yet to unpack), eating a box of stale cinnamon pop-tarts for breakfast even though it’s well past noon. curiosity gets the best of her, so she peers through the window to see if anyone is next door.

your mom’s car is in the driveway, completely snowed in. there had only been a dusting of snow while vi was devouring the first pastry, but four pop-tarts in and it’s about doubled. she waits until the snow stops falling; with nothing better to do and a sugar rush to burn off, vi pulls on her old winter coat and snow boots she hasn’t worn since she was 18, grabs a shovel from the garage, and gets to work. 

it doesn’t take her long to clear the driveway, and she has some adrenaline to spare, so she decides to be a good neighbor. 

vi’s heaving one last shovelful of snow over her shoulder when she hears:

“violet? is that you?” 

she turns around. and, okay the first thing she registers is ziggy running towards her, the husky toppling her over into the snow.

“i missed you too, zig,” vi laughs. 

she gets up as ziggy’s still bounding around in the snow, and sees your mom standing in the doorway, looking a little more tired and a little more gray. but the smile on her face when she sees that it is, in fact, vi — it’s so bright that the snow might not exactly melt away, but the years sure do. 

vi remembers making snow angels with you while your moms gossiped over tea, how the two of you would stomp inside with a mess of slush and snow while laughter echoed from the living room. vi remembers your mom keeping a comforting arm around her shoulder through her mom’s funeral while you held her hand. she remembers your mom helping her pick out the perfect corsage to match your suit at prom, making a joke about how next time it might be an engagement ring, and telling vi how proud her mother would have been of her at your high school graduation party. 

with the golden glow of nostalgia comes a crashing wave of guilt at what vi said to you last time you spoke. 

“come inside, sweetheart. i’ll make you some hot cocoa as a thank you.”

vi is tempted to reject the offer, but your mom looks so hopeful and vi’s fingers are about to freeze off, anyways. 

so your mom makes hot cocoa as vi defrosts, the two of them chatting in the familiar yellow kitchen that you and vi once almost burnt down while trying to bake a cake for powder’s birthday. even the magnets and paper memories decorating the fridge are the same, with the addition of an article about vi’s band that was featured in the rolling stone, pinned up by a ceramic cow. 

“she’s an art teacher now,” your mom tells vi after giving an update on ekko. she glances at the oven clock. “speaking of which — i know you just finished shoveling our driveway, but do you mind helping me with another favor?”

“after the world’s best hot chocolate? anything.”

“i told my daughter that i’d pick her up from work, and i’m wondering if you would be able to take care of that.” your mom smiles. “i’m sensing a bad migraine coming on.”

the last sip of hot chocolate trickles down vi’s throat like cement. she knew she’d be seeing you, but didn’t quite plan for how that….reunion might go.

“of course,” vi says. 

vi puts both of their mugs in the dishwasher, about to grab the car keys from the hook by the door when your mom calls out: 

“oh, and violet?” vi turns around. “i’m so glad you’re home.”

you’re talking to a student when vi enters the art room of your old high school. nothing else in the building had changed — same boring concrete, same scratched up lockers, same graffiti immortalizing whom hooked up with whom. this room is the exception, vibrant with how students’ art is displayed all around, paintings and drawings and collages, and you’ve strung up multicolored christmas lights that give the whole space a cozy ambiance. you look the part of a cool, young art teacher: wearing a simple dark purple turtleneck tucked into black jeans and the same combat boots you’ve had since tenth grade, paint stains on your skin that is exposed by rolled up sleeves, and a marker behind your ear. you’re standing in front of an easel, talking to the student who happens to notice vi before you do.

“holy shit. is that violet lanes?”

vi watches as your face scrunches up in confusion, and then falls into shock when you see her standing there.

“it seems that it is violet lanes,” you state coolly while the student squeals. “what are you doing here?”

“oh, i, uh,” vi clears her throat, her palms sweaty. why is her body reacting like she’s a teenager about to ask out her crush for the first time? “your mom wasn’t feeling great, asked if i could pick you up from work.”

“you guys are friends?” the student asks, eyes wide as they flick between you and vi. 

“we used to date, actually,” vi clarifies. wrong move, she realizes, because you can’t help but glare at her.

“oh my god.” the student squeals again and reaches in their pocket to whip out their phone. “i need to tell alyssa that ms. l/n was in a relationship with the violet lanes. are you guys gonna get back together? oh my god, have you come to win her back —”

“layla,” you clip, and by the furrow of layla’s brow, it seems like you’re not usually so stern. you smile at layla, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “you’ve done some great work today, but you’ll have to finish this when we’re back from winter break. do you mind giving ms. lanes and i a minute?”

layla nods once, gathers her things. when she walks past vi, she can’t help but ask for an autograph. vi complies, of course, even lets her take a selfie. a fan is a fan, after all.

and, quite frankly this is the only part of being in the band that she still enjoys: hearing how excited young girls are at the music she writes, the music that vi wished she had growing up, about girls liking girls, about girls falling in and out of love with each other. everything else is just an occupational hazard that vi’s getting more and more fed up with. 

when vi turns her attention back to you, you’re finished putting all the material away, wiping your hands with an already paint-stained towel.

“i meant what you’re doing back in town,” you explain, not quite meeting vi’s eyes. you pack away some books and your laptop into a supple leather briefcase, and slip on your coat. vi’s cheeks flush when you catch her watching you. 

“it…it doesn’t matter. i’m here for a while, though.” 

you sigh. “okay.” and you don’t say anything more. vi keeps up with you as you switch off the lights, lock the door, and stride to the parking lot in silence. when you get to the car, you extend your hand.

“i’m driving,” you say, gesturing at her to give you the keys. “we both know that you’re a terrible driver.”

“i’m not a terrible driver,” vi guffaws. 

“says the lesbian who gives the rest of us a bad name,” you quip, a hint of a smile dancing across your lips, like the first bout of sun after a winter storm. “c’mon, pretty girl. i’m not giving up, so unless you wanna freeze to death….” 

the nickname slips effortlessly from your tongue, so much so that you don’t even seem to realize it, but vi’s breath hitches and she’s more than happy to fold to your every whim if it means hearing you call her pretty one more time. 

“so….” vi glances over at you from the passenger seat. a snowy landscape passes outside the window, and you tap on the steering wheel to a generic christmas song that plays through the stereo. “you’re teaching high school now?” 

she wonders if you remember the last fight you had, almost two years ago to the day.

you keep your eyes on the road. “yeah. guess i graduated from finger-painting with kindergarteners.”

vi feels her cheeks heat up all over again. 

so, you do remember. 

she wonders if you’ve replayed it over and over again and hoped for a different ending like she did. she should have thought more about what to actually say to you —

“you know, i never understood why you liked this song so much,” you suddenly say when the radio starts playing dolly parton’s cover of ‘i’ll be home for christmas.’ 

vi can read between the lines, but she’s waiting for you to point out the irony in her preference for a song that’s about someone wanting to go home for christmas, something vi has deliberately avoided at all costs these past few years. 

“it just seems kinda sad,” you continue. 

“you love ‘last christmas,’ and that one’s pretty sad,” vi points out.

“sure, but it ends hopefully.”

“oh?” vi tilts her head towards you. “how’d you figure? 

“sure, it’s someone singing about heartbreak and how much it sucks during christmastime, but then there’s this hope that they still find true love down the line. it’s a maybe that isn’t hopeless.” you shrug. “meanwhile, your song ends with the lyric ‘if only in my dreams,’ which just seems too accepting of the fact that going home for christmas, being with the person they love — it might just be a dream.”

“i don’t know. some dreams do come true,” vi muses. 

by now, you’ve made it home. you put the car in park but keep the engine going, presumably to avoid becoming icicles. neither of you make a move to leave. 

you glance over at vi. “your dreams sure came true, ms. violet lanes,” you joke, but there’s an air of sadness to it.

“not all of them.”

“yeah? which ones haven’t?”

vi swallows the lump in her throat and hopes that you understand the look in her eyes. “let’s just say i’m working on them.”

you blink away and cut the engine.

….

you’re still dealing with the shock of seeing vi back in town when your brother, freshly home from college, suggests going skating. 

he can be fairly convincing, especially when he mentions that it’s a christmas season tradition, so, you prepare for what is essentially a double date with your brother, his girlfriend/your ex-girlfriend’s sister, and your ex-girlfriend, with isha as a fifth wheel.

should be fun. 

it turns out, despite all her past hockey experience, vi really cannot skate. in fact, skating seems to be the complete opposite of riding a bike: she’s terrible at it after years off the ice, essentially reenacting that scene from bambi. it’s easier to ignore vi’s presence when she’s sitting next to the snack bar, by herself, but then powder skates up next to you and asks if you’d be kind enough to please help her sister have a good time. you roll your eyes at her shit-eating grin, but it is a bit sad, watching vi on the sidelines. she’s wearing a beanie and a pair of sunglasses to hide her identity, and now she kinda looks like a divorced dad watching his grown kids pass him by while he’s stuck in a midlife crisis.

you convince vi to give skating another shot — it’s tradition after all — and pull her out onto the rink. you start by holding her from behind, keeping her hips steady until she gets the hang of it. you try to let go, but vi stumbles and reaches out for your gloved hand, and you melt into the familiarity of her fingers curled around yours. the two of you fall into a comfortable rhythm, first with you pulling vi along, then with her taking the lead, until vi almost knocks into a small child.

“see what i mean by you being a bad driver?” you jest, successfully maneuvering to avoid collision. 

then, you follow where vi’s eyes have settled — on powder and isha laughing and chasing each other around the rink. vi had asked earlier when isha had dyed her hair blue; you still have some residue under your nails from last weekend, when powder came for a study break and the three of you ended up helping isha achieve a new look she’d apparently been itching to try. 

“you know powder’s graduating this year?” 

“she overloaded her credits so she could get out of there as soon as possible,” you explain, having had many conversations with powder leading up to the decision. 

vi nods, her jaw clenched. you already know what she’s thinking, and frankly, you agree: that vi hasn’t been here, literally and figuratively. you also feel the warmth of vi’s skin radiating through her glove to yours, notice the slight flush to her freckled cheeks, how chapped her lips are from the cold, so much so that you’re tempted to share the vanilla chapstick you’ve got on your own lips, to kiss her deeply like you did last time you were here, together.

it’s only been three days since vi’s been back home. this is only the second time you’ve seen her, and you’re already falling back into old patterns, tempted to ask her to stay, to try again, even though you already know the answer.

except….not staying isn’t the deal breaker it used to be, so maybe trying again isn’t as hopeless as you think it is.

vi squeezes your hand, and you realize that you’ve stopped skating entirely. 

“hey. you still with me?”

you nod, decide to enjoy this moment for as long as you can, and the two of you glide across the ice.

…..

when you suggest making stove-top s’mores, it’s another item on the list of things she’d missed. 

a list that’s been growing a lot these past few days.

vi offers to make more once you’ve all run out, and ekko follows her into their kitchen while you, powder, and isha keep watching christmas specials in the living room. she turns on the gas stove, stabs a marshmallow through a wooden skewer and waits for it to roast — and, for ekko to say something.

“i don’t know what happened between you and my sister, but i need you to promise me that the tabloids aren’t true. that you and that kiramman chick didn’t hook up…at least until after y’all broke up.” 

“or, what, you’re gonna challenge me to an arm wrestle? think you can finally beat me?”

“oh, i know it.”

a pause. the marshmallow catches on fire and vi blows on it to quell the damage.

“i didn’t cheat on her.” she throws out the burnt marshmallow and gives it another shot. “i would never. does….does she think i did?”

ekko shrugs. “not sure. some of those articles are pretty convincing. but, since you’re promising me that you didn’t…”

“i didn’t.”

“then that saves me from kicking your ass.” ekko nods once and uncrosses his arms, handing vi some graham crackers and chocolate. “actually, i could use your help with something.”

“sure.”

“she applied to this great art residency in new york, like, on whim. the only people she’s told are me, powder, and vander….i think she’s nervous to tell mom, at least until she knows for sure she’s gotten in, but this is the most excited i’ve seen her be about something in a while, and she worked really hard on her application…” 

“i’m sure she did,” vi states. “what do you need my help with?”

“convincing her to go.” 

“i’d love to help, but i’m not sure i’m someone she’d wanna hear from, especially about this. she was never a fan of me leaving to pursue my dreams.”

“she was never a fan of you leaving,” ekko corrects. “she’s still a fan of you pursuing your dreams.” he juts his chin out at the article stuck to the fridge. 

vi had just assumed that your mom had pinned that up.

“okay.” vi says. “i’ll talk to her.” 

a plateful of semi-burnt s’mores later, and vi and ekko return to the living room with the rest of you. 

vi forgot how nice this felt, all of you cuddled on the couch, ziggy included, watching how the grinch stole christmas. she half expects her mom to walk in through the door without even knocking, shake the snow off her hair, and hold up a batch of pre-baked gingerbread people she’d gotten for the kids to decorate.

but that’s not happening. other than isha, none of you are kids anymore and things can never be the same.

and yet — you glance over at vi and give her a sticky marshmallow smile, and she feels her heart grow three sizes.

….

baby, i swear it’s not what it looks like. the record label thought it would be good promo to get a picture of me kissing under the mistletoe…’tis the season and all that…..cait and i were both really drunk and things got a bit out of hand….but it looks worse than it is. i swear on my mother’s grave that nothing happened.

please call me back, baby…..i’m so fucking sorry….please. 

it’s not christmas without at least hearing your voice. 

….

track 4: river by joni mitchell

(winter — age 23)

it’s hard to believe that hours ago, you were kissing vi backstage and showering her with praise after the concert. she was happy to indulge in your excitement, even though she was all sweaty and her ears were still ringing from the crowd. 

more than happy, in fact. phone sex can only go so far, and it’d been too long since vi had seen you writhe and heard you whimper for her firsthand. 

“i missed you so fucking much,” you groan, tightening your grip on vi’s hair. it’s now an inky black instead of fuschia — the band’s starting to lean more punk rock. 

a particularly hard thrust is her way of telling you that she missed you too. so fucking much. she throws your legs over her shoulders, pushing the strap deeper inside you and digging her knees into the mattress as she coaxes you through another orgasm. you pull her down for one last searing kiss, your tongue searching each crevice of her mouth. 

“i can’t believe you’re here,” vi continues a few moments later, after you’re both cleaned up and getting dressed. she wants to add something along the lines of i love you, but she bites back the sentiment. she’ll save that sappy shit for later tonight, when she finally gets down on one knee for you. 

you glance back at her from where you’re pulling out a sparkly silver dress from your side of the closet (and isn’t that such a slip of the mind? your side, as if it’s a shared closet and a shared bedroom and a shared home; if she thought about it more, though, she would realize that, though she has no problem asking you to marry her, she’s still terrified at the thought of staying in one place for more than a few months).

“me neither,” you smile. 

vi walks over to you, presses her half-dressed body against your lingerie-clad form (vi’s sure you wore this fuschia set just to drive her insane; it’s working). she lodges her hand behind your ear and pulls you in closer, kisses you deeply because you’re here and she missed you so fucking much and she’s so ready to make you her wife.

she could write a whole record just about the taste of your lips: the sweetness of vanilla chapstick, the saltiness of sweat and the headiness lingering from the wetness you lapped up from between her legs.

you pull away first. vi tries not to stare at how your chest heaves, your breasts straining against intricate lace. 

“we, um.” you clear your throat. you slip your hand underneath vi’s blazer, and she groans when you make contact with the exposed, burning skin of her abdomen. vi thinks you’re about to suggest another round, or two, or ten, but instead you untangle yourself from her and say: “we should probably get ready.”

the after party is going well. the club’s busy, the music’s good, and the drinks are flowing.

you seem to be having a great time until someone (probably cait or maddie, on cait’s behalf) lets it slip that the band’s heading to london later in the month to start recording their new album before the end of the year….something vi decidedly did not want to tell you until later tonight, after the high of the proposal, after she’s promised you that she’s dedicated to this relationship, that she’s always been dedicated to you. 

instead, vi’s trailing behind you as you angrily stomp towards the bathroom, her mind scrambling to come up with a way out of this argument.

there’s a line, but you cut in front and slip inside as soon as someone walks out. 

“wait, what the fu —”

you slam the door and lock it behind you once you’re both inside, ignoring the subsequent banging and jiggling of the handle.

“please, baby, let me explain —”

“i can’t fucking believe you,” your voice is steady, measured, and for some reason that makes vi even more nervous. “you give empty promise after empty promise that you’ll be more present, but something always gets in the way, is always more important than —”

“don’t you dare say that you’re not important to me. i offer to fly you out anywhere to be with me, but you’ve only taken me up on the offer once. twice, now.”

“it’s been five years, vi. five years of us staying together because….god, at this point i don’t even know why — ”

“do you not understand how much i love you?” vi raises her voice over the sound of the club music outside. “i was gonna propose tonight.”

you stare at her, then start to laugh.

“please tell me you’re joking.”

“i’m not.”

“if you think marriage will save us, then you’re delusional. what was your plan — call me your wife while we’re thousands of miles apart, but not even have the time to answer my calls? we’re barely in a relationship now, vi. all that’s left between us are missed calls and voicemails —” 

“oh that’s really all that’s left between us?” 

“i love you, violet. i have since we were kids. but, now, there’s also all this — the parties, the crowds, the fame….you’ve gone all over the world, and you can’t even be bothered to visit your family during the holidays.”

“well i’m sorry that my ambitions are bigger than that nothing town we grew up in,” vi snaps. “i can’t believe you’re throwing a tantrum because i’m not making it home for christmas. for what? so we can all reminisce by the fireplace, pretend that we can be kids again, even though things can —” vi chokes back a sob, soothes it with a healthy dose of anger. “things can never be the same. you need to grow the fuck up.”

“maybe you should be the one to grow up!” you finally yell. “convincing yourself that this relationship is working, meanwhile you’re running away from everything and everyone you grew up with because it reminds you of your —”

“at least i’m not afraid to actually go after my dreams,” vi cuts you off before you can finish that sentence, uses the broken shards of your words against you. “don’t you want more for your life than finger-painting with a bunch of kindergarteners? you’re gonna end up just like your deadbeat mom, going nowhere, drinking yourself to sleep, all alone, with nothing to show for the life you’ve lived.”

as soon as the words leave her mouth, vi wishes she could take them back. you don’t bother swallowing your tears, letting them rush down your cheeks. vi digs her nails into her palms to prevent herself from reaching out and wiping them. it wouldn’t make sense, anyways. she’s the reason you’re crying. 

you take a deep, shaky breath.

“yeah, well, i’m glad that your mom isn’t alive to see what a selfish asshole you’ve become.” there’s a pause, and vi feels her stomach turn at your casual cruelty, your quiet anger. “i’m gonna pack up my stuff and catch the first flight out of here. merry fucking christmas and happy fucking new year. have a nice life.”

vi screams and throws the velvet box against the door you’ve slammed shut behind you. the hot tears that were building in her throat finally boil over. the engagement ring clatters onto the floor.

…..

vi? it’s me. not sure if you’ve blocked my number. i wouldn’t blame you. i know it’s been, like, a year, but it feels weird not hearing your voice for this long, especially around the holidays. well, i guess i could just turn on the radio….it’s not the same, though. anyways, merry christmas. happy new year, too. and….and i’m sorry. 

please come home.

…..

track 5: i’ll be home for christmas by dolly parton 

(winter — now)

karaoke at the last drop used to be one of vi’s favorite christmas traditions, so you decidedly avoided it at all cost since the breakup. vander always tried to convince you to join, but he understood and even made sure to not give you a shift during that time after you started working there at 21. 

you kept the job because, evidently, high school art teachers don’t make a ton of money, and you would one day like to move out of your mother’s house. 

which, as it turns out, might happen sooner rather than later. you applied for this artist residency in new york, and, yeah, you put time and effort and heart into your application, but you were sure that you’d be rejected. while you got your acceptance email this morning, and you were so fucking overjoyed at first, the thought of leaving still terrifies you, so you’ll postpone worrying about that until after the holidays. that’s what they’re for, anyways: a break from reality, a peek into a cozy snow-covered world where everyone is festive and joyous and worry-free.   

right now though, you’re feeling neither festive nor joyous. gert called in sick, and no one else is able to cover for them, so you’re stuck at the last drop on christmas eve, listening to one of your old high school classmates drunkenly fumble the lyrics of darlene love’s ‘christmas (baby, please come home).’

about three verses in, vi walks into the bar with mylo and claggor, flakes of fluffy snow melting into her grayish pink hair. you’re already pouring their drinks before they reach the counter. mylo and claggor offer their sincere appreciation, chattering away as they leave to snag a booth in the corner. vi stares at her drink before grabbing the beer glass. 

“you remember.” 

“are you surprised?”

vi smiles. “no. it’s just nice. cait keeps insisting i order gin martinis instead. says it’s classier.” 

something sour curdles in your stomach. “yeah, well. i’ve always liked you the way you are.”

that probably ended up sounding like you’re still pining after vi (which you’re….not) rather than the bitter comment you intended it to be. 

vi’s soft blue eyes search yours. 

“i better get back to the boys,” she finally says. “maybe sign up for a song or two.”

you’re busy clearing a table when you hear her voice again. actually — a silence fills the bar, and it’s replaced by the lush rumble of vi singing ‘last christmas.’

you watch her as she performs, eyes locked on yours, and it’s over before you know it. you feel like you should go say something to her, but then there are a bunch of excited fans that she has to attend to, signing autographs, taking photos.

as you swallow your disappointment, the normal chatter of the bar resumes. you’re walking back to the kitchen when you feel someone pinch the back of your thigh, right under your ass. you whip around to find that old classmate who butchered a christmas classic an hour or so before (james, you think his name is, from ninth grade science), with the most arrogant smirk.

“hey, gorgeous. my friends and i were just arguing over who should take you home tonight.” he gestures towards a table of guys who look like equally preppy assholes. “i won the chugging contest.”

“good for you,” you say, balancing a tray of empty glasses. “grope someone in here again, and you’ll be sorry you did.” you turn around to get back to work, but james grabs your wrist and stands up abruptly so you’re chest-to-chest.

“i don’t think you understand what i’m offering, baby.” you gag at the nickname and the stench of beer on his breath. you’re a bartender, you’re used to getting hit on, but creeps like this are the worst.

you rip away from his grasp. 

“i’m not interested,” you snap. “and i’m not your baby.”

“listen.” james puts his hands on your shoulders, and if both of your hands were free, you would promptly push him away. everyone’s having a good time and you don’t wanna cause a scene, so you try to think of ways to get this asshole out of the bar and into the snow without much of a fight. “you know, santa might come down your chimney on christmas eve, but if you’ve been a good girl this year i’ll come down your —” 

“there you are!” powder’s voice is loud over the sound of someone singing another generic christmas carol. she knocks into your side, breathless. “sorry we’re late. had some car trouble.”

“well, hello.” he removes his hands from your shoulders, shifts his predatory gaze from you to powder. 

oh, fuck no.

“powder,” you keep your voice steady even if your heart is racing. “go back to the table. i’ll be there in a sec.”

james reaches out for powder, but you punch him square in the jaw before he can so much as touch her, the tray of glasses crashing on the floor. 

james’ flirtatious smile is long gone, replaced with the kind of anger only egotistical, self-important jerks have when they don’t get what they want and they’ve taken a blow to their ego. 

in fact, he’s angry enough to deliver a punch right back to your face.

you hear a crack upon impact, and pain radiates from your nose. you stumble, but powder manages to catch you before you tumble into the broken glass. she holds you as people start yelling. you think that vander rushes over, too, shouting at james to get the fuck out of his bar and never step foot in it again. 

you lick your lips, tasting blood. your ears are ringing, and everything is all a bit fuzzy. powder tries her best, but you slump your body weight into hers and she almost topples over.

“i’ve got her.” vi’s surprisingly calm voice cuts through the chaos. you feel a strong, familiar arm wrap around your waist to steady you. 

somehow, you find yourself in the bathroom, sitting on the counter as vi stands between your legs. she carefully examines your injury, but you notice how she avoids making eye contact. 

you feel your head spinning all over again. maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the fact that the two of you haven’t been this close in a while.

“remember teaching me how to throw a punch?” the question slips past your lips before you can stop it.

vi looks slightly amused, and she finally meets your gaze. “‘course i do,” she hums. “you tried to convince me to help you start an all-female fight club at school.”

a smile creeps onto your face, despite the pain from your nose.

she remembers. 

somewhere within her, vi holds on to fragments of you.

“thank god the principal vetoed it. would’ve been a disaster,” she continues.

vi wipes the blood off your face, the sleeve of her silk red button-down now stained a darker crimson. “how’s your hand?” she asks. 

you flex your fingers. “it’s been better,” you answer, your knuckles slightly aching. “totally worth it.”

vi smiles sadly. “i guess you’ve been the one protecting my sister while i’ve been away.”

while i’ve been away. 

the reminder feels like a stab to the heart. 

vi’s back home, sure, but only for a limited time. 

her fingers graze your cheek, and the breath hitches in your throat.

“you know, i only wanted to start that fight club as an elaborate plan to spend more time together,” you confess, opting to preserve the delicate bubble of nostalgia you’d stumbled into together. “we were each so busy….i had studio, and you were always away at hockey games. it wasn’t realistic in the end, though.”

“i would’ve stayed if you asked,” she tells you, and you wonder exactly what she might be referring to. 

you swallow the lump in your throat. “it’s what you loved, though.”

“but i - i loved you, more. you had to have known that.”

“yeah, well. i loved you, too,” you explain, and it’s clear that neither of you are talking about a lesbian fight club. “whether it was hockey, or music….as long your heart was in it, it was more worth it to let you go, to not stand in the way of your dreams.” 

“you were my dream.”

you scoff, cheeks heating up, and look away. “you probably say that to all the girls.”

“no.” vi guides your chin towards her. “just the one.”

it’s hard to determine who leans in first, but soon enough your lips are on vi’s— messy, urgent. noses bumping together, teeth clacking against each other. she cradles your face in her hands, and you wrap your legs around her waist to bring her closer. you taste beer on her tongue, and maybe a hint of lime, but it’s overwhelmed by the salty, metallic taste of blood stained on your lips. when you run out of air, you pull away. it’s clearer now: you’re not dizzy from the adrenaline, but dizzy from her. vi’s gaze is heavy on yours as she traces your top lip with her thumb.

“vi,” you whimper, itching to kiss her again. 

“you’re still bleeding.”

vi wipes away the blood with the sleeve of her shirt. before either of you can do or say anything more, there’s a knock on the door. vander, wondering if you’re okay and if maybe you could hurry up and get back to work. 

you can’t sleep that night. before, staying up on christmas eve was an elaborate operation to catch santa. now, it’s overthinking a very hot kiss and all the unresolved tension between you and your ex-girlfriend next door. 

logically, you knew that you missed vi, everything about her and who she is, the way you would laugh and argue and make love. but the rush of feeling her tongue licking into your mouth, her body melding into yours after being apart for so long….

you’re scared that she won’t feel the same, but you’re even more terrified of letting the moment slip through both your fingers without at least trying. 

so, you grab your phone, deciding to finally reach out to her, when by some christmas miracle you get a text from her.

she climbs through your window not long after, wearing plaid boxer shorts and a zaun university sweatshirt you’ve been looking for, for about five years. you didn’t bother to change, either, only wearing an oversized shirt. you sit cross-legged on your bed as she waits by the window. vi stares at your chest for a good few seconds, and you remember that you’re wearing one of her band’s concert tees, faded from years of wear. 

“so, um,” vi starts, her voice as soft as the well-worn cotton of your shirt. “we have so much shit to talk about and figure out, but, i, uh, can’t stop thinking about early tonight —”

“vi.” the swarm of butterflies in your stomach is replaced by something more delicate, more urgent. “do you wanna come sit?”

vi swallows thickly, looking between you and the still open window. a winter breeze rushes through. you shiver, thinking she might just turn around and disappear into the cold night. instead, she shuts the window, removes her snow-covered boots, and settles onto the bed next to you.

you place a tentative hand on her cheek, still cold and slightly flushed. she shudders when you run your thumb over the tattoo under her eye.

“i know there’s a lot we have to work through.” you take a deep breath as she shifts closer, suddenly dizzy from the familiar scent of her winter pine old-spice body wash. “right now….right now, i just want you.”

“yeah?” vi smirks, her shyness melting away. she settles a warm hand on your bare thigh. “how do you want me?”

you exhale sharply when her hand travels higher, dull nails scraping at the fabric of your underwear. 

“it’s cute that you’re flustered,” she quips, leaning in even closer. her breath is warm and heavy against your lips. “because i’ve spent so many night replaying all the dirty, nasty things we used to —”

you tug her sweatshirt and pull her back onto the bed, feeling her body solid against yours. the vibration of her groan shudders through your body when you crash your lips onto hers with such hunger, you’d think you had been starving without her. 

“how’s about an encore, superstar?” you drawl. 

you bite your lip hard at how vi nods at you desperately, eyes all dark and lustful.

“you read my mind,” she breathes. by now, her hand has reached the hem of your shirt, and she pushes up the cotton to reveal the supple skin of your stomach. you give her permission to remove it, leaving your top half exposed.

her lips nip and suck down your body until she reaches the waistband of your panties. she pulls it up with her teeth, the elastic snapping back when she lets go. you whine her name, and she looks up at you with dark eyes. 

“can i?” her breath fans over your navel, her nails digging into your hips as she waits for your answer.  

“yes. please.”

you hadn’t meant to sound so desperate, but you could feel vi smirk against your inner thigh before sinking her teeth into it. you whimper, and vi salves her tongue over the area to ease the sting before removing your underwear. she positions your legs over her shoulders for better access to where you need her most.

vi moves her tongue and fingers in all the ways she remembers makes you shake, curl your toes, and grind down on her face. in return, you grip her pink hair, tightly, and utter praise in all the ways you remember makes her shake. 

“just like that, pretty girl,” you encourage, practically melting into the mattress. it feels so good — dangerously good, intoxicating, even — to be devoured by vi.  “keep doing a good job and i’ll return the favor later.”

vi’s moan vibrates throughout your body and she becomes faster, reaches her tongue deeper, bringing you over the edge. she leaves a few more bites on your body on her way up to meet you and when she does, vi’s lips and chin are shining with your release.

you lean forward slightly to lick it up. you ghost your mouth over hers.

“your turn,” you taunt and run your thumb over her tattooed cheek. 

you twist your calf around vi’s leg and flip your positions. she lets out a yelp when her back hits the mattress. once you’re hovering over her, legs and arms on either side of her body, you do what you’re sure you’d never get tired of doing: you kiss her, passionately, deeply. you bite her lip as you pull away. 

there was always a bit of jealousy that gnawed at you, became your very-own shoulder devil that you just couldn’t shake when you were together, no matter how hard you tried. it was no secret that vi was admired by many, that girls around the world were crushing on her, hoping they’d catch her eye, get their chance with her. you never felt like she was yours, and yours alone. 

but you do get a deep satisfaction knowing that right here, right now, you’re the only person who gets to see her like this — pink hair splayed across the pillows like her very own halo, but the rest of her telling a much less-angelic, much more sinister story: her lips swollen and kiss-bitten, her cheeks a devilish shade of red, her eyes dark and lustful and waiting for you to make the next move. 

"you want me to have my way with you?" you whisper, voice honeyed with desire.

vi whimpers, a sound that fuels the fire in your abdomen. "yes."

you practically rip off her sweatshirt, kiss down her jaw, her neck, her exposed chest and sternum down to her stomach. vi lifts her hips from the bed so that you can remove her boxers, and you’re delighted to find nothing else underneath. 

you’re greeted by her glistening pussy. blowing onto her folds, you run your tongue from her hole to her clit, loving how you already feel her slick coating your lips. vi spread her legs even wider, and you take the opportunity to sink two fingers into her cunt. you know her body, as well as you know your own, as well as she knows yours. you flick your gaze up, view slightly blocked by the pink curls of her bush, but you can still picture it — how her eyes roll back, how her mouth opens to release a perfectly delicious gasp.

"god, i've barely touched you and you're already about to cum. did you miss me that much?" you tease, feeling her clench around your fingers. as if you aren’t subtly rutting your hips against the mattress, eager to ease the throbbing between your legs. 

all you get in response is whine. it’s muffled, and you crane your neck upward to see her biting down on her knuckles, so hard you’re worried she might break skin. 

unacceptable.

the rest of the world gets to hear her every day, any time they please. you want to be serenaded by the lyrics of her want, the notes of her desire. all for you and you alone.

with your other hand, you reach up to pinch one of her pierced nipples, always so sensitive. "answer me, violet."

vi props herself up on her elbows to look at you, just as you remove your mouth from her.

"yes!" she sings, practically sobbing. you'd be lying if you said you didn't feel the throbbing between your thighs intensify, hearing the frantic lilt of her voice — like she needs you and only you. "i missed you so fucking much. please, just do something."

at her request, you move up the bed so that the two of you are face to face, one of your hands holding her chin while the other is two fingers deep in her cunt. you add another, just to reveal in the timber of her sultry moan. she tries to bring her hand back, to quiet herself, but you shake your head. 

with your thumb, you trace over her lips, uneven and scarred and imperfectly beautiful. "open." 

vi obeys you instantly. you spit in her mouth, heart racing as you watch her swallow the combination of your saliva and her cum without question.

you continue fucking her with your fingers until she moans, louder and louder as she reaches her peak.

removing your fingers from her pussy, you lock eyes with her as you bring your syrupy fingers to your mouth and suck off her juices. then, you kiss underneath her ear, lips sticking slightly to her skin, and you whisper: "now i know why they say you have the voice of an angel.”

“fuck,” she exhales, the breath turning into a chuckle as you kiss underneath her chin, where you know she’s ticklish.

"one more time for me, okay, pretty girl? i want to feel you against me," you whisper. "i want to watch you fall apart, knowing that i'm the one who makes you feel this good."

vi nods, allowing you to adjust your positions so that your cunts are touching. you start fucking her down into the mattress and she sits up slightly so that your nipples brush against each other, the cold metal of her piercings encouraging the roll of your hips, her nails digging into the curve of your ass to bring you impossibly closer. 

“i missed you too. so fucking much,” you finally admit.  you flick one of the silver rings before leaning down and wrapping your lips around her nipple. 

“i missed these, too,” you add as you release her nipple with a pop, and vi moans. you’re grinning from ear to ear because, holy shit, vi is here and you’re together and you’re both happy, if only at the ecstasy of your silken cunts gliding against each other, at the taste of the other slicking your tongues, as thick as nectar and twice as sweet.

she laughs — love and magic and everlasting bliss — and you have to capture her lips now if you want to swallow the sound. you feel it bounce through your ribcage, awaken something deep within you that you feared was lost to time.

vi thrusts her hips upwards, presses harder against the seam of your cunt until you’re gushing against each other, not quite sure who’s making what mess. 

strings of cum connect you as you remove your body from hers. for a few seconds, you both lay on your backs, staring up at the ceiling and trying to catch your breath. vi drapes an arm over her eyes, chest heaving. 

you throw on some clothes and leave the room, hoping that vi’s still there when you get back.

….

vi worries that if she opens her eyes, she’ll wake up from this dream. 

she’ll be in some uncomfortable bed in london or tokyo or los angeles. the dull ache between her legs would be thanks to some girl who’d be eager to text all her friends and spill all the details about what vi likes in bed, or caitlyn who would tell vi to shave next time, darling, or i won’t let you fuck me again anytime soon.

instead, vi hears the creak of a door opening, feet tiptoeing along the floorboards. the mattress shifts with the weight of someone between her legs, though their body is not touching hers. 

“vi, baby,” a gentle coaxing, a familiar voice, pulling towards something she forgot she needed. her heart soars when she finds you kneeling on the bed, holding a damp towel in one hand and a glass of water in another. 

“yeah?” her voice is hoarse, but her throat doesn’t sting in the same way it does after a concert. it feels tender, well-used, well-loved.

you hold out the cup of water, watch vi eagerly gulp down half of it before she realizes what she’s done.

“shit, i — did you want some?”

you smile and shake your head. “i had some downstairs after my shower.” it’s then that vi registers the water dripping from the ends of your hair, soaking the fabric of her (fine, your) sweatshirt. “i’m gonna clean you up. is that okay?”

vi nods.

okay? okay? vi thinks she might have whiplash. 

it’s been a while since someone has fucked her so well she’d be satisfied for years and then touched her so tenderly afterwards. you run the damp cloth over vi’s sticky, sweaty skin, occasionally leaning down to press soft lips where you’d left teeth marks and bruises before. 

“there.” you throw the cloth on the floor. “so, um. do you wanna stay….?” 

you bite your lip as you wait for vi to answer. you start picking at your nail polish, too. vi sits up and grabs your hand. 

“i do,” she soothes. “do you want me to?”

your smile brightens the entire room and you kiss vi before muttering:

“i do.”

vi slips on her boxers as you settle into the bed next to her, leaving her top half bare. she notices the sketchbook on your bedside table, and she lifts it up at you, a silent question if she can flip through. you take it from her as you shift to sit between her legs, her chest warm against your back. the room’s only illuminated by the string of multicolored christmas lights you’d left on, but vi can see the talent, the passion behind your work as you walk her through your sketchbook. you tell her about the techniques you’ve been working on and new mediums you want to explore, about how you want to make the kind of art that makes people appreciate the beauty in the everyday. 

“i always loved your art,” she muses. vi cranes her neck slightly, places a kiss on your shoulder then one on your cheek. “the world would be more beautiful if you shared it.”

you hum and place the sketchbook on your bedside table. you each shift to your sides, facing each other; vi notches a leg around your hips, and you throw an arm around her waist, fingers trailing down her tattooed back. 

“ekko talked to you, huh?”

“i would have said that even if he hadn’t,” vi promises. “so….have you heard anything yet?”

“well….yeah,” you sigh, smiling shyly. “i got in, actually.” 

“really? that’s amazing, baby.” she beams at you, excitedly cupping your face in her hands, leaving small kisses across your cheeks until you’re giggling. 

“okay, okay,” you laugh. “i don’t know if i’m gonna go yet.”

vi hums knowingly. she presses her forehead against yours. 

“i know you’re scared, baby,” she says softly. “but sometimes it’s just a leap of faith.” 

“i know.” you pause, gnawing at your bottom lip while your eyes fixate on the scar on her upper lip. “can i ask you something?

“anything.”

“when you proposed to me….” her body tenses up, but you brush your hand over her bicep and the tension in her muscles dissipates. “was that a leap of faith? like, were you scared?”

“well, not at first.” she takes a shuddery breath, her voice suddenly small. “i always thought that we’d be together….i just didn’t think through how we’d make it work, i guess. i didn’t mean to mess things up, though.”

“hey.” vi leans into the hand you cup around her cheek. “we both messed up. we never actually talked, you know? but….i’m glad we are, now.” you swallow. “i still love you, vi.”

vi exhales. “you know, girls tell me that they love me pretty much every day.” 

you can’t help it — you roll your eyes, and vi laughs. because, truthfully, her heart has felt more full at your admission of love just now than it ever has for an area of screaming fans.

“there’s a point to this, i promise,” she says, nudging her nose against yours. “i used to get such a thrill from it….but then i think about what you said earlier. my heart — it’s just not in it anymore. all the band is now is drama and gossip and compromises of fame over art, and…. i don’t know. it’s not really what i want anymore. i want to be with you. for real, this time.”

you blink at her; she can feel your chest pulsing against hers like a hummingbird.

“would you, um, if i were to take that leap of faith and do that artist residency, would you —”

“anywhere you wanna go,” vi promises. she thinks about it a bit more….how nice it’s been to be home for the holidays, how nice it would be to come home year round.  “preferably close enough so we can have dinner at home on the weekends.” 

“sounds like a plan,” you smile.

the two of you twist closer underneath the flannel sheets, sink into the mattress, and gaze up at the faded glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to your ceiling until you fall asleep in each other’s arms.

you jolt awake a few hours later, several firm knocks on the door and ekko shouting:

“it’s christmas! get the fuck up before ziggy eats all the bacon!”

beside you, vi protects you from the frosty winter morning. her body radiates warmth, and her eyes flutter open, ever so slightly, as you gently shake her shoulder. 

she groans, turning on her back, rubbing sleep from her eye. 

“i better go.” 

“....yeah.”

you flush when you glance over as vi’s slipping on her sweatshirt, rose-petal bruises delicate across her skin. she opens the window, hair still mussed up, and a gust of frigid air rushes into the room. 

the image is so familiar: vi, one leg in your room and another out the window. you feel like a teenager again, scrambling to get dressed and avoid anyone hearing that you’d snuck your girlfriend into your room late at night. but there’s something else now, too — you imagine this becoming routine: waking up next to each other every day, swapping clothes, kissing over coffee and pancakes at breakfast. a place where the two of you might create some new memories, build a shared life together. and much more, so much more that feels like it could be your reality, sooner rather than later. 

you’re so deep in thought that you don’t notice vi rushing back towards you. she kisses you and kisses you, until your lungs are burning.

"merry christmas, baby,” she mumbles against your lips.

you grin back at her. “merry christmas, vi.”

....

hi baby, i know you’re at studio right now, but i forgot to ask you this morning: how do you feel about sending out holiday cards this year? i know they’re kind of cheesy, but it seems like the type of thing married couples might do…..

anyways, we’ll talk about it when you get home. i’m test-driving this new recipe for brussel sprouts to bring to dinner at my dad’s. 

i’ll see you later. love you!

[differenteagletragedy]

Simon x SingleMomReader, Part Four! Thank you for reading and commenting and being so nice, I love it here <3

Part One - Part Two - Part Three

Weeks went by, and little by little, piece by piece, Simon begins learning you. Your last name, the one you share with Charlie and Emma, your birthday, your favorite food.

Bigger things, too -- how Charlie was a surprise in a not-so-great relationship with a man who'd left and come back, sworn up and down that he'd changed just long enough for another surprise to come in Emma, and who'd left again soon after.

He doesn't just hope for random run-ins with you at the park now, either. He has your number, and you have his. Sometimes you invite him over for dinner, sometimes Charlie grabs the phone and begs him to come play, but more and more, he's finding himself at your house.

One day, Simon talks to Charlie at the dinner table while you're giving the baby a bath, and the scene is so domestic it almost hurts, the way some bit of sweetness can cause a toothache if it hits just right. You and he haven't talked more about his feelings for you or whether you share them, but that's fine by him. You trust him now, enough to let him tend to your son or hold your daughter, and that means everything to him.

"You wanna hear a joke?" he asks Charlie, who nods, smiling and ready, so he says, "What do you call a teddy bear who's going bald?"

"I don't know, what?"

"Fred Bear."

Charlie looks at him blankly, big eyes confused. "The bear's name is Fred?"

"No, sounds like threadbare. Fred Bear, threadbare."

"... His name is Thread?"

Simon chuckles, but before he can say anything else, you come out from the hallway, holding baby Emma.

"Is Simon trying to tell more jokes?" you ask Charlie.

"Yeah, but it wasn't funny."

"Aww, they never are, are they, baby?"

You grin playfully at Simon, and even after all the hours he's spent with you and your family, it's like the first time all over again. Except better now -- it's better every time. Because now, he feels like he's actually earning your smiles. Almost like he's worth all the warmth and kindness you've shown him, just by letting him be with you like this.

Next is the bedtime routine, which he's familiar with at this point. Emma, who's been so close to sleeping through the night, you've told him, gets one more feeding and plenty of snuggles before getting placed in the bassinet by your bed, while Charlie gets an equal amount of snuggles, as long as he'll sit still for them, and a bedtime story after he's all tucked in.

Simon helps out where he can, or when he's confident enough in whatever placed he's carved out in your family to offer, but often he stays back, cleaning up after dinner or straightening up the living room.

He's in the kitchen now, working through the dishes, when you come in, kid-free and trusty baby monitor in your hand. By the look on your face, he knows what you're about to say, and he tries to nip it in the bud.

"Don't need the 'you don't have to do this' speech tonight, love, I've heard it enough I can recite it by heart now."

"But you don't," you tell him, leaning against the counter by the sink, close enough that he can feel your warmth when he puts a clean dish in the drainer. "You know you can just come and hang out, you don't have to do my cleaning for me."

He smiles, glancing up at you, and says, "You want to say my part now or should I?"

You roll your eyes, taking a soapy dish from him so you can rinse it yourself, and pitch your voice as low as it can go, mocking him as you say, "'Know I don't have to, I want to, I’m a very large, very tough man and a sink full of dirty dishes and a bin full of dirty nappies is no match for me.’”

"That's what I sound like, is it?"

You laugh, bumping his hip with yours, and continue with the silly voice.

"'My name is Simon, I tell awful jokes and am very mysterious, but if you need a nap and have a four-year-old who won't slow down for two seconds, I'm your guy.'"

It's all very silly, but very cute, and he can't keep the smile off his face. You keep opening up to him more and more, and every new thing he sees from you, even dumb little moments of levity like this, make him fall even harder. It's such a stark contrast to the woman he met that first day, the one who trusted him only because she had to and lied about having a husband so he might think twice about hurting her.

Even then, he would have died before hurting you, but now?

"I am, you know," he says quietly, handing you another dish.

"You are what?"

"Your guy."

To him, it's just a fact. Of course he's yours. But you look at him with widening eyes, not all that different than the look Charlie gives him when he fixes the persistently leaky faucet or carries all the groceries home so you can carry the baby and hold the boy's hand -- like he's doing something magical when he's just doing something that he knows should be done. It's too much, to be held in such high regard. To feel this important.

With careful hands, still warm and damp from the water from the sink, he grips your waist. When you don't push him away, he gently lifts you to sit on the counter in front of him, closer to eye level. And when, miraculously, you still seem good with what's happening, he leans in.

Simon wants to go fast, because he knows how much he needs this -- how much he needs you, just like this, sleepy after a full day and happy with a full life and right there in his arms -- but he doesn't. He moves in slowly, giving you ample time to stop him, but you don't. Instead, you lift your hands to his shoulders and pull him in to close the distance between you.

It's a soft kiss, but one full of the wanting he's been feeling for months now, and as you move your lips against his, he can feel a bit of your wanting too. It's enough to pull a low grunt from his throat, one that spills from his mouth and into yours as you part your lips to deepen the kiss.

He'd always known that if he ever got the chance to kiss you, it would be good -- he could never see a way that it wouldn't be. But actually doing it, tasting you in more than just his dreams, was so much more than he ever imagined. He loses himself in it, just a bit, his hands only just slipping under the hem of your shirt to feel your smooth skin.

When he feels your fingers grasping at his shoulders, an adorable, almost anxious little attempt at pulling him closer, he scoots you to the edge of the counter so that his chest is flush against yours. The kiss turns hungrier, deeper.

Then the baby cries.

It's a sharp sound through the monitor paired with the muffled sound from the down the hall, and you pull away, breathless and flushed.

"Sorry," you say softly, giving his shoulders one more squeeze before hopping off the counter. "I, um ... just stay, ok? I'll be right back."

He lets out a breath as he watches you hurry down the hall to your bedroom where baby Emma is wailing, trying to wrap his head around the situation.

Through the baby monitor, he hears you softly soothing your daughter. He can't make out every word, but the love and care in your tone is clear. He sees the goodness in you every time he's with you, a softness unlike anything he's never known, and it's intoxicating. It's dizzying, someone like you letting someone like him get so close. It makes him feel like he's falling and flying all at once, like he wants to claw at his own skin just to get his hands on the part of you that buzzes through him. It's too much to keep inside him, as big and broad as he is. Too much to bear, all this longing.

All this love.

Simon hears a lullaby through the baby monitor, and sharp cries that turn into little whines before things go silent. A moment later, he hears your feet padding softly down the hall, then there you are in the doorway of the kitchen, hands on your waist and a question in your eyes.

His answer, of course, is "yes." An unequivocal, unrelenting yes, to any question, to anything you want or will ever want from him.

PART FIVE - PART SIX - PART SEVEN - PART EIGHT

[viridescentelf]

Yandere elf x reader - Valentine’s Day

happy valentine‘s day y‘all 👽

Silas Character and Art belongs to @meo-eiru pls go to her and tell she‘s the queen of yandere

since so many peeps asked for more Silas smut, here‘s him „cleaning“ you. Don‘t know how lore accurate this is so pls forgive me if i missed something! i also didn‘t really proof-read so oops 😶‍🌫️

Warnings: 18+, dubcon, noncon, oral sex, general nsfw

—————

His long tongue lapped up your sweet and sour juices. You squirmed, both from the explosive pleasuring scale and his firm grip on your wrists.

You had been telling him about the concept of Valentine‘s Day (some true and untrue things because you could), as he thought it was only humans named Valentine that could celebrate their love on this manufactured holiday. Understanding that it meant showing love to anyone you feel deeply towards - even mothers - Silas hurried to remedy his misunderstanding.

You had never seen the elf change that quickly before. He had adorned some kind of elven festive garb and placed several beautiful flowers in his own and your hair (you watched him from the window scurry around the garden to find them), weaving the stems neatly (and fast) into your strands.

He then asked what humans traditionally did on Valentine‘s Day. You mentioned flowers, chocolates and date nights - trying to skirt around the topic of sex - by using the word „cuddling“. It was something you didn‘t really mind with him, he was extremely cozy to lean into, his soft muscles giving ample cushioning, even if he didn‘t let go of you unless you needed to pee.

Your eyes had followed Silas running into the kitchen and frantically throwing ingredients together to make pralines and chocolates. The house smelled amazing. He hectically returned to the living room where you were reading, chocolate smeared all over his dopy face, to ask if you preferred strawberry or raspberry. You had only gotten to „rasp-„ before he quickly turned to finish his craft.

You had thought this wasn‘t half bad. It was really entertaining watching him cook, bake and decorate with the speed of a doom‘s day dad preparing for the end of the world.

A few hours had passed. Silas had picked you up from the couch and carried you quickly to the dinner table, where he had lit so many candle that you had to blink rapidly through the blinding light. The chocolates were all individually wrapped and adorned with sweet messages. The food he cooked looked amazing, but it was frankly hard to see all of the details through the flickering little fires. Silas placed you on his lap and fed you everything, beyond your stomach‘s ability and despite you saying that you were full.

Feeling woozy from the excess food, you lay catatonic in his arms as every squeeze within the cuddle session made you even more nauseous.

„My darling! I love you I love you I love you I love you!“

He peppered kisses on you as you tried to focus on not throwing up. His kisses helped, whatever was in his weird saliva simultaneously healed you while you knew he was trying to prepare you for what he wanted next.

He hadn‘t cleaned you yet. You had tried to distract him with various other Valentine‘s Day traditions (some of which you made up, like how the greatest act of love is having to do an interpretive dance outside with twigs in your mouth which you watched with absolute glee), but he never missed this part of the day regardless of how hard you tried to get him off schedule. He was relentless that way.

You were still too full to move. He knew this.

Laying you out on the bed, you watched him remove your trousers and underwear. The ravenous glare in his eye always threw you off, every time. It was so menacing and filled with what felt like eons of pent up desire that it shut you up instantly.

His green eyes shimmered as he saw you leaking already, ready for him because of his aphrodisiac sputum and whatever else he added to your meal and chocolates.

He never really told you what he gave you.

What would it matter? You couldn‘t stop him anyway.

Silas‘s head lowered and you instinctively raised your arms to try to push his head away. He grabbed them so fast and held them down onto the soft mattress, that your arms sank deeper into the cushioning.

„There, there…let mama clean you up…“

His grip didn‘t hurt, but it was like cement blocks lying on top of your hands. There was no way you could get them out.

He kissed you. Your body squirmed slowly in response, because it just felt so marvelous. The tongue wreathed out of his smiling lips and traced you, mapping out its course. Your back arched expectingly, but he took his time, breathing his temperate air onto you - warning of the incoming impact.

Silas’ long tongue punched into you and you let out a deep rooted moan you had never heard yourself make before. It snaked through your walls like the invader it was and you felt his hands shake with his own pleasure.

He lapped everything up, your water flooding out of you uncontrollably without a stop in sight.

His mouth wrapped around you and sucked gently, every pop from the release making your spine curl even further. The stinging tingling clenching fiercely and surrounding your entire lower body, every lick, kiss and suction pushing your further.

You climaxed many times, from the penetration and from his feverish licking, every new flick causing your hips to convulse furiously.

He was saying something, but you couldn‘t hear with dark moans escaping your throat. He quickly returned to his task, letting you grow weaker with every orgasm.

You knew hours passed, because the light from the window was dimming. He had feasted on you for so long that the mattress was soaked.

Finally letting up, happy with his cleaning job, he pulled you up into a seated position while his growth pointed like a dagger at your face, his tall stature looming over you.

He huffed, as his giant hand caressed your cheek. Your exhausted eyes stared up at him.

„M-milking time darling…“

[noremii]

Love Me Right (M)

synopsis: your heart shatters when you find out your husband is cheating on you with another woman. as revenge, you begin a scandalous relationship of your own with the mistress' husband.

word count: 12K+

warnings: cheating, unprotected sex, wall sex, cum eating, fingering, slight exhibitionism, oral (m & f receiving, some questionable actions by characters, softdom!jaemin, big dick jaem

(not proofread)

As the years passed, you failed to notice the lack of attention your husband was giving you. Late nights filled with warm cuddles turned into plenty of excuses of being tired and stressed from work. Your husband giving you just a kiss to the cheek before pulling the sheets over his shoulders and closing his eyes. Yet you refused to think something was wrong. "He's just tired from work" you'd tell yourself every time you had the sour feeling of fear stirring in your gut that your husband was starting to love you less and less everyday.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　☽༓･*˚⁺‧

Getting married was the happiest day of your life. The excitement you felt the day the prettiest white wedding dress hugged your body was forever imprinted in you head, not being able to hold back a smile whenever you were reminded by the fact you married the love of your life. Every night was filled with childish giggles, snuggling and never ending kisses every where. It was a fairytale life for you.

It was only a while later your husband started acting more giddy. He'd come home from work to greet you with a childish smile, pressing a long kiss to your cheek and mumbling compliments before heading off to shower. You thought things were finally getting better. Maybe he got a promotion? Maybe he was praised by his boss more. Whatever is was, a wave of relief washed over you after that.

"Babe, get ready by 7pm, we're having dinner with a colleague of mine" Your husband said to you one day. "Dress nice, we're going to a pretty fancy restaurant" He says with a dazed smile as he looked through his closet, finding his best suit. You sat in bed, sheets pulled over your legs and a fashion magazine open in your hands. "Oo, what's the occasion and who's this colleague of yours?" You ask. "She's my project partner. We're working together on this project that's going really well with a bunch of other people. I invited the others but they were all busy" Then he turns to look at you with a grin, the suit he was looking for held in one hand. It was ironed beautifully thanks to you. "She's amazing. I can't wait for you to meet her"

You only smiled.

☆

Upon arriving at this fancy looking Italian restaurant, you notice your husband's eyes darting all over the place in search of his colleague. His eyes almost glimmered when he saw her. Your gaze followed his until they landed on the infamous woman your husband had been mumbling about. She was drop dead gorgeous, and part of your self esteem dropped dead in your stomach. You hide the deep inhale you took when you saw her. Like you used to, endless words of comfort flooded your head in attempts to drown out the fear, doubt and over thinking in your head. Thankfully for you, it did in fact manage to calm your nerves down.

"Sejun!" the woman exclaimed happily when the two of you walked closer. Both your husband and her opened their arms for a quick embrace, the smile you had feeling more forced as you wonder if this is a normal thing for coworkers to do. You glanced at her partner, noticing the tint of worry in his eyes that were the same as yours.

Sat next to your husband's colleague was a well dressed man. His hair styled perfectly to bring out the charm of his face. His eyes were just as sparkly as the woman's. Noticing the protective hand that was placed on her lap, you could only assume this man was her boyfriend or even husband.

"I'm y/n" you introduce, smile smaller now as you extend your hand towards his for a handshake - much more normal, you think.

"Jaemin" he introduces in return, reciprocating your friendly smile.

When your husband and his coworker finally let go after what felt like forever, all of you took a seat. You sat opposite of Jaemin while your husband sat opposite his coworker.

"Oh, my name is Hyejoo by the way" she says as if finally acknowledging your presence. Her hand extends towards you and you take it in for the handshake. Her hand yanked away from yours just a second after contact, almost as if she didn't want to be touching you. Your heart sours, feeling weird.

The dinner goes on as it should with Hyejoo and your husband eagerly ordering all the enticing looking dishes that none of you have seen nor tried before. Every so often, you and Jaemin would glance at each other, not very sure what to say to each other or how to act. It felt as though the two of you were kids, forced to sit across from each other as your mums talked away.

"Do you know what project they're working on?" you ask Jaemin with an awkward chuckle to finish your sentence. He responds with an equally awkward smile, shaking his head. "Said it was some big company project too complicated for her to explain. Just told me it was very important" You nod, not knowing what to say next.

Even when the food arrived, placed in front of you with delicious steam floating in the air, not even once did your husband acknowledge you or your food. He didn't ask what you were eating, if he could try a bite. He only thanked the waiter, immediately going back to his conversation with Hyejoo. You looked down, playing with your fingers.

"Hey, you okay?" Jaemin asks when he notices your strange behavior. You force a smile and Jaemin almost believed it. "I think I just had a cramp"

When dinner finally comes to an end and Hyejoo calls it a night, you resist the urge to scream in relief when you feel like your husband wrap an arm around your waist and bid Hyejoo goodnight. Similarly, Jaemin had a hand around Hyejoo's waist, the small barely there smile on his face looking more annoyed and forced the longer you stared. You could almost see him burning your husband with his eyes, jaw getting tense the longer the it took for the two of them to finally stop talking and part ways. The final goodbye leaves their lips after what felt like forever and Jaemin glances over to you, the smile on his face turning from forced to more genuine when he nods his head towards you, that being his own way of saying goodnight. You reciprocate the action and all of you go home.

☆

Honestly, you thought that dinner would be the end of things. You had already met the girl, what else did you have to do? Well apparently, a lot of visiting. Sejun insisted on heading over to Hyejoo's place at least twice a week so that they could have more time to discuss the project. When you asked him why he just had to go to her place to work instead of leaving it till the next day at the office, all he said was "Well, I didn't want you to feel jealous so I thought you might as well come along with me"

You didn't know how to feel about that answer. Some part of you said, aww he cares about my feelings. While the other part of you wanted to hack into his brain and see what was really going on. Were you just overreacting or was this just a really weird thing?

The first time you went over to her place, you hated yourself for being so impressed by the designing of her home. The decor was top tier and her house was absolutely spotless, not a single thing out of place.

"How about a house tour?" She claps happily. "Then I'll start preparing our dinner for tonight"

"That sounds like a great idea!" Sejun responds with a big grin. "You did some reno recently too right? " She hums back in delight. Hyejoo gives a fantastic house tour and when you check your phone, your brows furrow in surprise seeing how it too almost 40 minutes to look around her house. "God I didn't think a house tour would be so tiring" you say with a soft laugh to Sejun while Hyejoo was busy searching her closet for something. "If you're tired you can go rest" He replies, snatching away the little smile you had. His reply was monotone, saying it as if it was dumb of you to not have backed out of the tour midway when you got tired. "Yeah.. " you try to laugh it off but the silence somehow only got louder and louder. "I'm gonna just.. " you point to the direction of the kitchen. When you receive no reply or reaction from Sejun, you just walk away, shoulders slumped and heart souring.

In the kitchen, Jaemin was on his phone munching away on some almonds and quietly laughing at whatever he was looking at. Hearing the footsteps coming closer towards him, he looks up with a glimmer in his eyes and a wide grin. Though both of those sparks slowly die down when he realizes it's only you. "Oh hi y/n." He says, "Done with the tour already?"

You shake your head, taking a seat in front of him. "No, I got tired and thought it'd be a genius idea to go rest since my I'm just so tired" You say almost mockingly with a roll of the eyes. Jaemin, not knowing if he should ask what's up or keep quiet, solves all his problems by sliding over his bowl of almonds to you. "Nuts?"

...

"Alright I hope you guys love steak because I'm great at cooking i- aw shucks" Hyejoo's voice turns poutier when she opens her refrigerator to find a lack of meat. "I thought I bought some just a few days ago" she murmurs. "Jaemin, didn't I buy some steak just two days ago?" She turns around to look at her husband, one hand on her hip and her lips downturned into a pout.

"I think you bought chicken, honey" Jaemin replies. You could see the softness in his eyes as he looked at his wife and you almost envied her. Glancing over to your own husband, you wondered when was the last time he even looked at you that way. "I did? Aw man, I have to go buy some steak now!" Hyejoo exclaims. "Why don't you just use what you've already bought? Saves you the hassle of going out to buy it again' Jaemin says. " I promised Sejun I'd cook him my signature steak. I've been bragging about it all week." Hyejoo replies while grabbing her purse. "Sejun, can you follow me to the supermarket to get some steak? Maybe we can go get some extra stuff for dinner too"

Jaemin's jaw drops open a little, getting out of his seat. "Why don't I just follow you, Hye"

Hyejoo looks up at him and places a tender hand to his cheek. "You stay here with y/n okay? Can't have a stranger all alone in our house" She jokes with a laugh. "No Offense y/n, you're a lovely girl"

You don't even reply, only throwing her an awkward nod and chuckle, trying to make it look like you actually found her lousy joke funny.

"Come on Jun, let's hurry!" Hyejoo grabs onto your husband and pulls him out of the house without another word. "We'll be right back!" you hear her say before the door slams shut and it's locked.

You look over at Jaemin who looks just as defeated as you.

"So... " you begin with an awkward tone, walking over to Jaemin who had his tongue poking at his cheek with an annoyed glare. His glare wasn't towards you yet you could feel the fire burning from his eyes. He was no doubt jealous, and understandably so. You were jealous too. "This is totally normal right?" you ask, taking a seat by the gorgeous marble island, not too far from Jaemin who had slumped into his seat at the dining table.

"I don't know" He mumbles, voice deep and hoarse, not quite in the mood for anything at that point. "I don't have group projects with my colleagues"

"As a gal that works under the marketing department like them... there are times where group projects take a lot of time. Just to make sure everything goes smoothly, y'know?"

Now, Jaemin sits ups right, both hands slamming against the table not in anger, but to make a point.

"This doesn't feel like a project to me. How is this a formal, proper work project if only two members are working on it? This isn't high school where the rest of your group can just laze around while two people work hard on the project"

Getting up, you head over to the dining table and sit across from Jaemin who started looking tenser by the second. "We shouldn't worry too much. There's probably an explanation to all this. After all, they're working under Neo Corp, everyone is crazy busy all the time"

Jaemin lets out a deep exhale, eyes falling shut. "Yeah, you're probably right. I'm just overreacting"

As you provide more words of comfort to the male in front of you, you begin to wonder just how much of your own words you believe.

...

"Seriously? Macarons are way too sweet. I think something like strudels are a much better tea time snack" You reply to Jaemin, the both of you somehow ending up in a long debate about the superior kind of dessert as a way to distract the both of you from your spouse's long work project. "I just love sugar" Jaemin answers with a shrug.

"We're back!" the door opens revealing an excitedly Hyejoo at the back. She almost looked giddy as she held up a plastic bag with steak in it. "Who's ready to have the best steak of their life!"

You and Jaemin look over at each other before raising your hands. "Me"

...

Hyejoo's steak was mouth watering. You and Sejun left the house feeling sleepy and full. Your tongue rolled around in your mouth, desperate to find any remaining flavour from the steak. Even the tiniest hint of residue in your mouth had you humming in delight.

The door to your home closes with a light slam. You stretch and yawn, yearning for the warmth of your bed and your husband. As you finish brushing your teeth and hopping into your bed with your husband following behind, you finally ask him a question that lingered in your head since your earlier conversation with Jaemin.

"Sejun" you begin, your husband humming in response to the call of his name as he slips under the covers next to you. "Why is it that only you and Hyejoo are working so hard on this project together? How about your teammates" You curl up against his arm, the male leaning against you and placing a gentle hand on your head. "Hyejoo and I are the brains of the project. We're in charge of planning everything out, and once we're done with that, the others help to arrange everything. Make sure everything makes sense and looks good. Then we have a final meeting to finalize everything. Am I worrying you by working with Hyejoo too much?"

His calming voice was like poison in your mind. Your eyebrows furrow sadly and you pout, nodding at his question.

"Ngaw.. " he twists his body so that he's able to press a tender kiss to your head. "I'm sorry I made you feel that way, baby. But you don't have to worry about anything okay? Hyejoo is just my colleague. Plus... at the end of the day, I have a gorgeous wife waiting for me at home. I always look forward to that." His words as you sniffling happily, cuddling into him further and throwing a leg over his thighs.

"Thanks for the reassurance" you murmur.

"Of course" He places a hand under your chin, making you look up at him. "I love you" He presses a kiss to your lips. The kiss prolongs, tongues are intertwining with each other and soon enough, he's hovering above you, hand slowly tracing down to your pants.

...

Visits to Hyejoo's place become uncommon for you now. You felt as though your relationship with your husband was going back to normal, and what's even better was that you were forming a pretty lovely friendship with Jaemin. The both of you finding new shared hobbies at every meeting.

"You can cook??" You say with a gasp, Jaemin throwing the cockiest smile and waving a hand at you. "Not gonna brag but, I'm an amazing chef. I had a roommate back in college. That guy wakes me up at 3am everyday just to make him some eggs to satisfy his weird midnight cravings. Kinda fell in love with cooking after that. " Jaemin lets out a chuckle. "Lucky bastard... He got to eat gourmet food as u started learning how to up my egg cooking game. And now I'm here, cooking premium meats every other week"

"Well if you're really the shit, how bout you make some gourmet meal right now" You challenge.

"Sure" Jaemin shrugs, getting out of his seat. "What do you want? Meat? Rice? Pasta?"

Before you can even answer, he's already opening the fridge. "Ah, how about truffle pasta. I'm great at making that. I think you'll love it" He doesn't even turn around to see if you agree, instead taking out everything he needed to make the dish.

Soon enough, Jaemin is washing vegetables, cutting ingredients, preparing to prove to you just how great he is at cooking. Watching him dice onions and garlic with crazy impressive knife skills made your heart dance. Men who could cook will always be insanely attractive to you. And Jaemin fit that standard perfectly. Your own husband had always refused to talk about cooking. Constantly changing the topic before you even get to mention it. Not gonna lie, it pissed you off sometimes but when he said he only felt that way because he was always nagged by his mother and grandmother to cook, you huffed and let it slide.

Watching Jaemin cook was hypnotizing. With every move he made, you could see clearly how he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Bon apetit, madam" he says, laying the beautifully plated truffle pasta in front of you. Your jaw drops at the sight. Presentation was top tier and the smell of it was mouth watering. Something twitched in your chest when you looked up to see him with a cocky smirk on his face. "What are you waiting for? Have a taste" He says. You pick up the fork, twirling the pasta and taking a bite. Needless to say, you almost cried and Jaemin was pumping his fists in the air declaring victory.

...

It was yet another day at Hyejoo's house. Both she and your husband were upstairs in her mini office discussing marketing strategies and new never used ideas. Downstairs, you were with Jaemin watching a scary movie. Just to up the fear factor, you guys watched an Indonesian horror movie. While you were accustomed to the horror style of Southeast Asian horror films, Jaemin was not. With every suspenseful move from the main character, Jaemin was flinching. "Why are the houses in horror films always so dark?" he complains with a grimace, hands twitching about anticipating something big to happen.

"Na Jaemin being a scaredy cat for horror movies was not in my bingo card" you laugh. "Oh, shut up" he replies, sending a smack to your arm right after making you burst out in silent laughter. Your attempts at laughing quietly fail horribly when a jump scare finally happens and Jaemin practically jumps in his seat, buff and heavy body making the couch screech against the floor by barely an inch. "Holy fuccckkk" Jaemin groans out with a hand to his chest, feeling the rapid thumping of his heart beat under his palm. His reaction had you falling on your side curled up into a ball, kicking your feet and you desperately tried to conceal your never ending giggling behind your hand.

"Oh you think that's funny huh" Jaemin says.

You're about to laugh out a yes until Jaemin is attacking you with tickles, jabbing you at sensitive areas as payback for you laughing at his misery. You're kicking at him, trying to pry him off you. One final kick has him losing his balance and he manages to save himself from crashing into you by planting a firm hand next to your head. Na Jaemin was now hovering above you and worst of all, your heart was thumping fast - a bit too fast for your liking. There was nothing but silence between the both of you, but neither of you made a move to get out of this strange, not very appropriate position. You noticed how Jaemin's eyes were slowly examining every feature on your face, and when your own eyes trail down from his eyes to his lips, you see him gulp.

The sound of the upstairs door creaking open and muffled chattering of your respective spouses has the two of you in panic mode, immediately getting out of that position and sitting far apart from each other on the couch. Your throat went dry and you could almost hear the sound of your own heart thumping out of your chest.

"Oh! You guys are watching a movie? How fun!" Hyejoo exclaims as she walks down the stairs. Noticing the dark lighting and flashing scenes, she shivered, mentioning how she hates horror and the rest of her yapping was drowned out by the loud thumping of your heart. You didn't even realize she was bidding you goodnight until Sejun places a hand on your shoulder saying it was time to go home. Just before you exit, you turn your head hoping to get one last glance at him; and you do, he gives you a small smile accompanied by a wave goodnight.

☆

Since that little situation with Jaemin, you've been haunted by dreams with him as the main character. Romantic visuals and the feeling of warmth hugging your heart with every dream that comes your way has you waking up in cold sweat, concerned of the images your brain was constantly presenting you. There was a guilt swarming your chest because every time you woke up from one of those dreams, you felt happy, feeling the sense of cute young love again. But that was wrong. So, so very wrong. You were a married woman and Jaemin a married man. How can you even think of him that way?

"You okay?" Sejun's question breaks you out of your daydream.

"Yeah" you answer, throwing him an awkward chuckle. "Just been having strange dreams, that's all. Dreamt Leonardo da Vinci was hiding a secret behind the painting in our living room. Felt way too real I almost felt skeptical"

Sejun smiles at you awkwardly. "Have you been watching way too much mystery shows, babe? It might be getting to your head."

"Maybe"

"Anyways," he places his empty coffee mug into the sink, walking towards you only to press a kiss to your head. "I'll be home late today okay? Got a team meeting and who knows, we might head out for some late night beer afterwards"

"Really? Again"

"It's for work babe, you know that"

"Yeah but there's no way you have to have a meeting every day right? Aren't meetings supposed to be spaced out every few days so you can do touch ups and what not before the next meeting?"

Sejun lets out a deep sigh. "It's my job, Y/n. Okay? I'm getting paid to do this, so let me do my job"

"Right, fine. I'm sorry" you Huff, waving him off.

"It's alright. I love you, remember that okay?"

"Mhm, I love you too"

"That's my girl" Fingers are placed under your chin and your head is guided upwards where your husband places a tender kiss to your lips.

...

It was 11.30pm and the tummy grumbles you've been trying to ignore for the past hour had finally gotten to you. Throwing on the prettiest coat you own and a pair of easy slip on sneakers, you head towards the bakery just a few blocks away from your apartment. The pastries there were to die for and it was the perfect snack for such a late hour.

Greeted by the aroma of freshly baked goods, you're practically floating as you grab a tray and start picking out all the best parties they had. Maybe you had gotten too greedy, having at least 3 different fruit danishes and a cream puff just because you wanted something soft and fluffy. You pay up and head towards the exit, but you bump into a meaty figure before you could even grab the door handle to leave.

"Oh my god I'm so sor- Jaemin?" you gasp in surprise when you look up to see the man of your dreams (literally) standing right in front of you, dressed in a black turtle neck and light blue jeans. Such simple clothes yet his charm was as visible as ever. You almost wanted to throw yourself out the window when you remember that you're wearing the biggest shirt known to man kind and draped in a pretty coat that did not match your outfit at all.

"What a coincidence!" Jaemin sings, wide smile plastered on his face. "What are you doing here at such a late hour?"

"Sejun is still out at the office for a meetings" You Huff, crossing your arms. "And I got hungry so I decided to get something to eat."

"Same! Hyejoo is still working and it's really boring at home. My mouth is starting to get bored so I decided to come out and grab a a snack too." Then Jaemin snaps his fingers. You could practically see a light bulb shining brightly above his head. "Why don't we have a drink together? Like coffee or tea while we eat our pastries. Whaddya say?"

The offer was tempting. Terribly tempting. Going home was boring cause you'd only be watching more tv and eating your pastries alone. Having a night time tea time with Jaemin didn't sound like a bad idea. In fact, it sounded like a great idea.

"I'm in"

The male beams, smiling from ear to ear. "Grab a table. I'll order more pastries and some drinks. Just tell me what you want"

Not too long after, you and Jaemin are seated across from each other with a large tray of pastries. There was a hot long black for Jaemin and a hot cocoa for you.

"Isn't this great?" Jaemin asks, picking up his favorite macaron and taking a bite. "Tea time at midnight? Really interesting if I do say so myself, surprised this place is even still open at this hour."

You chuckle, agreeing with him as he takes another bite.

"Hyejoo never does these kind of things with me anymore. All of a sudden, she's the busiest person I know and we're barely spending time together." Jaemin is grabbing another macaron to eat, the glimmer in his eyes fading slightly. "I know this sounds crazy but it almost feels as though we're strangers... it sounds insane because I'm literally married to her. Yet it feels like I'm living with some random girl"

"Hey... It's alright. Things happen y'know? People get busy. But she's just working, nothing to worry about." You tell him.

"But I do worry. " He says. "Feels like she's hiding something from me but I don't have any proof. When I ask, she tells me it's nothing. And when I think too deeply on it, I'm wondering if I'm the problem. Amni doing something wrong? Is that why she's hiding something from me?"

"I don't think she's hiding anything, Jaemin. I don't know. But I too am just trying to be open minded. Marketing does get hectic sometimes..."

Jaemin sighs, grabbing a Danish and terrifyingly, he downs it in one bite - mouth puffing up like a chipmunk.

The heavy mood slowly begins to fade when you compare Jaemin to a chipmunk with his full cheeks. The man, although feeling a heavy weight on his heart cracks a smile.

"Do i?" he asks with full cheeks and you nod with a smile.

Jaemin chews his food properly, chipmunk cheeks gone.

"Aw, chipmunk Jaem has disappeared" you say with a faux pout. "I'll miss him so much  he was kinda cute"

"Oh really?" The mood lightens up fully now. As the night goes on, you and Jaemin continue to joke around, get into more silly debates and talk about your first times doing different things. The heavy mood from earlier had long faded away and Jaemin was feeling much better. There was a happy warmth swarming his chest everytime you smiled and laughed. Each time you giggled, he was determined to see more of it, cracking more silly puns and making weird facial expressions just because it cracked you up so much. For the first time in a while, Jaemin felt free of his own thoughts. There was no worry and fear lurking in his head, just serotonin and silliness.

Eventually, the shop begins to close, meaning it was time to wrap up.

"Tonight was great" Jaemin says. "Though it was only an hour, I had a great time. I don't feel sad anymore. Thanks"

"Pffft" You wave him off. "It was nothing. Just two friends hanging out. But yeah, I had a great time too thanks to you"

As Jaemin debates what to do next before the two of you part ways, he's almost terrified when an image pops into his head and disappears before he could fully register it.

"You can't do that, you're a married man" He screams at himself in his head. When he finally realizes he's been talking to himself for a bit too long,  he snaps out of it and opens his arms. "Hug?"

You agree, almost jumping at his action but you manage to hold back, going in for a normal hug like normal people do. Like normal friends do.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow night? I know they're gonna meet up for the project again at your place"

"Yeah, they are." Jaemin clears his throat. "Then uh, goodnight! Get home safe alright. Oh- you should give me your number so I can make sure you get home safely. I don't know what I'd do with myself if I knew you got hurt"

"Right- uh" Jaemin hands you his phone and you tap your number into his phone.

"Send me a text when you get home alright?" Jaemin says.

"Will do. Night!" You send him a wave and he waves back.

The both of you walk in the opposite direction back home.

As he walks home, Jaemin's mind goes haywire with the image of him kissing you goodnight running through his head, replaying over and over. Meanwhile, you have a hard time shaking off the the memory of embracing Jaemin. His scent and warmth so comforting to you, almost intoxicating.

"What's wrong with me..." The both of you mumble to yourselves.

☆

"11pm.. " you mumble to yourself, leg tapping anxiously against your carpeted floor while your eyes were glued onto the digital clock next to your TV. Hours after your husband's work dinner was supposed to end, he was still no where to be seen. Calls were not being picked up, messages were left on delivered, you were going insane. Bottling up with anxiety and fear, you get up from the couch, grab your keys and drive off to the location of your husband's work dinner.

"Sorry ma'am, they left about 2 hours ago" The cashier tells you and part of you wanted to scream.

"Ah, I see. Thanks" you give the lady a smile and exit. Once back in the car, you fold your arms, head leaned back against the headrest. "Where would they go after a work dinner... " The first answer that came to your mind was Jaemin's house. Maybe after dinner, Sejun and Hyejoo decided to go back and continue working. As you send Jaemin a quick text to ask if they were there, a wave of annoyance flushes through you. But you'd much rather have your husband over at their place than being in danger god knows where.

Jaemin: no, they're not here either. hyejoo isn't picking up my calls too.

Jaemin's answer makes your stomach drop. Well fuck, if they weren't there, where else could they be?

You: I'm gonna go to their office. hopefully they're there, if not I'm seriously gonna file a police report.

Jaemin: I'll head to their office too.

Parking outside the office building, you greet the security guard that you see every day when sending lunch boxes over to your husband.

"Hi, Mr Noh" you greet. "Did you see Sejun? They had a company dinner hours ago and h3 isn't picking up my phone calls"

"Oh, Sejun was just here a while ago. I haven't seen him leave yet so I think he should still be inside" Mr Noh replies and a wave of relief washes over you.

"Thank god" you Huff in relief. "Thank you so much" Giving Mr Noh a thanksful Pat on the shoulder, you speed walk into the office and up the elevator, pressing on the floor that your husband worked on.

The hallways were dim and quiet, just a few emergency lights giving light in the hallways. the dead silence made it feel like you were in a horror movie, serial axe murderer or vengeful ghost hiding somewhere in the shadows, preparing to attack. As your mind continued to play tricks on you by convincing you that you saw moving shadows, the sound of a giggle makes you jolt.

Fuck, is this place really haunted?,, you wondered. Then there was another giggle, but this time it was deeper, like it came from a male.

"I can't believe we're doing this here" the female voice says. You felt your stomach stir, instantly recognizing the voice that belonged to Hyejoo. "We work on this desk" she says.

"That's what makes it thrilling isn't it?"

Yeah, you were about to vomit. Because that was your husbands voice. You could never be more sure. Of course, you've heard his voice for years. It was the same voice who hummed songs to you to help you fall asleep on restless nights.

"You're right" she says with a giggle. The male - your husband, lets out a low chuckle. Then there's to sound of lips being pressed against each other. Loud, sloppy, then there's moaning and groaning.  Your legs began to give out, slapping a hand over your mouth to stop you from screaming and crying out loud. The moans get louder, the sound of clothes being taken off and what you could only assume to be the office desk creaking. You wanted to kill him. You didn't even have to take a peek to know what they were doing. Finally, you find the strength to run out the building, holding it the tears threatening to spill out and show just how weak you felt.

When you got to the ground floor, elevator doors opening, you made a run for it. Far from them, you cried freely. Sobbing into your palm, your vision got blurry from the tears. With your blurry vision, you didn't notice as you ran straight into a muscled body. Then it finally hit you that Jaemin said he'd be coming too. You sniff, looking up to see Jaemin's concerned face.

"What's wrong?" he asked, voice laced with so much genuine concern that you dropped to your knees, sobbing and Jaemin getting on his knees to be on your level.

"They- they" God, you couldn't even speak properly, throat constricting, struggling to even breath. The only thing you could do was grab Jaemin's forearm, gripping so hard that you knew you were going to mark him. "I heard them." you force yourself to mutter. "They were kissing. And they're about to do God knows what else up there"

Jaemin didn't even need to ask who you were talking about. The suspicions he'd been trying to store away finally coming to light with your words. His eyes tear up, but he sucks in a deep breath trying to stay strong. It's hard, he wants to scream and break something. He couldn't do that. So, he closed his eyes and pulled you into his embrace, rubbing a hand up and down your back as you cried into his chest, keeping your strong grip on his forearm. It hurt, but Jaemin preferred this physical rather than the one tearing at his heart.

After minutes, he lifts you up with him. "Let's go." he says.

You stop your crying to look up at him, confused. "Where do we go? Do we just go home and pretend as if nothing happened?"

He shakes his head, not saying a thing but instead guiding you to his car.

"What about my car?" you asked as you opened the door to the passenger seat, guiding you inside. "Let them see. Let them realize that we know" he replies, closing your door and walking over to the driver's seat. He starts the engine, eyes lacking its usual spark. "We're going to a hotel"

---

Jaemin drives the both of you to the furthest hotel from your neighbourhood, claiming that the two of you needed this distance. He books a room for the both of you to stay the night in. Unfortunately the only room available had a queen bed and a single bed. Jaemin gladly let you take the queen sized bed.

With no other clothes but the ones you arrived in, the two of you just decide to get into bed and get some rest, or at least try to.

Neither of you open your mouths to talk about what happened. Hearts aching and anger boiling in your veins, you began to tear up. Your son of a bitch brain playing disgusting scenes of the traitor you once loved with that sly fox. Giggling and touching in the quiet office room at the dead of night. Your fists clenched, wanting nothing more than to punch the both of them bloody. You didn't even realize you began sobbing out loud until your bed dips and you hear Jaemin's honey voice, as sweet as ever despite the fact he was probably and also most likely fighting ten different emotions at the same time.

"Hey, it's alright" Jaemin says in attempt to comfort you. He didn't know what to say, still trying to wrap his head around this new reality. "It's none of our fault"

You sit up in your bed and look at Jaemin with your blood shot eyes. "Of course it isn't" You sniff, using your hand to wipe away a tear that slipped from your eye. "They're the fucking traitors here. How long have they been doing this behind our backs?" You question, voice getting louder as rage begins to flood your entire system. You've never been a violent person, but now you sure as hell wanted to get violent. "He's been sweet talking me for weeks. Telling me everything is fine while he's been screwing some girl behind my back. And he dares" You had to pause, head feeling heavy from all the pent up anger.

"He dares to make me feel loved when he knows he barely feels a thing for me anymore. That's my last straw. " Jaemin cups your face with his hand, thumb brushing away the tears that began streaming down your face. "Do I look fucking stupid to him? Like a toy that he can play with when he felt like it? Does he-" you're silenced when Jaemin leans in pressing his lips against yours. Your brain goes haywire with the way his soft lips began to move against yours like a spell with you following in pursuit. Eyes falling shut as you indulged.

Acting like this didn't make either of you a better person. But in the moment, you felt like you deserved this. The feeling of being loved properly. The feeling of being loved by a man.

The kissing gets deeper as Jaemin adjusts his body to face you properly, both his hands now cupping your cheek as he swipes a tongue against your lower lip to which you gladly let him intrude. You fall back into the bed, soft mattress engulfing your body. Hands roam his back and his sly hands trace themselves from your stomach to the waistband of your bands. The two of you finally pull away, Jaemin's hands one move away from intruding your private space.

"Is this the right thing to do?" Jaemin murmurs quietly, hot breath against your lips. You could feel how unsure he felt, being on the thin line between desire and the urge to get revenge on both your spouses. You were on the same boat as him, but your mind was hazy, seeing nothing but red. There was no lie that you had unwillingly felt a strong attraction to Jaemin, his small actions making you feel more loved in comparison to the many so called grand gestures your husband tried to do just for the sake of it. Jaemin was hot and kind, the perfect blend of a man that you liked. And here you were, caged in his arms with his hands barely centimeters away from your pussy. You've been played by your no good son of a gun husband, it was only fair that you played him as well.

"Who cares" you whisper against his lips. "They fucked us over, now it's time we do the same to them"

A switch flips in his brain and Jaemin no longer felt guilty. You were right. He had been screwed over with sweet words and gestures, only to be the fool at the end. He wanted to play too. Plus, you were gorgeous, and he hated that you made him feel whole whenever the two of you hung out while your partners were busy working upstairs. Which now you both knew that they were probably fucking rather than working.

His hand finally breaches the elastic of your shorts, middle finger teasing your damp slit through your panties that only got wetter the longer the two of you kissed. Then finally, he pulls your panties to the side and slips a finger in. You pull away from his lips to squeeze your eyes shut and moan as his single digit rubbed your walls so nice. When he added a second finger in, you felt the way he curled his fingers and his blunt nails scratched your g-spot just right.

"Fuck" Jaemin groans, blood rushing to his cock the longer he pumped his digits in and out of your slick hole. "You're so tight... " He directs his focus from his hand in your pants to your eyes. "Does he  even fuck you enough?"

You don't know why but his words make you moan. The room was dark and cold, you could barely make out his features properly and the sound of his fingers pumping in and out of your hole echoed in your ears. You shake your head.

"No, he doesn't" Jaemin pouts. "You poor thing. It's okay.. " He leans into you, lips centimeters away, fingers pulling out if your wet hole. You want to whine but then he's pulling your pants down with one hand. "I'll take care of you" he whispers before planting a kiss on your lips and pulling away to sit on his knees finish getting rid of your shorts and wrecked panties.

Under the yellow light from the lamp on your nightstand, Jaemin could see the mess he made between your thighs. An insatiable hunger grows in his stomach, leaving you no room to process a single thing before he's on his stomach and your thighs are resting against his shoulders.

He kisses up your thigh slowly until he reaches your core, taking a second to admire his piece of work. "God, you're breathtaking" he mumbles. "May I?"

He didn't even have to ask yet he still so politely did so. You give him a nod and you see him flash a greedy smile before his lips attach itself to your cunt and he flicks his tongue on your bud. You throw your head back with a moan, eyes involuntarily squeezing shut at the sensation. Jaemin is motivated by your sweet noises and begins to devour you like a man starved for centuries. He's relentless with his tongue, swirling around your bud just right and lapping up your slit like a dog.

You were in heaven.

Head from your husband didn't even feel this good.

Yet Jaemin was bringing heaven to you, spoiling you with pleasure as he sinks his tongue into your hole, working it in and out and bringing a thumb to rub your clit.

"Fuck fuck fuck please don't stop" you plead in an embarrassingly high voice, pushing his head deeper into your cunt. Your actions only make him greedier. His tongue is back to focusing on your clit while his slender fingers breach your hole again. The pace and alternative movements is perfect. Your toes are curling and your thighs are clenching around his head. With a moan, you come undone on his tongue and the man under you laps up every drop of your release until you're clean.

"Goddamn, " he rises from his position, mouth glistening with your release. "You taste like heaven. Too much of this and you might get me addicted." His sweet words make your hole clench, yearning for more. He gets on all fours, caging you in his arms once again. His dark brown eyes burn right through yours with lust. You think you're over thinking when you feel like he's looking at you with genuine admiration amongst the cloud of desire fogging his eyes. It makes your heart thud.

"Do you want more?" he asks, voice deep and playful. You nod and he gets up on his knees.

"Show me just how much you want me" He nods down at his jeans. "Get me hard"

You gulp, getting up from your position in bed to sit on your knees. Jaemin gets off the bed to stand right at the edge, making it easier for you to unbutton his jeans, pull the zipper down and free his semi hard cock from the constraints of his boxers.

"Go ahead" he says, noting the way you practically salivate at the sight of his cock. Barely hard, but you knew he'd be monstrous when he's ready.

His length is heavy in your hand, big enough that you're unable to fully wrap a fist around his cock.

You bring the tip to your mouth, kitten licking it. His cock twitches and it encourages you. Bringing his dick to your mouth, you suck on the head a few times, focusing on swirling your tongue against his sensitive tip before you are taking his cock inch by inch into your mouth. You could feel him getting hard the more you bobbed your head up and down. Jaemin groans, placing one hand on your head gently, unmoving. "Just like that" he says with a breathy groan. His praise makes you gleam, releasing his length only lick a stripe underneath his shaft and letting your mouth continue its administrations.

The way he begins to grip your hair was a telltale sign that he was getting closer. With the determination to make him cum as hard as you did, you focus on his tip, using your hand to pump the rest of his shaft. Jaemin is practically tugging your hair, the sweet burn in your scalp sending an electric shock to your throbbing clip. Vulgar words are slipping from Jaemin's sweet lips as he finally cums; hot load filling up your throat.

"Fuck" hid grip on your hair loosens and he's panting hard, recovering from the mind blowing head he just got. "You did so well.. " he opens his eyes, lips curling up into a smirk. You smile at him, opening your mouth to show him the cum that sat in your mouth. Without breaking eye contact, you swallow his load, licking your lips in delight.

His cock twitches and he's greedy again, yearning to feel your tight walls wrapped around his cock that stands tall once again; hard and ready to go.

"Since you just sucked the soul out of me, " Jaemin began, "it's only right that I return the favour, isn't it?"

"And how do you intend to repay me?" You ask, batting your eyelashes at him, hole clenching and heart racing with the way he teased you.

Jaemin beckons you over to him and you gladly crawl to the end of the bed to get into his embrace. He dips his head in the crook of your neck, taking a deep inhale. Then you feel his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear before whispering: "I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't even remember his name"

"Do it then" you mutter under your breath, reciprocating hid actions and whispering into his ear. "Fuck me hard."

Jaemin lets his hand wander down to the curve of your ass, giving it a squeeze then tapping your hip signaling for you to jump which you do. He catches you easily, walking over to a wall and pressing you against the cold surface. "Ready?" He asks and you nod. Using the sheer strength of his biceps and thigh muscles, he lifts you higher. And when he lowers you down, you feel the bulbous tip of his cock pressing against your entrance. "Scream for me" And he sinks you on his cock. Fat girth stretching you wide and nice, length reaching places you're sure your husband never reached before. To Jaemin's delight, you do in fact scream his name. Your voice was airy and filled with desire, Jaemin basks in the sound of you and begins lifting you up and down on his cock, using those beautiful muscles to fuck you like a toy.

"Ah fuck!" you gasp, feeling him hit your cervix. His pace was relentless and imagining the way his muscles bulged as he brought you down on his cock over and over with no signs of tiredness had you moaning his name like a mantra.

"You're so tight" he manages to say with only a slight hint of struggle. "He doesn't take care of you he way I do, right?"

You shake your head. "N-never" God he was so deep. You felt him everywhere.

"Is that so?" Jaemin coos. His pace begins to slow down and you're able to feel every single vein in his cock along your walls. "I bet he doesn't even know how to make you moan the way I do" Once again, you shake your head.

To your dismay, he pulls his cock out of you, setting you down on your feet. "You poor thing. I have to set an example for him and he isn't even here" he says with an exaggerated sigh. "Well, " he guides you back to the bed, getting you on your hands and knees. "That's too bad isn't it. " His hand roams on the globes of your ass, sighing as he feels the smooth skin under his hot palm. "I guess he'll never get to learn just how to please a woman correctly" His hand grips his cock, giving himself a few pumps before running the top up and down your slit. "He'll continue to sit at home, fucking my wife with his mediocre skills, while I make his own wife, my queen in bed."  he slips in, and you bite your lip. "His loss. " Jaemin finishes his sentence with a hard thrust.

"I make it up to you on his behalf, alright pretty?"  His hips begin to move and you let out a content sigh. "What do you say when someone is treating you like a princess hm?" Jaemin asked with a pointed thrust.

"T-thank you" you stutter, words becoming harder to pronounce, brain going mushy. All the anger that you felt earlier, now clouded by the desire to cum.

"What was that?" his hands trail to your hair, wrapping a fistful in his palm.

"Thank you" you say again, louder this time. But Jaemin was not satisfied.

"I'm sure you have a better vocabulary than that" Now, he pulls your hair, bringing your back to his chest. "Now let me repeat again, what do you say when someone treats you this nicely?"

"Thank you for fucking me so good, Jaemin" Your sentence is rewarded with another thrust. "Thank you so much" you moan out. And finally , Jaemin is satisfied. "You're welcome, pretty"

His hips regain its momentum and he's abusing your hole with his thrusts. Jaemin focuses on chasing his orgasm now, gripping your hips tightly and leaving marks on your soft skin. "Fuck, you feel so good" he groans, throwing his head back. He feels so so good, you think. The way he gripped your hips, his seductive words, and the precise thrusts. This was singlehandedly the best sex you were having in your life. Jaemin leaves trails of wet kisses down your neck, pausing once in a while to groan into your ear. The hand that was grabbing your hair relaxes and makes its way down your clit, rubbing circles.

"Yes yes yes" you cry, feeling your stomach tighten with the incoming orgasm.

"Fuck" Jaemin spits. "Where can I cum, pretty?" He struggles to say, his own incoming orgasm messing his ability to speak.

"Inside. Please cum inside me, Jaemin. Please" The way you begged, the way you began pushing your hips back to meet his thrusts, Jaemin was going insane. His left hand wraps around your waist, holding you tighter against him.

"Fuck, I'm cumming" he moans.

"Me too"

"Cum for me, pretty. Cum on my cock" His lips find its way back to your mouth and you kiss him back. Everything felt too good to be true and finally, you come undone on him. Jaemin spills into your welcoming hole minutes later and the both of you collapse onto the bed. His soft cock slips out of you and you both start to pant.

There's a moment of silence and Jaemin gets out of bed to go to the washroom. The lack of his presence in that minute made your heart clench. The both of you just crossed the line the way your spouses did. Now what?

You don't even have time to think about the consequences when Jaemin comes back with a small wet towel.

"Was I too harsh?" he asks, voice so soft it made your heart clench and melt at the same time. You give him a small smile nd shake your head. "That was the best sex I've ever had"

He smiles in return, placing the wet cloth between your legs and cleaning all the residue.

He takes care of you well after he made you orgasm so hard on his dick. It was such a sweet moment that you contemplate if you should open your mouth and talk or bask in the ambience until the next day. The latter idea sounded so good, but you had to keep yourself grounded.

"Now what" you ask Jaemin. "We're no better than our spouses now. We had sex, they had sex... What now? Do we pretend nothing happened? Go back to our lives and act like this was all a dream?"

Jaemin is quiet. He doesn't know either.

"Do you still love him?"

You pause.

The man you once loved and dreamed of growing old with just played you like a fiddle. He drowned you in sweet lies and indulged you, all as a distraction to hide to fact he was fucking someone behind your back. How could you love someone who toyed with you like that. Despite the years of happiness he gave you, you were uncertain he would even gain your trust again.

You shake your head. "I can't love a man who sees me as an idiot in his sick game. But what about you, do you still love her?"

Jaemin smiles and looks down. But you could see the pain that he hit behind that smile. The look of uncertainty in his eyes. "This isn't the first time... " He says. "Well, it's the first time I actually know she cheated on me. Other times, I just noticed how flirty she got with the men at her office. Right after we got married,  she flaunted her ring to her friends. Now that I think of it, she wasn't just showing off to the girls. She showed off to the men too. It was like some sick game of hers. She was officially taken now, are they still up for the challenge to get her attention?" He looks back up at you. "That's how I saw it. But I was so blind. I was blinded by her sweet smile, the way she reassured me saying it was nothing. And I was a fool to believe her. "

The two of you sat there in silence, dread filling up your systems. The sex you had was great, but it was too soon to help either of you get over what happened today.

"We'll play with them too" You speak, breaking the silence. Jaemin looks at you confused and you elaborate. "We were a pawn in whatever game they're playing. Now we toy with them back. And if they catch us, so what? What are they gonna say? Oh no, how could you do this to me?" You mocked. "But they were the ones fooling around first"

"You want us to go behind their backs as payback?"

You nod.

Jaemin thinks his choices for a second. There's hesitancy in his eyes, but after what seemed like a flashback playing in his mind, he agrees.

"Let's do it"

---

The next morning, Jaemin drives you back home where you see the car you drove to your husband's office parked outside the house. He had called you over 10 times last night and you ignored every single one of them.

"Looks like he's home" you say to Jaemin.

"Want me to walk you in?" he asks and you nod, grateful.

Turning off the engine, Jaemin escorts you to the front door of your own house. The both of you pause in your steps seeing both your spouses sitting on the couch looking disheveled.

"Baby!" your husband exclaims, walking up to you with his arms open and pulling you into a tight hug. "I saw your car at the office last night. I didn't know you came over"

You stiffen, pressing the nail of your thumb into your pointer finger, suppressing your anger as you watched him act innocent.

"Where did you go? I called you so many times last night. The car was there but you were no where to be found" he says.

"I wanted to look for you last night and bumped into Jaemin.... We were about to go into the office building but I started feeling so sick so he drove me to the hospital to have a check up" You explain, looking up at him with the most sorry eyes you could do. "I'm sorry, I should've called you but I was so tired"

"I'm just glad you're okay" he sighs, kissing your head. "So what were you diagnosed with?"

"Food poisoning"

"Oh god... You need to rest, babe. Come, I'll bring you to bed" he holds onto your hand but you stay in place.

"I'm fine now, really. Don't worry" you reassure him with a smile. Then you look over at Hyejoo. "Jaemin is a really kind man. He really took care of me well last night" You shoot a look towards Jaemin who nods.

"Aw, that's so sweet of you, Nana" Hyejoo cheers, reaching up to pinch his cheeks. His body stiffens but both Hyejoo and your husband are none the wiser.

Hyejoo and Jaemin go home after a few more words and your husband insists on you staying in bed. Placing an empty bucket next to your bed, he kisses your forehead and tells you to get well soon. You only know how to smile and close your eyes.

☆

Your revenge plan was set in stone once you've fully 'healed' from your food poisoning and visiting Hyejoo's home became the normal once again. This time, they were so close to finishing their project with just the final touches left.

While the two of them were in Hyejoo's office probably screwing around, you sat on Jaemin's lap in the laundry room, mouths connected and tongues intertwine.

"Fuck... " Jaemin groans, feeling the way you rolled your hips against his Jean clad hard on. "You're driving me insane... "

"Mm... I know.. " you whisper, hand finding its way to the button of his jeans; unbuttoning and unzipping his pants to pull his cock out from his boxers. "I like to see you excited" you peck him on the lips. "Because it makes me excited too" you stroke him slowly, making sure to rub the tip of his dick with the pad of your thumb. When he throws his head back in pleasure, you latch your lips on his neck, kissing and licking the skin. Your pace begins to quicken and the hold Jaemin has on your hips grows tighter as he came closer. His eyes were squeezed shut, teeth chewing on his bottom lip and finally a groan escaping his cherry red lips as he came into your hand.

You drag a finger on the underside of his sensitive and twitching dick, collecting the cum that was dripping from the tip. When his eyes open again and meet yours, you stick your tongue out, dragging the cum covered finger down your tongue, letting him watch you swallow it.

"You're the devil" he mumbles. Your lips curl up. "I know"

Getting up, Jaemin presses his lips against your, holding you in his arms and turning your around until your butt hits the dryer. When he pulls away from your lips, he takes a step back to yank your pants down before making you face the dryer and bending you over.

"I'll never get tired of this ass" he says, giving it a slap. "But most of all" he traces his finger along your underwear, pulling it to the side as his eyes glimmer at the sight of your wet cunt. "I don't think I'll ever get enough of this pussy" He sheathes himself into your hole in one go, grabbing onto your hips with a good pace. He thrusts deep into you with every move of his hips, pounding you just right.

"Don't stop,  don't stop, don't stop" you repeat, gripping onto the dryer, feeling him reach all the right spots. For a man who was fucking you just to get revenge on his cheating wife, he sure was putting passion into it, putting effort into moving his hips with the right pace to make you feel good.

"I'm gonna cum. Are you close, pretty?"

You nod ferociously.

The thrusts of his hips begin to slow and he places a hand under your right thigh, lifting it up against the dryer and splitting you open. He readjusts his stance, pulls his cock out all the way to the tip before shoving it back in. The force of his thrust leaves your mouth agaped in a silent moan. His hips are relentless, and you feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge.

Lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin fills the small room along with pants and groans.

"Fuck!" Jaemin groans, spilling into your hole with his warm load. He doesn't even let himself bask in his orgasm, instead overstimulating himself until he feels you clench around his dick and feels you release all over him.

When he releases your leg, you turn around to face him. He's panting, neck and face gleaming with sweat. You feel a clench in your heart as you examine his soft features, feeling your chest thump with excitement when your eyes meet his and he's smiling at you so sweetly. It makes you smile too. Then you're in your arms, cheek pressed against his chest, feeling him shift around before you feel a small handkerchief being dabbed on your forehead, wiping away your sweat.

"Don't worry, it's clean" Jaemin reassures. You don't even answer, only nodding and enjoying the moment. At that moment, nothing felt better than being in Jaemin's arms.

---

It was the last night you would ever possibly be going over to Jaemin's place. According to your husband, all they had to do was do a final review and this would all be over. Hyejoo was extra pouty today, claiming that she enjoyed working with your husband so much over the course of this project. You couldn't stand the look on her face. The way she pouted and whined about how this all was gonna be over. But you were sad this was about to end too. The future after tonight looking blurry, not exactly sure what would happen next. Your plan so far was to divorce your husband and that was about it. But first, you wanted to get caught; see their reaction and whatever stupid excuse they would say after.

In the kitchen, you and Jaemin prepared a fruit salad to end the night. A tray of strawberries, watermelon and other berries were placed on the counter. The taste of watermelon was sweet against your tongue but not as sweet as the feeling of Jaemin abusing your cunt with his fingers. Your knees buckled, trying to keep your stance but it was too hard when every drag of his fingers in your gummy walls felt like euphoria. "What do you think they'll say when they catch us?" Jaemin asks between kisses. "How would your husband feel, seeing the way his wife crumbles in pleasure by another man. And even worse, when he sees you enjoy me more than him"

You bite your lip, slick leaking around Jaemin's fingers, struggling to even answer him. "I hope he feels embarrassed."

Lost in the way his fingers played with your sensitive spot, the two of you fail to hear the sounds of footsteps entering the kitchen, only being brought back down to earth when Hyejoo screams. "What the fuck!"

The worse part is, Jaemin doesn't stop. Even as the embarrassment begins to sleep through your skin, you say nothing either. It only takes a moment until your legs give out and you release on his fingers. Jaemin brings his lips to his mouth, sucking his fingers and humming in delight before acknowledging the extra presence in the kitchen. "Oh, I didn't see you guys there"

You fix yourself up, putting on a cold demeanor when you lock eyes with your husband who's eyebrows pinched together in confusion.

Hyejoo is humiliated by Jaemin's words. The way he acted like he didn't even notice her despite her scream.

"What the fuck are you doing, Jaemin?" Hyejoo screams again, eyes turning red and wet with tears.

The male shrugs. "Just having fun" he pauses before he locks eyes with your husband instead. "Like the two of you were doing"

Hyejoo takes a good second to react. No words are said but she storms up to Jaemin ready to slap him, but her attempt fails miserably when he catches her wrist before it can even land on his cheek. He pulls in her and you wince, feeling a sting in your heart as you watch.

He leans into her neck, taking a whiff.

"That's not my cologne.. " he mutters, pulling away. Then he brings her wrist in front of him to examine. "And your wedding ring is gone... Where is it, baby" The once sweet pet name now sounded like poison. The words slicing through Hyejoo's victimized face and you notice her gulp.

"You smell like a man, your wedding ring is gone and another man's lips is swollen. Now tell me exactly what you've been doing, Hyejoo." Jaemin stated firmly. "For how many nights under my own roof have you been screwing with another man?"

"You're wrong!" she exclaims. "You prick, I told you we were working"

And as if things couldn't get even more humiliating for the poor girl, Jaemin sneaks a hand under his skirt. But rather than looking embarrassed to be touched with an audience, Hyejoo instead looks defeated.

Jaemin's jaw clenches at the affirmation.

"You're wet. Why."

"Fine!" she finally breaks. "I cheated on you"

"Hyejoo-" your husband interferes and your own jaw clenches at the way he looked at her, ready to shield her from all this humiliation with a look in his eyes that you've never seen before towards you.

"You're just so boring!" she admits, voice cracking and you didn't know if it was because she was guilty or because she's angry she got caught and the fun was all over. "I needed something new. Something to excite me. I needed a thrill."

"So you screwed behind my back because it was... exciting?"

She looks down, and nods.

Jaemin pulls away and takes a step back away from her.

"Get out"

Hyejoo's head shoots up. "W-what?" her eyes are glimmering with tears and her lips trembling.

"I said get out" Jaemin looks over at Sejun. "You too. Everyone but Y/n, get out of my house" He points towards the door.

"But Jaemin.. "

"Now!" He finally breaks, yelling. Hyejoo bites her lips,  stating at Jaemin with rage as if he was being the asshole her. She grabs her purse on the couch and gets ahold of your husband's hand to storm out.

Your legs move quick before your mind even registers it, running to your husband and pulling him out of Hyejoo's grip.

"Y/n I-" his head whips to the side when you slap him right across the face with all the strength you could muster. In front of you was the man you dreamt about for years, the man you trusted with your whole heart. Yet he says nothing to you, letting his mistress drag him out of the house without sparing a moment for you.

"I trusted you" you speak, voice failing you as it cracks and a rush of years fill your eyes faster than your like. "And you play me like a stupid fool for weeks... "

The stupid man says nothing, not even bothering to look back at you and apologize.

"Let's go! " Hyejoo yanks him away and the idiot walks away like you were nothing to him.

The tears flow freely from your eyes now, and you quickly head back into the house before either of them see you in your weakest moment.

When the door slams shut behind you, you're on your knees sobbing into your palm like you did all those nights ago. You hoped that by getting caught with Jaemin, your husband would feel all the pain you felt. But you were terribly wrong. He was nothing but a heartless prick who only liked sex.

And you were the idiot who still chased after him.

Jaemin walks up to your crying figure, taking your arm and pulling you into a tight hug.

"It's okay.. " he coos. He wants to be the strong one, but his own voice is cracking and tears are pouring from his eyes. The both of you were weal and vulnerable.

"I hate this so much" you stutter in between tears. "I still can't believe he did all that. Everything up till now, he's been what I thought was the greatest person of all, but at the end, he discards me like I'm nothing to him. And all for a woman he met months ago" you grip onto Jaemin's shirt. "I want to kill him"

"Don't waste your energy like that" Jaemin says. "We move on from them starting from now. You can cry all you want, as long as you get it all out and you forget that son of a bitch"

Pulling away from Jaemin, you look at him and the way his eyes watered despite his neutral face. Even with how badly hurt he was, he was still trying to be the source of comfort.

A sweet soul like him didn't deserve any of this.

And neither did you.

You and Jaemin sit on the floor for what felt like an hour. At some point, Jaemin moved the two of you towards the back of the couch so that he could rest against something as you leaned against his chest, playing with his fingers.

The storm is your heart had began to fade, now replaced by feeling of being lost and confused.

You and Jaemin were only together just to mess with your cheating partners. And as you lay against him, feeling the way his chest rose and fell everytime he breathed, you felt more comfort than you ever felt with your ex. His presence made you feel heard and protected, recalling all the times he listened as you yapped about a silly topic that your ex didn't always pay attention to. Jaemin made you feel like everything you said was equally as important. He always prioritized your feelings and was focused on comforting you even when he himself had been cheated on.

"Jaemin?" you begin, the man behind you humming in acknowledgement. "tonight has been awful. We just broke up with our long term partners, words have been exchanged, feelings have been hurt. We've been sitting on this hardwood floor for ages without saying a word... Doesn't that feel weird to you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know why I feel so safe and happy when I'm with you, Jaemin. Even before all this revenge fucking or whatever... every moment I spent with you, eating pastries or challenging you to a cooking duel, I felt more alive than I've ever been with my husband. Fuck, I feel so warm and safe in your arms in a way that's so unfamiliar yet inviting. Sure I felt a sense of comfort when I was in a position like this with my ex but this... " you glance down at your hands that were still fiddling with his. "This feels different"

He's quiet and his silence fills you with fread, wondering if your words just ended something else for the second time tonight. Your worries are silenced when Jaemin wraps his arm around your waist and rests his chin on your shoulder.

"I know what you mean" he sighs, eyes falling shut as a wave of guilt crashes over him. "I don't feel any better that I engaged in this just because my own wife was cheating on me as well. It felt like such a guilty pleasure knowing you made my love feel younger and fresh again before I even knew she was cheating. I felt like shit to even think and feel that way, but after all that has happened... I don't regret it at all"

Your head turns, leaving your lips and his inches apart.

"Is this all just a guilty pleasure?"

He stops to think, then nods. "It is"

Your heart tightens.

"But it's a guilty pleasure I'm willing to explore and learn more about. And maybe in the end, it won't be a guilty pleasure anymore. But something else instead"

"May I? " you ask, lips closing in on his after his confession. A feeling of warmth seeps through your chest, a feeling you haven't felt since the day your ex asked you to be his girlfriend. It was a sense of excitement at the adventure that laid ahead, ready to face to new future ahead of you. All you could think about was how you wanted to learn about the man behind you, and when you do, you wanted to share your love with him.

Jaemin hums, a small smile spreading across his cheeks. "You may"

Lips colliding, this kiss this time is soft and gentle. He takes his time to pour his soul into the kiss, focusing on the way you move your lips against his with passion and not lust. He memorizes everything. The way you feel, the way you brushed your tongue against his, the way you held onto his hand, everything.

Even after the toughest night of his life, Jaemin is more sure about whatever this was. He had a lot to learn about you now. What you did in your spare time, what you do when your sad. He wants to start something fresh and with how he feels around you, the way you make him feel joy, he was willing to push through all this pain if it meant he'll be happier than he ever was in the end. He wanted to be happy with you.

[tbaluver]

hiyaa! can i request scenarios with the lads boys where MC flashes them in the middle of an argument >< also love your writing so much!! it's actually giving me inspiration to go back to writing myself adjhsfhlds

Flashing Them During An Argument- The Love And DeepSpace Men

pairings in order: xavier x fem! reader, zayne x fem! reader, rafayel x fem! reader, sylus x fem! reader, caleb x fem! reader tags: slightly suggestive, not so serious argument, silly a/n: hihi anonnie! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ omg thank you so much you're so sweet my angel (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡ and you def should whenever you can! i hope i get to read whatever you create or hear your ideas ♡(˃͈ ˂͈ ) also i swear someone req this too and i dont know if im imagining it or i just cant find it(╥﹏╥) anyways i hope this was alright and that you enjoy reading!! (∩˃o˂∩)♡ ty to my beta reader MWAH @ilovemitsuya any likes and reblogs are always appreciated! enjoy!

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Xavier:

GOOD GOOGLY MOOGLY

You two had been going back and forth for what felt like hours, trying to decide on what to eat for dinner. Every suggestion he gave was close enough to what you were craving but either it was too far or you just didn’t like the area it was in

The stores were closing soon and you both still couldn’t agree and the frustration was creeping in. Before he gives another suggestion and tries to persuade you, you cut him off by lifting up your shirt with nothing underneath. He didn’t even hesitate, his eyes immediately dropping and feasting on the soft mounds that sit oh so perfectly. He doesn’t even remember what restaurants he suggested, he just knew how enticing they looked.

“So..let’s go to my restaurant?”

“huh..?” He blinked a few times, his gaze still locked on the now covered skin but he can still catch a glimpse of your nipples peeking through your shirt. “oh yeah..sure..” He trails off, his mind completely consumed by how soft they looked.

“okay! let’s get- Xavier!” Before you could even get up, he gently pins you back down, his needy hands snaking up into your shirt.

Zayne:

It started when you gently told him he should get ready to go to bed, it was already getting late. You loved your boyfriend deeply and you admired his passion and dedication to his work but it was clear that he was pushing himself too hard again. He promised he’d finish this last report and he’ll join you later but that was exactly what he said after the last five reports.

You could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the deep bags beneath them. All the signs of his late night shifts, back to back operations, and countless hours of overtime in the past few days showed. His eyes fluttered shut just for a second, begging to stay closed, only for them to open again as he tried to push through.

You approached him again, urging him to go to bed. You told him he was being stubborn and how those reports could wait but of course, he countered back saying that you didn’t need to stay up and wait for him and that you should be getting some rest too.

The two of you went back and forth for a few minutes. But before he delivers another witty comeback, you lifted up your shirt, immediately silencing him. His eyes travel from your face down to your soft breast, losing his original train of thought and thought about how they sit so perfectly to him. They don’t linger for too long as he pinches the bridge of his nose. 

Zayne tries to regain his thoughts and you fail to notice the small, amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he shakes his head. “Just..” He sighs, “...Please, you don’t need to wait for me,” He said softly, standing up from his chair as he approached you. “I suppose I’m overdue for a long needed rest then right?” He whispers, his hands sneaking up inside your shirt.

Rafayel:

You were late, again. The mission took longer than expected and you already knew that Rafayel would be upset when you got home and sure enough, you were right. He didn’t bother to greet you the moment you stepped inside the house. His back was turned to you, ‘focused’ on his sketching. All the responses you got a dismissive “hmph” and a side pout that you’re clearly familiar with.

You gave him a moment to cool off as you slipped into something more comfortable, peeling off your hunter’s uniform before approaching him again. This time, you made an effort to apologize in front of him but he pretended you weren’t even there. “Huh..Do I have some bubbles in my ear? I swear I heard something..” He mumbles, pretending there was absolutely no one in front of him.

This escalates into you two having a back and forth, explaining how your phone died so you couldn’t text him and his responses were rather sarcastic, saying how fishes would’ve started walking on land before you’d ever show up on time. Both of you were exhausted, frustration bubbled inside of you as you paced around, groaning. In a last attempt to get his attention, you stepped back in front of him, lifting your shirt up without a word to flash your breasts in front of him.

His eyes widened, his breath hitching as his gaze slowly trails down. “You-” He shakes his head, fighting back his mind that’s screaming FLASH ME AGAIN. He’s trying to stay strong but unfortunately this sea god is not the strongest soldier when it comes to you. “Oh yeah? Well two can play that game cutie!” He huffs, tugging at the waistband of his pants.

Sylus:

He wouldn’t tell you a thing about his new mission and it was bothering you. How far was it going to be? Who was going to be involved? Nothing. He refused to budge, his lips sealed tighter than usual. Every time you asked, he deflected with vague answers. Every time you offered to help, he would tell you it's alright and that he has everything handled.

“It’s just a short trip.”

But you knew better that a short trip doesn’t involve secrecy. It was probably bigger than that. The tension between you was growing, both of you refusing to give in. But before he could even hint at how dangerous his short trip might be, you lift your shirt up, cutting him off mid sentence. It was a last and desperate attempt for sure to regain his attention, your boobs falling out and flashing Sylus in all it's glory.

His eyes widened for a moment, an amused smirk tugged at his lips as he watched you slowly lower it back down. “Oh? Is this your new counterattack?” He teases, inching closer to you. “I think one move isn’t going to easily take me down. What do you think?” His long fingers twirl the hem of your shirt teasingly. “Amuse me with more and I might just give in.”

Caleb:

clean up on aisle caleb’s pants!

You definitely caught him off-guard from the way his eyes shamelessly looked down immediately the moment you lifted up your shirt to reveal your exposed skin. The way you cut him off his sentence as he almost chokes on his own saliva.

“um..umm..” He stammered, attempting to look at you but his eyes betray him, flickering back down to your exposed skin. He fought the urge, his gaze shifting up and down but he was unable to tear his eyes away, his cock twitching in his pants. 

What was the argument even about? He doesn’t even remember what he said to you a few minutes ago and he doesn’t even remember what color your pants were. He didn’t even notice that you’d already lowered your hands, his gaze burning through the thin fabric as his mind lingered on the bare skin he’d seen. His thoughts of kneading your breasts were cut off when you called out to him.

“Can we do it Caleb?” His eyes snap back up to meet yours, the hypnotizing sight of your exposed skin covered and his mind slowly return back to reality.

“Of course, we can do it anytime pipsqueak,” He replies, a soft smile on his lips, completely unaware of what he'd agreed to. You could’ve signed him up for a cilantro eating contest and he’d win just for you. Whatever you want and say, he’ll do it for you.

[crushmeeren]

// ⋆ well shit…here i am, back on my bullshit, writing about the man who inspired me to start this blog in the first place.

// ⋆ no warnings, fluffy fluff with my main man katsuki. take it!!! (.づ◡﹏◡)づ.

master list

Some of the best moments in your relationship are in the evening. When Katsuki crawls into bed right after his nightly shower.

It’s late. Super late. So late, in fact, you’ve completed your own routine and have curled up under the covers. Dinner, shower, skin care, putting on your favorite lotion, etc. You’d reached the point of scrolling on your phone without a care, the TV playing in the background for white noise.

Katsuki comes home from patrol just as the grip on your phone starts to become lax, eyelids drooping, mind jerking awake to find the same video has played on an endless loop for the past five minutes.

Katsuki calls out as he strides down the hallway. “You in bed already princess?” He’s shoeless entering the bedroom, headband pushed up to hold back his bangs, and he reeks of sweat.

“Mhmm. Was gonna try and wait up for you so we could shower together, but I got too tired.” You drop your phone and reach both arms out for him. “C’mere.”

Katsuki hums, bending down once he reaches the bed, wrapping you up in a warm hug when you meet him halfway. “Careful, I smell fuckin’ terrible. I didn’t shower at work.”

“Don’t care,” you say, squeezing him tight. His tank top is a bit damp. “You smell like burnt caramel mostly, so it’s not too bad.”

“You’re fuckin’ lying,” he says with a laugh, pressing a kiss to your temple and releasing you from the hug. You flop onto the mattress, boneless. “I was soaked in sweat before I left, it’s more than just fuckin’ caramel. It’s ass.”

Laughter bursts out of you. “Alright! Alright, you caught me, I was lying. You stink. Go shower please.”

Katsuki returns to the kitchen and eats whatever leftovers you put in the fridge first, then jumps in the shower, eager to end the night with cuddling. Once done he turns off all the lights, leaves the TV on, and slips under the blankets in his briefs only.

Clean, fresh, and something salty reminding you of the ocean fills your nose. Katsuki’s been trying a new body wash and it’s amazing. He relaxes on his back, arm raising to welcome you in, and waits. You snuggle into his side instantly.

He’s a touch too warm from the water, skin so soft and so smooth. Satisfied and in love, you rest your head on his chest, unable to recall a time you’ve ever felt safer or happier in your life. The feeling of contentment radiates to the tips of your toes.

You search for the covers and pull them up, an arm draping across his stomach as he hugs you close. Katsuki runs his free hand through his hair to shake out the access water, and a few cool drops hit your cheek, which he then wipes off with his thumb and mumbles an apology.

His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip. Fighting off sleep is close to impossible now and the TV is still on.

“Kat,” you murmur. “I’m not making it through the next episode.” Your voice cracks with sleep.

“S’okay, princess. I’ll be up for a second, go ahead and knock out.”

You sigh and push into him even more. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he replies, tone as sweet as honey. “To the moon and back.”

[eleu22]

What Task Force 141’s Houses Would Look Like

John Price

- he lives in a cabin I cannot be convinced otherwise.

- very rustic, defo goes fishing or hunting for fun in his spare time

- likes to be away from the city

- its maximalist in kind of an organised chaos way he can find whatever he need’s immediately but to anyone else it looks kind of insane

- he’d be cleaner if he lived with someone - but yaknow #singledad

- very homey, warm vibes

- if the apocalypse ever hit you’d wanna be here, it’s decked out, secluded, he’s a bit of a doomsday prepper

- has once pissed outside to ‘mark his territory’ but you couldn’t torture that information out of him

- defo has that one room that is mysteriously locked and refuses to elaborate on when asked about it (Gaz secretly thinks it’s really cool) (it probably just has his fishing gear)

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

- very chic, cool tones

- screams “I did economy as an A-Level but I use pinterest”

- probably has had some type of dinner party with the 141 just to subtly flex to them that “in another life I was an interior designer”

- also defo cooks something with wine just, again to subtly flex his culture capital (he just wants some approval guys bless him)

- plant father - cannot be convinced otherwise

- very organised, keeps it pretty clean unless he’s feeling lazy which isn’t very often

- definitely has a record player - do not mention it or he will go on about how it “just sounds better” (with Price in the background nodding in agreement - but in an old man way)

- somewhere has a box of stuff that doesn’t fit his aesthetic but it’s shit he needs to keep anyways

John “Soap Mactavish

- messy as fuck, no rhyme or reason to it he just puts stuff down, forgets its there and thats just where it lives now COUGH man-child COUGH

- puts some of his drawings up on his walls

- defo has a comic book collection and some action figures

- bunch of childhood shit he refuses to throw away - criminal hoarder

- he likes the messy kind of boyish charm it has, every time his mom comes over she scolds him for it

- a bunch of stuff he’s collected from different places he’s gone, he’ll usually grab some stuff while on deployment if he has any free time, like snow globes or whatever

- went to Greece once and got one of those wooden dicks and finds it so funny, he says it’s the living room’s ‘conversation piece’

- he’s pretty clean when on base aswell, it’s just without the millitary’s structure or someone literally forcing him to clean up he doesn’t really care - it’s his house anyways

Simon “Ghost” Riley

- um

- yikes

- yeah you can tell he doesn’t really like spending time at home on leave

- the singular chair infront of the tv is so sad

- king of minimalism - if that’s what you wanna call it ig

- doesn’t bother decorating or getting anything past the bare essentials because what’s the point?

- doesn’t care it’s a shithole, he can afford a better house, but it kind of reminds him of home back in Manchester (crying)

- definitely chain smokes in his bathroom

- he’s got a treadmill there somewhere

- has a box full of his family’s belongings under his bed (crying again)

- no mirrors, only a small one in the bathroom to shave

- only item of decoration is a snow globe Soap gave him once, it sits next to his bed

[souljahwwitch]

FUCKED UP! °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ hc’s about thanos x best friend reader who’s just as energetic as him <3

(no squid game!)

(kind of fwb like in my every other best friend! reader fic 😔)

°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ choi su-bong (or thanos as he forces you to call him) have been best friends since diapers, both of your fathers being filthy rich, they were connected to the hip, and so you two are.

°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ one out of many things you two have in common is the pure hatred towards your fathers, you two always found a way to fuck up some family dinners or country club parties—and no one ever suspected a thing.

°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ no one suspected you, because how could y/n l/n, the oh so precious daughter of f/n l/n ever be so cruel? you were too pretty for that, too smart—no one actually knew you for who you are except thanos.

°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ they suspected thanos, of course they did—but he didn’t really care, only thing that mattered is having fun with you—like taking hits from the bong right before your father and his father and some prissy guests wait for both of you to come down to some boring dinner.

you sat there—trying not to burst out laughing at random things, thanos was beside you, gripping your thigh to stop you—and himself from laughing

“ sweetheart, you’ve gotta stop looking like your face is about to explode.” thanos mumbled beside you—and that just made you wheeze, he couldn’t hold it anymore also—so you laughed it out while making an excuse you have to go to a very important business walk!! (you two don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.)

°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ being his best friend means sneaking out at two am for whatever reason, you two were always in your pajamas too—even though you two are the same in personality—the style was a bit different.

“c’mon princess, jump i’ll catch you!” he whisper-yelled, between laughs because—why tf are you wearing a hello kitty pjs

“i can’t, asshole! what if you drop me-“ you hissed, sitting at your window, looking down at him.

“now don’t be dumb, i always catch you, angel, you know that.” he said cockily right before you sighed and jumped, he catches you, of course, but he doesn’t let you live it down

“see, dumbass! i told you!”

“fuck off >:(!!!!”

°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ being his best friend means you can come to him for everything and he can come to you, your family were always on some business trips, so you two were often taking care of eachother.

and that’s how you find yourself in this position, pouring rain, walking from your mansion to his because you got a fever, and your dad was on a business trip with his dad—and he didn’t left you any over the counter medicine, yeah, he left you shit ton of money, but pharmacies don’t work at 4am.

you knocked on his door as if you were dying, you were shivering, you were soaked, and relief washed over you as you heard a voice call out “who the fuck in this time of night-“

when he opened the door and saw you there, sniffling and shivering, teary eyed—he knew you had a fever, fevers were hard on you, so he knew exactly how you looked.

“woah, woah—easy there, it’s alright sweetheart c’mere” he mumbled

“but-but you’ll get sick if you touch me-“

“what? you think some cold will knock my ass over like it does to you, stop being a brat and c’mere.”

°‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ being his best friend meant spending late nights in your girly room, laying on your bed as you two look at eachother—high or not, it always ended up like this—his hands on your waist, and you being stubborn first five minutes before you let him kiss you

“thereee she is..”

[lymtw]

All Is Forgiven

Thinking of an argument with Toji that leaves you mute by choice towards him. He still talks to you and asks you questions, and while you don't turn away from him, you don't respond to him either. He ends up having to figure out whatever he needs on his own because after a minute or so you huff and walk away from the conversation.

"Mama," Toji calls from the bedroom, rummaging through his clothing drawers. "Have you seen my gym shorts?"

If he was able to get a word out of you, he would know that you washed them for him. Though you were still sizzling with anger towards him, you pulled them out of the dryer and walked them over to the room. He could hear your little footsteps as you approached the room, and when he turned to look at you, he noticed you were holding his shorts in your hand.

Your eyes were vacant towards him. You didn't want them to be because it sucks when you can't look at him with the endless amount of love you have in store for him. It's still there, but it's being masked by a poker face.

You toss the shorts onto the bed and leave. Toji sighs, irked by the fact that it's actually starting to sting now. Your disregard for him because you're ruled by your emotions and he lets things go too easily because he can't hold a grudge towards you, even if he feels you're in the wrong.

Toji never knew how much he depended on your voice until you wouldn't let him hear it. He depends on you to tell him where things are because without you they would be scattered all over the place. He doesn't know your method of organization, but somehow when he needs something and looks to you in order to find it, you pull it out from right under his nose. He depends on you to tell him he's doing a good job, and to tell him you love him, and just reassure him in general. It makes him feel good to know that someone thinks he's good enough, but recently the one person who feeds him affection like it's as important as food and water, has left him to starve. You haven't said a word to him in almost two days, and he feels like he's starting to go crazy. The sound of his own voice is driving him insane. It's gotten so bad that he had to make a mental note of how he's going to get you back that same night.

Toji leaves for the gym and texts you during his time there. He includes some images because it's now an unspoken rule that he always has to send you gym pics.

[ Attachment: 3 Images]

... 😳🤐

Yeah, I know you like those. I'll be home soon.

You take the time to doll yourself up while he's still out. It's for him, but you won't tell him that until you come back from your "night out". Really, you're just gonna go get dinner for both of you from his favorite little restaurant. You just want to see how far he's willing to let this go, because you're caving. You're ready to apologize even when you know he's not upset at all. You're ready to spoil him in order to make up for those severe feelings you held towards him. You're ready to hear about how stubborn and unbelievable you are for this little act you pulled.

You spray on some perfume and walk out of the bathroom, just in time to catch Toji walking through the door.

"Woof, where're you going, ma?" He asks, setting down his gym bag before absorbing everything you were gracing him with. His eyes flit up and down your body, lingering on the very bare skin of the legs that come out from under your skirt. He can smell your perfume from where he stands, its elegant scent masking even the smell of his own potent sweat.

You didn't answer his question, and left him to wonder why you're all dressed up at seven o'clock at night. Was it a girl's night or were you openly showing him that you have options? Did he miss a message or a call from you?

You grabbed your wallet and scooted past him. You walked halfway down the corridor of your apartment building before realizing that maybe this was a bit much. You would make him worry over you going on a five minute walk to grab some food? All so you can show him you're mad? You cracked.

🥟🥡🍜.

Toji was staring at his screen, waiting for anything from you. The screen flashes like some sort of miracle and your message is seen by him. He chuckles, feeling a sense of relief wash over him at the sight of your little emoticons.

You came back home as fast as possible, bags of food in hand as you patiently waited for the elevator to bring you up to your floor. You took your time walking through the corridor, this time, not knowing how you would react once you saw Toji or if you would immediately say something to him. You're ready to talk to him, you want to talk to him. You miss him, you love him, and you hate the passiveness you threw yourself into around him as an act of retaliation.

There you were, standing in front of the door, nervous beyond belief for what was behind it. You collected yourself and twisted the doorknob, ready to face anything that came to you.

Toji stood from the couch and walked over to you to take the bags from your hands. The smell of his body wash wafted into your nose. There was an imaginary white flag hanging out of your pocket, and it was about to fall out to signal your surrender to Toji.

He pecks your cheek and watches in real time as get all flustered. It's one of the most adorable things he's ever seen—you standing there so rigidly afterwards. He gives you a soft smile and resists the urge to coo at you for being so cute. Instead, he heads to the table to put the bags of food down.

You shut the door, and within a split second, Toji was in front of you again. "Ma," he says, sounding a little more desperate than he thought he would. "Say something." You stand there like a statue—unmoving, but unlike a statue, you are easily moveable. Especially, by Toji. "Anything, mama, please." He crouches down at your feet, his warm hands resting on the backs of your knees and his cheek resting on one of your thighs. This position made it look like you were being worshipped by him, and anyone who ever saw him do this would know that it was true, because he worshipped everything about you. From the top of your head, to the ground your feet stood on.

"Don't you miss having my hands on you?" They glide up and down the backs of your thighs. He looks up at your stunned expression. You won't look down at him, so he gets to see the way you swallow the words dying to leave your mouth, and the slight widening of your eyes as he lets his hands roam your lower body. "I know I do. I've been in hell these past couple days." He presses a soft kiss to your knee, then one more on your thigh. "I didn't mean what I said. I don't think you're selfish, baby. Maybe i'm just a greedy asshole," he says, rekindling the subject of what led to your silence towards him. His hand maneuvers around your leg so that his palm is on your thigh, making its way up towards the inner part of it. "But, I know something," his lips trail further up your thigh, softly kissing your skin. "I'm greedy about you. That can't and won't be changed, even when we argue like idiots."

You put your hand on his head as he starts kissing up your inner thighs, making his way even further up beneath your skirt.

"Come on, my sweet girl," he murmurs, his lips meeting the front of your underwear. "Tell me you want me to stop. Tell me you hate that my filthy paws are on you, right now."

Your legs tremble at the lightness of his touch, and you internally cringe at how sensitive you've always been for him.

"Toji..." you gasp. You feel his warm tongue flatten between your legs, a slow upwards drag of the muscle makes your thighs quiver before him. You whimper at the damp warmth his saliva leaves on your panties. "Fuck..." you moan, breathily. "Don't stop. Stay there, please."

The first word you reintroduced yourself with being a moaned out rendition of his name was heaven reaching down to pat him on the back for knowing exactly what to do to get you to talk again.

"Open wider for me, baby. Let me see," Toji says, your skirt still veiled over his head. You take a step back so that your back is against the door and widen your stance a little more. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder and you shudder when his tongue returns to slide through your clothed folds. He doesn't even need to produce that much saliva to drench the fabric of your underwear because you've done that for him already with your leaking arousal.

You shut your eyes and rest your head against the door as Toji continues his act of filth between your thighs. You can hear him panting below you, your taste pleasantly coating his tongue every time he sucks on the garment that clings to you.

You cry out his name with sharp breaths following, your fingers tangling into his locks, gripping and tugging as his lips catch onto your cunt. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," you grit out, whimpering at the contrast between his mouth and his hands. His hands offer a gentle massage to your thighs, softly kneading the plush between his fingers. His mouth moves purposefully because he knows exactly what it takes to make you fall apart with it. He coats his tongue with your essence every time he laps at the wet patch on your underwear, sticky webs of arousal connecting him to you.

"T-Toji!" You squeal, your cunt throbbing with every brush of his tongue. "I'm gonna cum... Fuck, i'm gonna cum..." you whine.

Toji pushes your underwear to the side, and glides his tongue through your generously slicked folds once and you're instantly arching your back off the door, squirming in his hold and moaning carelessly as he sloppily makes out with your cunt. He desperately chases the sound of your pleasure-ridden voice, wanting to hear the way it raises in pitch when he strokes you just right. He doesn't want it to stop, it's been too long. Two days way too long. You tug at his hair with one hand, dragging the nails of your other hand down the door. You breathe heavily as Toji manipulates your pleasure until your thighs are trembling.

Toji pulls away and lifts your skirt off his head. He lowers your leg back down and stands up from his crouched position. He faces you with glossy lips that shine with all the juices he collected from you, some of it drooling down his chin to give him an even more messy appearance. He presses his lips to yours, making slow movements to allow you to realize what is happening while your eyes are closed. You can taste yourself on his lips as you catch the rhythm.

There's a loud smack in the last kiss before he releases you, a feral look in his green eyes as he dotes on your blissed out appearance. You look too pure for someone who's just experienced something so sinful. "Hey, look at me," he coos, cupping your cheeks in his hands. "Look at me," he repeats, staring at you as you try to catch your breath with closed eyes.

You hum, rolling your eyes open to lazily stare back at him. Your eyelids felt so heavy as you looked at him, but you liked how vigilant he was being. It made you crack a grin, a small gesture that had Toji's heart thudding a little quicker, now.

"I wanna fuck you so bad, ma." His eyes trail yours as they look away from his gaze. "If this is your reaction to my mouth, I don't even know what to expect for when I'm inside you."

You look down to see what's been poking your thigh for the past minute or so, and it's the monster in his pants, outlined for your eyes to quickly spot and everything.

"Come on," you say, reaching your hand out to him. He takes it and allows you to lead him to the bedroom.

Toji shuts the door and locks it to give the situation a deeper level of intimacy. There's no one there but the two of you and yet you feel even more secluded by the gesture.

He wasn't aggressive in the way he bared you for his eyes. He pulled you close to him by the waist, your body against his as he peeled your layers of clothes off.

"Stay," he says, when you take a step back. He takes that step towards you again, placing his hands on your hips, and snaking them around to your back to locate the zipper for your skirt. He exhales through his nose, lidded eyes watching the longing expression on your face closely as he pulls down the zipper and allows the article to fall on the floor. His fingers fiddle with the hem of your shirt before he fully slides his hands beneath it, and raises it up your torso higher and higher. You put your arms up and allow him to slip it off your head.

He makes haste of getting his own clothes off, a sly smirk decorating his face when he sees you admiring him from where you sit on the end of the bed as you take off your bra and underwear. You're forced further up the bed by Toji as he inches closer and closer to you. You reach a dead end and welcome the suffocating warmth of his body as he cages you onto the bed.

"Don't do that to me again, mama," he murmurs, before leaning down to peck your lips. "Don't let me talk to myself for that long when you have such a pretty voice to respond with."

You laugh, pulling a small grin from him. "I didn't think you'd care, to be honest. I thought you'd tell me i'm being childish or ridiculous."

"Nah, princess. I thought I was gonna die."

You giggle, pulling him close again. "You're exaggerating."

"You wouldn't let me touch you. Not even when we went to bed, so it was like we were friends instead of lovers sleeping together. Especially with how far on your side you slept."

"Oh, baby," you coo, pressing multiple quick apologetic kisses to his lips. He chuckles at the affection, and his eyes close instinctively as your kisses become more widespread on his face. He missed this more than anything. "What can I do for your forgiveness, my love?"

"Just let me fuck you, ma. That's all. Give me my privilege to all of this, again." His hand slowly trails from your chest to your stomach, a touch you longed for dearly during those two days that you verbally ignored him.

"It's yours," you whisper to him. You peer up at him with your constellation eyes, silently begging him to realize how much you need him. "I'm yours, so show me the use you have for the privilege over my body, baby."

He leans down to kiss you, softly. He's desperate for you, but his lips don't falter their delicate synchrony because of it. He guides the tip of his cock through your folds, rubbing up and down the slickness a couple times before slowly sinking into you. Your ability to tangle with Toji's lips slowly deteriorates, and your focus strays to the stretching happening lower down your body, so Toji picks up the slack and feeds you his kisses.

"Come on," he groans out. Not even he is immune to the rebirth of sex with you. You're warm and inviting, and you embrace the pain and comfort he offers every time he craves you or you crave him. This time is no exception. "Kiss me back, sweetheart. Give them all to me," he mutters, before attempting to connect his lips to yours again. You dig your heels into the mattress and your toes curl as you feel his girth continue to submerge inside you.

Toji cups your chin and uses his fingers to squish your cheeks together into a makeshift pout for him to kiss. He can hear your hummed little whimpers in response to him sheathing himself further into you. He was being gentle, because hurting you is a crime in his world.

"Fuck, I missed this, mama," he says, goosebumps rising on his torso as he drags himself out of you halfway and pushes himself back in again. "So warm..." he says over the sound of your pleasured moan. He sighs, a grunt following as he starts a careful rocking rhythm into you. "I could stay inside you forever."

"I could keep you here forever," you rephrase, gazing up at him with those eyes he unequivocally loves. They've reverted back to the default loving expression you hold for him, the vacancy of your previous gaze now filled with love, excitement, lust, and overall enchantment. It's a beautiful thing to see your hurricanes subside.

He leans down to kiss you again, distributing the kisses on your face and leading them towards your neck. You could feel his abs dragging up and down your stomach with every roll of his hips against yours.

"Mmm... Toji," you moan, bringing your hands to his back. One of them moves up to the nape of his neck, threading through the dampened locks of his hair, the other traces his spine to distract you from how badly you want to dig your nails into him.

"I know," he coos, kissing the spot beneath your ear. "I know, doll. It's always this good with you."

You gasp at the feeling of his cock prodding the more sensitive area within you. "Right there, right there... Oh..." you moan out, inevitably digging your nails into his shoulder blades while Toji directs his kisses back up your neck and towards your face again so he can see the honest expression on it. You're lost in pleasure, vibrating as another orgasm rushes through you.

"Fuck, mama.. let me-" he groans, outwardly losing it at the overflow of your juices. "Let me see those pretty eyes," he pants, gripping your waist a little more harshly as he feels his cock on the brink of expelling into you. "Need you to watch me," he says, taking in the way your lips part to release your sounds of utter satisfaction. Your eyes flutter open to center on his greedy eyes. You mirror his lustful, lidded gaze, the look enough to make him spill inside you, making your cunt even sloppier. "You're gorgeous, ma," he says, mindlessly, as he fucks into you with a little more fervor. "Fucking stunning," he mutters through pants, to which you respond with a sly smirk. The gesture lured a groan out of him and made his cock twitch as he finished releasing into you.

You giggle when he stills his hips. Your combined attempts to regulate your breathing fills the silence that follows. "What're you laughing at?" He asks, massaging your hip with his thumb.

"You tell me that all the time like you're obsessed with me or something."

"And if I am?" he says with a voice so deep you have to blink to see that it's still your gentle giant of a man. "Is it too much for you? Can you handle it? Am I suffocating you, baby?" he purrs, cupping your cheeks while leaning in close to emphasize his points. All it does is allow you to closely admire how handsome he is and really think about what's happening in this moment. This green-eyed, raven-haired man, with the prettiest pointed nose and the most attractive scarred lips, is bedding you, and doing it so well.

"Never. Come closer and bite," you murmur.

He takes your lips in his again, a little more aggressive than before. You asked him to bite, and that's exactly what he's doing. The make out has him rocking both of you a little faster, working you towards yet another orgasm. You nip at his bottom lip and run your tongue over it when hisses. You hum out a little giggle, and moan into his mouth when he jolts into you.

"God, i'll bust again if you keep doing that. I'm serious, mama" he groans, swiping his tongue over his stinging bottom lip. You think he's being dramatic so when he leans down to kiss you again, you bite his bottom lip and suck on it. You gasp, releasing his lip and stare at him with wide eyes as his excessive warmth spurts into your cunt, filling it to the brim and beyond, to the point of leakage.

"F-Fuck... you're terrible," he groans, shuddering with tense abdominal muscles as he lures the entirety of his orgasm out. "Cum," he says, panting as he picks up the pace of his rutting to get you to follow his orgasm. "I can feel you clenching around me like hell. I know you want to," he says, reaching a hand between you and him to stimulate your clit.

Your already labored breathing picks up and your heart is pounding in your ears aggressively as you roll your hips back against his. You whimper as you feel your peak get closer and closer, a cried out and breathy "fuck!" leaving you when it arrives, followed by high pitched moans that make Toji's heart race. You arched your back off the mattress as you reached the zenith of your orgasm with the help of Toji's finger rapidly rubbing your clit while he maintained his satisfying pace inside you.

You whimper, slapping a hand onto Toji's wrist to stop his movements on you. He smirks at the sight of your trembling thighs, your heaving chest, and the sound of your dazed hums. You always were such a delicate thing. So fragile that even with just enough of his attention, he could break you.

"Tired yet?" He asks, admiring your relaxed facial features. You nod with your eyes closed, your lips parted to release little puffs of air. "Thought you'd be. I'll go grab some towels for us to shower." He pulls out of you, taking a moment to admire your collaborative masterpiece.

"Baby..." you whine, sitting up when you feel his weight lift off the bed. "I can't get up." You dramatically let yourself fall back on the bed and stick your tongue out to portray your exhaustion.

"Get up, you faker. That's all you have to do and i'll take care of the rest."

"Too tired to wash myself right now..." you say, waking up for a second before closing your eyes again. Toji can see the sly grin on your face and the little shake of your stomach as you stifle your giggles.

"Guess you're too tired to eat, too, huh? You know i've got a huge appetite, and I could eat all that food you brought by myself."

"You wouldn't," you say, abruptly sitting up on the bed and squinting at him. "There's enough to feed three people in those bags."

"I've got the stomach of three people in one, so you better catch up before you're left with my seconds."

You sigh, too tired to move, but you get up anyway and trail behind Toji. "Baby, can you pleeease clean me up? I'm beat."

He puts his hands on your shoulders as he now walks behind you. "Sure, but don't complain when I take longer on certain areas."

[timmydraker]

When patrolling together, Red Robin and Robin get cornered by the Joker.

They aren’t too worried at first considering he’s seemingly only got a dozen men and others are on patrol, but then they see what the men are holding.

Joker had made a new Joker venom and they are seemingly the test subjects.

Damian is instantly ready to fight, but Tim is running the odds through his mind and it’s not good. They have a good chance of getting out, they are trained after all, but not without one or both of them getting the venom and who knows how long it will take to make a cure of a new concoction.

Tim can’t let that happen.

Jason, Barbara, himself…

Damian will not be added to the list of people of people tormented by this mad man.

With coms being out of reach as the two went into a private channel so they wouldn’t get in trouble for bickering, and their every move being watched, Tim had few choices.

Tim swallows and pushes Damian behind him, standing tall with his chin up even as his hands start to shake.

Damian starts to protest but Tim is speaking first, “Let him go and you can-… can have JJ back.”

The way Joker starts to grin even wider, slow and painful, is the most unnerving sight Tim has seen in a long time.

Joker laughs loud and starts clapping.

“Oh joy, oh joy! This is more fun than I thought! Always so good at surprises, JJ!”

His laughing doesn’t stop as Tim shakily turns to his little brother, who’s almost eighteen but still little even as he grows taller than him, and holds onto his shoulders.

“Robin, I need you to listen to me. You have to let me go with them or you’ll get hurt, okay? You have to promise me you won’t follow us because I can’t let you get hurt like me and-“

One of the goons takes the chance to knock Robin out and lets him slump into Tim’s arms.

Just as he begins to panic about them hurting Damian or bringing them with him, Joker comes up behind him and wraps an arm move his shoulders, “Don’t worry about him, JJ! Little Robin number… whatever, will be just fine! Batsy will find him and take him back to his nest, while we…” - Joker leans in so he can whisper in his ear - “have a little family catch up!”

Tim nods, not finding it in himself to smile or play along yet, but keeping up his end of his offer.

It takes one day of shocks after his forced make over for him to settle back into the role he learnt the first time. Last time it took two and half a weeks for him to give in and learn his part properly, and then a few more days before he was rescued, but this time it feels almost natural as he puts on a big grin and starts a familiar giggle.

He thinks of Damian, who may have been turned into Joker Junior Junior or some other absurd name, and tells himself it’s worth it to protect him from any more trauma.

Tim is kept for a month, playing house with a mad man who makes rants about JJ’s mother leaving him for a woman and being tortured every time he doesn’t laugh quick enough or seems just a little distant.

When he’s found he doesn’t realise. He’s just sitting there at a dinner table with straps on the chair keeping him down. He’s laughing loudly, knows if he stops he’ll be hit or shocked or forced to drink some kind of toxic chemical until he pukes up blood. He can’t stop, because Papa will be mad and he’s scary when he’s mad and mama isn’t there anymore.

When he process the change of scenery he finds himself in a hospital bed in the cave.

JJ and Tim are so blurred into the same person that when he sees Damian he has no idea who he is at first. He almost expects someone younger, the little boy who first showed up, because that’s the little boy he gave himself up for.

But when Damian stared back at him and starts to tear up Tim finds himself remembering who he wants to be.

He pulls his little brother into his arms, jostling Alfred the Cat, and sobs into his hairline while ignoring the green in his periphery and praying he doesn’t start to laugh.

He fails, but Damian doesn’t give up on him.

[push-the-heartbrake]

𝙄 𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙖 𝘽𝙚 𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨 // 𝙎.𝙍

Second instalment | Series masterlist

Summary: “Tell me what you’d like for us to do together.” — or the one where Spencer finds in himself his first serious relationship and must navigate intimacy for the first time too.

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

Word count: 14.2k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ♡ Virgin!Spencer, dry humping, Spencer cums in his pants bc why not, fingering (f! receiving), some insecurities and sex used as a coping mechanism mentioned but otherwise very fluffy.

A/N: Happy (belated) Valentine! Set in the same universe as THIS, so go read that first if you want to know more about how they met and their dynamic. English is not my first language and please tell me what you think? That's all for now ♡

The early morning light seeped through the heavy curtains—thick and dark, softening the edges of the dawn—yet still, the light found its way, spilling in through the gaps, casting pale, golden shadows across the unmade bed. You stirred beneath the weight of the blanket, tangled around your bare legs, drifting in that fragile space between slumber and waking. The air was cold—the kind of raw, unrelenting cold only January could bring—lingering in the room, palpable even beneath the warmth of the sheets.

Sheets. They were Spencer’s dark green sheets. 

You stretched, finally waking up. The room was filled with nothing but the low hum of the radiator and the audible breaths from the man beside you. The world outside is still asleep. Soon, car engines would rumble to life, footsteps would slap against wet pavement, and the sky would brighten into daylight. But for now, your tired eyes had nothing else to focus on but his steady breathing. 

You shifted onto your side, the mattress dipping slightly beneath your weight. Spencer was lying there, still soundly asleep. His hair was a mess as it fell over his forehead, lips parted with the slow rhythm of his breath. Your heart did a… thing—an erratic, fluttering thing that Spencer would probably have a precise physiological explanation for. To you, it was just nerve-wracking. You wanted to reach out, to brush the hair from his face, to trace the line of his jaw, to simply exist closer. Alas, a small space remained between you, as if you’d drifted apart in the night. Cuddling wasn’t off-limits, but whatever was unfolding between you two was still new. 

So new that it was scary for you both.

New in the sense that touches didn’t come instinctively, that words didn’t fall from your lips without second-guessing yourself—that every. single. advance. felt like a make-or-break moment. 

Like—whoops—you kissed him too hard, too long, and now he was going to think that all you wanted was to sleep with him. 

You didn’t. Or you did, but it wasn’t why you liked him. 

You liked that he was smart, that he could ramble on for hours just like you could—except he usually made more sense. You liked that he was sensitive, that it felt like you could tell him anything (even though you never did). You liked that he was observant, that he noticed the small things most people overlooked. Like how he’d bring you dinner from your favorite restaurant during your evening shifts at the library. How he’d carry your bag on the way home because bringing work home with you meant lugging around a fuck-ton of books. How he knew you liked honey in your tea but couldn’t stand when it was substituted with sugar. The little things.

That he was stupidly attractive and that you had raging hormones inside of you truly came second to all of that. 

Right on cue, Spencer’s eyes fluttered open, pulling you from your train of thought. With tired movements, he stirred around in bed, finally finding you to look at. 

Your heart clenched at the sight of him. 

“Your hair is getting long, Spence,” you mumbled, your voice gruff from not having spoken yet today. 

Spencer’s lips pressed together in a small, sleepy frown as he blinked at you in slow, uncoordinated intervals. His hand moved from underneath the blanket to softly tug backwards at the hair that hung before his eyes. 

He’d gone from being terrified of you seeing him shirtless to almost always sleeping without wearing anything on his upper body. You heard yourself sigh at the view of his exposed neck and collarbones as the covers slipped down. His skin looked so soft. You knew that it was. Yet it wasn’t just yours to touch. You didn’t dare to. 

Flipping onto your stomach, you smushed your face into the pillow, breathing in the scent of the laundry detergent he used. A simple, clean, and understated scent that went up your nostrils and clouded your brain like it was a fucking drug. 

You saw in your periphery how Spencer rested his hand next to your face on the mattress, casually with his palm flat against it. It almost tickled in your fingers, wanting to reach out and touch him. 

A sound slipped from him, something between a sigh and a groan, low and strained. He shifted, but not closer. His hand twitched against the mattress, fingers flexing once before going still. Freezing, almost.

Your brows furrowed. “Why do you look so uncomfortable?” 

“No, uhm—” 

You pushed up slightly, watching his expression. “Spencer, is something wrong?” 

“Stop talking, please,” he muttered, eyes squeezed shut.

You blinked at his sudden plea, concern creeping in just as he bolted upright, sheets falling from his body and landing messily on the bed again. 

“I need to go to the bathroom,” he announced. 

You propped yourself up on your elbows, brows drawing together. “That’s all?” 

Spencer didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his hand shot out, grabbing his pillow with a clumsy sort of urgency. He held it in front of himself, almost like a shield.

Your gaze flickered between him and the pillow, realization hitting like a slow burn. “You’re taking your pillow to the bathroom—oh!”

Heat flooded your face as the truth settled. A grin threatened to pull at your lips, but you bit down on it, trying to keep your expression neutral. Spencer’s back went impossibly straighter, his grip on the pillow tightening like it had betrayed him. You fought the urge to tease him. His entire body radiated embarrassment, his cheeks a deep shade of red, and for all the things Spencer was—brilliant, logical, analytical—he was also so deeply, painfully shy about certain things.

Morning wood was a normal phenomenon. You knew that Spencer knew that. In a weird way, you felt a sense of pride because of it. It had happened while he was sleeping next to you. Sure, it was an involuntary response many times. But Spencer had also literally asked you to stop talking because you affected him. Didn’t make it any less mortifying for him, though. 

“Spencer, you don’t have to be embarrassed,” you said gently.

He didn’t respond. Instead, he all but rushed into the bathroom, shutting the door with a sharp, definitive click.

You exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking your head, falling back onto the mattress. “Did you just lock the door?” 

From inside the bathroom, you could hear rattling. His voice came, muffled but unmistakably miserable. “Can we please forget that this ever happened?” 

“I mean, yeah we could do that. Or we could talk about it like adults.” 

Silence.

Your lips formed into a grin.

“Are you at least taking care of it in there?” 

More silence.

Then, finally, a defeated, “I’m—I’m gonna wait it out.”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled up, rolling onto your side to cuddle back into the covers. “Suit yourself.”

A few minutes passed before the door creaked open again. Spencer hesitated in the hallway outside his bedroom, looking both exhausted and like he wanted to disappear. His face was still a little pink, his hair a mess from sleep and, presumably, from pressing his forehead against the cool tile of the bathroom wall. The pillow was no longer needed as a shield. No imprint could be seen through the flannel of his pajama pants, because of course, you looked. 

You tilted your head, your smile softening. “Over now?” 

“I need to get to work,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “But we’ll talk about it later, okay?”

You sat up fully, resting against the headboard, watching as he moved toward his dresser, already reaching for a change of clothes. “You’ll get a case and be gone for a week,” you pointed out. “I know how this works.”

His hands stilled for a moment.

“So,” you continued, “can I talk while you get ready?”

Spencer hesitated, then gave a slow nod. He kept his focus on his dresser as he changed out his sleepwear for his everyday attire. 

You took a breath. “I know that we’ve… experienced different things—” 

“I haven’t experienced anything,” Spencer cut you off. 

“You made out with Lila Archer in a pool. That’s something.” 

He huffed, throwing you a look over his shoulder. 

“Okay. Low blow. I’m sorry for that.” 

One drunken night out with the team (well, sober for you and Spencer), and you had found out so many things about Spencer that he probably would’ve never told you himself. 

You sort of knew to not make fun of him because of his lack of experience, but you also had this thing where your brain just said the first thing it could think of in every goddamned situation. It got you in trouble, but in this case it almost felt necessary to show him how casual a conversation about intimacy could be. 

You kicked the covers off of your legs and sat on the edge of the bed before you continued talking. “We’ve lived different lives, done different things, but if we want to figure us out together, then we have to talk about the sexual stuff too—” 

“But I don’t know how,” Spencer pointed out, walking around the room to face you, standing so close but not close enough. A few inches forward and his legs would be touching yours. 

You sighed. “I’m not saying we do it all right now. I guess I’m more asking how you feel about it. If you can explain it without running off to hide the next time you wake up with a boner?”  

Spencer’s face twisted at your direct use of words, and you could easily spot it. All for being casual… when your crude words might actually do more harm than good. 

He sat down next to you, still half-dressed with a button-up shirt undone and his tie in a tight grip in his hand. 

“I don’t take opportunities,” he simply stated. 

You frowned in confusion. “Yeah, you do.” 

He hadn’t reached his level of success without recognizing opportunities and pursuing them. His intellect alone wouldn’t have guaranteed anything. He had to view the world as something to learn from, to make something good or at least knowledgeable from it, which he had in your eyes.  

“No,” he corrected, turning slightly. “I mean, like social ones. I don’t put myself out there. And now I’m a grown man with no experience. That feels wrong.”

“Wrong in what way?” 

Spencer’s jaw clenched as he swallowed, his gaze dropping to where your hands rested in your lap. He exhaled, his fingers curling against his palm. “It feels like I should’ve just gotten drunk in college and gotten it over with.”

A surprised snort came from you before you could stop it. “Spencer, you were a child when you went to college.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah,” he admitted, “the first time.”

You shook your head, smile lingering. “Well, you still shouldn’t have done anything you weren’t comfortable with. And if you aren’t comfortable now either, that’s fine. But please, talk to me about it before you push me away.”

Spencer’s fingers flexed once before he reached for your hand, threading his fingers through yours. You liked when he was the one to initiate contact because that meant you weren’t crossing any of his boundaries. 

“I don’t want to push you away. I’ve just never felt this way before,” he murmured, voice hesitant. His grip on your hand tightened slightly. “And it scares me. Honestly. But the idea of never moving past this, of never trying for something more… that scares me even more.”

You squeezed his hand in return. 

“Okay. That’s good for me to know. We can work with that.” 

You hadn’t realized how tense the mood was until you saw Spencer visibly relax at your words, his shoulders slouching down as he let go of your hand to start buttoning his shirt. 

“I guess I should get ready too,” you murmured. 

Before your legs could even hit the floor, Spencer’s palm pressed against your bare thigh, his touch gentle but firm, halting you in place.

“You know you don’t have to leave just because I am,” he said. His gaze, soft and lingering, traced over your face. “You’re allowed to stay. Sleep some more. You’re working the night shift, right?” 

You hummed in confirmation, only focused on the warmth from his hand spreading through to your skin, creating a ball of fire in your stomach. Your little sleep shorts did nothing to cover the skin he was touching. He probably wasn’t even aware of how he was affecting you, seeing the contact as simply innocent. 

“Mhm, so stay,” he urged. “There’s stuff in the fridge to make breakfast.”

Spencer shifted, scanning the dimly lit room until he spotted his bag on the floor. Leaning over the side of the bed, he rummaged through it before pulling out his keys. With a small jingle, he dangled them in front of you.

“I’ll leave you my home keys. Lock when you leave and throw them in my mail slot.” 

Your fingers closed around them, the metal cool against your palm. He had a little keychain with the Las Vegas welcome sign. That the sweetest man you’d ever met was from Sin City was still a juxtaposition you almost couldn’t believe. 

“Spence?”  

He tilted his head, looking at you musingly. 

You smiled, your fingers treading to tug lightly on the sleeve of his shirt. 

“Kiss me before you go.” 

For a second, he just sat there. 

Then, slowly, the bed dipped as he braced himself against the mattress, his palm planting next to your waist. His nose brushed yours, and the warmth of his breath ghosted against your lips. There was a pause—a heartbeat—before he closed the space between you.

He kissed you, soft and hesitant at first. 

If you asked Spencer, he probably knew the exact amount of kisses you’d shared. Or he could at least calculate some sort of estimated number. You just knew that it was still a new, almost paralyzing feeling for you. You couldn’t even begin to fathom the nerves that he was feeling. 

But when you kissed him back with more intent, when your fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt, you felt it. The way he melted, just a little.

When he pulled back, his forehead lingered against yours, breath unsteady.

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

Then, with a reluctant sigh, he straightened, stepping back to finish getting ready. You crawled back beneath the covers, letting your head hit the pillow once again. 

You watched him with quiet amusement as he pulled on a sweater, smoothing it down with precise, almost methodical movements. His hands moved quickly—buttoning his cuffs, slipping on his watch—but there was an unspoken hesitation in the air, something that made him pause every so often. 

“You’re staring,” you pointed out. 

He huffed a small breath through his nose, shaking his head as he picked up his bag. “I’m… acknowledging.”

You raised a brow. “Acknowledging what?”

Spencer didn’t answer. He simply smiled and swung the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder, adjusting it absently before making his way to the front door. Just as his fingers curled around the handle, he hesitated.

And then, slowly, he turned back.

You were still in his bed, tangled in the sheets, looking entirely at home. He almost wanted to laugh at how it made him feel, seeing your bare foot stick out or how your hair was a little messy from sleep. 

Spencer wished he understood why his heart did a… thing every time he looked at you. The thing, where it felt like it was doing somersaults around in his ribcage. 

He swallowed, forcing himself to speak. “I don’t do this,” he admitted. “I don’t casually wake up with someone and… feel okay about leaving.”

You smiled, smushing your cheek against the pillow. “You’re not leaving. You’re going to work.” 

“You don’t mind me rushing out?” 

“I love having a big bed all to myself. Go to work, genius. I’m a phone call away.”

Spencer’s grip on his bedroom door tightened before he finally turned to leave. He stepped into the hallway but couldn’t help himself—one last glance. One last look at you in his bed, at the imprint he had left beside you, at the way you had settled into his space so effortlessly.

As he walked to the train station, a pep in his step, he had the time to reflect on what had actually happened this morning and how it was something that he had never actually experienced before. 

Someone else seeing him aroused. 

And his stupid inability to talk about sex. Well, he’d had to do it for a few different cases. But that was objective facts about the human psyche and sexuality as a concept. This was as subjective as it could be. It was literally about his own… penis. 

His inability to have sex was an even worse subject for him to think about. Inability was maybe the wrong word. Was it more about how he hadn’t wanted to? 

You were right, though. He hadn’t seen the point in doing it in college, not because he was emotionless and only focused on his studies and career, but because if he had done it, it wouldn’t have been meaningful. He needed sex to be meaningful to serve the purpose he felt like it would have in his life. 

It’d be pointless for him to have pointless sex. That was clear, and still true. 

But then you’d stormed into his life with your unapologetic way of being—your sharp wit and easy laughter. You had your own layers he had yet to peel back, but it didn’t scare him as much as it did excite him to know you that way. You, with your warmth and your patience, with the way you made him feel wanted without expectation, like he wasn’t some puzzle missing too many pieces to be worth solving.

And you were the furthest thing from pointless to him. Intimacy with you didn’t feel like something to analyze or rationalize. It felt like something to want.

Life felt futile without a sense of contribution, without the feeling that his experiences grew with him rather than passing by like scenery outside the window of a bus. The people around him changed, but he remained the same as he had been at age fifteen—only more rugged, more worn-out, and with a face that now bore the knowledge of what Dilaudid did to the body. He couldn’t let that stay the same anymore. He had to learn to see it differently.

Fuck, he needed to figure this out.

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

Spencer turned off the engine as he parked, letting the windshield wipers go one more time to take away the last lingering raindrops. It was late in the evening, and the streetlights reflected gold through the windows. He sent you a quick text that he had arrived before stepping out of his car. The cool February air hit him as he adjusted his scarf, his own breath fogging up his glasses that he had to wear when he drove. 

He scanned the street for the house number in the address you had texted him, spotting it quickly. The building itself was a modest townhouse. A little worn down but full of character, with overgrown and leafless rosebushes lining the front of it. The windows of your friend’s apartment glowed warmly against the night, the silhouettes of moving figures behind sheer curtains. He could hear muffled voices, occasional bursts of laughter, and the faint notes of an indie song playing scratchily from a speaker. He recognized it as something you’d listen to, but nothing more distinct than that. 

He hesitated near the entrance, slowly walking up the stairs to the front door, taking in the view showing through the curtains. 

Girls' night. Spencer was no stranger to the concept. He and Morgan had been turned down plenty of times when they’d tried to tag along with the women of the BAU after work. He’d also seen them the next day—giggly, whispering, exchanging knowing looks about whatever had happened. He wondered if you’d be the same. Would you come back all giggly, or did girls' night mean something different depending on the group? He didn’t know your friends, after all.

A second later, the door swung open, and there you were—stepping out into the night, huddled in your coat. You didn’t notice him right away, busy adjusting your bag over your shoulder as you waved something off behind you, closing the door with a thud. 

Something being one of your friends that Spencer could just about see a sliver of. 

Turning around, he watched as you almost got scared of his presence, not expecting him to be standing so close. You lifted your hands to your face in mild shock, and Spencer couldn’t help but let out a little laugh. 

“Red?” he asked, tilting his head in mild curiosity.

Your nails. Newly painted a bright red color. So painting nails was part of girls’ night. For weeks after you started seeing each other, Spencer had quietly wondered how your nails were always so perfectly done. He now knew that one of your friends was training to be a nail technician and would gladly accept anyone whose fingers she could practice on. 

You glanced down at your hands as if just remembering them. “For Valentine’s Day,” you replied matter-of-factly. 

Spencer hummed, taking the opportunity to hold one of your hands in his own. Was he supposed to ask you to be his Valentine? Before he could respond with anything more, the muffled sound of laughter and movement from behind the door stopped him in his tracks. And he watched you shift uncomfortably because of it. 

“Can we walk to the car, now?” you asked, almost dragging him down the entrance stairs, your eyes flickering between the door and where his car was parked. 

“Why are you in such a hurry?” he croaked out, almost immediately clocking what he thought was embarrassment from your side. Down the stairs, he gripped your hand stronger, making you unable to walk further. “Do you not want your friends to see me?” 

The way you instantly turned to face him, eyes wide with disbelief, made something tighten in his chest.

“You really think that?” you asked, voice soft, a little breathless, like the idea alone was absurd. “Spencer, no—it’s the opposite, really.”

He blinked, lips parting slightly, but before he could ask what that meant, you sighed and pointed with your free hand up to the apartment again. “My friends are standing in the window trying to get a look at you.” 

Looking up, the sheer curtains betrayed them. All of them huddled close to the window to see… well, what were they supposed to see?  

“I’ll get a text in approximately 30 seconds where they will guesstimate the size of your penis and how you are in bed.” 

You deadpanned the words. Spencer would never understand how you did it. It didn’t faze you in the slightest, as you moved to get your phone from your coat pocket. 

Spencer choked. “What? But we’ve never—”

Sure enough, your phone buzzed with a new text message. He didn’t get another word in before you read it out loud. 

“Grower, not a shower. 4 inches soft. Probably kinky in a subtle way, like he’ll tie your hands up while asking about your day.” 

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, adjusting his glasses like that would somehow hide the way his flustered blush was spreading up all the way to his ears. He barely managed to form a coherent thought, let alone a response. 

Instead, his brain short-circuited, flashing between two equally mortifying thoughts: (1) The fact that your friends—people he had never even spoken to—were speculating about his sex life. And (2), the fact that you were standing here, repeating it all so casually, without any indication that it embarrassed you in the slightest.

Did they really think that? Did you?

And worse—could they be right?

Because, if he was being honest, Spencer had thought about it. A lot. Maybe more than was healthy. He thought about the way it would feel, the sound you would make. The way he imagined your body to look naked was some sort of fictional image burned into his mind like some old TV screen. Would he like to tie you up? Would that hurt your wrists? 

He had thought about it so much that the idea of it actually happening made him feel like his entire body would shut down.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

He was scared that you were so special to him, and that he could never be special enough to you. Because you’d done it all before. Even your friends knew that. To the point where they expected it from you—that your sexual endeavors were common enough that they became a casual topic of conversation. Spencer believed that Morgan might faint if he told him that he’d been thinking of having sex with you, like obsessively thinking. If it did happen, you’d always be special to him. Hell, even if it never happened, you were special enough to probably linger in his mind for decades. To you, it was possible for him to just be another number. A notch in your bedpost. Not that you’d ever describe it like that. He knew that. But still, the premise remained. 

“See?” you said, nudging him lightly, snapping him out of his spiraling thoughts. “We should’ve started walking when I said it because now you’re all embarrassed.”

“I’m not—” he started, but faltered, because clearly, he was. “Could they really guess all that from just looking at me?” 

“I don’t know, you’re the profiler,” you pointed out, trying to drag him closer to the car again, but Spencer stayed rooted. “They’re mostly doing it to mess with me because I refused to share any gossip with them tonight.” 

“Is that what girls’ night means? You just sit around and gossip?” he wondered out loud. 

You snorted, shaking your head. “Oh, like you don’t know the ins and outs of Morgan’s love life?” 

“That’s different,” he argued immediately. “I never ask to know anything, but he tells me anyway.” 

You shot him a pointed look. “And you listen.”

He opened his mouth to counter, but quickly shut it again because, well… you had a point. Instead, he huffed, looking down at the sidewalk as he let you make your way to the car. 

After a beat of silence, he glanced over at you, still holding your hand in his. “But really, do I look like I would… act like that?” 

The hesitation in his tone made you pause, turning your head to take him in properly. He wasn’t just flustered anymore—he was genuinely unsure because he had never even considered how people perceived him in a… sexual manner. 

You exhaled, tilting your head at him. “I don’t know what you want me to say—that you practically have a sign on your forehead saying virgin? Would that be better?” 

“No, no,” he said quickly. “I just…” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know how to talk about this.”

Your expression softened. “I know that, which is why I wanted us to go immediately.” 

He opened his mouth, grasping for something to say that would make him feel like he had some semblance of control over the situation. “You didn’t have to read that text out loud.” 

“It’s impossible to lie to you. You know that.” 

By the time you both reached the car, Spencer rushed ahead, opening the passenger door for you. It was instinct, something he did without thinking. But when he turned back to see you watching him, something flickered in your expression. 

“I should learn how to talk about it, though.” He cleared his throat. “That’d be useful for when it eventually happens.” 

He watched you smile as he said it. He hinted at it actually happening. That it was something he wanted. 

“We don’t have to hurry,” you assured as you slid into your seat. 

Spencer swallowed hard, moving around to the driver’s side. He slipped into his seat, hands gripping the wheel, eyes stubbornly focused straight ahead as he started driving. He could feel your gaze on him, patient but knowing. 

You knew him. Even after quite a short time. He couldn’t exactly remember the date on which he first saw you at the library. But it had been 36 days since your first kiss on New Year’s Eve. And you knew him.

He didn’t have to hide a single part of himself from you. Because you seemed to like them all. Or, at least, understand them all. From the shy little boy who was too smart for his own good, seeing his mother get sick and his father turn absent—to the messy adult version of him who had struggled with addiction and closeness in any sort of relationship. You understood them all, though the layers. And you liked some of them to the point where it made you visibly affected. And you protected him in ways that he protected himself too. 

Spencer could only hope to get to know you well enough to understand all versions of you. That you’d let him in, even to your darkest corners. Because he liked you so much it hurt, and felt protective over you in a way that wasn’t even comparable to the most helpless of victims he’d encountered. 

“Don’t do that thing with your tongue.” 

That startled him enough to glance at you. “What thing?” 

“Poking the inside of your cheek with it and looking all smug.” 

Spencer blinked, confused. He hadn’t even realized that he was doing anything, completely lost in his own head. “Is it disturbing for you?” 

“No, it’s distracting. You look hot.” 

“Oh.” He blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. “S-should I drive to your place or mine?” 

Smooth segue, Spencer. Really smooth. 

“You’re assuming we’re spending the night together? Awfully presumptuous, Spence,” you said, placing a hand on your chest to mimic being offended. 

Spencer tried to keep his face straight, forcing a serious answer from you. 

“Drive to your place, it’s bigger.” 

“But I’ve never even seen your apartment,” he argued. 

“For good reason,” you muttered. “It’s messy.” 

“I do not care.” 

“Fine, my place it is,” you sighed, telling him where to drive. “But if you’re mean about it, I’m kicking you out.” 

Spencer only nodded. 

He saw you relax into your seat after that, turning the heat down in the car, humming along quietly to whatever was playing the radio. Spencer thought about how he could easily get used to having you next to him, especially in simple moments like this. Picking you up, or coming home from work and seeing you in his space. Or maybe him being in your space. It almost clouded his brain, the easy domesticity. He had to remind himself that he was driving a couple of times. 

And then he thought of it. A joke, really. He could do that sometimes—think of something to say in conversations long after they had ended. Usually it was to save himself from remembering something embarrassing or unfitting that he’d actually said, but this time, he just wanted to make you laugh. 

“It’s more like 5 inches soft, by the way.” 

“Excuse me?” 

You squealed, leaning forward while also staring at him with eyes wide open. Your hand gripped the car door, and Spencer was momentarily scared your nails would scratch the interior. 

He grinned, acting unbothered. “Just thought I’d let you know.”

You exhaled sharply, your hand still gripping the door, trying (and failing) at holding back a giggle. “I’ll deflower you right in this car if you want to.” 

Spencer felt the color drain from his face at the sound of your words. He couldn’t beat you at your own game. That game being dropping the most sexually charged remarks in casual conversation. 

“No?” you teased. “Then stop with the dirty talk.” 

This was going to be a very long short drive. 

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

On Valentine’s Day, Spencer found himself at the train station after coming home from a difficult case in Detroit. It had been such a long and simultaneously hurried process that he hadn’t even realized that they were coming back home on Valentine’s Day. Garcia’s homemade pink cupcakes waiting for them at the office had refreshed his mind. 

So, now he stood at the train station in D.C., unsure of whether to go home, to the library, or to your apartment. Mostly he worried about you picking up his phone call, pacing the platform with his phone pressed against his ear. Or maybe he was worried you wouldn’t pick up at all. Your shift had just ended. You should be able to answer. He really should’ve asked you to be his Valentine instead of waiting until the 14th to even think about it, or what if you found it all to be capitalist bullshit anyway—

“Hi Spence! How’s Michigan?”

Your happy voice coming through the speaker in his phone halted his spiraling thoughts. 

“Hi—Uhm, I’m actually home, or at the station. We could wrap up early and not have to spend another night.” 

“Well, that’s good, I guess. Successful case?” you wondered, breathing heavily. He could picture you walking around the library with quick steps, which was what you were doing by the sound of it. 

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Spencer answered. He’d noticed that you were often too curious for your own good. Every time he could tell you details from a case, you regretted it afterwards, not actually wanting to know such gruesome things. “Why does it sound like you’ve just run a marathon?” 

You let out a breathless laugh. “We had a bunch of arts and crafts for the kids today, and they made a whole mess. Glue, glitter, paper scraps everywhere. And I swear, once kids figure out how to use scissors, they think they’re unstoppable.”

A faint smile tugged at Spencer’s lips as he imagined it. You were so good with the kids coming to the activities organized by the library. 

“Sounds chaotic.”

“Oh, it was,” you confirmed. “Somehow, a three-year-old managed to glue his own sleeve to the table, which, honestly, is kind of impressive.”

Spencer chuckled, rubbing at his temple. “Remind me again why you do this voluntarily?”

“Because it’s cute,” you shot back. “And because somebody has to make sure kids don’t leave libraries thinking they’re just boring old book storage units.”

His smile widened, but before he could respond, you hesitated.

“So, uhm…” you started.

Spencer picked up on it immediately. “You’re running late?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

He glanced at the clock. He hadn’t even made it home yet, and he already knew you were going to exhaust yourself staying behind to clean up. “You know, we don’t have to—”

“But I’ll tell you what,” you interrupted, voice decisive. “Since you’re on my side of town, why don’t you go to my place, and then I’ll show up when I’m done cleaning up?”

Spencer hesitated. He still wasn’t entirely used to the casual intimacy of something as simple as waiting for you at your place. But then again, this—the way you made space for him so effortlessly—was exactly why it had never felt overwhelming.

You didn’t press him for an answer, just kept going, voice slightly distracted like you were already multitasking. “I’ll tell my neighbor to leave my extra set of keys under my doormat right now.”

Spencer nodded before realizing you couldn’t see him. “That’d be great,” he said instead. “I’ll see you later.”

There was a pause, just long enough for him to picture you—probably still standing in the middle of the library, hands on your hips, surveying the mess before sighing and getting back to work.

Then, softer, “Mhm. Buh-bye, Spence.”

The call ended with a quiet click, and for a long moment, Spencer just stood there, staring at his phone.

Being in your apartment alone? Yeah, no. That was weird. 

* * * 

Spencer arrived at your building just as the streetlights flickered on, the city settling into early evening. A bouquet of tulips in his hand, clenched in a tight grip as he made his way up to your level. They were a mixture of red, white, and orange tulips. 

He remembered Garcia once going on a rant about how no woman had red roses as her favorite flower and that men only gave them as gifts as custom and because they hadn’t cared enough to get to know the woman’s actual favorite flower. 

At his quick stop at a flower shop, Spencer had cursed himself for never asking about your favorite flower. But he at least knew he couldn’t buy roses. If not for you, then for the sake of Garcia not being disappointed in him. 

So tulips it was. They were a symbol of affection, after all. He’d read about their symbolism stemming from the Persian tale of Farhad and Shirin. A tragic love story not too far from mirroring Romeo and Juliet. And the colors—red was for love, white was for honesty, and orange was for understanding. Spencer wasn’t sure if he’d tell you all of that. Maybe if you asked. But it was still a nice thought for him to know that his gift had a meaning as is, beyond his intention. 

He rounded the corner to your door, only to pause when he spotted an older woman standing by it, hands clasped in front of her as if she had been waiting for him. Her hair was a soft gray, pulled back into a bun, and she wore a thick cardigan. Kind eyes appraised him from behind gold-rimmed glasses, and when her gaze dropped to the flowers, her lips twitched in approval.

“Tulips?” she mused. “Good choice.” 

Spencer blinked, caught slightly off guard. “Oh—uh, thank you?”

Her smile deepened knowingly. “You must be Spencer.”

“I am, yes.”

She gave a small nod, then reached into her cardigan pocket, pulling out a keyring. “I’m Edith, the neighbor with her keys,” she explained simply. “She asked me to leave them under the doormat, but I figured I’d wait and hand them off in person.”

“Oh, right! Thank you,” Spencer said, taking them carefully from her outstretched hand.

The woman didn’t step away immediately. Instead, she studied him for a long moment, eyes twinkling with something he couldn’t quite place. And then, in a softer voice, she added, “I know it’s not my place to pry, but be kind to her.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed slightly. “Of course,” he said quickly. 

The neighbor hummed, satisfied but not entirely done.

“You’re very welcome to take care of that girl,” she said gently. “Because I don’t think anyone else does.”

It wasn’t pity in her voice. It wasn’t sadness, either. It was just an observation, simple and steady, spoken by someone who had been watching quietly from the sidelines, possibly for a long time. 

He swallowed, fingers curling slightly around the keys in his palm, not having the time to overthink what she’d said. 

“I will.” 

The woman nodded once before turning to walk up the stairs, heading back to her own apartment. 

Spencer watched her go, then turned back to your door.

He let himself inside, stepping into your space. Spencer had adored your apartment ever since the first time you had him over, that time he’d picked you up from girls’ night. 

It was a small space, crowded with your things. You’d moved in fresh out of high school. It was something about not being able to wait any longer to get out of your mother’s house. Then you’d stayed in the same apartment all through college and when you started working at the library. 

And yes, it was messy. But you were a bit of a mess yourself, so it only made sense. It wasn’t unclean in any way, but you placed things around you without any rhyme or reason. You were still able to find everything, though. Spencer had noticed that quite quickly, observing you in your own space. While he’d lounged in the bed after one of your now very casual sleepovers, he’d seen you find your sweater hung on the kitchen door and your favorite tea mug on the bathroom sink. 

There wasn’t a pattern. He had a pattern for most things in his own apartment. But this made sense to you. 

Spencer dropped your keys in a bowl on a table in your entryway. He didn’t want to feel any responsibility over them. It was weird enough to be alone in your space. 

The apartment was eerily quiet as he kicked off his shoes and took a seat on your couch, the tulips placed on your coffee table. He’d wait for you to put them in water, not wanting to go through your kitchen cabinets looking for a vase. 

He thought he could read for a while or maybe turn on the TV. But he didn’t end up doing anything. He mostly looked around the room, twiddling with his fingers as his eyes lingered on your bookshelf and on the artwork you had decided to hang on the wall. 

The blanket draped over the couch, was it handmade? The coasters on your coffee table, were they souvenirs? The Polaroid pictures blu-tacked to your bedroom door, who were they off? 

Spencer could spend hours asking you questions, he thought. He’d find your reasonings interesting even if they weren’t. 

If it had gone ten minutes or an hour when you barged in through the door with the loudest sigh he’d ever heard, Spencer couldn’t answer. You didn’t even say hi when you saw him sitting on your couch, you just dropped your coat to the floor and smiled, taking in the sight. 

“Tulips?” you exclaimed, dropping your bag on the floor too the second you noticed the bouquet lying on the coffee table. Toeing off your Converse on the way over, you looked at him, eyes wide with excitement. “I freaking love tulips!”

Spencer shifted where he sat, lips curving into a small smile. “I hoped so.” 

“But why? For Valentine’s day?” 

His face warmed, and he hummed in acknowledgment as you picked up the flowers, inhaling their scent. 

Spencer watched as you busied yourself placing them in a vase of water, moving around the kitchen like it was second nature. He was about to tell you to leave them in their wrapping to soak for an hour before cutting the stems, but you seemed to already know that. It was supposed to make them last longer. You loved tulips enough to know that. Spencer saw that as a positive indication. 

“I totally didn’t plan anything special for today,” you admitted, walking back into the living room and placing the flowers back on the table. “Did you want us to do something?” 

“Not really,” he answered. “I just got home from a case, and you have acrylic paint on your shirt. Safe to assume we’re both too tired to go out?” 

You glanced down at your stained crewneck and groaned. “Ugh. Yeah. That tracks.”

Your next move shouldn’t have surprised Spencer as much as it did. 

Standing in front of him, you lifted the sweater over your head, the shirt you had on underneath rising with it slightly. The skin of your stomach exposed to him, but what he focused on was how your belt cinched at your waist and how your slacks basically fitted like a second skin before they flared out at the legs. 

“How do you get them to fit so well?” he asked before thinking. 

With your head peeking out from the sweater as you tugged it off, hair getting messy in the process, you raised your eyebrows in amusement. “Spencer, are you staring at my ass?” 

His mouth opened, then closed again. He had definitely been looking.

You only laughed, shaking your head. “I tailor them myself.”

Spencer exhaled, grateful for the shift in conversation. “That makes sense,” he mumbled. “They look nice.”

You walked off to your bedroom, throwing the stained sweatshirt into your hamper of dirty laundry like you were the next big thing in the NBA. 

By the sound of it, you were changing out of your clothes completely. If Spencer had stretched his neck, he might’ve been able to see it through the door. But he didn’t. It didn’t feel appropriate even though he suspected that you left the door wide open on purpose. 

You tiptoed back into the living room wearing shorts and a big t-shirt, your bare feet barely making a sound across the old wooden floors. Spencer should be used to seeing you look so casual, but he was unsure if he ever would be. 

“I got you that book you were looking for, by the way. Someone returned it today,” you started to say as you bent over to rummage through your bag. “And uh… this,” you hesitated, handing him not only the book but also a bright pink slip of paper. “A very insistent little girl told me I had to make my own.” 

You’d made a Valentine’s card. For him. You’d made it for him. Holding the pink paper in his hands, Spencer’s heart squeezed at the sight—messy crayon doodles, slightly uneven letters spelling out Happy Valentine’s Day. It was simple, kind of ridiculous, and absolutely perfect. 

He couldn’t get a word out, simply staring at it. 

You plopped down on the couch beside him, sprawling out with ease, moving pillows and blankets around. At first, you bent your knees to not touch him, but then on instinct you moved them to be in Spencer’s lap as he got the book and card out of the way. 

Your toes matched the red nail polish on your fingers. He hadn’t noticed that before. 

“Why did you want it, anyway? Didn’t think it was your kind of poetry,” you asked, not bothered by his lack of reaction to the card. 

Although, maybe his silence was enough for you to see through him like glass. He’d never gotten a Valentine’s Day gift before. Garcia got everyone cupcakes, sure, but he’d never received one with romantic intentions. 

“It isn’t. But you read it and seemed to enjoy it.” Spencer straightened, finally finding something to say. Answering questions was something he could manage. “Also, the poem about being a vacuum cleaner seemed too odd to ignore.” 

You’d mentioned it once at the library. The second time you talked to each other. He’d been reading a book on Nobel Prize winners, and you’d approached him, offering him tea and questioning him about his job. A John Cooper Clarke poetry collection in your lap. There was something about a poem and a vacuum cleaner. He remembered thinking that he had to read it, no matter how stupid it sounded. 

You snorted. “Yeah, it’s… weirdly moving.”

Spencer placed the card on the coffee table, patting it with his palm like it meant something. He’d have to save it. Put it on his fridge or make a shoebox of memories with you. 

He then started going through the book. It was muscle memory for him. If he had a book in his hands, he would read it immediately. 

The poetry was so simple, it only would’ve taken him minutes to finish the entire thing. But once he read a line out loud to you, seeing a happy and content smile, he knew he couldn’t hurry through it. So, he read it to you instead. 

The couch was just big enough for the two of you—him sitting upright against the armrest, and you sprawled across the cushions with your feet in his lap, half-buried under a blanket. With nervous fingers, he’d started to trace absentminded patterns on your shin.  

The air smelled faintly of old books and lavender, your signature candle flickering softly on the coffee table next to the tulips. Every now and then, Spencer would pause between stanzas, glancing over at you like he was gauging your reaction. Most of the time you interrupted him yourself, feeling the need to question something. 

“I wanna be your vacuum cleaner, breathing in your dust.” 

You blinked at the ceiling. “What does that even mean?”

“I think it’s a metaphor.”

“For what? Codependency?”

“Or devotion,” Spencer theorized. 

“I wanna be your Ford Cortina, I will never rust.” 

You squinted. “Is that a reliable car?”

“Pretty sure they’re not. Must be irony,” he answered. 

The next interruption wasn’t your doing. You felt the shift before you saw it—his gaze lingering, the gentle press of his fingers against your shin turning more intentional.

“What?” you asked out of curiosity. “Did I miss a spot when I shaved or something?” 

“No, uhm…” He ran his thumb lightly over a faint line near your knee. “Is this a scar or a birthmark?” 

“Scar, I think.” You twisted slightly to glance down. “Might be from when I tried to pick up skateboarding.” 

Spencer’s lips quirked. Yeah, that sounded about right.

“Does it look gross?” you asked. 

He couldn’t fathom a scar looking gross. Not when it was healed. Because if he thought that about someone else’s scars, what would they think about his? 

“I’m not one to speak when it comes to scars,” he mumbled, hesitant.

“I think yours are kinda badass, from stuff you’ve lived through,” you reassured him, a light sparking in your eyes. 

“Skateboarding is cool,” Spencer tried to argue.  

“I never even managed to stand on the board,” you muttered, a smile shining through. “I have another scar on my ribs from scratching my entire side on the sidewalk.” 

He had momentarily forgotten about the book. His focus was only on the skin his fingertips traced and how the scar made a little indent from where it had been scratched open. 

“Can I see it?” Spencer asked without thinking. 

“Not without, like, flashing you my boobs,” you answered plainly. 

Spencer’s fingers abruptly stopped moving as he first thought he hadn’t heard you right. Then he realized that he had asked to see a scar on your ribs. And your ribs were close to your breasts. That was how the human body was shaped.  

“Oh—” His brain seemed to stutter, like a skipping record. “Would that…?”

“You don’t think it’d be a bad idea?” You sat up from your lying position, taking the book in your hands as you bent your legs over his lap. “I could do it. It’s not crossing any boundaries for me. I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

“You don’t make me uncomfortable,” he murmured.

You smiled back, shifting so you could press a soft kiss to the side of his jaw. He tensed slightly beneath you—not in rejection, but in that way he always did when he wasn’t sure what to do.

“Good,” you whispered.

For a second, you just looked at him. He could sense that you were trying to read his reaction. He wasn’t sure he had a reaction. Or at least one that was reasonable.

Tucking your lower lip between your teeth, a small sigh escaped you. Spencer only briefly had time to wonder if you were disappointed, but your attention turned back to the book, a finger tracing the page to find the next line of the poem. 

“If you like your coffee hot, let me be your coffee pot.” 

You snorted. “Okay, now he’s just saying words.”

Spencer cleared his throat, trying to concentrate on something other than the fact that you basically wanted to be shirtless in front of him. 

“Isn’t that the point of writing? Putting words together?” 

“Smartass.” You scrunched your nose at him.  

He let his eyes linger on the page for a while before he read the next words. He didn’t realize their meaning until they left his mouth. 

“You call the shots, I wanna be yours.” 

You were so close to him. He could hear your breaths, feel them if he focused. The bare skin of your legs touching his covered ones, a burning sensation through the fabric. It was like his ears started ringing by how quickly his heart was beating. He could only wonder if yours was beating even half as fast. 

Spencer wasn’t avoiding eye contact—not exactly—but he was looking at you like he was working through a puzzle, like he was waiting for the right words to magically fall into place before saying them.  

“I have to start thinking rationally about this,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You furrowed your brows. “This meaning sex?” 

“I guess…” He hesitated, his lips pressing together. “It’s about you, in general.” 

“And by that, you mean?”

“It’s biology,” he stated, the beginning of a ramble. “Attraction is a chemical process driven by neurotransmitters. It releases dopamine and oxytocin that are associated with the feelings of reward and attachment. The limbic system is highly active in people experiencing romantic attraction. Essentially, the brain treats attraction like an addiction, reinforcing behavior that leads to emotional and physical closeness.” 

You tilted your head. “So… that’s what’s happening here? Biology?” 

Spencer let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “It is. That’s why you make me incapable of thinking straight and why I get so nervous. I have to realize that it’s biology even though it feels like fiction to me. Does that even make sense?” 

“Nope.” 

“Great. Well—” 

“Spencer.” You sat up fully this time, your legs folding beneath you as you shifted to face him, placing the book on the table with a thud. “There is nothing rational about love.” 

Love. You’d used the word love.

He wanted to continue explaining, but he wasn’t sure he wanted it to make sense. Maybe you were right. Even though there was a scientific explanation for everything he was feeling, there was also a reason as to why people turned to fictional stories when they searched the matters of love. The feelings were allowed to be so irrational that they felt impossible. 

“And that’s not me confessing my love for you, by the way. That’s kind of early, but we’re en route to love, right? Neither of us is in this only for sex?” you continued talking, your hand reaching out to hold his. 

Spencer heard himself laugh. It would be the shittiest sex-only relationship ever, because, well, you weren’t having sex. But then he nodded, agreeing with you—you were in too deep to call it casual. 

“Morgan called you my girlfriend today, and I didn’t even try to correct him. I used to always do that,” he said, something hesitant in the way he admitted it because he was still trying to make sense of it himself.

With an assertive move, you grabbed his hand. “Good. We’re on the same page.” 

Spencer looked down at your joined hands before glancing back up at you. He swallowed. “I’m your…” 

“You’re my boyfriend,” you confirmed, and the way his lips parted slightly, like he was tasting the word, made you squeeze his hand again.

“I’m your boyfriend.”

You nodded, smiling. “Yeah. And don’t overthink it, okay? We can just… be.”

You said it so simply. Easiest thing in the world. Spencer wanted to believe it was. His mind couldn’t accept it so easily, though. It worked overtime in general, but he wasn’t sure he had ever thought so much about the same thing. Being in a relationship, having a girlfriend, sex. He almost wished he could preoccupy his mind with other things, some difficult chess strategy or some foreign literature. But no. It was all you up there. 

And what did you think about it? He didn’t know. 

Spencer cleared his throat, saying, “I’m not sure I’ve asked you how you feel about all of this.” 

“How do I feel about sex?” 

You made a little confused face, and Spencer nodded as an answer, letting the room go quiet as you thought of what to say. You fiddled with the fringe of a blanket with your free hand, the other still holding Spencer’s. 

“I think…” you exhaled. “I think you respect me more than I respect myself.” 

Spencer found it miraculous that you were able to keep eye contact with him even though the smallest of tears formed on your waterline. 

“What’s it been? Over a month? And you haven’t seen me naked,” you continued, almost a surprised tone in your voice. 

45 days. It had been 45 days. He had to force himself to not say it out loud. 

“You haven’t asked, or just… done. Nothing. I’m not sure I know how to react to that. I feel like I should have to throw myself at you to make you like me, but you’re not like that.” 

“I like you just as you are,” Spencer whispered, unsure if it was the right moment for him to speak. 

“I know that, but it’s new for me. I haven’t done all this with someone who actually cares before,” you said, voice sounding like you were constricting the words. 

Your grip around his fingers tightened, and Spencer found himself rubbing circles on the back of your hand with the pad of his thumb. He didn’t dare to reach up and touch your face, but he wanted to. 

Your lip noticeably quivered as you continued, “I haven’t always… valued intimacy the way I should have. And I haven’t exactly been with men who saw beauty in being with me instead of just lust.

It was strange, the way those words made his chest ache. 

You’d mentioned it before—when he admitted he was a virgin, you’d said something about finding it a little amusing that someone could go so long without sex, especially when it had been a coping mechanism for you. He assumed that meant earlier in your life, but truth be told, he didn’t really know. 

Spencer thought back to what Edith had said in the hallway. She’d said that no one had been taking care of you. That didn’t necessarily mean you’d been alone, just that you hadn’t always surrounded yourself with the best people.

And yet, looking at you now, he couldn’t see it. You made it look effortless—being warm, being kind, holding him close like it was second nature. How you were so well put together that no one would ever even notice things you’d been through unless you told them. And you didn’t tell anyone. 

He struggled to picture it—the same girl who had made him a handmade Valentine’s card, who curled up against him on the couch like she belonged there, had also been the girl who once used to stumble home drunk or high, clinging to some guy whose name would be forgotten in the morning. The thought alone made his stomach twist. Someone having their way with you and your mind having convinced you that you didn’t have a choice—thinking that you were so desperate to be liked that you didn’t even mind if it was only for a moment. 

It didn’t fit. You didn’t fit with that image.

Or maybe you did, and he just didn’t know it yet. There was still so much to learn about you, so much you hadn’t yet shared.

Spencer watched as you almost turned on yourself, his silence becoming too much for you to deal with. It hadn’t been his intention to make you uncomfortable, or to make your words seem even heavier than they were because of his lack of reaction. 

“You’re not too good at talking about this either, are you? About what you want?” he wondered, keeping his eyes on you, trying to convey that his silence wasn’t judgment. It was attention. 

A soft huff of laughter escaped you. “No, I guess I’m not.” You paused for a moment before adding, “But I like taking it slow. It makes it feel… different. Special, like it never has before.”

His chest tightened. Like it never has before.

He didn’t know what to say to that, didn’t know how to put into words the way it made him feel—some odd mixture of relief and sadness. He wished he didn’t, but it was relief he felt when he realized that while everything of this was new to him, some aspects were also new to you. The blind leading the blind in a way. 

“I’m sort of scared of being too much for you,” you murmured. “Or for everyone, really.”

Spencer inhaled sharply, shaking his head almost instantly. “But you’re not—”

“And you don’t think you’re ever going to be enough, do you?” you interrupted, watching as the words hit him like a direct shot to the chest.

His lips parted, but no sound came out. He blinked at you, caught off guard, his fingers tightening around yours like he needed something to hold onto. It wasn’t a question. Not really. It was an observation. A fact. One he couldn’t even bring himself to deny. He felt inadequate in every sense when it came to intimacy. 

You reached up, brushing your fingers against his cheek. “We make an interesting pair, huh?” you mused.

Spencer exhaled a quiet laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Interesting was definitely a synonym for dysfunctional in this case. 

“Yeah,” he murmured. “We really do.”

You smiled, leaning in until your forehead pressed against his. You were curled in his arms now, your chest touching his, hand resting on his shoulders as you searched his face. His breath hitched slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers came up to rest gently against your jaw, his touch featherlight, reverent.

“Tell me what you’d like for us to do together.” 

“I—” He swallowed. “I think I’d like to kiss you for a while. If that’s okay.”

You nodded gently. “Can I sit in your lap?”

Spencer couldn’t form a sentence to answer, but he lifted his hands, inviting you to move closer. Not closer than you ever had been before, but it was by far the most intimate position you’d found yourself in. 

You straddled him, knees on either side of his hips and your ass pressed against his lap. Your exposed thighs painted before Spencer like a landscape of skin. Before he could look at your face, his eyes were glued to the slight pattern of your skin, with scattered scars and birthmarks. 

Close enough, Spencer snuck in a light peck on your lips. The first of many, he hoped. 

Your hands lingered by your side before you lifted them to slowly rest around his shoulders, tickling the skin of his neck, diving your fingers in his hair to stroke his scalp with gentle tugs. He liked it so much that a little noise left his mouth as he couldn’t help but feel his body melt against yours. 

Spencer’s arms were stiff, palms pressed against the couch cushion. He didn’t know if or where to touch you. 

You started to litter his face with little kisses—on his cheeks, jaw, and mouth. He canted forward to meet you halfway, overwhelmed by the feeling of your chest pressed against his. 

Pulling back, you cupped his face, simply looking at him for a moment. “Your face should come with a warning sign. You’ve got bone structure like you were carved out of marble by Da Vinci or something,” you said, leaning back in to kiss him.  

“You’re thinking of Michelangelo,” he mumbled, although the words got lost against your mouth. 

“Huh?” You didn’t stop kissing him.

“Nothing.”

Yeah, it was nothing to bring up compared to what was going on.

He always felt like he had gotten the hang of kissing someone, but with you it was a new sensation every time. And with your tongue slipping inside his mouth, your teeth grazing his lips—an open-mouthed and messy make-out session—he might as well have been fifteen all over again.  

You teased him, and he knew it. Panting in his mouth, gnawing his lips raw. And your hands, god your hands that never stopped wandering. It was innocent, fingers through his hair or running along his arms, but still enough for Spencer’s brain to go haywire. 

He wasn’t sure it was intentional the first time you did it, but he felt your hips move against him. A slow brush forward that could’ve just been you adjusting your position. Spencer’s response was instant, a sharp breath leaving his mouth, entering yours. He was convinced it wasn’t intentional when you simply continued kissing him. But then you did it again. Not once, but repeatedly. 

Spencer was getting harder with every instant your hips ground against his, and surely you noticed it too, because he could feel you smiling through the kisses. 

“You’re allowed to touch me, y’know?” 

His head snapped up at your words, stopping the kissing. 

“But—uhm, where?” 

You gave him a look—one of those knowing, amused looks. “Anywhere. Did you want to see the scar?” 

His throat went dry. He managed a nod.

“So, touch my waist and take my shirt off.” 

He didn’t expect you to be so direct. Maybe he should always expect that from you. 

Spencer took his time, gazing at you sat on his lap. Your lips were wet from kissing, and you had mascara smudged under your eyes. He found you breathtaking, sitting there in a frumpy old t-shirt, smiling at him like he was the dumbest thing ever. 

Carefully, he let his hand settle on your thigh, fingers barely touching your skin. He saw how your eyes followed the way his hands moved, slowly upward, sinking his fingers into the skin in a way that made it spill out between them. 

When he finally reached the fabric of your shirt, he pushed it up, letting his eyes find yours as a way to reassure that it was indeed okay. You did nothing but nod, helping him slowly peel it over your head. Spencer was too busy looking at how cute your face scrunched up when the collar got caught around your head to see that you weren’t wearing a bra. When you carelessly tossed the shirt onto the floor and then let yourself just sit still in his lap, that was when Spencer took in the sight of you, bare aside from your shorts. 

Spencer was pretty sure his eyes went as wide as dinner plates. 

Taking him out of his trance, you started talking, doing a little shift with your hips and crossing your arms over your chest. “This might be the first time I’m nervous about being naked in front of someone.” 

Spencer tilted his head, talking too fast for his own good. “You didn’t mind getting undressed when you had to help me shower after my injury.”

“Wearing a bra and shorts is not the same as being naked,” you stated. 

He dared to move his hands again, finding your arms, absently tracing the skin. You relaxed, uncovering your chest again, letting him see your breasts again. Admittedly, he had a hard time focusing on your face, but he tried his best. 

“What are you nervous about?”

He watched you hesitate, your lips pressing together before you shrugged. The movement was small, but Spencer saw through it. You were trying to sound casual, but the slight tightness in your voice betrayed you.

“What if you think I’ve got weird nipples or something?” 

“T-they’re not weird,” he blurted, far too quickly, and immediately cringed at himself. He scrambled to recover. “Perfectly normal, in fact.”

“Perfectly normal?” 

“Well…” He cleared his throat, cheeks still rosy. “They’re kind of pretty.” 

You giggled in disbelief. “You think my nipples are pretty, Spence?” 

“I think you’re pretty,” he corrected. “And they’re attached to you, so yeah. Pretty.” 

“Well, why don’t you touch them, then?” 

He couldn’t argue with that. As his hands traveled up the sides of your body, he began to stroke the underside of your breasts, taking in the way you reacted to his touch. 

That was when he saw it. The entire reason you were in this position. A puny little scar on the right side of your ribs. Scratched your entire side on the sidewalk. No, it wasn’t longer than an inch. 

Spencer could feel the faint ridge of the scar beneath his touch, but he wasn’t thinking about that anymore. He was thinking about how warm you were, how soft. He was thinking about how insanely close you were to him, how his breaths hit your skin as soon as they left his mouth. 

He cupped your breasts fully, admiring the way they fit in his palms and how the ample skin felt malleable to the touch. Your nipples pebbled under his touch, and your breathing turned quicker as he twiddled them slightly between his fingers. 

“You can kiss them too, y’know.” 

Spencer took in the feeling of having some sort of control over his emotions and over the situation. Fuck yeah, could he kiss them. He started at your sternum with a soft peck, then traced down the valley between your breasts. He looked up at you through heavy eyelashes, his warm brown eyes staring you down as his lips explored. Your jaw slackened, nodding at him reassuringly.

When he took your nipple between them, he heard you hiss at how he purposely teased you. He sucked on the tender skin, mouth on one as he cupped the other. Spencer felt so lost in what was happening that he didn’t even realize he was almost biting down on your skin, grazing your nipple with his teeth until a high moan escaped you.

Your hips rutted forward again, his boner now something that couldn’t be ignored. And by the look of it, the friction was enough to cause you pleasure as well. Spencer wasn’t even sure he’d seen that as a possibility before. But your shorts were thin, and the material of his pants was rough enough to rub your heat every time you moved. 

Spencer only pulled away when his lungs burned for air, releasing your nipple with a soft, wet pop. For a moment, he stared, mesmerized by the way it glistened with his saliva, a fleeting mark of what he’d done. 

You looked at him, grinning. 

His hands found a comfortable space in the divots on either side of your waist as he watched your hands fall from his shoulders down between you. You didn’t touch, or take things any further. They just simply rested on him—on the prominent tent in his slacks. 

“Was, uhm… was this all that you wanted for us to try?” Spencer whispered. 

The air in the room had somehow turned harder to inhale. Humid.   

“I thought I’d start with something less explicit before I tell you that I want your dick inside of me.” 

Spencer now forgot how to breathe. Completely. 

A little giggle escaped you as you took his face in your hands, your palms cold against his skin. Or maybe he was just impossibly warm. He didn’t want to think about how he must have looked—hair a tousled mess, skin pinking, probably blushing all the way down to his toes.

You pushed his hair off his forehead, tilting your head as you asked, “I’ve made you all flustered, haven’t I?” 

Spencer groaned, pressing his head back against the couch like he was seeking divine intervention. His boner, the elephant in the room, lodged in the space between your bodies, wasn’t enough for you to notice? 

“Do you enjoy torturing me?”

You laughed, hands placed aimlessly on his chest. “I don’t. I just think it’s cute.”

He opened his eyes, peering at you warily. “What’s cute?”

“You.”

Spencer let out a long breath, shaking his head. “You can’t just call me cute after—” He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Never mind.”

You bit back a smile, leaning in again, your nose brushing his. “I mean it, though.”

His hands, which had remained mostly still against your waist, flexed slightly. “Me being cute?”

“No.” You kissed the corner of his mouth. “That I want you.”

Spencer’s breath caught, and for a moment, he just looked at you—like he was trying to memorize this moment, like he wanted to capture exactly how it felt to have you in his lap, saying things that he never thought he’d hear from you. Or anyone for that matter. 

“We don’t have to be nervous,” you murmured. “I think we’re both allowed to want each other.”

“I do want you,” he admitted. “I just… I want to do this right.”

“You will. Let me take care of you, Spence.” 

He didn’t have much else to say when your lips were back on his, tongue slipping into his mouth. Your hips, god your hips, began to move with more intent, practically squeezing his bulge between your crotch and himself. And your tits, moving with every bounce you made. 

Every inch of his skin turned to goosebumps as your fingers sneaked under his shirt, ripping it from where it had been tucked in to his pants. You scratched his skin, and he could imagine the contrast between the red polish and his pale complexion.

Spencer no longer hesitated to explore you. His hands were in tight grips on your hips, wandering to the curve of your ass as he helped you move in rhythm. Glancing down between you, he swore he could see a damp spot blooming on the fabric of your shorts—but that wasn’t what captivated him most.

The best part was when you broke the kiss, gasping for air, your lips parted in a breathless moan. He could shamelessly watch how your face twisted in pleasure. You had an innocent delicacy to your facial features despite the raw need in your body’s movements.

Oh, was he really watching an angel… 

The both of you quickly got lost in the hazy feeling of not knowing where his hands on you started and where your hands on him ended. Spencer heard how he whined with each of your movements, but he couldn’t have cared less, hips bucking uncontrollably, canting forward to meet your thrusts. 

“Does it feel good?” you murmured, grazing your teeth against his lips. 

A strangled breath was all he could reply with, his hands roaming endlessly for something to grab, something to ground him. 

“Don’t stop, p-please.” 

So he could form words, only that they were pathetic. 

It didn’t take long between when Spencer realized that the friction alone would be enough for him to orgasm and it actually happening. He’d been too pent up for too long of a time to even think about holding it back. The feeling so rushed that he couldn’t warn you, or even say something to you. All that left his mouth were stuttered moans and curse words. He normally wasn’t one to use rude words, but this was uncontrollable. 

“Oh god, oh fuck—” 

He felt a warm liquid spreading from where his cock was tucked in pants, soaking through to stain the fabric. His body froze, and he tried his best to stop his panting breaths as ropes of cum continued to leak out. Out of instinct, his hands left your body, flying up to his achingly blushing cheeks. 

You abruptly stopped moving at his reaction, taking in the sight for a second before your hands clutched around his wrists, moving his hands from covering his face. 

“No, no. I’m not even giving you the right to be embarrassed right now, Spence,” you said sternly, your eyes flickering between him and evidence of his release. “That was like the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

He kissed you to shut you up. Soft, gentle kisses that calmed him down and made you rest your weight back down onto his thighs. Lost in the fact that he’d just had his first orgasm in front of someone else, his mind wandered to you, and if you’d enjoyed it as much as he had. But… you hadn’t finished, had you? 

Spencer pulled away, distraught at the thought of taking but not giving. “You didn’t—” 

“No, but that wasn’t the point of this,” you cut him off, further explaining, “Sex isn’t always about making the other person cum. This time, for instance, I think it was mostly about us getting more comfortable with each other.” 

“But we still didn’t have sex.” 

“Sex is whatever you want it to be.” You let out a little sigh, not out of annoyance but out of amusement. “If this is all that you’re comfortable with, then this is sex to you.” 

That made sense, even to him. But now that he had gotten a little taste, he couldn’t wait to be comfortable for more.

“B-but I do want more,” he argued. “More of you.” 

“We’ll get there.” 

“You don’t want me to help you out now?” 

He wasn’t sure where his sudden confidence came from, and by the look of it, neither did you. Your eyes went a little wide as you struggled to answer. Spencer felt a sense of pride at the fact he could make you nervous. 

You shyly looked away, mumbling, “Only if you’re comfortable.” 

“I am. I promise you that I am,” he assured you, turning your face by a light grip on your chin. 

You could move your hips against him with all intent to make him feel good, but you got visibly flustered at the thought of him doing the same to you. Adorable. 

“How—I mean, I could continue getting off on your thigh,” you said quickly, tucking your hair behind your ears in a practiced, nervous manner. “Or you could use your fingers.” 

“Fingers. Can I use my fingers?” 

You hummed while nodding, agreeing immediately, kissing him quickly. 

Making room on the couch, you both tossed some of the decorative pillows on the floor before Spencer laid you down on your back, him halfway spooning your side so that you both would fit.

The kissing continued as Spencer thought of what to do. He’d read a lot about it. He should be able to figure it out. His hands found home, massaging the plush skin of your thighs, thinking that was a simple way to start. Your chest rose as his fingers trailed over your body. You were desperate. 

But maybe so would anyone be if they’d essentially been very close to climaxing and then having it all ripped away. 

Spencer felt so unconvincing as his fingers fumbled with the elastic waistband of your shorts. You were about to be so naked, and he was still fully dressed. You didn’t seem to mind, though. Actually, you were very quick to untie the shorts yourself, pushing them down your legs and then onto the floor. 

Your panties were a simple white with little floral lace details. And he’d been right; you’d soaked right through them. He looked at you carefully, his brown eyes studying yours as his hand played with the lacy upper hem. 

“Keep them on, just—fuck, touch me.” 

He looked at you, twisting and turning under his touch, words falling out of your mouth carelessly. 

Then his hand made contact with your warm, sticky skin. 

First over your pubic bone and then over a slight thatch of hair. 

Spencer brushed what he thought was your clit with featherlight touch, taking in your reaction before delving his fingers between your folds, a surprising feeling with how velvety smooth the pooling wetness he found was. His digits circled down over your entrance before retreating. 

You bit your lip to the point where it looked painful, keeping everything on the inside, turning your head into his chest. 

Spencer stopped moving his hand, using his free one to tilt your head right back, forcing eye contact. “I wanna hear you. Tell me what to do.”

“Move a little higher,” you said, a whine coming from your throat as soon as he followed suit. With a little calculating, Spencer concluded the little bud he was touching was your clit. “Oh, fuck—right there, Spence.” 

He used his pointer and middle finger to slowly explore, moving in gentle circles, touching a place that made your stomach tense and breathing sharpen and separate. Spencer could look at you all day as you enjoyed yourself, letting out a little floating laugh between moans, crinkling your nose as he touched the spot again and again. 

“Kiss me,” you asked between breaths, your eyelids getting heavy the faster his fingers moved. 

His free hand stroked against your jawbone before he leaned down to kiss you, not knowing if he was doing it right. But apparently he was, by the way you whined under his mouth, eyes rolling back. 

“Should I—” He swallowed. “Should I do something more? I read that many women can’t climax from penetration and that clitoral or oral stimulation is easier—”  

Your eyes went wide as he spoke, interrupted by his continued movements. “Fuck, Spence—You wanna use your mouth on me?” You shook your head, hiding into his chest again. “No, this is enough. You’re enough.” 

His fingers slipped between your folds with more ease, hearing the wet sounds he could bring from your pussy. The more he moved, the more he wanted to turn you into a sweet mess at the touch of his fingertips.

“God, you’re gonna make me—” 

You tensed up, and Spencer felt it. And then you let it all go. 

It was like you lost all stability in your bones, turning into a fluid source of warmth in Spencer’s embrace, as his fingers slid messily over your clit, losing momentum, your underwear soaked and stretched out over the back of his hand. 

Spencer had been unsure of if he could notice if you faked an orgasm or not. He now knew that there was nothing fake about you. You let out a last, long breath, and Spencer slowly circled your clit before he pulled his hand away, letting it linger on your naked stomach. 

“Was that okay?” he felt the need to ask. 

You looked up at him, breathing still uneven and your eyes slightly dopey, practically collapsing in his arms. “Okay? Spencer, you were fucking amazing.” 

As Spencer held you, right there on your couch, and you slid your palm over his his chest, resting it tight above the place where his heart was still erratically beating, he felt himself lose control over basically everything. The world narrowed down to you—your skin, your scent, your breathing. Not that much else mattered to him. He wasn’t sure it ever would again. 

“I wish I met you earlier in life.” 

The words left him before he could stop them, and maybe it was a little ridiculous—like meeting you earlier would have suddenly made life easier, like it would have changed anything at all. But still. He truly wished that.

You kissed his neck, murmuring, “We’ve got all the time in the world, Spencer.” 

His fingers skimmed along your arm before settling at your waist, holding you close. You felt so softagainst him, so warm, but after a moment, he felt the residual stickiness of sweat and everything else clinging to both of you. His nose wrinkled slightly, and he knew you caught it before he even spoke.

“Do you wanna go change? Wash your hands? Can’t imagine it’s comfortable being sticky.” 

You probably felt just as sticky as he did, but Spencer could tell—he knew—your suggestion had less to do with yourself and more to do with him, his germaphobia, and his sensory issues. Because you were always thinking about him, about the things that made him uncomfortable, about the ways you could make things easier for him without making a big deal out of it. And wasn’t that just the sweetest thing? Spencer thought so. 

“Mhm,” he hummed, helping you stand from the couch, legs looking a bit wobbly. “And you should go pee. Prevents UTIs.” 

“I know that,” you muttered. 

He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his lips twitched. Sitting up himself, he let you slip away, watching as you padded across the wooded floors. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to seeing your body being so casually naked. But he would love the future time he’d spend trying to get used to it at least. 

“You wanna watch a movie?” you asked, voice sounding almost drowsy, as you picked up your shorts and t-shirt that had been thrown on the floor. “I got The Princess Bride on Blu-ray, and we could order Indian food.” 

Spencer could do nothing but smile, his mind echoing empty of thoughts. “Sure thing.” 

Thank you for reading! Please tell me what you think ♡ And yes, for those of you who didn't know, the Arctic Monkeys song is originally a JCC poem.

[ggukgoldensoul]

GLASSES

pairing; idol!jk x reader

summary; jungkook comes home from a rehearsal to find reader wearing glasses for the first time.

warnings; dom!jk, oral fem, fingering, clit play, fluff aftercare, again jungkook is so down bad for reader.

a/n; a little bit short but i should be sleeping and instead im writing this because i needed to write it, so enjoy this.

word count; 663

the tv was long forgotten now that jungkook was home. she knew he was exhausted, she had prepared him dinner, his favorite dish and also a nice bath, a massage and some cuddles that she knew would help him sleep after a long day of recording and practicing. that is what she had planned… but jungkook had other plans for the night. and all because she was wearing glasses.

her legs were on his shoulders, underwear forgotten, jungkook’s tshirt also forgotten and his head was buried on her. 

his hands were gripping her tights, nails digging on them while his tongue worked on her, feasting like a starved man. her moans filled the room as jungkook sucked on her clit, “jungk- ah- kook, fuck” she gripped his long hair and her back arched, feeling the pleasure on her spine like an electric shock. 

his hands searched hers and squeezed them, as if saying that he is there and he isn't going anywhere. his tongue never stopped, he went to her clit, biting it softly and sucking it making her scream, legs trembling and head dizzy. 

his tongue went to her hole again and pinched her clit, moving his fingers to create the friction he knew would send her into a storm of pure pleasure. “kook- kook- im cumming- fuck im cum-” and with a last lap of his tongue on her core, she came undone underneath him. her mouth opened into a silent scream and her hands squeezed tightly his. 

jungkook kissed her clit one last time and travelled up and up, kissing and biting every bit of skin he found until he reached her mouth and kissed her. tasting herself on his lips, she felt his fingers play with her folds and entrance. “kook, please-” his tattooed hand cupped her jaw, his thumb stroking his lips. “you can do it babe, one more, ok? just one more” he whispered. not giving her time to answer, he shoved two fingers into her.

her hand gripped his shoulder, digging her nails and moaning to his mouth. “that’s it babe, my pretty girl, so good for me.” his pace was slow but hard, hitting her g spot. “you like it? i know you do. all of this is because of you, your pretty face with these glasses that make you look so fucking sexy, i love you so much.” 

his words hit her hard, she had never felt so loved before, nobody had cared for her the way jungkook did, and she was so thankful to have him. 

she felt her climax again, she was feeling so good she didn't want it to end. jungkook knew she was near, he could feel it in the way her walls clenched, how she was squirming and moaning. his thumb stroked her clit while his fingers sank into her, fast, deep and hard.

“kook- kook- bae, i wanna cum please, please, please.”

“whatever my princess wants.” his lips kissed her neck and with a last thrust of his fingers she came undone again. her breathing was rapid and labored, closing her eyes, she rested her forehead against his and jungkook whispered sweet things to her. a few minutes passed until she felt awoken again. her eyes opened and jungkook smiled softly at her, rising her glasses a bit. “you okay there?” she nodded and hid on his neck. “my pretty girl”a kiss to her forehead, “i love you so so much, i think im going to die.”

“hmm, dont you dare die now kook, we have too many things to live.”

“yeah thats right, but now” he took her in his arms “its time for a bath and then to bed.”

“youre the perfect boyfriend.”

“i know babe.”

all rights reserved to ©ggukgoldensoul. no tranlations allowed. no copy theme. don not copy my work.

🏷️; @redcherrykook