#and the root post doesn’t count

[tillywunderwing]

Starting a challenge for IEYTD artists: draw prev’s Phoenix! :D

[spacecatdraws]

my immortal bamboo plant

^yes I am fully aware that sounds like a bad webtoon title

One of my hyperfixations a couple years back was plants. So, for my birthday, I got 5 lucky bamboo stalks, to which I was very excited and very enthusiastic. I named the bamboo こんにちは (Konnichiwa) and put her on my windowsill. And she refuses to die. So I’m gonna talk about her because I am in awe and slight terror of what this plant is fine with. (And I mentioned her in a previous post so why not)

Yes, I did name my plant the Japanese word for hello. I was (and still am) a weird kid. It was also 2020 at the time, and my judgement was not the best. Here’s a picture of her:

“I thought you said she had 5 stalks?” She did, but four of them dropped one by one. It’s been a couple years since a stalk has turned yellow, which is good because she only has the one left. But she’s still alive and well, in her perpetually unchanged water and underground sunlight. No clue how or why she just. Stopped dying. She’s still here, bright green and beautiful and probably magical. It’s been a while since I did a lot of things you’re supposed to do with plants:

4< years since I changed that water/added fertilizer

3< years since I pruned her/removed a stalk

and very infrequently getting the dust off her leaves.

This plant was given to a mentally odd little girl in the middle of a pandemic. There was no way she would live past a few years. And yet, she made it the COVID-19 pandemic pass. Survived multiple presidential changes. Witnessed over 20 seasons. Heard the grief when my grandfather died. Watched birds fight for seeds under the porch and my dog running after the tennis ball. Been headbutted countless times by my cat. Tolerated being draped with a necklace. Lived through it all, and is still living on.

I’m proud of her, honestly. She’s a testament to life’s ability to be anywhere, to be able to grow when the world is dark. Because each winter, the sun ducks below the horizon, and she presses her leaves again the glass of my window, with conditions that should in no way allowed her to survive. And each spring, the snow melts, the frost dies back, and the sun shines again. Every single time, she’s there, taking in the light she’s been deprived of, challenging the gods, saying “I am here and I am not going down without a fight.” Thankfully, the gods have not fought her for this, and she still sits here, next to me as I write this.

This is not an obituary. This is not a memorial. This is a celebration of the soldier who does not fall in battle. This is a tribute to life and its audacity. This is a letter of gratitude.

So thank you, こんにちは, for being here with me. Thank you for the time we’ve spent together. Thank you for being the light that shines when the world is dark and hopeless. In 24 days, we will have made it five whole years. Half a decade of work and play and joy and sadness. 60 months that changed more than I thought possible. Several times around the sun. A handful of parties for a kid who keeps on growing. Countless memories.

Five years that we’ve had with each other. Five years that I’d never want to forget.

So raise a glass of whatever you’d like, dear reader, and toast with me-

To five years, to the many more that come after, and most of all, to the immortal bamboo. Thank you, こんにちは. Thank you for being part of my life. And thank you, the one reading this, for making it this far. We’re glad you came.

[dazzelmethat]

When I was around 5-7 I would get nightmares and night terrors spawned from The Magic Schoolbus’ inside Ralpie and inside Arnold episodes. Imagining humans going on tours inside my veins and jumping around my intestines made me feel ill.

Why was this genre of micro-vore so popular in American/canadian cartoons pre-2010?? Who in the industry did it awaken? Even panty and stocking did a homage episode to them.. There had to be at least 20 instances of it in cartoons from that era from Dexter’s Lab to Flapjack.

Surprised there aren’t more squeamish horror games like that. Imagine having to do surgery in a little submarine . I would be terrified. But I’d play it. It is a very specific kind of terror..

[sixeyesonathiel]

shy girls suck the best!

fratjo x nerd!reader, fluff & smut, m receiving, overstimulation, whimpering toru. 3.5k wc, 18+ only, MDNI.

satoru gojo is experienced.

he’s cocky for a reason. he’s made girls scream his name more times than he can count, and he knows exactly how to make someone fold in under five minutes—ten if he’s playing nice. he’s all confidence, charm, and unearned a’s from professors who don’t want to deal with his antics. his reputation precedes him in every room, and he walks like the world’s already bent over backwards just to please him.

everything about him screams untouchable, and he’s used to people treating him that way. he wears his varsity jacket like armor, a walking billboard of fratboy glory, all swagger and smirks and lazy confidence that makes people gravitate toward him like he’s got his own gravity field.

but then there’s you.

the shy girl in glasses, always scribbling in your notebook with an absurdly cute pen, whispering apologies when you bump into people, hiding in the back row of class like you owe the world an explanation just for existing. you don’t talk unless spoken to, don’t make eye contact, and definitely don’t give satoru the attention he’s used to. it’s not that you’re cold—it’s that you seem like you live in your own quiet little world, and satoru’s never wanted to be invited somewhere so badly.

and maybe what undoes him first is that he sees you before you see him. you’re already there, present in the corners of his attention before he understands why he’s looking. he notices you one day during lecture, tucking your hair behind your ear as you underline a sentence three times with an intense little frown. it doesn’t seem like much. but something in him clicks.

at first it’s curiosity. then amusement. then it festers into irritation—because why the fuck aren’t you reacting to him like everyone else?—and then fascination. and then something deeper that coils in his chest and makes his throat tight every time he sees you. he tries not to care. he wants not to care. but you’re already rooting yourself in places inside him he didn’t know were hollow.

satoru notices you because you don’t notice him. not the way everyone else does. you don’t flutter your lashes when he smirks. you don’t laugh at his jokes like they’re scripture. you don’t even flinch when he calls you “baby” out of nowhere—just blink at him like he’s an equation you don’t understand. it bruises his ego. and for some unholy reason, he loves it.

the problem is, you’re not immune to him at all. you’re just hiding it better than anyone ever has.

because what he doesn’t know is—you’ve always had a crush on him. from the very first time he walked into class, sleepy-eyed and bright-smiled, wearing that damn jacket like it belonged on a movie screen. you just figured he’d never notice someone like you. so you admired from afar. watched him flirt with others, watched the way he filled a room with laughter, memorized the cadence of his voice like it was part of your playlist.

your crush was harmless. private. something you never expected to act on. you played it safe. after all, guys like satoru gojo don’t fall for quiet girls with awkward posture and color-coded notes.

but maybe that’s what draws him in—the absence of performance. the quiet genuine way you exist. no theatrics. no games. just you, completely unaware that you’ve started haunting his every thought.

it starts small.

he catches himself watching the way your hands move. the way your nose scrunches when you’re deep in thought. the way you roll your pen between your fingers when you're anxious. it becomes a loop, a soft little addiction. he remembers details he shouldn’t. what color post-its you use. your preferred snack during study sessions. your favorite seat in the library. you don’t change. he just tunes in.

and then, one day, he realizes he’s rearranging his life around yours.

he starts showing up everywhere you are. loiters in the library, conveniently always around during your shifts at the campus café, makes excuses to sit next to you in class. offers to carry your books, asks you about calculus even though he already passed it. satoru gojo, golden boy of his frat, reducing himself to extra tutoring just to see you smile. it’s humiliating in theory, but it feels like worship in practice.

and it’s not just your smile. it’s the way you get passionate when you talk about obscure theories. the way you light up when you don’t think anyone’s watching. the way you stammer when he gets too close, but don’t pull away.

you don’t feed his ego. you feed something softer. quieter. something he didn’t think he had in him. he tells himself it’s because you’re innocent. because you’re shy and sweet and you deserve to be treated right.

he wants to be good for you. slow, patient, gentle. he holds doors open. he listens. he lets you rant about your thesis for forty-five uninterrupted minutes and actually understands it. he even looks up the books you reference, reads them just to impress you. he takes an annotated copy of your favorite book. he starts writing your name in the corners of his notebook like some love-struck high schooler. you haunt him in the best way.

and then—you kiss him.

it’s after a late-night study session. the campus is quiet. the lights in the library flicker like they’re caught between timelines. your voice shakes when you say “thank you for walking me back.” you pause, fidget with the strap of your bag. and then, like you’ve been gearing up for battle, you rise onto your toes and kiss him.

it’s chaste. hesitant. warm. like you're afraid he'll vanish if you lean in too much.

you pull back like you’ve done something wrong, but satoru’s frozen, staring at you like he’s just been baptized. you’re blushing so hard he can feel the heat radiating off your skin.

“you… sure?” he whispers, voice ragged, leaning in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

you nod, barely audible: “i’ve read… a lot. i think… i wanna try. with you.”

and he short circuits.

he thought he’d lead. thought he’d ease you into it, kiss your forehead, hold your hand like a gentleman. but then your hands are on his chest, pushing up under his shirt—the varsity jacket creaking as it shifts on his shoulders, the cotton brushing your fingertips. your eyes are searching his like you’re looking for confirmation that he’s real. you study every reaction like a research project. when he shivers, you smile, barely-there, and go back to tracing the line of his abs with trembling fingertips.

it’s not even mischief.

it’s curiosity. slow-burning, chest-aching, and barely held together by your own hesitation. the sort of yearning that tastes like nervous giggles and the edge of something terrifyingly new. you pause between touches like you're checking your hypothesis, calculating the way his muscles tense under your fingers. each brush of your skin feels like a question he's too dazed to answer properly.

“does that… feel good?” you whisper, lips barely moving, as though you’re scared to break the spell.

“f-fuck—yes, baby, yeah,” he gasps, throwing his head back, one hand clutching the edge of the couch like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

your lips trail down his throat, each kiss a trembling prayer, following a path only you can see. his skin is fever-hot, tasting of mint and salt, boyish charm unraveling under your mouth. when you press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his collarbone, his pulse jumps, a twitch rippling beneath your lips. his breath catches, a sharp stutter that makes his chest lurch, and his hands hover, fingers flexing like he’s afraid touching you will break the spell.

satoru gojo—fratboy, golden boy, untouchable—is quiet. too quiet. his eyes are hazy, pupils wide and unfocused, lips parted like words have abandoned him. his varsity jacket is bunched at his elbows, leather creaking, shirt rucked up to his ribs, abs clenching under your trembling fingers. he could take charge, flip this with a smirk—he’s done it countless times, effortless and expert. but now? he just watches, reverent, like you’re a deity he’s too awestruck to approach.

he’s known mouths. polished ones with perfect rhythm, greedy ones that took without giving, bold ones that knew every angle. but yours? it’s hesitant, new, like you’re crossing a threshold you’re not sure you’re worthy of. the way you look at him—eyes flickering behind slipping glasses, wide with awe—shouldn’t hit this hard. shouldn’t feel this fucking intense. but your fingers, shaking as they tug at his waistband, send a jolt through him that makes his vision spark.

satoru’s hand grazes your cheek, a trembling brush of knuckles. “baby… keep going. please.”

you nod, glasses sliding, your breath hitching as your fingers slip under his jeans, easing them down. your eyes flick up, catching his—flushed, jaw tight, his whole body fighting to stay still. it hits you like a blade: he’s done this a thousand times, fucked girls who knew every trick, but you’ve got him like this. trembling. aching. satoru gojo, invincible, unraveling because of you.

guilt stabs your chest, sharp and fleeting. you shouldn’t have him like this, shouldn’t be the reason his hands clutch the couch like it’s his only anchor. he’s always cocky, untouchable, the center of every orbit. now he’s breaking, and it’s your fault—your lips, your touch, your fault. but the guilt only fans the heat in your core, makes your thighs press together as you lean closer, your breath ghosting over his skin.

satoru is used to being wanted. but not like this. not with this aching, earnest hunger that makes his chest tighten.

you press shaky, open-mouthed kisses to his hip, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his skin. spit gathers at the corner of your mouth, a slick trail left behind as you suck softly at the sensitive skin just above his cock. he jolts, hips jerking before he catches himself, a low curse slipping free, his hands clenching until his knuckles bleach. the sound he makes—fuck, it’s a choked gasp, raw and ragged, like you’ve torn it from his core.

you shift lower, hands sliding up his thighs, fingers digging into the taut muscle. your kisses grow bolder, sloppier, your tongue dragging along the crease where his thigh meets his groin, leaving a glistening streak of drool that catches the dim light.

he tastes like heat and need, and the way his skin trembles under your mouth makes your own pulse hammer. you pause, lips hovering over his cock, spit pooling on your tongue, and glance up—his head is thrown back, throat bobbing as he swallows, a groan clawing its way out of him.

“holy shit—baby, you—fuck,” satoru gasps, eyes snapping open, blown wide as his hand grips the couch, fabric groaning under his fist.

you take him in your mouth, lips wrapping around the tip, soft and slick with spit that drips down his length. your tongue swirls, slow and deliberate, tracing the ridge as drool spills from the corners of your mouth, coating him in a wet sheen.

he’s hot, heavy against your tongue, and you hum—a low, vibrating sound that pulls a whimper from his throat. your fingers curl around the base, stroking in time with the bob of your head, slick with the spit that pools at his base, making your grip slippery. you suck, gentle at first, then harder, lips stretching around him as spit slicks your chin, a glistening trail dripping onto his thighs.

he’s panting, desperate, each breath a ragged plea. his abs flex, thighs trembling under your palms, and he’s biting back whimpers, trying not to overwhelm you. that restraint—fuck, it’s gorgeous, the way his jaw clenches, the way his eyes flutter shut like he’s fighting to stay grounded. he doesn’t push, doesn’t guide, just moans your name like it’s a prayer, raw and broken. “that’s it, baby—fuck—just like that—your mouth’s so fucking perfect—”

the satoru gojo is unraveling, and it’s because of you. the way you glance up, glasses fogging, eyes glassy with effort, lips shiny and stretched around him, spit dripping down your chin in messy strings. the way your tongue flicks, catching the sensitive spot under the head, makes his hips buck, a choked sob escaping.

your hand slides lower, fingers brushing his balls, tentative but deliberate, slick with the drool that’s pooled at his base. you cup them, rolling gently, and his whole body seizes, a string of curses spilling out as his hand fists the couch tighter, the fabric creaking under the strain.

he’s had every fantasy, every trick, but this—your mouth, slow and reverent, full of wonder, messy with spit that coats him like a second skin—hits like a fucking freight train. it’s too much, too good. he wants to last, to let you explore, but you’re too fucking intent.

you hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, tongue swirling in tight, wet circles, spit bubbling at the corners of your mouth as you take him deeper, throat tightening around him. he chokes, hips jerking as his control frays. “gonna—baby, gonna cum, wait, fuck—”

you don’t stop. your lips slide further, tongue flattening, taking him as deep as you can. it’s filthy—spit drips down your chin in thick strings, pooling on his thighs, your glasses fogging as breaths puff through your nose. you’re focused, watching his every twitch, adjusting when he gasps, slowing when he whimpers, like you’re mapping him.

his hand grips the couch, knuckles white, and he breaks with a sound that’s barely human—a shattered cry as he spills, hot and pulsing against your tongue.

you try to swallow it all, but it’s overwhelming—cum mixes with the spit already coating your lips, spilling past them in a slick, messy rush, dripping down your chin, onto his thighs, and pooling on the couch. you pull back, gasping, wiping your mouth with trembling fingers, but the slickness clings, smearing across your skin as your eyes stay wide behind crooked glasses. he’s trembling, chest heaving, shirt clinging to sweat-slick skin, pupils blown like he’s seen the divine.

you should stop.

you fucking should.

he’s wrecked, twitching, fucked out beyond reason. but the ache in your chest—the sharp, flickering guilt of breaking him—only makes you hungrier. you lick your lips, tasting the salty mix of him, and your thighs press together, a soft whimper escaping as you lean in again, spit still clinging to your chin.

“just once more?” you whisper, voice barely audible, like you’re afraid the words will burn you.

his eyes flutter open, unfocused, dazed. he groans, raw and low. “baby… you’re gonna fucking kill me.”

but he doesn’t stop you. doesn’t even try.

you start again, slower, your mouth softer but hungrier, lips wrapping around him with a reverence that makes him twitch instantly. he’s sensitive, still pulsing, and the second your tongue grazes him, he whines—a high, broken sound that makes your stomach twist. you suck lightly, lips gliding along his length, spit pooling at the base and dripping onto his thighs in slow, glistening trails. 

satoru buries his face in a cushion, muffling a sob. “s-sensitive—fuck, it’s too much—”

his thighs tremble under your hands, hips jerking as you kiss the tip, tongue darting out to lap at the bead of cum still leaking from him, your spit mixing with it in a slick, glossy sheen. you linger, savoring the taste, the way it coats your tongue in a sticky film, and he whimpers again, louder, his hand flying to his mouth to bite his knuckles.

your fingers slide to his balls again, rolling them gently, slick with the drool and cum that’s dripped down, making your touch slippery and warm. he arches, a desperate, “please—fuck—please—” spilling from his lips like he’s begging for mercy but craving more.

you don’t rush. your tongue traces every inch, slow and deliberate, swirling around the head before dipping lower, dragging along the vein with a wet, sloppy kiss that leaves a trail of spit in its wake. your breath is hot, teasing, each exhale making him twitch, and you pause to suck at the base, lips lingering as your tongue flicks out, tasting the musk of him through the sticky mess. his hand finds your hair, fingers threading loosely, not pushing, just holding—like he needs to feel you’re real.

you grow bolder, hungrier, your lips tightening as you take him deeper, throat fluttering around him, spit bubbling up and spilling over, coating his cock in a thick, glossy layer. you hum, low and vibrating, and he chokes, a wet, pathetic whimper breaking free.

your hand strokes the base, slick with spit and cum, fingers sliding in the mess, and you slide a finger lower, brushing the sensitive skin behind his balls, now slippery with the drool that’s dripped down. he jolts, a high, keening sound tearing from his throat, his hips bucking as his whole body trembles.

“baby—god—please—fuck, i can’t—” satoru’s voice cracks, raw and whining, as you suck harder, tongue swirling in relentless, wet circles, spit and cum mixing in a frothy mess that drips onto the couch. every noise is desperate—gasps, whimpers, sobs that he tries to muffle but can’t. his body arches, twitching like he’s unraveling at the seams, and you feel it: the moment he breaks again.

he cums with a wail, sudden and violent, hips jerking as he spills into your mouth. it’s messier, hotter, a flood of cum and spit that overwhelms you, spilling out in thick, sticky ropes that coat your lips, your chin, your glasses, dripping onto his thighs and pooling in the creases of his skin.

you swallow what you can, lips still wrapped around him, tongue lapping at the oversensitive tip through the slick mess until he’s twitching, a broken, “n-no more—please—” escaping as he clutches the cushion.

time slips. minutes? hours? you’re tugging his shirt, pulling him closer like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded. ten minutes later, he’s gripping the sheets, praying, fucked senseless by every move you make. you flinch when he whines too loud, hands flying to your mouth, eyes wide with guilt—but then you lean in again, bolder, hungrier, chasing every twitch, every broken gasp of your name.

he’s never felt so cherished and so destroyed at the same time.

every touch is careful, but determined. you’re hesitant but thorough, like you’ve read the same passage in a smutty fanfiction a hundred times and are finally getting the chance to test it out. and the worst part? you’re good at it. really good.

your mouth, your hands, the way you watch his face for every twitch of pleasure—it’s enough to make him lose all sense of pride. the way you keep glancing at his reactions, as if adjusting your technique in real time, is insane. terrifying. he’s never been studied so hard. he likes it. he needs it. he’s suffering in the best way.

he’s never had to hold back like this. never had to breathe through it. never felt this fucking sensitive. he’s gripping the cushions like a man possessed. he’s whispering your name like a prayer. he’s not even sure he’s still speaking coherent sentences. you’ve wrecked him. utterly and entirely.

you pull back, panting, your hands shaking as you adjust your glasses, eyes glassy and wide. your lips are swollen, chin wet with a glistening mix of spit and cum, and you lick them, tasting him again, a soft moan slipping free as your thighs press together.

satoru is ruined—sprawled on the couch, shirt clinging to his chest, chest heaving like he’s fought a war. his hand is still in your hair, loose, trembling, and he’s staring at you like you’re a fucking goddess.

“thought you were the innocent one,” he chokes out, breathless, watching you nibble your lip and adjust your glasses with shaking fingers.

“i still am,” you murmur, face tucked into his shoulder. “kind of.”

he huffs out a laugh, dazed and wrecked. he can feel your heartbeat against his ribs. he doesn’t want to move. his hands are still trembling from how hard he tried to keep it together for you—and yet, you’re the one who took the lead. you’re the one who made him forget how to function. you kiss the edge of his jaw, soft and uncertain, and it undoes him more than anything else.

satoru gojo, campus heartthrob, ruined by a shy nerd girl who reads too much smut on her kindle late at night under the covers. who probably has a secret ao3 account and bookmarked folders. who looks like a timid schoolgirl but fucks like she’s been studying him like a midterm exam. and passed with extra credit. honors. valedictorian. summa cum laude of making him lose his damn mind.

he’s never been so obsessed.

and you? you’re already pressing your forehead to his chest, voice small, eyes wide with want and something raw and messy and needy as you look up at him.

“can we… try again? i think i missed a step.”

he doesn’t know if he wants to laugh, cry, or propose.

he’s never been more in love. and all he knows is he’s done for.

[take-me-in-your-army]

by the way when i say other cricketers i mostly mean the english players and no offence but i do not get what people see in them…like i know theres english people on here who obviously are gonna post about their own team but like i refuse to believe those players are that interesting

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 I BITE MY TONGUE, IT'S A BAD HABIT

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: dazai doesn't care about stupid holidays, but when he sees everyone but him being gifted chocolates from you, he starts to find himself severely bothered. it's the principle, he tells himself—nothing more, nothing less, just the principle.... right?

(wordcount: 6.9k; fem!reader, sfw, dazai is jealous and silly. unedited.)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: HAPPY LATE VALENTINE'S DAY, take pmreader and dazai being silly teens in love who refuse to tell each other how they feel in words. i had this posted on valentine's day but then turned into a big baby and deleted </3 i am still a big baby but i am a big baby who is going to leave the post up this time HAHAAH

Dazai doesn’t care about stupid holidays. 

In fact, Dazai can count the things he cares about on one hand—he cares about Odasaku and Ango because they’re his friends, he cares about crab because he likes eating crab and he can recite every known fun fact about them off the top of his head, he cares about the arcade a few streets over because his favorite video game is there and he beats Chuuya every time and it’s funny watching him get mad, and he cares about you because you’re also his friend and you gave him a room in your apartment even though he could have his own but is just stubborn about not wanting to be in Mori’s building.

So, he’s not sure why his feet are rooted to the ground in Mori’s office as he stares down at the small round box of chocolates sitting on top of his desk. There’s a note on top of it that’s partially blocked from his line of view, but he can very much see your signature at the bottom of it. 

You complain about Mori all the time, so it doesn’t take him long to put together that there must be a reason why you went out of your way to get him chocolates even though he knows you’ve been busy with some conflict happening in Russia. It’s not Mori’s birthday, and Dazai’s mind quickly tracks back to the stands of chocolate he saw set up on the same corner that the arcade is on.

Valentine’s Day, he realizes, eyes narrowing down on the chocolate.

“Such a dear she is. She dropped it off for me this morning,” Mori sighs when he realizes what Dazai is looking at. “Elise-chan hasn’t gotten me chocolates yet.”

“That’s because you don’t deserve chocolates, stupid Rintarou,” Elise’s familiar pitched voice comes from Dazai’s left—he hadn’t even noticed her sitting on the ground coloring because his gaze was pinned to the chocolate the moment he stepped into the room. Elise looks up at Dazai with a smile that’s just a bit too sweet, “Aw, she didn’t get you any? That’s too bad, Dazai-kun.”

Dazai’s jaw twitches at the snide comment, and he looks away from Elise back to Mori, who looks oddly intrigued by Dazai’s reaction, which is enough to let him know that he’s over-reacting, so he’s quick to smooth out his expression, even if the irritation in his chest continues to swell. He doesn’t even know why he’s so bothered—he doesn’t care about stupid holidays, and he doesn’t care about chocolate. It’s really not a big deal, but he can’t seem to snuff out the growing annoyance.

“I’m sure she’ll give you one later, Dazai-kun,” Mori says with a placating smile that almost sends Dazai over the edge. “No need to fret.”

“I’m not-” he starts to say, but is cut off quickly by Elise.

“Or, maybe she just doesn’t like him enough to give him any,” Elise says with gleeful giggle. “How did she word it again? Oh, yeah, you forced your way into her life, didn’t you?”

Dazai doesn’t take anything anyone says to him or about him to heart, but he especially knows not to take anything Elise says to heart, considering the girl’s ardent distaste for him. He’s never been sure why she hates him so much, but he figures that it’s because he can make her disappear with his ability, and he’s half-tempted to grab her arm and do just that, but he knows it’ll only make Mori even more interested in why he’s so emotional over this. That’s the last thing he wants considering he doesn’t even know why he’s getting so worked up about it.

But what did Elise even mean? Why would you tell them that he forced his way into your life? If anything, you’re the one who forced yourself into his life when you showed up at his shipping compartment during that winter storm a few months ago. He just… capitalized on it, that’s all. You would’ve kicked him out if you didn't want him hanging around, but you didn’t. And Elise is known for twisting the truth, but then… Why didn’t you give him chocolates? That’s the whole point of the holiday, right? To show appreciation for the people in your life?

It’s not the holiday that’s bothering him, it’s the principle. 

Dazai is suddenly ten times more antsy than he was when he first noticed the chocolates. There must be a logical explanation for this—maybe you really are giving him them later, or maybe you’re only giving them to Mori because you have to. Snidely, he notes that the chocolates you gave him looked like they could be bought at a convenience store, so it’s not like you put much effort into it. 

“Elise-chan,” Mori chides, although he still sounds terribly amused, violet eyes glittering as he scrutinizes Dazai. “Don’t say such cruel things. I taught our hime to have good manners, Dazai-kun will get chocolates from her, even if they’re just obligatory.”

Obligatory, Dazai has to force himself not to physically blanch at the word. He thinks he would almost prefer not to get chocolates from you. How are you just going to give obligatory chocolates to someone you live with? You guys are friends, aren’t you? He doesn’t know much at all about Valentine’s Day, but he does know that there’s different types of chocolate depending on your relationship with the person, and he thinks he’ll jump off the roof if you give Chuuya nicer chocolates than him.

Chuuya.

“I have to go,” Dazai says abruptly, turning to leave.

“Goodbye, Dazai-kun,” Mori sings, much to Dazai’s surprise. He was half-expecting Mori to tell him to sit back down so they could go over whatever he was called to his office for. He still doesn’t even know why the man called him up here—maybe it was just to flaunt the chocolates he received, Dazai thinks bitterly. “I wouldn’t worry too much.”

“I would!” Elise calls after him as he lets the door slam shut behind him, but Dazai doesn’t pay her any mind.

Surely Chuuya wouldn’t have gotten chocolates if he didn’t, right?

———

“Give me those right now.”

Chuuya pauses from where he’s about to pop a round chocolate into his mouth, eyes cutting to the side in irritation when he realizes that Dazai is standing in the doorframe of his office. Dazai is tense and jittery all at the same time—he’s not even looking at Chuuya, he’s staring at the set of chocolates sitting open on his desk and the familiar handwriting on the note next to it. Chuuya’s set is much nicer than Mori’s; they’re his favorite truffles, imported in from Belgium, and there’s a red wine on his desk to go along with it.

It makes Dazai sick. 

“The fuck?” Chuuya asks, sitting up a bit straighter and giving Dazai a weird look before pointedly eating the chocolate in his hand. Dazai’s eye twitches. “What’s your problem this time, you freak?”

“I said give me those right now,” Dazai repeats, inhaling deeply as he takes a few steps closer. “Give me them.”

Chuuya looks a bit concerned now, grabbing the chocolates you gave him and dragging them closer to him. Dazai is undeterred, stalking forward and reaching quickly for them. Chuuya reacts faster, snatching them off the table and holding them close to his chest.

“Fuck off,” Chuuya spits, sounding confused and irritated all at the same time. “What the hell is your problem?”

Dazai could think of an excuse—they’ve been tampered with, poisoned, you accidentally gave him the wrong ones and you sent him here to grab them before Chuuya ate them all—but the only thing that escapes his lips is the same demand.

“Give me the chocolates.”

“What?” Chuuya demands. “No, you fucking psycho, get out of my office.”

Dazai’s hand instinctively twitches in the direction of his gun, and Chuuya catches it from the way his eyes shoot open.

“Yo,” Chuuya says loudly, rising to his feet. “What the fuck, Dazai?”

Logically, Dazai knows that whether he gets the chocolates from Chuuya or not, it won’t change anything. It’s the principle of it that’s the issue. Even if he manages to get his hands on the chocolates, you gave them to Chuuya and you didn’t give them to Dazai, but still, the sight of Chuuya with them is setting Dazai off in ways that he just can’t seem to get under wraps. 

“Give me-”

Chuuya’s face twists in irritation and he slams the chocolates down on his desk before walking around it in Dazai’s direction. Instead of making a smart decision and running out of his office before he can get a faceful of Chuuya’s fist, he takes the opportunity to dart forward and grab the chocolates he put down, throwing them onto the ground and driving his heel right into the box. 

“You bastard,” Chuuya shouts, grabbing Dazai by the collar of his jacket hard and throwing him hard into the side of his desk. Dazai barely withholds a wince as the corner of Chuuya’s desk drives deep into his side, crumpling to the ground hard. Chuuya kneels down to see if there’s anything left to salvage of the chocolates you gave him, but finds himself sorely disappointed. “What’s your fucking issue, Dazai?”

Stubbornly, Dazai doesn’t respond, raising his chin and meeting Chuuya’s gaze, trying to pretend that there is no issue and like he isn’t acting deranged over chocolates. 

Not chocolates, he reminds himself, the principle.

“I knew you were weird about her but jeez,” Chuuya scoffs, picking up the mess of chocolates on his floor, brows furrowed in irritation. “You can’t even handle her giving someone else chocolates on Valentine’s Day. You need some serious fucking help, man. It’s the whole point of the goddamn day. You gonna go around and take everyone’s chocolates, you possessive freak?”

Dazai cringes and can’t stop himself as he asks quietly, “How many people has she given them too?”

Instantly, he knows he’s made a mistake—his voice came out all wrong and Chuuya notices it from the way he squints and frowns. He forces his expression to clear of any possible emotions and rises back to his feet, tilting his head to the side as he dares Chuuya to point out that his voice wavered when he asked the question.

“I don’t fucking know,” Chuuya shrugs, side-eyeing him suspiciously but choosing not to point out the weird tone he asked the question in. “She came in with a ton this morning, figured I was the last since she didn’t have any left with her when she came up here before.”

Oh, Dazai thinks, staring at Chuuya absently. Dazai didn’t anticipate that. At once, both of his theories to explain why you didn’t give him chocolates are disproven, and Dazai falters. If you came in with all of them at once and had none left by the time you got to Chuuya, then all signs pointed to that you’re just not giving Dazai chocolate for Valentine’s Day.

But why? Dazai doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong lately—in fact, he’s barely even had time to talk to you lately because you’ve been busy talking with your informants in Eastern Russia. You spent most days in Tokyo, and by the time you got back to your apartment, Dazai was out on his own missions. He hasn’t had the chance to do anything wrong, unless him just being around you is wrong.

How did she word it again? Oh, yeah, you forced your way into her life, didn’t you?

Elise is known for twisting the truth, she doesn’t usually lie about things—why did you tell them that he forced himself into your life? Do you not want him staying at your apartment? Mori did mention that he taught you to have good manners and he never says anything without there being an ulterior motive behind it. Was he trying to imply that you’re just being polite in letting him stay? Dazai doesn’t know; he’s always struggled to read you, but you’ve always made him feel welcome and wanted more than anyone else. It disconcerted him for a while, but he’s grown used to it in a way that he probably shouldn’t have. 

Now, he’s doubting it all.

Chuuya’s eyes suddenly widen, his small brain clearly realizing something it wasn’t meant to. Dazai’s gaze hardens as he waits for Chuuya to say whatever it is he wants to say, but instead of speaking, the slug snorts. His hand flies to his mouth to smother the noise, but he just can’t stop himself from bursting into laughter. Dazai bristles.

“What?” he demands.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Chuuya howls, eyes tearing up as he laughs so hard that he wheezes. Dazai stiffens but otherwise doesn’t say anything, and that’s evidently an answer enough for him. “God, shitty Dazai, you’d think you of all people would know better. Get the fuck out of my office.”

Dazai doesn’t want to admit he has no idea what Chuuya’s talking about, but he also isn’t going to let Chuuya order him around, so he stands there stubbornly until Chuuya rises to his feet to grab Dazai by the back of his jacket again. Dazai instinctively drives his elbow hard into Chuuya’s chest, but he’s unbothered by it, shoving Dazai forward through the door of his office.

Chuuya gives him a mocking smile and goads, “How about you go ask her why she didn’t give you chocolates?” 

Before Dazai has the chance to shoot back a snide comment, Chuuya slams the door right in his face. It’s not the principle that’s bothering him, Dazai realizes glumly, it’s the implication that maybe he’s been wrong about his friendship with you this whole time.

———

Dazai doesn’t even get out of the main building before he runs into someone else who has chocolates that are definitely gifted by you considering it’s your new partner. Itou Asahi is lounging in the lobby of headquarters with Hirotsu and a few members of the Black Lizards that Dazai doesn’t recognize. Dazai has never particularly liked the man—in fact, Dazai despises him and he despises how you seem to think the world of him—but now, his jaw is tight as he glares at the man from across the lobby.

Itou seems to be able to feel the daggers being shot in his direction. He looks up as he pops a chocolate into his mouth, eyes narrow as he tries to pinpoint who exactly is staring at him so intensely and pauses when he notices Dazai. He nudges Hirotsu, and to Dazai’s horror, he realizes that Hirotsu also has a set of chocolates that he hasn’t opened on the couch next to where he’s sitting with a note that Dazai can’t read from the distance but is the same pale pink parchment that Mori’s and Chuuya’s were written on.

Mori. Chuuya. Itou. Hirotsu. Why not him? What did he do?

Dazai sneers in Itou’s direction when the man lifts his hand and awkwardly waves, turning on his feet to leave the building. He had been planning on going to your apartment to sulk to see if you notice that he’s wildly irritated over the fact that he’s not received chocolates from you, but instead, he’s going to go grab a cheap bottle of whiskey from the nearest liquor store and drown himself in his misery back at his shipping container.

He doesn’t know what he did to you, and he thought if he did something wrong, you would’ve said something to him instead of icing him out. Isn’t that what you preach to him? Communication? Yes, Dazai sucks at it and has made no attempts to be better about it, but since you’re the one preaching it, you should at least have the decency to act as you preach. 

You’re such a hypocrite, Dazai thinks bitterly, his throat feels clogged and his chest feels tight and his side hurts a shit ton—he doesn’t like any of this, and with each passing second, he’s becoming increasingly more bothered by this situation. 

He’s not irritated anymore, he’s just hurt.

———

Dazai doesn’t end up going right to the shipping container. It’s late afternoon on a Friday, so when he’s halfway to the convenience store, he decides to make a pitstop at Bar Lupin to see if Odasaku and Ango are already hanging there. Luckily, one thing can go right for him today, because the two of them are in fact already sitting in their designated stools drinking their alcohol of choice.

Neither of them have said much of anything to him since he’s arrived besides greeting him. He wonders if he interrupted them—very extremely sour, he thinks that he wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case considering he seems to be a burden on just about every single person he thinks is his friend. 

“I didn’t think you’d be free today,” Odasaku finally says. “We would’ve texted you.”

“I didn’t have a mission scheduled for today,” Dazai replies flatly, unable to muster the energy to put on an energetic front for the two of them. Usually, he doesn’t need to fake it around them because he does genuinely have a good time with them, but he’s just in such a bad mood because of everything with you and all of the newfound doubts plaguing him that it’s impossible for him to take his mind off of it. “Why would I be busy?”

Odasaku and Ango share a look with one another, Dazai catches the way Ango subtly shakes his head and is instantly suspicious. Odasaku either doesn’t pick up on it or doesn’t care, because he says, “It’s Valentine’s Day. I thought you’d be spending it with…”

Odasaku trails off when Ango’s headshakes become more frequent, but Dazai already knows what he was about to say. Stiffly, he asks, “Why would I spend Valentine’s Day with her?”

Ango’s smile is unsure as he shares another look with Odasaku before turning his attention toward Dazai and prodding, “Did something happen?”

“No.” Neither of them respond to his sharp answer, and after a few moments, Dazai blurts out, “She doesn’t want me living at her apartment anymore.”

“What-” Ango begins before seemingly rethinking his question, letting out a sigh. “Did she tell you that?”

“No,” Dazai says after a second, “but I know.”

“How do you know?” Ango presses. “Did you overhear her talking to someone?”

“Well, no,” Dazai responds awkwardly, “but I know.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she didn’t get me chocolates,” Dazai finally explodes, voicing the words that have been bothering him all day. “She got Mori chocolates. She got the slug chocolates. She got her moron of a partner chocolates. She even got Hirotsu chocolates, but she didn’t get me chocolates. And Elise said that she told her and Mori that I forced my way into her life. Isn’t that rich? She’s the one that forced her way into my life. I don’t need her, I never did. I just liked her stupid apartment. I could get my own if I wanted to, I just didn’t want to put in the work.”

Dazai thought maybe getting all of his complaints out would make him feel better, but he only feels worse, because half of that isn’t even true. He likes being able to bother you at night instead of rotting alone in his shitty shipping container, and he likes when you make him coffee in the morning before heading out to a meeting. He likes Friday night movies and he likes forcing you to play video games just so he could beat you and brag about it. You told him that you were his friend, so shouldn’t you like doing all of that with him too instead of it being a burden?

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” Odasaku asks bluntly, never one to mince his words. Dazai slowly turns his head to look at the older man, barely catching the way Ango briefly shuts his eyes in exasperation. “I mean, you don’t even know if she’s not getting you any yet. You’re just assuming. The day isn’t over.”

Odasaku is usually logical, and he’s one of the few people who Dazai will take the advice of without question, but this time, Dazai shakes his head. He knows that’s not the case, you brought all of your chocolates to headquarters, and you handed them all out and didn’t give any to him. You knew he didn’t have a mission today so it’s not like he was busy, and even if he was, you could’ve given them to him this morning before he left. And either way, it’s not like that explains what Elise said.

“You should head back to her apartment,” Odasaku continues. “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

“You know what, you’re right,” Dazai says, becoming increasingly more incensed with each passing second. He knew befriending you was a bad idea—nobody actually wants to be Dazai’s friend once they get to know him, it’s been true his whole life, he’s still half-convinced that Odasaku and Ango only humor him because they think he’ll just kill himself. Once people start to see how odd and fucked in the head he really is, they start to distance themselves from him; you can’t distance yourself from him since he’s living with you, so this is just your way of silently telling him you’ve had enough. He knew things would turn out this way, and he hates the way it still makes his chest hurt. He rises to his feet abruptly, “I am going to head back to her apartment—so I can pack my stuff and leave.”

“Dazai,” Ango calls after him, but Dazai doesn’t respond, storming out of Bar Lupin without another word.

He doesn’t need you, he tells himself again, willing the pain in his chest to turn into something more manageable—anger, resentment, but preferably, he just wants to be indifferent. He doesn’t need you and he knew this was going to happen, so it’s time for him to just take the hint and go on his way, back to how things were before you forced yourself into his life.

———

You’re not there when he gets back to your apartment and you’re not there by the time he gets his things together and leaves. He was especially frustrated when he found himself disappointed by that, because he realized he was unintentionally wasting time packing his things because he was hoping you would show up and stop him. 

But you didn’t, so Dazai is now back at his shipping container huddled under a blanket because it’s cold. He’s almost done with his first bottle of whiskey, trying to numb the pain in his side and all of the shitty emotions he just can’t seem to rid himself of. It’s been three hours since he moved his stuff back into his shipping container; you should be back at the apartment by now—it’s thirty minutes off when the two of you watch your Friday night movies, and you’re usually back at your apartment getting snacks together with him by now.

You’ve realized he’s gone by now. Dazai hasn’t checked his phone, mostly because he doesn’t want to know if you cared enough to reach out. If he’s right about all of this, you’ll just take it as a blessing and move on, not wanting to risk an opportunity arising where you’d have to be polite and ask him to come back. As if he would. If Odasaku is right though… No, Dazai isn’t even going to go down that route, the last thing he needs is-

He’s startled when he hears three loud bangs on the metal wall of his shipping container. Instantly, his gaze focuses on the door. He knows it can only be one of two people, because you and Chuuya are the only ones shameless enough to come by without warning. Odasaku and Ango would text first and everyone else is too wary of him to come anywhere near the shipping yard, much less bang right on his door.

“Dazai, open up! What the hell?” He hears you shout from the other side of the thin wall. “It’s cold, come on! What are you even doing out here?”

You came looking for him, Dazai realizes, swallowing thickly. Dazai isn’t often wrong about things, so he doesn’t dare get his hopes up and he doesn’t respond to you. The roll up door rattles as you try to pull it up, but Dazai doesn’t budge to help you. It’s locked, so you won’t be able to open it and Dazai just waits for you to leave so he can go back to sulking in peace. 

“Dazai, come on,” you complain. “What’s wrong? I was waiting for you back at the apartment, why didn’t you come home?”

Though Dazai intended on just ignoring you until you went away, he can’t help the snide comment that escapes his lips, “Home? You mean your apartment?” 

He immediately takes another swig of whiskey, but the burn of the alcohol does nothing to take away from the bitter taste the words leave on his tongue. From the way you pause, you seem to realize something is wrong—extra snidely, he wonders when you became as slow as Chuuya.

“Yeah, my apartment, the place you’ve been living at for three months?” you say incredulously and Dazai winces. “What’s your problem?” 

“My problem?” Dazai asks coolly. “Maybe you should be answering that instead. You’re a hypocrite.”

He knows that will set you off—he’s always been good at getting under people’s skin—and he’s noticed how you bristle whenever Mori hits you with “Now, dear, let’s not be hypocritical.” He can almost imagine the way you go stiff and the way your face goes cold, but it doesn’t bring him the malicious satisfaction he expects.

 Instead, he only feels heavier.

Unfair, he thinks tightly. You’re always so unfair.

“Can you let me in?” you ask after a few moments of silence. Dazai is even more bothered now that he didn’t get the reaction he expected, gaze lowering to the ground. “I’d prefer not to freeze to death out here.”

This time when you ask, Dazai finds himself rising to his feet. He hasn’t drank enough yet to be unsteady, but he can certainly feel the blood rush to his head as soon as he stands up.

He makes his way over to the door, only fumbling once with the lock. He doesn’t slide it open for you just to be petty, but he doesn’t need to anyway—as soon as you hear the lock click open, you’re pulling open the door and Dazai pointedly turns his back to you before you can step in.

“Seriously?” you ask. Much to Dazai’s pleasure, you do sound a bit irritated now. “Dazai, what the hell? Why are you acting so weird?”

“Me?” Dazai demands, voice shrill at the sheer audacity you have coming to his shipping container and insulting him after what you did. Didn’t do. Same thing. He whips around to face you, a barrage of snide comments about to fall from his lips only to hesitate when he sees a fancy box in your hands. “... What is that?”

Your gaze sharpens and your brows furrow. You move the box out of sight behind your back, but Dazai dances around you to try to get a better look at it. The two of you play a game of swivels and twists for a few moments, but Dazai has to call it quits when the pain in his side gets worse and the alcohol goes right to his head. 

You give him a concerned look, but don’t press about the way he winces. Instead, you say, “Tell me what your problem is first. Why are you drinking here alone in the dark?”

“... No,” Dazai says after a second. “What’s in the box?”

Dazai really doesn’t want to get his hopes up, so he chews the inside of his cheek and rocks back and forth from his toes to heels, hands clasped behind his back as he tries to distract himself. You roll your eyes, but your lips curl up into a fond smile that almost eases all of the stress Dazai has felt all day. Almost.

After what feels like an eternity, you pass the box over to him and Dazai immediately darts forward to grab it before you can change your mind. Though he knows what it is before he opens it, he can’t control the relief that floods him when he sees the expensive chocolates sitting inside the box—most of them are shaped in the typical Valentine’s Day heart, but some of them are-

“They’re crabs,” Dazai says gleefully, a genuine smile spreading widely across his lips as he reaches down to pluck one out of the box and pop it into his mouth. The chocolate is soft and creamy, it melts in his mouth the moment it touches his tongue and he lets out a delighted hum. He eats another, and then another after that. “How did you get them crab shaped?”

You don’t answer the question; you stare at the chocolates, conflicted, and Dazai isn’t sure why. You seem to be trying to decide whether or not you want to say something, but you let out a sigh, seemingly deciding against it. 

Instead of whatever you were debating on saying, you rest your hand on your hip and ask him, “Why did you take all of your stuff out of your room?” 

Your room, Dazai swallows the chocolate in his mouth as he tries to figure out how to respond to your question. He doesn’t really want to admit that he had a meltdown triggered by the chocolate that you just handed him, and you do seem genuinely put off by the fact that he left. Maybe he was wrong, he thinks, pressing his lips together as he considers the possibility. He’s hardly ever wrong, but he supposes it wouldn’t be the first time that you’ve managed to surprise him; since the day he met you, he feels like his mind is dulled when you’re around. He hates it.

So, he throws Elise under the bus.

“Elise said that you told her I forced myself into your life,” he says, voice coming out far more bitter than he intended for it to. He raises his chin stubbornly. “I wouldn’t want to keep imposing.”

Your expression flickers momentarily and you look a bit hurt, Dazai immediately swallows another chocolate, hopeful that he’ll swallow the sudden guilt he feels along with it. He doesn’t.

“Mori was trying to get me to convince you to live in the apartment he has set up for you in the main building,” you explain quietly after a few moments, crossing your arms over your chest. “I told him that he was better off trying to convince you himself because it was your decision to stay at mine. I didn’t have much of a say in it.”

Dazai lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and because he has no self control, he starts to ask, “But if you did have a say in it…”

Your expression softens in a way that makes Dazai’s stomach turn in on itself and your eyes flicker down to the box he’s holding before you quickly look back up at him. The box of chocolates in his hands suddenly feels a lot heavier, and his grip instinctively tightens around it.

“I… my apartment is a bit too big to live in alone,” you answer, and then add, “I would prefer you stayed.”

Dazai doesn’t respond, but his gaze does dart down to the three bags of clothes he brought back to the shipping container with him, all still packed. It wasn’t all of his stuff, just enough for it to be noticeable to you when you went to his room looking for him. Maybe he had been hoping you would come bring him back.

“I don’t have a movie picked out for tonight, if you want to pick,” you offer when the silence stretches on.

Dazai glances down at the chocolates you gave him again and then he says, “The Discovery channel has a new documentary on -”

“No.”

“What?” Dazai demands. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I am not watching another crab documentary, Dazai.”

“The last one was good.”

“The last one bored me to tears.”

Dazai rolls his eyes, leaning down to pick up one of his bags and you grab the other two after sending a narrowed look to his left side, slinging them over your shoulder as you step outside of the shipping container. Dazai follows you, rolling the door back down before giving you a mocking look.

“So you just want to watch one of those stupid superhero movies again? The only one actually entertained by them is bird-brained Chuuya, anyone with two brain cells knows how it ends just from the first scene,” he says snidely, enjoying the way you immediately scowl at him.

“Just because you know how it’s going to end doesn’t mean it’s not entertaining,” you argue. “You can be entertained by something predictable.”

“Not me,” Dazai sings as he follows you out of the shipping container yard and to the road. Much to Dazai’s displeasure, he realizes that you did not come here alone—your new partner is sitting in the front seat of the car waiting on the side of the road, scrolling through his phone. Distastefully, he demands, “Why is he here?”

“He drove me,” you say like it’s obvious. “What’s your problem with him anyway?”

“Nothing,” Dazai mutters, making sure to give the older boy a dark look as he slides into the back seat. 

He expects you to get into the passenger seat, but instead you move to sit in the back with him. Before you do, he stiffens as he remembers his clothes were not the only thing he stole from your apartment. Your eyes narrow in suspicion and you place your hand on your hip.

“What else did you take before leaving?”

Dazai sulks at how easily you figured out what the issue is and lies when he repeats, “Nothing.”

“If we get back home and immediately have to come back out here, I’m going to waterboard you, Dazai,” you say flatly.

“I’ve been waterboarded before,” he says stubbornly.

“Not by me,” you threaten.

 Dazai sighs dramatically, letting his head fall back against the headrest.

“I stole all of the remotes in the apartment,” he admits, shifting to push himself up to walk back over to the shipping container, wincing again when he shifts the wrong way. He pauses when you roll your eyes and hold your hand up to stop him.

“I’ll get them,” you say. “Stay here.”

“Don’t leave me with him,” Dazai complains, but you slam the door in his face.

Instantly, the light and playful expression drops from his face as he turns his attention to the rear view mirror, eyes locking with Itou Asahi. The blonde raises his eyebrows tauntingly, as if he’s daring Dazai to say something to him, and Dazai has half a mind to reach for the gun stuffed in the pocket of his black jacket. He refrains if only because he doesn’t want to piss you off even more.

After a moment, Itou twists in his seat to look at Dazai. Dazai’s eye twitches in irritation, realizing that he’s about to speak to him.

He nods to the box of chocolates. “She spent a month at my place trying to get it right.”

Though Dazai planned on ignoring him, he can’t stop the quiet, “What?” that slips from his mouth.

“The chocolates,” Itou says like Dazai is stupid, which irritates him but he’s still confused so he’s forced to wait for him to explain. “She tried custom ordering the crab shaped ones but had a tantrum because they looked ugly. So she spent a month learning how to make them so she could mold them on her own. She only just finished this batch today—still isn’t satisfied with how they came out, but ran out of time.”

Dazai’s throat swells up as he stares down at the chocolates, an odd warmth spreading through his chest that he can’t snuff out. Scrutinizing them more carefully now, he sees all of the tiny imperfections that wouldn’t be there if you’d store bought them—the hearts aren’t all perfectly even, some of the legs on the crabs are longer than others, there’s an indent on the back of the heart shaped chocolate he’s holding like you’d touched it while it was too soft.

His fingers close around it carefully, lips parting to speak but he can’t find any words. When did you have the time though? You’ve had so many missions lately-

Oh.

“All the missions in Tokyo…”

“Her missions were learning how to fucking make chocolate and they were in my apartment, not Tokyo,” Itou scoffs. “I’m never going to be able to eat chocolate again in my life the amount she’s force fed me. I can hardly stand the smell of it now. I had to send her to Nakahara for him to taste test the last few batches.”

Dazai’s gaze sharpens, obscenely bothered at the thought of Itou Ashi and Nakahara Chuuya being your taste testers and Itou is complaining about it. “You should be grateful you got to try her chocolate,” he snaps immediately.

Itou’s jaw drops and he immediately shakes his head. “You two are so fucking-” he starts to say but cuts himself off when he sees you approaching the car again. 

Dazai squints at him, almost wanting to dare him to continue, but his expression lightens when you open the door, remotes in hand and an irritated expression still painted on your face.

He only moves over enough to give you room to sit instead of moving to sit behind the driver’s seat. You squint at him, but Dazai gives you a small smile and says quietly, “My chocolates are much nicer than Chuuya’s.”

Your expression immediately softens and your lashes flutter as you avert your gaze—the telltale sign of you being flustered. Dazai’s lips part to say something else, but no words come out, gaze pinned on the pretty glow the moonlight casts over your face. You look like you want to say something as you look down at the chocolates again, but again, you seem to decide against it.

“How do you even know what Chuuya got?” you ask suddenly, clearing your throat. Dazai freezes. “And what happened to your side? Every time you move you’re wincing.”

“I… stopped by his office and saw them?” he offers, his next smile is too sweet, and you catch it from the way your eyes narrow. Defensively, he says, “The slug didn’t deserve chocolates from you.”

“Oh my god, Dazai,” you complain, burying your face in your hands. 

Dazai’s face flames up, and he shoots a dirty look in Itou’s direction when the older boy bursts into laughter. 

“Slugs can’t eat chocolate,” Dazai insists. “I was helping him, really.” 

“I can’t stand you,” you sigh, but when you shift in your seat, you shift so that you’re sitting a little closer to Dazai, shoulder pressed against his and thighs knocking together.

He glances down at the box of chocolates in his lap again, and the chocolate heart resting in his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, he passes it over to you. You give him a questioning look, but Dazai pointedly looks away as he wills his cheeks not to reflect his flustered thoughts, waiting for you to take it. His breath catches when your fingers brush his hand as you take it from him.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

Instead of directly responding, Dazai prods, “So, about the crab documentary…”

You let out a heavy sigh as you side eye him. “Fine,” you agree, “but you’re doing the garbage this week.”

“What?!” he demands. “It’s not my turn.”

“The price you pay for forcing me to watch nature documentaries for movie night.”

“It’s not just nature, it’s crabs.”

“Deal or no deal?”

“Fine. Deal.”

“Good,” you say with a saccharine smile that Dazai doesn’t like because he knows you’re thinking something bad. “Deal.”

After a few moments, you add, “I would’ve put it on even if you didn’t agree.”

“I’m going back to my shipping container.”

You laugh loudly, and Dazai’s heart skips a beat at the sound of it. He very much ignores the way Itou shoots an amused look back at them, focusing instead on the way your eyes glitter as your laughs fizzle into soft giggles.

“As if,” you say, knocking your shoulder into his. “I’ll just drag you back again. You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not.”

His lips curl up into a small smile in response to your words, gaze dropping back down to the chocolates sitting in his lap, and then back to you.

“Will you?” he asks quietly, a bit too seriously.

Your smile softens, and Dazai’s heart lodges right in his throat. “Count on it.”

[zhelin-thames]

Sixteen Bucks and a Grudge

Inspired by this post

Masterpost

The Batcave descended into silence as the glowing figure hovered ominously, his voice reverberating through the space. Everyone stared at Bruce, whose face remained impassive, though there was a faint twitch in his left eye.

"Bruce," Danny's eldritch voice echoed again, the flickering green light from his form illuminating the cave. "You promised."

Jason was the first to break the silence, biting back a laugh. "Wait, hold up. Bats, you owe this guy—" he gestured at the spectral figure, "—sixteen bucks? And you didn’t pay him back?"

Tim blinked in disbelief. "Sixteen dollars? That’s it? Why not just pay him?"

Bruce’s jaw clenched. "It’s the principle."

"The principle?" Danny’s ethereal voice sharpened. "The principle is that you owe me money. I spotted you when you conveniently ‘forgot’ your wallet on that mission in Prague. Fifteen years, Bruce. Fifteen. Years."

Dick swung down from the obstacle course, landing with a flourish. "Bruce, this is... shocking. You didn’t pay back a friend? A ghostly friend?"

"Former associate," Bruce corrected, standing straighter.

"You don’t even have an excuse," Damian said, crossing his arms. "Father, this is shameful."

Cass, who had been silently observing, tilted her head at Danny and then at Bruce. "Pay him," she signed.

"Thank you!" Danny exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "See? She gets it!"

Steph nudged Duke, grinning. "This is the best thing that’s happened all week. I’m rooting for the glowing guy."

Jason smirked, holstering his guns. "Hey, Phantom—what happens if he doesn’t pay up? Do you haunt him or something?"

Danny’s eyes gleamed mischievously. "I’ve had fifteen years to think about that. Let’s just say Bruce would learn the true meaning of regret."

Bruce let out a long-suffering sigh, finally reaching into a compartment in his utility belt. He produced a crisp twenty-dollar bill and held it out toward Danny.

"Here."

Danny crossed his arms, floating closer but making no move to take it. "Sixteen. Not twenty. I’m not taking tips from someone who stiffed me for a decade and a half."

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, then withdrew a smaller wad of cash and counted out exactly sixteen dollars. He handed it over wordlessly.

Danny plucked the money from Bruce’s hand with a smirk. "Pleasure doing business, old friend."

With that, Danny dissolved back into the glowing green portal, leaving the Batcave in a dim eerie glow for a few moments before it faded entirely.

As silence returned, Jason leaned back, arms crossed, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "So, Bruce, what’s the real story here? Because I need to know why you’d rather let a ghost King hunt you down than pay sixteen dollars."

Bruce turned back to his computer. "Get back to work."

Tim was already typing away. "Oh no, I’m finding the mission logs. There’s no way we’re letting this go."

"Sixteen years of holding a grudge," Dick added, shaking his head. "That guy has serious commitment."

Jason laughed. "Sounds like he’d fit right in."

[papayainsectorone]

You wanna help me stretch?

════════════════════════

inspired by this post @f1kenny121

summary: summer break is nearly over and training is starting again

content: 18+ !! nsfw, smut, fingering, overstimulation, orgasm denial, praise, slight power play, soft dom!Lando, tears of pleasure, emotional intensity, explicit language, mutual desperation

word count: 4,1 k

pairing: lando norris x female!reader

════════════════════════

The late summer sun bleeds through the windows, casting golden streaks across the hardwood floor. The house is too quiet. You’ve spent the whole day drifting from room to room, fingertips grazing along surfaces, pretending you weren’t just waiting for Lando to reappear.

Summer break is nearly over, and with the second half of the season looming, he's back to training—even if he hates every second of it. The workouts, the early mornings, the constant push to stay sharp—it’s not his favorite part. But he does it. Because he has to.

But now, standing in the doorway of the home gym, the silence pays off.

He doesn’t see you at first. He's seated on the workout bench, hunched slightly forward, three fingers gripped tightly in his other hand like he's stretching them out—or maybe nursing them. His brows are furrowed, mouth slack with focus. Sweat drips from his hairline down his neck, slicking his collarbones and tracing a line over the flex of his chest.

His thighs straddle the bench, solid and wide, every inch of him brimming with tension from disuse and the stubbornness to push through. You’ve seen him like this before—when he’s about to make a move, whether on track or in bed. This version of him, concentrated and messy, is your favorite.

You forget the words you meant to say. Something about a snack? Or that it’s too hot to be doing this? You can’t even clear your throat, let alone form a sentence. Your legs stay rooted to the floor. The air is thick. His skin glistens.

But it's not his skin that keeps you staring.

It’s his fingers.

The way they curl and flex as he stretches them, knuckles taut, tendons shifting beneath skin. He winces a little as he grips the middle three tighter, jaw ticking. You can’t tell if it’s pain or just pressure but it doesn’t matter. All you can think about is how those fingers would feel against your skin. Inside you. Around your throat. Holding you open.

Your mouth nearly waters.

You cross your legs, needing something—anything—to press against. It barely helps. You can feel your pulse between your thighs.

That’s when he notices you.

“I’m almost done, babe,” he says without much thought, voice low and casual. He glances down at his fingers, still working them slowly. The motion shouldn't feel intimate, but it does.

“Oh,” he murmurs, almost to himself, like he’s suddenly aware of what exactly you're staring at. His thumb strokes along the length of his middle finger, absentminded but devastating.

Your brain stutters back to life, though your voice is breathy when it comes out.

“Ma-maybe I’ll join you.”

His eyes flick up, wide, and for a second it’s like he stops breathing altogether. You take a step forward. Then another. You don’t break his gaze, even as it darkens with something heavier.

He drops his hand to his thigh, still spread wide around the bench, and watches you approach.

“Yeah?” he says, voice rougher now. “You wanna help me stretch?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” you say, voice light, almost innocent. “I think I would take a stretch.”

You hold his gaze, letting it drop ever so slowly—down his chest, to the gleam of sweat on his abdomen, and finally to where his fingers still rest against his thigh. His lips twitch at the corner, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just watches.

You step over the bench and straddle it, knees brushing against his. The closeness makes your breath hitch, the warmth of his skin radiating straight into yours.

“Comfortable?” he murmurs.

“I could be.”

You both glance down at the same time—at his hand. His long, slick fingers. He flexes them again, slower now, deliberately. The movement makes your mouth part on instinct.

“Can’t stop staring,” he says, voice soft and dangerous. “Bet you’ve been thinking about them all day, haven’t you?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The way you shift in place, grinding subtly into the bench for friction, says it for you.

“Tell me,” he leans forward just slightly, voice just for you now, “what exactly do you want them to do, hmm?”

Your breath shudders. He lifts his hand and brings it to your knee—doesn’t even grip, just rests it there—and your whole body tenses.

“I—” Your eyes flick to his hand. “I don’t know.”

He grins. “You do know. Don´t be shy about it now.”

Then, without warning, he brings his fingers to your mouth.

“Open.”

You do. Obedient. Eager.

He slips two in, slowly, and you close your lips around them like you’ve been craving the taste. He groans low and under his breath but you catch it. You swirl your tongue around them, watching his eyes darken, his pupils blown wide as your mouth works him.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Look at you.”

You moan around them soft, needy and the sound makes his jaw clench. His hand tightens slightly where it rests on your knee.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re soaked already, aren’t you?”

You nod, still sucking, your thighs clenching around the bench. He slowly pulls his fingers out, the sound slick and sinful.

“I haven’t even touched you properly yet,” he says. “And you’re already falling apart.”

You lean in closer, desperate for more, but he just smirks.

“Patience,” he murmurs. “We’re just getting started.”

The air between you crackles, thick and heavy. His fingers are still glistening from your mouth when he slowly drops them to the bench, dragging them along the edge just beside your thigh—close enough to make you flinch, but not touch.

“I could make you come,” he says, almost conversational, “without ever fucking you.”

Your thighs twitch.

“Just these fingers,” he continues, lifting them again, letting you watch every lazy curl and flex. “Two inside, more if you’re greedy. Curl them just right. Thumb on your clit. I wouldn’t even need to move much, you’d do all the work for me.”

You swallow hard, your mouth dry again despite what just happened. You’re starting to breathe through your thighs, desperate for pressure. For anything.

“Poor baby,” he hums. “Already squirming. And I haven’t even touched you there yet.”

He reaches forward now, finally, hooking his hands under your thighs and tugging—slow, strong—until you're sliding forward, legs falling wider around his knees, straddling him open and shameless. The bench presses hard beneath you. The only thing grounding you.

You grip the sides of it to keep yourself upright, arching slightly back as he leans in, his face still maddeningly calm. Like he has all the time in the world.

“Such a good view like this,” he mutters, tugging at the hem of your shorts. “Look at you.”

You make a soft, breathless sound—half protest, half plea—but you lift your hips, let him peel the shorts down, and when he does, he curses.

“Fuck.”

His thumb brushes just barely over the soaked fabric of your underwear. He groans again, dragging the edge aside for a peek.

“Oh, baby… it’s so easy. I knew you were already this wet.”

The sound you make isn't even a moan—more like a gasp, a choke of arousal and embarrassment all in one.

He smiles, slow and sharp.

“You love it when I talk like this, don’t you?”

You nod, breath hitching again as he lifts one hand—that hand—and brings his thumb back to your mouth.

“Open.”

You part your lips again, greedier this time. He slides in with purpose now, pressing down on your tongue, keeping your mouth full while his other hand starts to move—slow, torturous circles against the inside of your thigh.

Not quite where you need him. Not yet.

You moan around his thumb, hips shifting involuntarily, trying to chase friction.

“Not yet,” he says, voice thick with control. “I’ll tell you when.”

And the worst part?

You want him to.

Your breath catches as his thumb presses down harder on your tongue. He watches the way your lips part, the way your jaw slackens around it, like he could read every desperate little thought spilling through your mind just by the way you take his touch.

“Bet you taste as good here,” he mutters, half to himself, then drags his thumb out, wet and glistening.

His other hand trails up—finally, finally—over the inside of your thigh. You feel the brush of his knuckles first, then the slight dip of his wrist as he moves in.

And then contact.

One slow stroke through your folds, slick and unbearably sensitive. You jolt at the first touch, head tipping back slightly, a broken sound slipping from your throat.

He groans softly. “Fuck, you’re dripping.”

You nod, barely breathing, back arching even further, hands gripping the bench behind you so tightly your knuckles go white.

He teases again just one finger, lazy and slow, tracing circles around your entrance without dipping in.

“You want it?” he asks, voice low and smug.

“Y-yes,” you pant. “Please.”

He hums like he’s considering it—like he hasn’t already decided what he’s going to do.

Then, slowly, he slides one finger in.

Your body clenches around it instantly, a shiver running through you at the stretch of it, even if it’s just one. His hand stills inside you, and your hips buck forward instinctively.

But he doesn’t move.

“Feel that?” he asks, leaning in close to your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “Just one, and you’re already so tight.”

You whimper, trying to move your hips again, but his free hand comes down on your thigh—firm, steadying.

“No, baby,” he whispers. “You stay still. You let me have you like this.”

Then, torturously slow, he starts to move that finger—curling it up, dragging it out, then back in. Unhurried. Deep. Precise.

You’re already shaking.

He adds a second, and you cry out, hips rocking despite his grip. He doesn't stop you this time—he lets you ride his hand for a moment, lets you get just enough friction to start climbing toward that dizzying edge.

Then he stops.

Completely.

You gasp, body tense and twitching, your walls fluttering around nothing.

“Lando—please—”

“Not yet,” he says again, with a cruel smile. “You don’t get to come just because you want to.”

You groan, your head falling forward, forehead brushing against his shoulder. You're panting now, every muscle strung tight.

He leans in, kisses your cheek so softly it makes you ache.

“I’ll give you what you need,” he murmurs. “But not until you beg for it. Not until you’re so fucking desperate you can’t say anything else.”

Then—two fingers again—thrusting deep, curling hard into the spot that makes your vision blur.

But just as you start to unravel—

He pulls away.

“Please,” you whisper—voice cracking, small. “Lando, please, I need— I need to—”

He watches you fall apart on the edge of the sentence. Your chest rising and falling, thighs trembling around him, hips twitching as if your body’s trying to finish what he keeps denying.

“Need to what?” he asks, softly cruel. His fingers are still buried inside you, unmoving, just there—reminding you who’s in control.

You shake your head, helpless. “Please. Let me come. I can’t— I need it.”

A long pause.

Then he shifts. His other arm wraps around your lower back, pulling you forward until you’re straddling his thighs completely, chest to chest. You clutch at his shoulders for balance, breath fanning across his neck.

“Alright,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. “You’ve been good.”

And then he moves.

His fingers curl up inside you again, that perfect rhythm returning like he never stopped. Deep and precise. Every stroke sends a sharp, blinding jolt through you. His palm presses against your clit now, every motion designed to undo you.

It doesn’t take long.

You’re already so close, your body trembling with the force of it, moaning shamelessly into his neck. Your hips grind down against his hand, chasing it, needing it.

And when you finally come, it rips through you like a wave—loud and messy, your body jerking, thighs clenching around his. He holds you through it, arm firm around your waist, keeping you grounded while you writhe and cry out against him.

But he doesn’t stop.

His fingers stay inside. His thumb keeps circling. You flinch from the sensitivity, but he just shushes you, his voice all dark velvet now.

“Shh… I know, I know. But you can take it.”

You barely have time to process it before he starts moving again—deeper now, slower but relentless.

You squirm in his lap, trying to lift your hips, but his arm around your back tightens.

“Oh no, baby. Not done yet.”

You’re breathing in gasps now, mind foggy with overstimulation. His fingers drag over that same spot again, and your whole body jerks.

“You think you can take one more?” he asks, voice low and thick.

You don’t know what he means—another orgasm? Another finger?

But it doesn’t matter. You nod, frantic, clinging to him.

“Good girl,” he growls. “Open up for me.”

And then—a third finger presses against your entrance, joining the others slowly, stretching you further than before. Your mouth falls open in a silent cry, head tipping back.

You’re full. Too full.

And still—you want more.

The third finger slides in slow—but it still punches the air right out of your lungs.

The stretch is too much. Too good. You collapse against him without even thinking, your body folding forward as your arms scramble to hold on to something—his shoulders, his chest, his neck. Anything to stop you from tipping over completely.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice thick with arousal, the barest rasp curling around the word. “You feel that, baby?”

You nod barely, a choked sound falling from your lips that doesn’t resemble a word at all. Just a noise, raw and wrecked.

It goes straight through him.

Your head rests on his shoulder now, lips parted against his skin, and you're making sounds that have no place in the daylight. Unholy sounds—wet and breathy and trembling—moans that spill right into his ear, sending visible shudders down his spine.

He breathes out a curse and tightens his arm around your waist, anchoring you to him.

And then his thumb moves again.

A soft, slow drag over your clit, slick and maddening. Your whole body jerks, thighs twitching violently, but there’s nowhere to go—his hand between your legs, his body caging you in.

You try to close your thighs, instinctively trying to shield yourself from how much it is, but you can’t. Not with him there—his hips wide between yours, thighs bracketing you in place.

“Lando—fuck—Lando, I—” It’s barely a whisper, more like a sob.

You clutch at your own thighs now, hands fisting in your own skin, trying to ground yourself, to hold something through the crushing intensity—but nothing helps. Not when his fingers keep moving, deep and deliberate inside you, his thumb unrelenting.

You’re already there again. It crashes into you like your whole body is detonating from the inside out.

You go still—then trembling—hips stuttering, breath gone completely.

All you can do is whimper, face buried in his shoulder, thighs shaking around him, as your body clenches around his fingers and the high keeps going.

“That’s it,” he growls, voice right in your ear. “So fucking good. God, listen to you. Can’t even talk.”

You shake your head, still trying to breathe. Still feeling it. Still full.

And he hasn’t stopped.

You don’t even realize when he slips his fingers out—when that delicious, punishing stretch is suddenly gone. All you know is the cold shock of emptiness, and the warm, slow tease of him dragging his fingers through your folds instead. Light. Feather-soft. Too soft.

Your whole body twitches, hips trying to follow the sensation, to sink back onto him again—but there’s nothing to sink onto.

“Lando,” you gasp—voice barely there. Just air and heat.

You’re fully collapsed against him now, skin flushed and damp, face buried in his neck, breath stuttering against his pulse. Wrecked. Unraveled. His other hand strokes idly over your lower back, holding you there like you belong.

And those fingers—those fingers—are tormenting you.

They circle the rim of your entrance, slow and teasing, never pressing in. Just tracing, dragging through slick, rubbing softly through folds that are aching, twitching with the aftershocks of your last orgasm and the rising threat of the next.

You let out a broken, pleading noise that you can’t even name. Your whole body trembles against his.

He leans in, mouth grazing the shell of your ear.

“Is this what you wanted?” he whispers, and it’s maddening gentle and cruel all at once.

Your only response is a shiver, a whimper that sounds like yes. He chuckles low in his throat, and you feel it vibrate against your skin.

“I think it is,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth along the side of your neck. “Look at you. Completely gone. Just because of my fingers.”

And then he kisses you there lazy kisses, open-mouthed and slow, just under your jaw, the kind that make your head spin all over again.

“You love being like this, don’t you?” Another kiss, this time higher, nearer to your ear. “Pressed against me, soaking my lap, crying for it.”

He dips his fingers again—just once, shallow, before pulling back and brushing over your clit once and you jolt like you’ve been electrocuted, whimpering into his neck.

“Mm, yeah,” he groans softly, biting your shoulder. “You’ll beg for it again in a minute, won’t you?”

You nod, desperate. Wordless.

And still—he waits.

“Lando, it’s too much, I— I can’t,” you whisper, voice cracking at the edges, more breath than sound.

“I know,” he murmurs.

And still, he doesn’t stop.

He shifts with you like it’s easy, like he’s carried you this way a hundred times. One arm stays locked around your waist, guiding you as he lays you back gently on the narrow bench, body following yours. You're still clutching him, thighs spread and shaking, hips twitching at every brush of air.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers again, hovering over you, face barely an inch away. “Say the word.”

You don’t. You can’t. You’re too far gone, trembling under the weight of his body and the ache of his absence where you need him most.

He smiles—not smug, but soft. Like he knows every part of you now.

His lips press to yours. A gentle kiss, slow and unhurried, like you're not already soaking his lap and half-crying from how badly you need him. He kisses down your neck, tongue trailing, teeth grazing, then nibbles at the curve of your ear.

You gasp again, another moan escaping you, your body arching into his even without thinking.

Only then does he finally pull his hand up from between your legs, fingers soaked, dripping, glistening in the low light. He stares at them for a beat, breath catching.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes dark. “Look what you did.”

You can only watch him wide-eyed, panting, almost pleading.

Then he brings those fingers to his mouth.

And sucks them clean.

Slowly. One at a time. Licking each digit like he’s tasting dessert, groaning low in his throat. His tongue flicks at the base of his knuckles, and your thighs twitch again.

You’re dizzy watching him.

And when he’s done, he looks at you again eyes smoldering now, like he's barely holding himself together.

He reaches down, trailing his wet fingers across your lips.

“Open,” he whispers.

You do.

And he slips them in.

You suck greedily, tongue swirling around them, and it’s him who moans now deep and ragged, his hips dropping hard against yours, finally chasing friction.

The contact shocks a gasp from you both.

You feel it—him—hard and heavy through his shorts, grinding slowly into your soaked heat. The thin barrier does nothing. You feel every movement, every flex of his hips as he lets himself finally take what he needs.

“God, you feel that?” he growls, pulling his fingers from your mouth, dragging them down your chest as he ruts against you. “I’ve been holding back all fucking day.”

His forehead drops to yours, breathing hard.

You’re already so open to him, thighs still twitching, lips parted around the breath you can't catch—so when he finally shifts, tugging his shorts down just enough to free himself, it feels like the world holds its breath.

You certainly do.

And then he presses in.

There’s no warning. No teasing. Just one slow, thick glide of his cock between your folds, catching at your entrance—already so soaked, so ready for him—and then he pushes, hips firm and steady.

You gasp, legs falling wider as he sinks into you inch by inch.

He fills you so deeply it makes your back arch right off the bench, your nails digging into his arms, eyes fluttering shut with a choked moan.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, voice wrecked. “So tight—always so tight for me.”

He stays there for a moment, buried to the hilt, not moving—just feeling. Letting the stretch and fullness overwhelm you both. You shudder beneath him, chest rising and falling rapidly.

Then he pulls back. Slowly. Until just the tip is left inside.

And thrusts in again deep, deliberate, like he’s staking a claim.

You cry out, head rolling to the side, breath catching.

He finds his rhythm like it’s instinct—slow, firm strokes that rock your body against the bench, controlled but possessive. Every thrust feels like a promise. Like he wants to imprint himself inside you.

“This what you needed?” he murmurs, mouth at your jaw, one hand sliding up to cup your face as he drives into you again. “Needed me to fuck you like this slow and deep, where no one else can ever reach?”

You nod, whimpering, gripping at his back now, trying to pull him impossibly closer.

His forehead presses to yours, lips brushing yours between kisses and curses and panting breaths.

He groans again, slower now, hips dragging all the way out only to slam back in, grinding against your pelvis, his cock hitting every sensitive spot with devastating precision.

“Feel so good,” he whispers. “So fucking perfect like this, spread out for me, taking it all.”

You moan louder, hands tangled in his curls now, body arching into his, chasing every drag and press of his cock like it’s the only thing that matters.

His hand slides down to your thigh, pulling your leg higher around his waist so he can sink even deeper if that was possible. The change in angle rips a cry from your throat.

He groans again, deep and low, like it’s killing him to hold back. But he does. For you.

You don’t know when the tears start.

It’s not from pain—never from that. It’s the pressure, the fullness, the way his cock keeps hitting that spot so deep inside you it turns pleasure into something unbearable, almost too much to hold.

You blink, and they fall—slow trails down your temples as you lie back on the bench, your body trembling, shuddering beneath him. His thrusts haven’t sped up still slow, still deep but they’ve gotten heavier, more deliberate, like every single one is meant to stay with you.

He sees it the second your lip quivers.

“Baby,” he breathes, the word catching in his throat.

He leans in immediately, brushing kisses to your cheeks, catching the tears with his lips as his hand comes up to cradle your face.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers against your skin. “You’re okay. I promise. You’re doing so good for me.”

His voice—low, warm, soothing—makes your chest tighten in a different way, something emotional blooming beneath the tension coiling in your gut.

You’re close again. You can feel it. Your body’s trying to run from it, hips twitching, legs shaking, but there’s nowhere to go not when he’s pressed so deep inside you, holding you so gently even while he fucks you open.

“I know it’s a lot,” he murmurs, kissing your lips now, slow and careful. “You’re so full, huh? So fucking wet, clenching around me like you can’t help it.”

You cry out at that, sobbing into his mouth, your nails digging into his back again as your body tries to contain it this aching pressure, this need to fall apart one more time.

“I’ve got you,” he says again. “Let it go. Let me feel you.”

He shifts just slightly just enough and suddenly that perfect, devastating drag of his cock has you gasping, clenching around him so hard it’s instinct, involuntary.

“Oh my—Lando—fuck—”

“That’s it,” he growls, voice tight and trembling now, his own control slipping as your body contracts around him. “Fuck, baby—God, you’re milking me—”

It tips you over like a wave crashing into shore. Your orgasm rushes up through your spine, curling you forward into his chest as your thighs shake violently around his hips. Your whole body tenses, then breaks sobbing, gasping, your cries muffled against his neck.

And that’s all it takes.

He groans a sound so raw and desperate it vibrates against your heart and his hips slam forward one final time, grinding into you as he comes, thick and hot and deep, filling you completely.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—oh, shit,” he pants, his voice wrecked. “You feel so good—so fucking good—”

His whole body shudders above you, and he collapses into your chest, still inside you, holding you like you might disappear.

You're both breathing hard now, tangled together, soaking and shaking and quiet.

He kisses you again. Your cheek, your temple, your lips. Each one soft, reverent.

“You okay?” he whispers against your mouth, voice hoarse.

“I love you like this,” he says, breath still uneven. “Fucking ruined and mine.”

You're both still trembling, bodies sticky and flushed, tangled together on the narrow bench like the rest of the world doesn't exist.

His breathing slows against your skin. One arm is wrapped tightly around your waist, anchoring you, the other hand tangled in your hair as he presses slow kisses to your temple, your cheek, your jaw.

You smile—barely, weakly—still catching your breath. Your legs feel like they’ve melted.

And then, voice low and wrecked but laced with a tease, you whisper against his neck:

“Thanks for the stretch.”

He freezes for a second—then laughs. That warm, wrecked kind of laugh, breathless and totally undone.

“Jesus,” he groans into your hair. “You’re gonna kill me.”

[joelscurls]

best kept secret

pairing: dbf!Joel Miller x f!reader

words: 6.7k

summary: In an attempt to keep your relationship secret, Joel agrees to a blind date set up by his best friend / your father. You don't take it well.

warnings: 18+ minors dni, pre-outbreak, age gap (reader is in her early 20s, Joel is 36), secret relationship, angst, explicit smut, oral (f!receiving), unprotected piv, semi-public sex, car sex, creampie, some fluff; lmk if I missed anything!

a/n: so sorry it took me almost a month to post something new ffs - life got busy and my inspiration simultaneously disappeared. but we're back, baby! anyway, dbf!joel owns my ass, so here's my rendition of him. as always, ty to my baby @javisashtray for reading this over for me and helping me through the creative process <3

Joel’s bedroom window offers a perfect view of the sunrise; of shy, pink light creeping over treetops and the roof of your dad’s house across the street.

It’s gorgeous — breathtaking, even — maybe because you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve actually seen the crest of morning. You’re far more privy to late nights and sleeping in as long as you can push it,  never been one to be up with the lark, so to speak.

You don’t mind the early wakeup call, though, not when it’s this: Joel’s head tucked between your thighs, his tongue rolling lazily over your clit, your eyes still adjusting to the light as he spreads you open for him.

He’s humming against you, his coarse beard tickling soft skin, thumbs dug into muscle to hold you in place as your back bows reflexively off the mattress. He looks so sweet like this, so eager to please, staring up at you with blown pupils.

“C’mon baby,” he purrs. “Just gimme one before you go.”

They’re the first words he’s said all morning, the first thought that’s necessitated utterance. His voice is hoarse and deep and drips honey-sweet at your core. 

Even so, despite how badly you want to — because you always want Joel’s mouth on you — you’re not sure you can. 

Because you need to get home before Denise next door leaves for her early shift. Before Susan a few houses down takes her dog out for a walk.

Before the neighborhood wakes and somebody sees you leaving Joel Miller’s house. Or worse, before your dad catches you slipping into the house in yesterday’s clothes, your car in the driveway still cold.

But with another experimental flick of Joel’s tongue, you forget all that, a content little sigh slipping past your parted lips, betraying you.

Just one, you tell yourself, and then you’ll head out.

“Fuck, okay — yeah,” you breathe, twisting your fingers into the roots of his curls.

With your permission, he buries his nose in your mound. Licks at you again — with more purpose, this time. One long, drawn out lap followed by another.  

He’s so gentle with you, so careful, caressing your folds with his tongue like they’re made of paper. It’s a dizzying juxtaposition to the way he laid you down last night and fucked you, teeth scraping your neck and cock bruising your cervix.

You’re still sore, your walls tender where he stretched them, but your pussy is drooling nonetheless, surely making a mess of the bedsheets underneath you.

Because you’re insatiable when it comes to Joel. 

For the past few weeks, since the first time you’d found yourself in his bed, you’ve craved him. Regardless of how sated he’s left you each and every time, you’ve needed more. 

It’s dangerous and stupid and undeniably wrong, having a fling with your dad’s best-friend. But you’re finding it difficult to consider the morality of it all when just his tongue makes you come harder than any other man’s cock ever has. 

That tongue, now dipping into your apex, drawing more slick out of you as his thumb finds your swollen clit — It’s overwhelming how good it feels, how good he is at this.

He’s bringing you to the edge languidly, savoring the taste of you, the feel of your silky flesh. It’s like he doesn’t want this to be over, needs to stretch the moment as far as it’ll go, milk every last second before you slip from his grasp.

But it’s going to end soon; it’s inevitable with the way he’s laving your pussy, the crushed velvet of his tongue gliding through your folds so wet and warm. Your orgasm is building, and you’re powerless to stave it off any longer.

“Joel,” you warn, his name a high-pitched whine. 

“Shh, I know babygirl; it’s okay.” 

Two of his fingers hook at your entrance and push in, pacifying you as his thumb continues working your clit. “I got you. Let go for me, sweetheart.”

The soothe of his voice floods your senses like nitrous; renders your body loose and your head foggy. You come apart with a string of shattered breaths, eyes rolled back and fingers twisted into the duvet.

Joel talks you through it: that’s it, pretty girl; so good for me; always so good for me, and though he sounds so far away, his words are the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

The world comes back into view slowly. Air settles in your lungs. And you can’t help but laugh at how fucked-out you feel when you peer down at Joel, his gaze already locked on you, expectantly.

“Okay?” he asks, rubbing at your inner thigh.

“Yeah,” you exhale, corners of your lips pulling taut. “More than okay.”

He smiles back at you. Props himself up with hands planted either side of you on the mattress and hovers over your feeble form.

“Good,” he whispers, dipping his head down to kiss your forehead, your nose, your mouth. He licks into you, letting you taste yourself on him — a little sweet, a little bitter — and his lips are so soft that you nearly melt. “Did so good, angel.” 

You want nothing more than to spend all day in this bed with him. Return the favor a few times over. Learn what he looks like in the afternoon sun against the backdrop of navy blue sheets. What he tastes like after his coffee rather than before.

“I don’t want to leave,” you admit against his mouth and he frowns, taking one of your hands in his. He presses a kiss to each of your knuckles, one by one, his eyes never straying from yours.

“I don’t want you to either, darlin’. But you can come back tonight, yeah?”

Tonight. Hours away. A whole day between now and then. But it’ll have to do. 

“Tonight,” you repeat. Solidify it. 

You slink home just as the street lights dim.

The house is quiet when you enter, apart from the incessant ticking of the grandmother clock in the living room. It sets off a throbbing in your head, a dull pang right at the front of your skull that you massage with two fingers as you ascend the stairs.

You move cautiously up each step, wincing at every creak of old wood. It must take minutes to reach the second-floor landing, and then you’re tiptoeing past your father’s room, listening for signs of sleep behind the seal of his door. Sure enough, you catch it, a single, drawn-out snore, loud enough that you let your feet fall, shuffling the rest of the way to the bathroom across the hall.

You immediately crank the shower on, climbing in as soon as you see steam. Lathering your skin with citrus-scented body wash, the smell of sex washes off your body and down the drain.

The warm water soothes your sore muscles; bittersweet relief. You stand there until the stream grows icy, stepping out and toweling yourself off just as you hear the familiar blare of your dad’s alarm on the other side of the wall.

By the time you’ve dressed and made your way downstairs, he’s already in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee with his back to you. 

Sink empty, counters borderline sparkling, a coaster tucked under his warm mug — your father is a neat man. He does not take kindly to mess.

God forbid, anybody disrupt the sacred balance of his home; move something and forget to put it back, break something of his that should be kept intact.

“Hey.”

“Hey, kiddo,” he yawns. Turns to face you. “You were up early. Heard the shower going.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” you lie.

“Something on your mind?”

Heat blooms across your chest and up your neck. There’s no way he knows — you’ve been far too careful. Still, you’re on edge, and the question lodges itself between your ribs uncomfortably as you frantically search for an answer.

“Uh, n-no,” you stutter. “Just work stuff, I guess.”

He seems to buy it, reaching for the percolator and re-filling his mug with a sigh, “Just gotta give it time. You only just started. Plus, it’s your first job out of school. They don’t expect you to know it all right away.”

It’s good advice, if not misguided. You nod as if you’re absorbing it, taking it straight to heart. As if your mind isn’t preoccupied.

You grab a mug from the cabinet. Fill it with coffee and creamer. Perch yourself at the breakfast table and take a slow, steadying sip.

The caffeine has just about seeped into your bloodstream when-

-there’s a knock at the door.

Your dad shoots you a puzzled look, one which you immediately return. Who could that be, so early on a Wednesday morning?

And when he pushes open the door to reveal none other than Joel, you just about fall out of your chair. Your nails absentmindedly dig into the wood of the table in an attempt to brace yourself.

“Oh, buddy — hey! Come on in,” your dad says, patting him on the back as he steps over the threshold. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

You grasp the handle of your mug like a lifeline. For a fleeting moment, you worry the ceramic will shatter in your hands.

Joel is dressed — blue cotton t-shirt covering his broad back and the deep, red scratches you left there when you dug your nails into skin, your legs hiked over his hips and your face tucked into his chest.

The pair of boxers peeking over the waistband of his jeans are different from the ones you pulled off of him last night, the ones he shimmied back into before you slept cradled in his arms.

He’s a different Joel here, now — your father’s friend, your neighbor — not the man who breaks you down with his tongue or the one who calls you his good girl while you take his entire, throbbing length. 

No, this Joel, standing in your kitchen in the presence of your father, has never betrayed him. Hasn’t tasted his friend’s daughter or felt the tight embrace of her wet, warm cunt around his cock. This Joel is reliable, honest, not one to do harm.

You do not desire this Joel, cannot. You must look at him with apathetic eyes. Must keep the boat of your longing at bay. 

Easier said than done. It’s as if your desire for him is a feral beast, fed by his touch and left starving in its wake. You feel like you’ve just run a marathon, sweat beading at your collar as you not-so-subtly follow the subconscious flex of his hands, the bunching of fabric over his biceps.

His voice bounces off the backsplash, and your fingers tighten around the handle of your mug.

“Yeah, I uh — I went to make myself coffee and realized I was out. Was hopin’ you might have some to spare?”

He can’t be serious. He came over for coffee? He couldn’t get some on the road?

“I’m afraid she took the last of it,” your dad’s eyes point to you, and you ignore the burn of Joel’s gaze when his follow.

“Ahh,” he says. “‘ts okay. I’ll grab some on my way in.” 

His fingers taptaptap on the edge of the countertop, bottom lip tucked between his teeth like there’s something else. Another reason he came here.

And then you spot it — your wallet, dark red leather, poking out the top of Joel’s back pocket. 

You must’ve left it in his room before you hurried home. Somewhere amongst the mess of trinkets and trash on his dresser. You half-remember dropping it there last night as he’d kneeled in front of you and peppered kisses up the length of your leg.

Thankfully, your dad is oblivious as ever, giving Joel the perfect opportunity to inconspicuously slip you your wallet when he turns around and crosses the kitchen, placing his empty mug in the sink. 

Joel sidesteps once, twice, extending his arm and snapping it back as soon as you have the wallet in your grasp.

Your father clears his throat. Spins to find Joel exactly where he was. “I’ve been thinking,” he starts, wrestling a slice of bread out of the bag and dropping it into the toaster, “I gotta set you up with this co-worker of mine, Deb.”

Joel freezes. You watch as the color drains from his face and his large hand anxiously cards through dark curls. You’re pretty sure you freeze too, breath caught somewhere in your throat until your dad turns to you and you remember to exhale. 

“You know Deb, right, honey?” he asks. You mentally flick through the rolodex of your dad’s coworkers. 

There’s Leanne, tall redhead, hosted a potluck a few months back at which you tasted the worst mac & cheese you’ve ever had. And Barbara from accounting, who he got into a heated argument with over who makes the best BBQ in the city. You only remember her name because he hadn’t shut up about how wrong her opinion was for a full week. 

This woman actually thinks the Smoke Shop has got better ribs than Lou’s. I said to her, Barbara, your taste buds must be absolutely torched.

But Deb? You don’t recall a Deb. Still, you’re pretty sure you hate her, just in hearing her name in this context. 

You shake your head, no. 

“Well, I guess you haven’t seen her in a while. She was there that day I brought you into the office.”

“When I was ten?” you retort. 

“Yeah, I guess it was that long ago, huh?”

You shrug. He returns his attention to Joel. “Anyway, Deb – she’s around your age, just got divorced about a year back, and she’s a real nice woman. I think you two would really hit it off.”

“Is that so?” Joel replies. You swear his voice wavers. If your dad notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“You’ll like her Joel, I promise. I mean, when’s the last time you went out with a nice lady? Not since – what was her name — Jean? And if things were going well with her, I’d hope you’d tell your old friend.” The toaster pops, and he retrieves his slice of toast. Grabs a butter knife from the utensil drawer.  

“No, I ain’t seeing Jean,” Joel sighs. Flashes you an apologetic glance as your dad slathers his toast in artificial purple jam, blissfully unaware.

“Well, you gotta get back out there!” 

Joel’s gaze rolls to the ceiling. “I don’t know – I’m just not real interested in datin’ right now.”

You exhale, then — a quiet declaration of relief that seems to go unnoticed — unperturbed even when your dad continues his pitch. 

I’ve known this woman for years Joel, I’m telling you, the two of you’d be the perfect match; she’s a looker too, real pretty.

Ew. Tuning him out, you check the clock, find that you only have a few minutes before you need to get going. You stand from the table and make your way toward the sink with your now-empty coffee mug in hand.

Would I ever lead you astray? your dad is asking just as you brush past Joel. His hand, idle by his side, catches the fabric of your blouse and you have to fight to ignore the pinprick of electricity it ignites under your skin.

“No, I know,” Joel grumbles. “I trust your judgment ‘n all, ‘ts just-”

“Will you just give her a chance?”

“Jesus; fine.”

The mug slips from your grip, falls into the sink with a clang.

Your dad glares at you, expression softening only when you gesture to the still-intact ceramic lying on its side in the basin.

He’s quickly distracted, then, jotting a series of numbers down onto a scrap of notebook paper, the blue ink pressed in so hard that it’s beginning to bleed through. 

“Atta boy,” he drawls, sliding it across the counter. Joel pinches it between two fingers, folds the paper without looking at it and stuffs it into his front pocket. 

“Promise you’ll give her a call tonight? I may or may not have already talked you up, and I need to know you’re not gonna make me look bad here.”

Joel has to see you staring at him out of the corner of his eye. He must. If looks could kill, he’d be six feet under already. But he’s refusing to meet your gaze, eyes glued to the cabinet directly in front of him as he nods. “Yeah, I’ll call her tonight,” he says, a small, unconvincing smile pulling at the corner of his lips. 

He’s actually agreeing to this?

You need to get out of here before you say something rash.

The anger bubbles in you slowly, then all at once, threatening to boil over as you slip on your shoes and sling your bag over your shoulder. 

Marching toward the door, you offer a half-hearted bye, not bothering to look back before you leave.

The office is already milling with people by the time you stroll in, ten minutes late. 

The conversation between Joel and your dad is still running laps in your head as you sneak past your boss’s door.

It sticks there through the morning and well into the afternoon, your dad’s words an incessant earworm: I think you two would really hit it off.

The thing is — you can’t blame Joel for saying yes to the setup. Not really. Your situation is complicated, messy, bound to end badly.

Maybe he’d be happier with Deb. 

They could take walks together, stroll through the grocery store or down the street  hand-in-hand. Throw dinner parties and shamelessly gush about their relationship to their friends. All without fear of being caught doing something wrong.

Because that’s what this is, you and Joel — it’s wrong. Not like you weren’t already well aware of that. Leave it to some woman you’ve never met to rub it in.

The day passes infuriatingly slow.

The pile of emails in your inbox only grows larger by the time you’re due to clock out, stack of reports on your desk barely touched. You wince when your boss stops by your cubicle on her way out, eager for an update.

“Sorry, Linda; a couple of these were more time-consuming than I’d hoped,” you lie. But you can tell she doesn’t buy it, not one bit, her expression souring as you shuffle through papers.

“I need these done by the end of the week, no matter what.”

“Of course,” you mutter, face heating with embarrassment. “I’ll get them done and on your desk by Friday.”

“Thanks.” Her heels are already clacking on tile when you open your mouth to apologize again, your sorry lost to the ether.

You gather your things and scramble to your feet as soon as she’s out of view, not sticking around to watch your computer power down. By the time you get to your car, Joel’s number is already dialed on your phone.

He picks up after two rings.

“Darlin’ — are you okay?”

It’s admittedly uncharacteristic for you to call him so early. You usually wait until after dark, when you’ve both retreated to your respective bedrooms, away from listening ears.

But this can’t wait. It’s been eating at you all day, digging into your work. If you don’t talk to him about it, you’re going to end up unemployed. You don’t bother to ask if he’s still on the job site, around other people. “You’re going on this date.” It’s not a question. More of an accusation.

“Baby,” he sighs. You try your best to ignore his molasses drawl and the way it seeps into your chest. 

“Why didn’t you say no?” 

“How could I?” he groans. “There’s your dad, askin’ me if I’m seein’ someone, sayin’ he’s already told this lady about me – what am I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know.” Your voice comes out a whine. “Make something up. Tell him you’ve taken a vow of celibacy.”

He laughs, low and breathy on the other end. “Yeah, baby. Think he’d believe that one, f’sure.”

“Fuck,” you huff. “I just— I don’t-“

You want to tell him not to go. To cancel. Fake his own death. Do whatever it takes to get out of this. But you have no right, not really. The two of you aren’t dating. You don’t have any control over what he does or who he sees. And you don’t want that, no. You just want him to choose you.

“I don’t wanna go, darlin’. I really don’t. But if I do this, I think it’ll get him off my back for a while. He won’t have a reason to suspect that I’m foolin’ around with his daughter.”

Fooling around. His phrasing is a metaphorical punch in the gut.

It’s not exactly a lie. You haven’t put a label on this thing, whatever it is. It’s been purely physical: lips slotted to lips, tongues pressed together, swapped sweat and saliva. But hearing it reduced to two words, words with such a casual connotation — as if you haven’t been driven by overwhelming desire — makes your stomach churn.

Joel doesn’t seem to clock it when you go quiet, a cocktail of rage and sorrow sloshing around your insides. “It’s for the best,” he adds, a shot of hard, burning liquor. 

“Yeah,” you say defeatedly. Choke back the pathetic tears that creep up your throat. “For the best.”

He ends the call with the excuse of bad cell reception. Promises to talk to you later. You’re not sure that you believe him.

The phrase fooling around curls up in your head, a wet dog, its fur dripping into the crevices of your rattled brain the entire drive home.

You dodge Joel’s calls for the remainder of the week.

There’s no use in talking to him when you have nothing to say, when you know any words you attempt will be overtaken by tears.

Even so, it doesn’t stop him from trying. His number lights up the screen of your phone at least twice a day.

He leaves voicemails that you do not listen to. You can’t. The last thing you need is his syruppy drawl in your ear. You’ll break; you know you will.

So instead, you delete them. Rid yourself of temptation.

But you still ache for him — a devastating truth. You lumber through the days, bones heavy with hurt. Find yourself kept up at night by thoughts of Joel and the infuriatingly soothing timbre of his voice, the intoxicating callous of his fingertips against your soft skin. 

It’s a lonely thing, yearning for Joel Miller.

On Friday, your father beams at the dinner table. He’s grinning like a child as he stuffs a forkful of rice into his mouth.

“Joel and Deb’s date is tomorrow,” he says. “Think they’ll really hit it off, don’t you?”

You’re dumbfounded for a long moment — can’t believe that this is your life now: being asked about your thoughts on Joel and the ever-elusive Deb as a couple. When it takes too long for you to answer, your father’s fork stills pointedly on his plate, and you sputter.

“Oh! I mean, I don’t know. Like I said, I don’t remember Deb.” You can’t help your condescending tone. Your dad doesn’t seem to catch it anyway. 

“Well,” he says, “I think they’ll be a match. Hoping so, anyway. The man has been such a hermit lately — maybe if he has a lady, he’ll get out more!”

“You sound real excited,” you grumble. Stab four peas on the prongs of your fork.

“It is exciting. I’ve never set anyone up before. And the best part is, the place they’re going to — the Tavern — it’s got rooms you can rent out for wedding receptions. Just imagine if down the line, they got mar-“

“Dad,” you stop him. You think you’ll be physically sick if you let him finish that sentence. “Sorry, I just — I’m really tired, all of a sudden. I think I’m going to head to bed early.”

It’s not a complete lie. You’re emotionally exhausted as a result of the past couple days. Sleep sounds like a much-needed, blissful escape right now.

Your dad doesn’t question you. He just nods. Swipes your plate from in front of you and brings it to the sink along with his.

Of course, you find it impossible to actually drift off that night. Tossing and turning, you battle the glaring urge to get up, slink into the home-office and look up directions to the Tavern. 

Not that you’re planning to go there anytime soon — you’re just curious. That’s all. 

Around midnight, you give up, pad down the hallway and into the room parallel yours. The computer dials up slowly, and you chew your bottom lip as you wait. 

You snatch a piece of paper from the printer and a pen from the #1 Dad mug that sits next to the monitor. Click on the internet icon and type the words into the search bar.

This is definitely a bad idea. Maybe the worst you’ve had in a while.

You jot the address down anyway.

Downtown Austin is buzzing with life. 

Patrons spilling out of bars, tourists striding down the street in their brand new Stetsons – it almost distracts you from the task at hand. 

At just past seven, you’d told your dad you were going out, meeting a friend for drinks. He’d been a bit taken aback, seeing as you’re not very social these days, but he’d seemed happy. Relieved. 

That’s not what you’re doing, of course.

No – in reality, you’re turning into the parking lot attached to the Tavern. It’s packed to the brim with cars, but you still manage to find Joel’s truck, its license plate number burned into the back of your mind after countless mornings of absently reading it as you snuck past.

It’s idle and empty when you inch by, and even though you knew he’d be here, on this date, your heart still sinks. Because maybe a tiny part of you had hoped he’d stand Deb up. 

You should leave. It was stupid to come here in the first place. What are you going to do — storm inside and demand that he leave with you?

You consider it for half a second, groaning when you realize how pitiful you are. Defeated, you swing your car into a spot at the back, facing the building, and shift it into park. You hug the steering wheel dejectedly.

From here, you have a straight-shot view of the restaurant’s entrance, a set of double doors at the side of the building. Groups spill out every so often, every pair that emerges causing your back to arch reflexively.

Joel and Deb are probably discussing their interests right now, bonding over a shared connection with your dad. You can vividly picture the smile likely plastered across his face — the same one you’ve elicited with sweet filth whispered in his ear.

And you’re here, sitting in your running car, watching the door. Your pulse thumps obnoxiously loud in your ears.

Minutes pass like molasses, slow and thick. You watch the clock on the car radio obsessively, betting with yourself on what time they’ll leave. After thirty minutes of nothing, you’re convinced that they’re going to close the place out.

But then the door opens again, and you straighten up, immediately met with the sight of Joel and Deb. 

She’s talking animatedly, eyes widening every few words, blonde hair wafting around her narrow face. It’s undeniable that she’s stunning, even from far away; possesses the kind of beauty you see on magazine covers in line at the grocery store. The jealousy that pools in your gut burns like acetone in an open wound.

She takes his arm as they walk toward the parking lot, and he lets her, despite the rest of his body appearing strangely rigid.

You wonder if he’ll take her home. Lead her to his truck, help her up the step to the passenger seat and sneak a look at her ass under her dress before shutting the door. If they’ll leave her car in the lot for the night, come back to retrieve it in the morning once he’s helped her forget about her loser ex-husband; let the scent of her perfume seep into the bed sheets to cover up yours.

But he doesn’t lead her to his truck. You watch as they unexpectedly turn down a row of cars, disappearing from your view completely, his arm still locked with hers. 

He could still kiss her. Press her against the car. Promise her that he’ll call — and he will, first thing tomorrow. He’s probably just being a real gentleman. Treating her like a woman he might want to marry someday. 

Maybe he knows, after just one date, that she’s his soulmate. He’ll buy the ring in a couple weeks. They’ll be engaged in a month’s time, and he’ll say he just couldn’t wait any longer. 

She’s the one thing I’ve been missing.

You stew in the agonizing unknown for what feels like hours before Joel materializes once again, backside illuminated by headlights as he strides toward his truck.

And then — he stops. You see the exact moment he notices your car in the parking lot, his eyebrows threading together and his hands splaying over his hips.

He’s staring directly through the windshield. At you.

Fuck.

He takes a few slow steps. Stops in front of the hood. Narrows his eyes and flexes his jaw.

With a deep breath, you unlock the doors. Gesture for him to get in the passenger side. 

He immediately rounds the car, prying the door open and climbing inside just as a SUV pulls out the row he and Deb had walked down. 

The door slams when he yanks it closed. The sound echoes through the cab of the car.

“You wanna fuckin’ explain what you’re doin’ here?” he snaps. You’re afraid to look him in the eye, embarrassment and now, anger, spooling hot behind your ears.

You know you’re in the wrong. You shouldn’t have followed him. But does he have to be so hostile?

When your gaze finally meets his, he looks — distraught — jaw clenched and lips set in a straight line. His fingers absently dig into denim-covered thighs.

“I don’t know,” you mumble, “I just wanted to see how you were with her.” And it’s the truth; not one you want to be admitting right now, to him, but it’s the truth nonetheless.

“Doesn’t give you the right to spy on me.”

“So what was I supposed to do? Sit at home and mope while the guy I was seeing is on a date with someone else? Oh no, I’m sorry,” you throw your hands up, form air quotes with your fingers, “the guy I was fooling around with.”

This seems to strike a nerve. His jaw twitches, and his fingers still on his lap.

“It wasn’t like that,” he grits

“No? Isn’t that all this was to you: fooling around?”

There’s a beat. Joel sighs. 

“No — fuck, no. Of course not.”

His expression softens. A crack in solid stone. “I tried callin’ you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” you admit.

He nods. Another beat.

“Did you kiss her?” you ask.

“No.” He says it with intent, with promise, eyes firmly locked on yours now. 

Your mouth goes dry.

“No?”

“No,” he repeats. “I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t want to.”

“You don’t want her?” 

“No,” he says flatly, his pupils bulging in the lamplight, black bleeding into the brown of his irises. “I don’t want her.” 

“Why not?” 

He leans forward. His weight presses into the center console and his breath fans your face — warm, tinged with the scent of cheap beer.

“I don’t want her,” he says, voice an octave lower, “because I want you. I thought you knew that?” 

The radio drones between the two of you, some classic rock song you think you recognize flitting through the speaker. Your pulse beats staccato in your throat, off tempo.

“You want me?” you ask, a little breathless, and the next words you say are beyond dumb, beyond reckless, but you say them anyway. “Prove it.”

Joel doesn’t hesitate. He closes the slight distance between you and kisses you, hard, his tongue frantically sliding against yours through parted lips.

It’s sloppy, and desperate, and you feel drunk on the taste of him, on longing laced with carnal need. He’s groaning into your mouth, grabbing your head with both hands, burying his fingers in your hair — as if he can’t get close enough, as if he’ll only be satisfied once he’s swallowed you whole. You’re pretty sure you want him to.

Your hands move frantically to his t-shirt, then, bunch into the fabric and pull. You need to feel the skin underneath, need to rove your hands along his bare chest. He accommodates, tugging the shirt by the back of the collar, lips separating from yours ever-so-briefly to bring it over his head and toss it onto the backseat. 

And then he’s back on you, licking into your mouth again, eliciting a whimper from you when his hand wraps around the side of your throat, just under your jaw. 

Your palms splay across his torso, wander over warm, golden skin. You’ve missed this, god, you’ve missed this — but it’s still not enough. You need to feel more of him. In your mouth, in your hand, in your cunt — you’re not picky. Just need him in whatever way he’ll provide.

“Joel,” you whimper into his mouth, fingers winding around his bicep. 

He pulls back. Peers at you through hooded eyes. “What is it, baby?” he asks through labored breaths. 

“Need you — please.”

He immediately unbuckles your seatbelt. Lowers his seat back and manhandles you onto his lap. You go easily; slot yourself to him with legs folded on either side of his thighs. 

Wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, you grind down into his lap. His cock strains against denim underneath you. He groans when you swivel your hips and brush the heft of it again with your clothed heat.

“You gonna let me fuck you?” he asks into your mouth, his forehead pressed to yours.

Your breath catches. 

You know what he’s really asking: are you going to  let him fuck you here, in the parking lot of a public establishment, where anybody could see?

But you don’t care. In fact, you’re way past caring, the emptiness of your cunt too painful to ignore any longer. Let them watch him take what’s his.

You nod frantically. “Yes,” you pant. “Please.”

Joel nods too, as if he’s accepting his fate. He’s going to fuck his friend’s daughter in the passenger seat of her car. There’s no way around it — not when you’re begging for it. He’s going to give you what you need.

“Okay,” he soothes, “I got you baby.” 

He helps you out of your pants, then; clumsily maneuvers them down and off your legs along with your panties and tosses them aimlessly into the back.

He doesn’t bother to take his jeans off. Lets you unzip them and pop the button open, your nimble fingers making quick work of it. And then you’re pulling his cock out of his boxers, stiff and leaking in your grasp.

You steady yourself with hands on his shoulders just as he begins to pepper placating kisses along your neck. “Go ahead baby,” he whispers into your ear. “Take it; it’s yours.”

His head falls back against the seat as you stroke him a few times and line his cock up with your dripping entrance, his hands clasped around your waist. 

You sink down slowly, savoring every inch of him as he burrows in deeper. He’s so thick, stretching you like it’s the first time again, your walls fluttering as they relax around his cock.

“Fuck,” Joel slurs, fingers digging into your skin impatiently when you still, fully seated on him.

“Gotta move baby — please move.”

He’s so fucking deep, though, his cockhead bumping your cervix, and your entire body feels gelatinous atop him. A cloying sort of heat hangs around your head. You swivel your hips weakly, your forehead falling to rest on his with a heavy sigh.

Joel is happy to take control, bucking up into you so hard you see stars. You can’t suppress the string of moans that spill from your mouth, and Joel doesn’t seem to mind. He’s just as loud, anyway, his broken sounds bleeding into yours, bouncing off glass and leather.

Neither of you can muster an actual word, though, not with him rutting up into you, sheathing himself in your pussy over and over again. He’s relentlessly hitting that spot — the one that has you practically clinging to him for dear life. 

It’s approaching too quickly; he’s going to make you come.

One of your hands flies to the roof of the car in an attempt to brace yourself, flat palm pressing into it so hard you worry it’ll pop. 

Joel takes the opportunity to drag you down in his lap, spearing you on his cock, and the sudden change in angle makes you cry out.

“Oh f— ahh, oh my—“

“That’s it,” he coos, “you got it, babygirl.”

His words tip you over the edge, your entire body locking up as you gush around him. You’re wetting his lap, slick splattering his thighs, and he loves it, his fervid moan telling you so.

His movements begin to falter then, hips stuttering underneath you as he chases his own high.

“Cmon, baby,” you goad, “please fill me up.”

He grunts when he spills inside, his face nestling in your chest, heaving as he works through it and begins to come down. You don’t move, not that Joel would let you, still holding you on his lap like he’s afraid to let you go.

You nuzzle into his embrace as his cock softens inside you.

You stay like that for a while, probably too long given that anybody could easily look into the car and see you straddling him. You don’t have the energy to care.

Eventually, you lift your head from its spot on Joel’s chest. Look up at him with bleary eyes.

“Joel,” you say.

He meets your gaze, face shiny with sweat and his hair a mess. He looks gorgeous like this, you think. The way only you get to see him.

“Yeah?” He grazes along your arm with featherlight fingers. His touch raises goosebumps on your skin.

“Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“About wanting me.” In truth, you’re not sure you want the answer. But you need to know, definitively, if Joel is yours. You’re done sharing him.

“Oh, baby,” he drawls. “Of course I do. You’re all I want. Do you want me?”

And it’s a stupid question. He has to know that. You’re nodding before he can even finish it. “Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Joel”

“Then it’s settled. It’s me and you. No more…interlopers.”

You giggle. Reluctantly separate yourself from his body and re-dress. You settle back into the driver’s seat with achy legs.

You’ve never felt more content than you do in this moment.

Still, you’ll have to hide — won’t be able to share the news of your new relationship with friends or coworkers, your dad — and neither will Joel. 

You don’t care much, not as long as he’s yours, but you need to be sure he feels the same.

“Joel,” you stop him as he opens the passenger-side door to get out. He stills with one leg swung out the door.

“Yeah, darlin’?”

“Are you sure you don’t mind��being a secret? Don’t mind keeping me a secret?”

He looks at you like you have two heads.

He pulls his leg back into the car. Shuts the door and leans over the console again.

Taking your chin between his fingers, he forces your gaze. Makes sure you’re listening.

“I want you — doesn’t matter who knows or doesn’t know. Long as you’re mine.”

Your chest tightens, and your heart squeezes inside your ribcage.

“I’m yours?”

He smiles. Presses a chaste kiss between your eyes, on the tip of your nose, on your lips. The same way he did the other morning. 

It all feels somehow sweeter, now.

“Yeah, angel. You’re mine. My girl.”

end notes: tysm for reading! please consider commenting and/or reblogging if you enjoyed! I've been toying with the idea of turning this into a series so lmk if that's something you'd be interested in hehe.

Also, I hopped on the bandwagon and made a sideblog for notifs! I'll be doing away with a taglist from here on out, so follow @joelscurlsupdates & turn on notifications if you wanna be notified when I post a new fic :-)

tag list: @janaispunk @amanitacowboy @fhatbhabie @frannyzooey @lola8888673

[trashytracktales]

https://www.tumblr.com/trashytracktales/778028575513280512/hey-babe-i-cant-stop-thinking-about-lando-fucking

a fic like this would probably kill me, just saying...👀

Season opener | LN⁴

🔸️ inspired by this ask

🔸️ summary ──── After securing his first win of the season, Lando can’t wait to celebrate with his girlfriend.

🔸️ pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

🔸️ rating ──── explicit

🔸️ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, smut, swearing, semi-public setting, desperate!Lando, unprotected sex (against the wall), mild praise kink and possessiveness, overstimulation, interrupted intimacy (oops 👀).

🔸️ word count ──── 2.7k

🔸️ date ──── Mar. 25, 2025

🔸️ a/n ──── Here’s a little quickie to hold you over before I drop a 10k (so far) one-shot later this week. That mf has been living rent-free in my brain for a month now, and if I don’t end up posting it, you guys officially have permission to throw tomatoes at me. Enjoy this while you wait 💋

THERE’S STILL A lot of noise ringing in Lando’s ears, even as he’s dragged from one obligation to the next. The podium was nice, the feeling of being drowned in champagne and cheers always welcome, even though it can get really uncomfortable. It’s been a weekend full of twists and turns that, thankfully, is coming to a happy ending for him. But the real celebration awaits in his driver’s room.

However, it seems like the universe has decided to taunt him some extra today, with the post-race interviews where every question feels like it stretches time longer than naturally possible, and the conference where he has to relive every lap, as if there weren’t thousands of cameras that captured every angle of the race.

A real-life purgatory, that’s what it feels like.

His body is still running hot, adrenaline refusing to settle and, trough it all, there’s only one thought consuming his mind. He’s trying not to think about her, though, or the orange mini dress she picked out weeks ago for the season opener. He even tries not to imagine the curves of her body every time he blinks or to hear her soft voice in his mind, that sweet whimper that makes him more tense with every touch.

Lando grips the back of his neck as he listens to another useless question, his patience wearing thin. He can still feel the weight of her teary eyes on him earlier, the way she had smiled at him when he climbed out of the car. It was quick, a moment stolen in the chaos, but he caught it. It was theirs. And ever since, he’s been aching to get back to his girlfriend.

From the conference he is dragged straight to the debriefing and, by the time that finally ends, Lando is already moving before anyone can stop him; he mutters something about needing a minute and storms down the hall. His race suit is still damp from sweat and champagne, hugging his muscles, the collar pulled loose where he had yanked at it earlier. His curls are a mess, damp at the roots, and his entire body is vibrating with something more than just the thrill of the first win of the season.

He doesn’t hesitate at all when he reaches his room. Just opens the door eagerly, closing it just as quickly. The second he sees her, his stomach flips.

She’s already standing up from the little couch, her face lighting up the moment she realizes it’s him. “Congratulations, my lo—”

Lando is on her in an instant, crossing the small space with long steps and grabbing her waist, lifting her off the ground. She gasps in surprise, laughing breathlessly as her arms wrap around his neck, her fingers threading into his damp curls at the back of his head.

“Oh! Someone missed me, I see,” she giggles, breathing against his cheek.

Lando exhales deeply, his chest heaving, hands tightening around her hips. He can’t think straight, can’t focus on anything but her warmth against him, the scent of her sweet perfume mixing with the sharp tang of champagne on his suit.

“You have no idea. I was losing my fucking mind,” he admits, chuckling in return. He presses his forehead against hers, his breath hot. Purposely, his hands slide down her back, pressing her flush against him. “Thought about you the whole time. Could barely focus.”

Before she can catch her breath, her back meets the hard surface of the nearest wall. Another startled gasp leaves her lips, swallowed instantly by his mouth, his kiss demanding in ways she’s felt it before.

But not like this.

It’s the kind of kiss that takes her by surprise, leaves her thoughtless and very, very aroused. The dress has already lifted up her thighs, and they’re squeezing around him as if Lando could get out of her embrace if she’s not careful. What soothes her, however, is the fact that he is the one who pushes himself even harder against her, pressing his chest against hers until he almost leaves her out of breath.

Lando’s race suit is tight around his body, but he doesn’t have enough energy to care about anything else but her. All he knows is the way her lips part, letting him in like she has no choice, the way her fingers grip his shoulders, and the way his entire body feels like it’s still racing. Only now, it’s for and because of her.

She deepens the kiss, messy and uncoordinated, teeth grazing and tongues tangling in a tender yet rushed desire. Her hands run up the expanse of his arms, feeling the tension in his muscles as he holds her up effortlessly, her feet barely touching the ground. His biceps flex under her touch, and the realization that he’s holding back, restraining himself just enough so he doesn’t break her against that wall, only makes her more pliable in his arms.

“In here?” she asks between kisses.

Lando lets out a little noise while exhaling, feeling her heat pressed against him even through layers of clothing. One of his hands moves, lifting her dress even higher, until it hangs somewhere around the middle of her waist. His fingers are hungrily skimming her bare skin, until they find the waistband of her panties. He doesn’t have enough patience to tease. Just pulls at them, dragging the thin fabric down her thighs and letting it pool at her ankles.

“That answers your question?” asks Lando, feeling her nails digging into his shoulders as she tries to steady herself.

“Mhm,” she lets out a shaky breath, “So eager.”

Lando grins, shrugging, “Got some adrenaline left I need to burn off.”

He groans in frustration as he fumbles with his zipper, refusing to let go of her even for a second. Finally, he yanks it down just enough, his breath heavy as he works himself free with a sharp hiss. In all the rush, Lando’s hands won’t stay away from her hips for too long, keeping her exactly where he needs her.

The girl watches him, eyes filled with amusement despite the heat between them. Then she laughs, a silky sound that makes his heart race in his chest. Lando looks at her and something tender flickers in his gaze, even as he pushes his hips forward, even as the impatience still coils hot in his veins.

“You think this is funny?” he asks, lips curving into a smirk.

She shakes her head, though still amused at the image in front of her, and the way he’s so impatient he can’t even get out of the suit properly. “Nope. I think it’s hilarious.”

Lando scoffs dramatically, like he can’t believe her audacity. “Oh, yeah?” he challenges, his voice lower now. “Let’s see how funny you find this, then.”

Before she can throw another quip his way, his hand slides between her thighs, fingers trailing over her entrance with a lazy kind of intent. She sucks in a breath, all the amusement vanishing in a blink of an eye, her head knocking back against the wall as her body responds to his familiar touch.

Lando watches her reaction, the smirk widening on his flushed face. “Shit, you’re right,” he agrees, dipping his fingers in just enough to make her shudder. “It is hilarious,” he tilts his head, pretending to think. “Yeah. Getting wet so quickly almost has me rolling on the floor.”

He slides his fingers up and down her opening, then pushes two at once inside, curling them right before pulling out, only to make her squirm. Her thighs tighten around his waist, demanding more, but it’s not about her right now. It’s about him, making it a moment worthy of the Winner’s Room.

He’s painfully hard next time he cups himself, and the first press of his cock against her clit sends a shiver up her spine. Lando drags his length down her folds with uncharacteristic patience, until the distance between them diminishes completely, and he kisses her again, lazier than before. Their world becomes substantially smaller, and there’s just hot skin, erratic breathing, and the slick, aching need to be as close as possible. He lines himself up and thrusts in one smooth motion, punching a moan from her lips that she barely manages to swallow down.

Lando lets his forehead fall to hers, chuckling gently. “Not too loud, yeah?”

She shakes her head, “Don’t ruin the fun.”

He’s buried inside her, stretching so sweet that it sends a full-body shudder through her. The wall behind is harsh, but all she can focus on is the way he fills her completely. How he holds her there, with no chance to slip away. Not that she wants to be anywhere else but here, right now, with him.

Lando’s fingers grip her tighter as he pulls back, then slams into her again, feeling her walls pulsing faster around his cock. A broken whimper escapes her, her head falling defeated on his shoulder. It makes him curse under his breath, finally finding a rhythm that’s both deep and devastating. Each thrust forces a soft cry from her throat, her body moving in unison with his, nails raking down his sweaty back.

The way she pulls him in turns Lando on even more, the only sounds between them the ragged breaths and the wet, obscene noises of him fucking her right there, against the wall.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” exclaims Lando, biting down on her shoulder, his hips snapping up harder.

She lets out a hiss, her head is spinning while pleasure is building gradually, her body burning from the inside out. She fists his curls, dragging his mouth back to hers, swallowing his groans as she squeezes him.

“That’s so good, baby. Shit. Keep doing that.”

The way she feels around him, the way she moans and gasps his name, the way her body reacts to him like she was made for him — everything gets too much for Lando. Yet, he somehow finds himself craving more of her. His movements grow sloppier, pushing him to drive into her faster.

“Lando…” she moans his name in a whisper, cupping his face with the intention to kiss him. But the way he’s moving inside her makes her weak, so she ends up holding on to him with limited strength, like her life depends on it.

And right now, it does.

Their eyes meet just as he lifts her thigh higher on his waist, the small adjustment allowing him to sink deeper.

“Fuck, Lando,” she whines, her voice barely more than a breath. “You feel so—”

He doesn’t let her finish. A hard thrust has her choking on her words, and the way she clenches down around him makes his jaw go slack.

“Yes, tell me,” he urges, his voice too unsteady, hanging on by a thread, while his fingers press into the curve of her waist like he’s trying to brand himself into her skin.

She loses it, her hands tugging at his hair just to hear his little noises in return. “Feel so good, love,” she breathes heavily, her head falling back, exposing her throat. “Fucking me so good.”

A guttural curse escapes him, dragging her against him with a pace that makes her cry out in pleasure. “That so?” he rasps, his teeth grazing her jaw before his lips claim hers, swallowing every desperate sound she makes. “Then take it, baby,” he orders gently, “All of it. All for you.”

“Shit—don’t stop,” she begs, her eyes teary because of how tense with pleasure her body gets.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “Feel how perfect you are? How fucking tight, hm? That’s it,” he encourages her, watching the way her lashes flutter open to look at him. “Gonna let me feel you fall apart?” asks Lando, going somehow even deeper with each thrust.

Her back arches, a broken moan spilling from her lips. She’s so full and desperate to come, and he knows she’s close; her whines and the way her body reacts giving it away in the most obvious way.

“Need you, Lan,” she breathes in spasms, “Please.”

“I can see that, baby. Come on,” he grits out, his movements turning frantic. “Let me have it.”

Her body trembles at his words, at the sheer heat in his voice. The way he holds her, firm and possessive, sends her spiraling. Every thrust, every rough snap of his hips only winds her tighter, like he’s pulling her apart piece by piece just to put her back together again.

“Lan-do,” she breathes, voice breaking on his name. “I… oh, fuck,” she can barely think anymore, barely breathe with the way he’s fucking into her, like stopping isn’t even an option.

His hand slides up her side, gripping the back of her neck, tilting her head so she has no choice but to meet his gaze again. His eyes are way too dark now, blown wide with lust, sending another wave of heat flooding through her veins. He goes harder when he sees the desire on her face, pushing her further against the wall, and she lets out a high-pitched moan before biting her lip, remembering where they are.

“Wanna feel you all over my cock,” she hears him saying, but she’s so overstimulated now that can’t quite process the meaning of his words. She’s not sure she’s even breathing as Lando presses his body against her with more force, continuing, “Be a good girl and let go for me.”

That’s all it takes. Her body seizes, her head spinning as pleasure rips through her, hot and intense. And endless. She clenches around him, pulsing, shaking, and the feeling, the sight of her unraveling for him, sends Lando spiraling too.

He chokes out a curse, burying his face in her neck as he surrenders, his hips pressing deep and desperate to keep her close as he fills her. The warmth spreads between them, spilling down her thighs, and the sheer filthiness of it only makes her moan, her fingers flying to curl in his hair once again.

Lando rests his forehead against hers, panting, his lips ghosting over her cheek. He doesn’t move away just yet. Instead, he pulls out, and a sharp whimper escapes her as she feels the mess they’ve made drip down her thighs.

Then, without warning, he pushes back in making her gasp silently this time, her hands gripping his shoulders.

“Wait, Lan,” she almost cries, her voice raw.

He keeps her still while he rolls his hips, slow and teasing, his other hand trailing down her stomach before settling low on her belly.

She shudders at the touch and at the way he’s still so deep inside of her, tilting her head and blinking heavy-lidded. “Wh—what are you doing?”

Lando barely hears her. His attention is caught on where they’re still connected, mesmerized by the way his cock glistens with their release as he continues to lazily move in and out. He watches the way her spent body still takes him in, so perfectly, his jaw clenching as pleasure coils in his gut all over again. It sends his head spinning, the wet sensation of skin on skin almost maddening.

Every shift, every sudden flutter of her walls around him, threatens to pull him under completely.

“Fuck, baby,” his raspy voice is laced with adoration. “I can look at you all day.”

Her body is already responding before her mind can catch up. She clenches around him again and again, and Lando chuckles lowly, the sound rich with satisfaction.

“Oh, shit! You like that, don’t you? Hearing how good of a girl you are for me, hm?”

She nods and, without meaning to, she tightens around him harder.

Lando’s grin turns smug. “Yeah, you do,” his hips still for a beat, his hands flexing against her waist before he gives her one hard thrust that knocks the air from her lungs. “Like that, baby,” he groans, the words dripping with heat. “Keep me in.”

The sensation of her pulling him even deeper rips a moan straight from his throat, and Lando drops his forehead to her shoulder, breathing heavily.

“Fucking hell, you’re killing me,” he rasps, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against her damp skin. “Swear to God, I’ll come again if you—”

“Lando?” a muffled, familiar voice rings out from the other side of the door, accompanied by knocking. “Your parents are waiting, mate. You good in there?”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2025

[studioeisa]

first love/late spring 🌸 wonwoo x reader.

humans have four lives. a life of planting seeds, a life of watering seeds, a life of harvesting, and a life of enjoying those harvests.

🌸 pairing. first love!wonwoo x reader. 🌸 word count. 2.5k. 🌸 genres. alternate universe: non-idol, romance, friendship. 🌸 includes. first love/s, feelings realization/denial, reincarnation. prose-heavy. synopsis from goblin: the great and lonely god. title from mitski’s song of the same name. inspired by this wonwoo post i made way back when. 🌸 notes. this was my planned enlistment fic, but it took me a while to polish. much thanks to my dearest, @chugging-antiseptic-dye, for beta-ing and assisting with the final line. this goes out to @gotta-winwin, who i’m fairly sure i would find and adore in all my lives. my masterlist

Every morning at 7:42 A.M., you see him on the train.

He always boards two stops after yours, dressed in earth tones and quiet silences. There's a softness to him—the slope of his shoulders, the way he leans ever so slightly against the pole even when there’s a free seat.

He carries a book some days, a plain black umbrella on others. You’ve never heard him speak, but you’ve built a voice for him in your head anyway: calm, deep, a little rough like he only just woke up.

You don’t know his name. 

You know how he tucks his hair behind his ear when it falls forward, though. You know he reads with his thumb pressed between pages, like he’s holding space in more than just one chapter. You know the way his eyes flicker to the window, then away, like he’s still not used to being seen.

This is your first life: the planting of seeds. 

A glance, a passing thought, a what-if rooted in the mundane. You sit with him in silence, three bodies apart, and imagine what it might be like to bump into him at a coffee shop, to hear him laugh, to say something that earns you a second look.

Once, the train jerks too hard at a stop and he stumbles. Your hand shoots out before your brain catches up, steadying him by the forearm.

He murmurs something—a thank you, you assume— and offers a brief smile. It’s not quite the real thing, but it’s enough to keep you warm the rest of the day.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

You begin to notice the little things. The way his shoes are always a little scuffed. The tiny pin on his tote bag shaped like a cat. The crease between his brows when he reads something particularly intense.

You wonder if he’s single. If he likes rainy days or prefers the sun. If he’d like the sound of your laugh. If he’s ever looked at you and thought, maybe.

You don’t know it yet—you won’t, not for some time—but you’ve already begun loving him. Not in the way that demands. In the way that simply hopes. That soft, shapeless kind of affection that asks for nothing in return.

Your mother calls this phase infatuation. Your friends call it a crush. But it feels deeper than that, doesn’t it? 

Something older. Like a seed you’d forgotten you planted, blooming in the background of your everyday life.

You don’t talk to him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

You still show up every morning at 7:42 A.M., and that feels like something sacred.

Some people meet under fireworks. Others, under streetlights. 

You meet under the hum of subway rails, in the hush of early morning.

And even if nothing comes of it, you’ll remember this as the time you first saw Jeon Wonwoo—when your first love took root on a train that always ran late.

Your second life starts with an assigned seat.

It’s the first day of the semester, and the classroom hums with new pens, old anxieties, and the sharp scent of whiteboard markers. The teacher calls out names alphabetically, and when she says “Jeon Wonwoo,” you don’t flinch.

You don’t remember him from the train, of course—not in this life. That’s how these things work.

He slides into the seat beside yours. A quiet presence that feels oddly familiar. You glance over, and he nods politely, lips pressed in a near-smile.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hey,” he replies. His voice is calm, deep, a little rough like he only just woke up.

This is your second life: the watering of seeds.

What started as quiet curiosity now stretches its limbs toward the light. You’re no longer strangers in motion, but classmates. Partners in the second row.

Wonwoo is the kind of student who doesn’t speak unless he has something to say, but when he does, it sticks with you. He lends you a pen on the second day without you asking. He shares a pack of sour candy with you during long lectures.

He passes you a note during a film screening that just says: This movie is terrible.

You laugh, quietly, and write back: You’re just saying that because you have no taste.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “You wound me,” he murmurs, the words only for you to hear. A lot of Wonwoo’s words are that— yours and yours alone. 

You get partnered for a project. Your topic is obscure and boring, but somehow, working with him makes it bearable. You bicker. He rolls his eyes at your messy notes. You start staying late after class to finish the presentation.

One night, you’re both hunched over his laptop in the library. It’s raining outside. The air smells like paper and distant thunder.

“Do you believe in past lives?” you ask him out of nowhere.

He looks at you, long and unreadable. “I think we meet the same people over and over. Just in different ways,” he eventually says.

He’s indulging you. You’re not sure why. You push it, as if somehow wheedling an answer out of him might solve the pitter-patter in your chest. “So, maybe we’ve met before?”

“Maybe,” he says. Then, softer: “Feels like I’ve known you longer than a month.”

Your heart does that thing again. A steady lurch, like a train car that turned a corner a little too fast. 

It’s nothing. But it’s also everything.

He walks you home after. You share his umbrella. He offers the dry side of the sidewalk.

You don’t hold hands. Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

But your sleeve brushes his once, twice. He doesn’t pull away.

The seeds are growing. They don’t know what they’ll become. They reach out of the soil and towards the sun anyway.

In your third life, there is yield. Something that bears ripe fruit, enough for you to pick and take a bite of. 

Your mothers meet in the hospital nursery, trading horror stories about labor while you and Wonwoo cry in tandem from two separate cribs. Dual births, dual baby albums, dual high chairs at every party.

The houses share a fence, your families share garden tools and barbecues, and you and Wonwoo—well. You share everything else.

From the moment you could speak, you said his name like a reflex. 

Your first sentence was reportedly, “Where’s Woo-woo?” and his was your name, mispronounced and gummy.

The tapes your moms keep are a blur of toddler feet and wonky camera angles. There’s one where he’s in your kiddie pool wearing a bucket on his head, and you’re laughing like he just invented comedy.

No one ever sat you down to explain your friendship. It just existed, like gravity or rain. And maybe that’s why the feelings sneak up on you. You’ve never known life without Wonwoo—how are you expected to know when the air has started to shift?

The day it happens, you’re sixteen. Lying on the warm roof of the garden shed while he’s reading aloud from some fantasy book you insisted on but couldn’t get through. 

You’re not listening to the words. You’re watching the way his lips move, the way his lashes catch the sun. You’re trying to memorize the curve of his jaw, and then you’re thinking: Oh. Oh no.

You spend weeks pretending it didn’t happen.

“You good?” he asks once, when you nearly fall off the roof trying to avoid sitting too close.

“I'm fine,” you say, too fast.

He frowns, puts his book down. “You're acting weird.”

You sit up, brush dust off your shorts, make a face. “You’re weird.”

“That’s not a denial.”

“Shut up and read, Wonwoo.”

He does, but the silence between his sentences stretches.

It becomes harder to lie the more he smiles at you, the more he brushes dirt from your cheek or laughs at your jokes. You feel like you’re drowning in something warm and familiar, something you’ve known all your life but never named.

One night, after a school dance you don’t attend, he climbs through your window like always, hoodie slung over his shoulder. You’re sitting on your bed, and he flops beside you like gravity yanked him there.

“You ever think about stuff?” he asks.

You side-eye him. “That’s vague.”

“I mean, like... why some things feel easy. Like how we never had to try to be friends.”

You don’t say anything. The warmth in your chest is unbearable. He’s right there. He’s always been right there.

“Do you ever feel like we’ve known each other longer than we should’ve?” he continues, eyes on your ceiling. “Like, before this?”

You blink. Your heart pounds so loud, you’re sure he hears it.

“Sometimes,” you whisper. “Sometimes I think I’ve been in love with you before I even knew what love was.”

He turns to look at you. And Wonwoo—quiet, steady, unshakable Wonwoo—smiles like he’s been waiting all his lives to hear it.

“Me, too,” he says. 

Your first life—

You wonder about him for years. His quiet demeanor, the books he read, the way he always stood near the door but let everyone pass him when it was his stop.

That was the first version of this feeling: Something sudden, warm, and unearned. Like the sun through a window. 

You never know his name, but you built stories around him on every ride, convinced that maybe, just maybe, he’ll turn around one day and say something. 

He never does. 

And when you graduate, change routes, move cities, you never see him again. He becomes nothing more than that. A story. A seed. A start—for what, you don’t know yet. 

Your second life— 

He had felt like a miracle, like fate circling back to tap you on the shoulder. You thought that love would bloom into something permanent. It felt like it should have. 

But timing is cruel, and the feelings—though mutual—couldn’t survive the storm of adolescence, the fear of messing up something tender. You tell yourself you weren’t meant to be.

You carry him with you anyway, in the songs you send each other, the paper cranes folded during long lectures, the way he once said your name like a secret he didn’t want anyone else to hear.

He walks you home, still, until he can’t. Until a lovely girl takes your place under his umbrella, and you find someone else to share your snacks with. 

At reunions, you exchange polite smiles and aborted nods. Both of you find happiness beyond each other.  

And then, the hardest of them all— 

The one who knew every bad haircut and birthday wish. The one who saw you through braces, heartbreak, and every awkward year in between.

You loved him with the kind of ease that novels try to replicate; for a moment, you thought that might be enough. But when the time came, when the feelings were named and returned, you both pulled back. 

Not out of fear, but reverence. 

Some things are too precious to touch. You’d rather have him forever as your constant, your anchor, than risk a goodbye too painful to bear.

“Maybe in our next life,” he breathes, forehead against yours, breath warm. “Maybe then we’ll be brave.”

You nod, your fingers curling over the front of his shirt like it might somehow keep him in place. “We always find each other, don’t we?”

He smiles. It looks a lot like a promise. 

In that life, you yield. 

At least you get to keep him. He delivers a tearful speech at your wedding. He makes you the godmother of his children. Your love reshapes into something else. One that still matters, even if it’s not the kind that you might have expected. 

Three versions of a first love. 

None of them last. All of them linger.

You don’t regret a single one.

The fourth life begins like the others—quietly, without fanfare.

You meet Wonwoo at a time when everything is finally still. 

No childhoods to tiptoe around, no adolescent crushes that tilt into heartbreak. You aren’t sitting across from him in a classroom or watching him disappear behind the closing doors of a train.

He is simply there—on a late spring afternoon at a mutual friend’s dinner, wearing a gray sweater and a small, uncertain smile.

You don’t know it at the time, but this is the life you get to keep him.

It starts slow. There’s time, now. You learn him from the beginning, with no earlier version to compete with. And yet something familiar pulses beneath it all.

You know how he likes his coffee before he tells you. You can predict the rhythm of his speech, the slope of his laughter. You fall in love with him easily, steadily—like gravity pulling you to the ground.

He is your first love in this life. You don’t tell him. Not yet.

And then one day, you lose him.

The details don’t matter. A job offer. A choice. A goodbye. Whatever it is, you let go. It feels like the end of a story you’ve lived too many times before. You think: This is the harvest, and it was never mine to reap.

But you were promised joy in this life, weren’t you?

Years later, you see him again. A bar, this time. Familiar in a way that makes your throat tighten. He hasn’t changed much—still soft-eyed, still shy with his smiles.

“Wonwoo?” you ask, unsure if you want it to be him or not.

He turns. Freezes. His voice, calm and deep, amused and affectionate, shapes the words in the back of your mind: “I was hoping it’d be you.”

You sit. You drink. You talk.

You tell him, somewhere between the second and third beer, “You were my first love, you know.”

Sure, you’re talking about this life, but a part of you feels like it goes beyond that. You’re not sure how many iterations of this story exist in the book of the universe; all you know is that this simply cannot be the only time you’ve counted Wonwoo’s eyelashes, as if you might be able to make wishes with them. 

He looks at you for a long moment. Studies you. As if, he too, is mapping out the features of your face against versions of you that no longer exist.

“You were mine, too,” he says.

You laugh, disbelieving. “Really?”

“Really.” 

There’s silence. A good one.

And then finally, finally, he kisses you. No fanfare. No salty tears as you resolve to stay friends. It’s not a daydream on the subway, not a fleeting thought in a library. 

It’s just that same, steady gravity of eventuality. 

When his hand finds yours, when your lips press together, when he pulls apart with a half-smile, you know. Jeon Wonwoo is your first love, and this time, he’ll be your last love, too.

In this life, you finally reap what you sowed.

In this life, the love lasts. 

[incognit0slut]

Devil’s advocate

Softcore Spencer doesn't feel any remorse when it comes to this strange arrangement involving sex. Neither do you.

Category: Smut (18+) Word count: 3.6k Content: fem!reader, dom!spencer, bratty reader if you will, implied age gap, unprotected p in v, spit kink, overstimulation, squirting, and kinda fwb or (more precisely) not-exactly-friends with benefits a/n: it took me more than 3 months to post again and it will probably take me another for the next post (kidding) (maybe not). try to imagine this spencer for a better experience

-

Spencer isn’t a good man.

A quiet verdict, a fault line.

A truth etched into the grain of his being that is unmoved no matter how many times people say otherwise.

He’s made a habit of the dissection — words, meanings, intent. A lexical autopsy, combing through every definition in the dictionary if it meant finding just one that could give weight to the well intentioned affirmations spoken by those who’ve shared his life through fourteen years of cases. From friends to mentors. From people he considers family. Even his mother has taken part in the exercise in her own way, quietly revising the definition of goodness to fit the shape of her son.

His love for her isn’t enough to convince him.

And he loves her, deeply, enough to bear the fragmented reality she clings to without complaint. Still, her confidence sounds like a desperate attempt to defend a virtue that, as far as he can tell, simply doesn't exist. Her faith in him is stubbornly rooted in wishes rather than proof. Pretty, fragile things wilting from reality. She doesn’t see the cracks hidden behind the glassy surface of his supposedly endearing charm.

Like most people never do. The brilliance of his brain blinds them. They think his mastery of facts or ability to weave information into careful answers is a reflection of some deeper moral foundation. Assuming that the man who can recite obscure case law from memory and deconstruct a lie with nothing but tone and syntax must also be someone incapable of harm. That someone who thinks in algorithms surely knows the difference between right and wrong and essentially follows it. Articulate, therefore righteous.

What lazy math that they run.

The truth, however, is far less romantic.

If there’s anything genuinely good left in him, he likes to believe it’s the act of waiting. Patience still sounds noble enough. It casts him as a silent benefactor, gifting others the space to sketch their own truths while he quietly collects their misconceptions and spends them like counterfeit bills.

He’s getting good at it, too.

Exchange his intelligence for wisdom.

Detachment for strength.

Emptiness for depth.

Little trades, so small and constant they almost feel natural now. As long as he keeps showing them the version they’ve come to accept, no one pauses to wonder if those long months locked inside his own head have carved him down to something less than whole. Selfish, perhaps, letting them cling to these illusions. But it’s a comfortable deception. They get the man they want, he keeps the truth to himself, paying nothing but time and silence for whatever reward comes from that carefully preserved silence.

After all, waiting is nothing more than delayed gratification, isn't it?

And this right here is what he’s waited for, to have you like this — warm and wet and dangling precariously off his bed.

A decadent reward for every second of restraint.

Purely carnal. Blasphemous in its perfection.

Your body curves at an angle that looks uncomfortable, a leg hooked over his shoulder, another barely hanging onto the edge of the mattress with the cool air licking your calf. Common sense tells him a complaint is warranted, yet not a murmur of discomfort escapes your pretty lips. You seem perfectly content to let him mold you into whatever shape he wants. Harmless, he insists, just a mutual indulgence between two consenting adults.

But morality has a way of souring sweet things — and maybe he should be ashamed.

Should be embarrassed at the way he finds satisfaction in this.

Should feel something other than pride watching your brows pinch together in pleasure.

Should care that he’s reduced to fucking you with all the desperation of a man who likes being selfish. It’s statistically uncommon for someone with his level of empathy, yet he stitches hunger into the tender curve of your body, scoring endless sensation with needles that prick and sting but never draw enough blood to slow him. Only if he distanced himself from you could he see the cruelty he’s gouging into the very seams of your skin.

He does no such thing.

He can’t. Not when he’s buried inside you like this, when your breath splits apart into fragile little pieces with weak fingers clawing at his back. Not when his selfishness feels bottomless, a craving so raw and wide and insatiable he's never dared give it a name — but somehow you seem to understand.

Understand what, though?

That he can’t help himself? That despite all the logic, all the reasons why he shouldn’t let himself have you, he does?

That he doesn’t regret it, not even a little?

No.

Good men don’t do this.

But you’re no saint either.

Innocence wears your face, but never fit so poorly. You’re trouble in its finest form — beautifully packaged, masterfully delivered with a smokey laugh that glides over the fine shiver pebbling across his skin as you offer a sly, “You’re getting sloppy.”

The smug little curl of your lips has his heart leaping in his throat, and he would have joined in your laughter if it weren’t for the way your breathless tone slithered into his ears. His brows draw together, sweat dripping down nose as he shakes his head to free the damp strands of hair clinging to his skin.

“Am I?”

“Mm.” You tip your head back against the bed, exposing the lovely curve of your neck. "Your age is starting to show.”

He finally huffs a laugh, lowers the leg hooked over his shoulder and trails up the inside of your thigh. “That’s not very nice.”

Your teeth briefly catch your lower lip.

“Neither is slowing down right when it’s getting good.”

“You think I’m slowing down?”

You faintly nod. “It’s actually cute how you’re pacing yourself. Should I be worried about your knees?”

That earns a sharp, almost affronted look before his palms grip both your inner thighs, followed by a sudden thrust that sends you back against the mattress. He thinks he’s regained some semblance of power over himself, until you let out a breathless little moan and continue to taunt him, arching your back with full insolence but only half the mockery. Docile in appearance alone when you’re flaunting your nipples in blatant invitation.

“That the best you can do?”

A hand flies to your breast, curling around the supple meat as he catches the stiff bud between his knuckles. “You’re acting brave tonight.”

“Sexually frustrated,” you admit with an exasperated sigh, rolling your hips. Urging him to move again. “Spent the whole day picturing you fucking me stupid and got exactly nothing.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

Nothing feels almost insulting considering how easily he coaxed you through his apartment.

He tries to bend lower, and sure enough, there’s something that feels suspiciously like age nipping at his lower back. A dull throb he quickly swallows as his mouth find your nipple. And toys with it, rolling the taut peak between wet tongue and wetter teeth, each slow suck a deliberate rebuttal that the way he’s been driving his cock into you for the past twenty minutes is anything but nothing.

Your fingers slip into the softest surface of hair.

“Fuck me harder.”

He turns his attention to your other nipple. “That still wasn’t enough for you?”

“If you have to ask, then clearly not.”

His mouth closes around you again, laps slow, teasing circles, all the while you grind your hips, shamelessly trying to fuck yourself with every delicious tug of his lips.

Instinctively, he starts rutting his hips in response. Little thrusts of his cock easing inside you inch by inch. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“I have every intention of finding out,” you counter, pulling him by his curls. “I know you can do better.”

His gaze touches yours.

You smile lazily.

“Go on. Show me.”

His eyelids dip in a slow, dangerous blink, and lets his nose brush the soft swell of your breast. Lingers. Smells the powdery scent of jasmine and honey consuming his senses.

What part of himself can he exchange this time? What currency of half-truths still has any value left?

The answer, adamantly, is etched in the narrow space of his mouth and your skin, a hush too charged to disguise. He doesn't think he owes you anything in counterfeit tonight. No borrowed patience. No repurposed kindness polished thin by repetition. The second you ask for more when he’s been giving you nothing less is the moment every polished veneer he’s spent years perfecting shatters like chipped glass.

So he gives you the one thing he’s never bartered — himself, stripped of caution.

Because no matter how many labels others slap on his name, you’ve never bought into a single one.

Not entirely. You catch the edges that don’t quite align, the rougher layers hidden beneath his careful composure. You see past the softness everyone assumes is the entirety of him, the reputation they’ve stitched together from fragments pieced carefully since he was an innocent young boy with oversized glasses and a penchant for knowledge.

Rationally, he is soft. He’s spent a lifetime wrapped in the belief that his gentleness is his sole trait. That it’s all he can embody.

But not with you.

With you, he's whatever he needs to be.

He's whatever he wants to be.

He pulls back just enough to watch your body seize around him, and drags his tongue over his chapped lips, tastes the salt of effort and the musky smell of sex before channeling what’s left of his energy into his core. Then fucks you harder. Shoving every inch back with a strangled noise of his own, savoring the tight pull of your dripping cunt. Relishing the slight roll of your eyes as he pushes deeper, harder, with a savagery that rips breathless whimpers from the back of your throat with each jarring thrust. 

Your moans ride every groaning hinge of the mattress, too, then linger, fogging the dark walls of his room as the wet slap of skin bounces off every surface. Stepping three beats out of time with reason, maybe more, for the way his eyes chase that music down the slope of your belly, following the trail of his thumbs over your mound, over your stretched folds, and pulls the soft skin apart.

His throat rises and falls in time with the motion of his cock — in, out, in, out. For someone so famously averse to germs, the streaks of your slick smearing across his skin outweigh every compulsion, so much so he pries you open even wider and lets a hot ribbon of saliva pool in his mouth. Watches it dribble over your clit. He’s nowhere near coherent enough to care about cleanliness when he can tell how much the slow trickle of his spit sliding down your swollen flesh — a foamy mess now resting heavily on his cock — only seem to intensify your thirst.

You squirm when he moves closer, fingers clawing around his wrist like you’re on the verge of asking for more but can’t bring yourself to say.

Stubborn, he's not surprised.

But he knows you well enough to understand the subtle shifts in your expression. He takes that slightly jutting lower lip of yours as a plea for him to give you what you need, so he smears the extra coat of lube over your clit and rubs frantically. Doesn’t bother to be gentle with it too, not when he’s seen how much you like it under rough hands. He’s proven right when he notices your muscles tensing up.

Your breath stutters. Your body jerks.

He rubs your clit with more pressure. “Good enough for you?”

You swallow thickly, blinking up at him through heavy lids. “Still—fuck—”

“What was that?”

“Still—think you can—do better,” you retort, hiccupping through your words. 

It’s beyond him that you’re still functioning. Your hair clings messily to your forehead, damp strands caught in a tangled halo around your face. Your cheeks are blotchy from where his stubble scraped across your skin, lips kiss-bruised and swollen and somehow still trying to get the last word.

You should be done by now. Boneless, reduced to little more than trembling limbs, yet you still have bits of reason floating around that mush he’s turned your brain into. There’s a spark of energy left to bait him. Foolish, he decides, but if there’s even a sliver of you left untouched, he’ll gladly take every fragment that dares to surface.

He wrenches off your body just long enough to fist his cock, dragging his bulbous tip through the sticky fluids down to the puckered hole beneath, then slaps himself through the mess. If it weren’t for your hips bucking shamelessly, he’d think he was wrong for indulging such filthy impulses he’s never dared to overstep. You can’t seem to discern whether the sharp throb is pain or pleasure, but your cunt flutters around emptiness and aches like it's grieving the loss of him.

One stroke after repositioning himself and he’s right back where you need him, hammering into that devastating spot that sends your pupils scattering upward, leaving nothing but the whites of your eyes. He pulls out and does it again.

And again.

And again.

And again, until he’s certain all your senses have braided into one indistinguishable pulse.

“Oh God,” you moan, trying to press your thighs together out of reflex, but his grip tightens as he pries them open once more.

You feel lightheaded. Your belly rolls, your cheeks burn, drool slips from the corner of your mouth. You’re so far gone you don’t even notice. Too wrapped up in the desperate drag of breath through your parted lips, too busy chasing the dizzy spark bursting behind your eyes. You’re nothing short of raw nerves, lost in the punishing rhythm that keeps tearing you open and stitching you together in the same brutal stroke.

It doesn’t take long for a high, agonizing squeal to wrench free from your throat as your orgasm barrels through you without warning. Steals your breath away, leaving behind only a splintered string of gasps and trembling cries that fall recklessly from your lips as his pelvis hammers into the curve of your hip bone.

And he catches every fractured syllable and synchronizes his thrusts to the quiver of your voice, or maybe he’s simply addicted to the jagged rise and fall of your moans — like a direct stroke to his ego, trophies he hoards greedily.

He ponders how many more of those rewards he can coax from you tonight, how many more heights your body can scale before it finally gives way. He assumes it’s too much to ask, yet the greedy pulse in his veins insists there’s always more shiver to claim, another breathless note to add to his growing collection.

It turns out to be unnervingly easy.

Your second climax arrives in the span of a single heartbeat.

The third steals in like an electric stab, splintering along your spine as he pins you down and pounds hard into you.

By the fourth, your cunt swells and clenches around him in frantic pulses, yet he’s still fucking you relentlessly as if one more keepsake will finally satiate his greed.

Your hand shake when you lift one to trace his bicep, though it ends up as more of a twitchy pawing than anything resembling grace before you blindly scramble up his shoulder, finding his damp mess of curls again. Its wild, humid knot of heat tangles between your fingers as the most wrecked little whine trembles in your throat.

“P-Pee.”

He blinks, straining to pluck your voice over the rush in his ears. The words barely register at first, but when they do, his own pulse comes apart in a hot scatter mess.

“Need to pee,” you fluster again.

And if that doesn’t unravel him to his bones, he doesn’t know what will.

He tucks his hands into the crevice of your thighs. “‘S not pee.”

“What?”

The confusion in your voice is almost cute for someone who usually acts like they know everything. Adorable how you’ve been nothing but provocative all night, only to falter gradually.

“You don’t need to pee,” he rasps. The grip behind your knees tightens, fingers digging into soft flesh as he drives deeper with all the focus he can muster. He’s holding back by sheer will alone now, even when the familiar feeling of his balls growing taut creeps up, but that ache is a small price to pay when he’s painfully aware of what your body is capable of giving.

His cock strikes a deep, delicious spot inside you.

Rearranges your insides until you're wrapped tight around him.

“Fuck,” you croak. “I’m gonna piss your bed.”

“It’s not pee.”

His words barely register when your whole body winds so tightly that your face doesn’t even look like yours anymore. Eyes unfocused, spine bowing, throat bared. The muscles in your neck tighten like cords that it’s clear you’re still trying to fight whatever pressure you’re under.

“You need to relax,” he urges, finding your clit once again. Wide eyes flutter over intense brown orbs.

“Wait wait wait—gonna pee—”

“You’re gonna come again,” he corrects. He sees you puff out a long breath, which is nothing less strained than his own. “Female ejaculation, different glands. Less than—”

His words catch in a groan as your cunt flutters around his thickness.

“…less than ten percent of the fluid is even related to—to urine.”

Annoyed, you tug on his curls and whine, “This isn’t the time.”

“No better time than now.” His hips continue to buck into you with a sharp, hungry rhythm. “You’ll understand if you stop fighting it.”

“I can’t!”

“You can.” Thwack-thwack-thwack. “You will.”

The sound of his balls slapping against the wet cradle of your ass is making you delirious. Even more so when a warm, buzzing sensation sparks in your core and rushes outward, blooming into this intense prick that spreads across your lower belly with startling speed.

“Oh—shitshitshit—”

“That’s it, just breathe through your nose.”

His words falls on deaf ears. “I-I can’t hold it any longer.”

“You’re not supposed to hold it in.”

"I—wa—wait—Spencer!”

“Let it out,” he frets, and closes the last inch of space between you. Foreheads nearly touching, brows pulling together in quiet frustration. “Need you to trust me for once.”

“I don’t—fuck! I am NOT pissing on you—”

“Do it.”

“I can’t—”

“C’mon,” he prods. “Give it to me.”

You sniff a strangled sob.

“Do it.”

You claw at his hair once more, and any semblance of control that you clung to shatters immensely.

You try to follow his words and suck in a sharp breath. Lungs expanding, ribs flaring, and the rush of oxygen pouring into your blood sharpens every sensation to something blinding. A passage of whines pitches upward as his thumb swipes side to side over your tight nub while he slams into you. Once, twice, over and over — until a concentrated surge of pressure around his cock urges him to pull out.

Warm bursts of liquid splashes onto him. Streaks down his damp thighs, the flushed skin of his skin. Seeps deep into the cotton fabric of his sheets with muffled sounds as your heart thunders wildly in your chest. He doesn’t even try to fight the smile that pulls at his mouth the second your eyes flicker with disbelief, or the lazy circle his thumb traces around your sensitive, overstimulated clit. He’s too focused on the way your release continues to mark the bed he intends to sleep in.

"There it is,” he hums proudly, "knew you could do it."

He did. He knew this would happen the moment your breath stuttered into helpless little gasps, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality. His lust blooms unchecked, a fever behind molten eyes, something his vision can’t seem to outrun. Even as his gaze blurs over your dripping hole puckering around nothing, over the tiny bead of precum trickling down your cleft, he’s stunned into silence.

You’re a ravishing mess, and he’s never seen anything so pretty.

You’re on another level of divine that it makes something in his head tick just from the sight. His cock twitches helplessly as he unconsciously inserts himself back through the warm puddle of your flesh, and swears he can still feel you fluttering. Feels the tremor in your sweet, sopping cunt. Hears the faint splatter of droplets beating the sheets with every deliberate stroke of his hips.

He’s long since fallen behind in being a good man, but you certainly deserve something in return for listening to him. So he reaches out, cradles your face between palms that have never claimed to be gentle, and drinks deeply. Tries to steal back the breath you robbed from him.

Kiss, taste, repeat.

Touch, grab, repeat.

But it’s not enough.

He doesn’t think it ever will be.

The dopamine surge won’t last, a notion as clear as the haze of your sweat gluing to his skin. He’s even sure he could rattle off half a dozen papers about reward circuits and compulsive behavior, recite the exact millisecond window in which the pleasure centers will spike and fall. None of it matters when your mouth parts for him and your breath warms his cheeks.

He tries to catalog the way your pulse thumps beneath his thumb, the microscopic tremor in your lashes, the sweetness of carbon dioxide exhaled against his tongue. It becomes another unsolved equation, a tangle of variables his doctorate never prepared him to parse. There’s only the thunderous beat of his own heart and the simple, staggering fact that you’re here, giving when he has taken so much.

But there is no safe dosage of you that will let him step back unscathed. One hit becomes two, two becomes habit, soon habit feels indistinguishable from necessity. An addiction he can’t refuse when it would only mean denying himself the only thing that makes him feel alive.

And if that makes him weak, he might as well be weak for you — again and again until there’s nothing left of him that doesn’t carry the imprint of your name. To ruin or to worship, it makes no difference to him.

He’ll fall to his knees just the same.

Your pulse begins to settle into a calmer rhythm in the hush that follows, and he scatters small kisses along the corner of your jaw, up the sweep of your cheekbone, pausing at the hinge of your lips. The gentle weight of his mouth has you shifting along wet sheets, every muscle tensing at the unexpected softness threaded through his touch.

Tenderness, in your world, feels foreign. Unfamiliar. Ill-fitting. And truthfully, he isn’t much better when it comes to you. Sharper tongues seem to be the better fit for two people who know how to fight more than they know how to surrender.

His lips skate beneath your chin instead, slides along the sweat slick column of your throat and hums, “Think you can do that again?”

Avoidance. It’s the language you both speak fluently.

The stiffness in your body bleeds out with your next exhale.

“…depends on your skill, old man.”

That's it. He can take another one of your barbed little comments. Another sly jab delivered with that pretty pout of your mouth. In fact, he finds himself almost craving it. Your taunts fuel the heat beneath his skin as much as they test his patience, and patience is something he's mastered after all. So he continues to grind his hips. Rubs the tip of your clit with the fine coarse of hair dusting his belly before you’re writhing again.

Peculiar, how easily his selfishness devours reason. Logic. Decorum. How quickly a man who’s built his life on discipline can find himself unraveling for something as simple and devastating as the way you gasp his name.

A good man would’ve stopped at the soft mist pooling in your eyes.

Spencer keeps going.

"If a God is a dog and a man is a fraud then I'm a lost cause." Devil’s Advocate—The Neighbourhood

[wordsmeetwbb]

Relax

Word count: 2.4k

Content: smut (sub P, mommy!Azzi)

Pairing: Pazzi

Notes: After saying I was gonna post this every night for approximately a week, it's finally done! Not edited, as per usual, so please let me know if you see any typos or anything. Anyway, Mommy Azzi is back, so please enjoy this before I get absolutely destroyed by finals soon!

________

Paige and Azzi are sprawled out on the couch in Azzi’s apartment, Paige draped across Azzi’s lap, the rest of the team scattered throughout the living room, paying varying amounts of attention to the NBA game playing on the TV.

Paige had been paying attention earlier, but then her eyes had drooped, her head had lolled to the side, and Azzi pulled her right down into her lap. Now Paige has a blissed out smile on her face as Azzi’s fingers scratch along her scalp gently. She hums when Azzi massages around her temples. KK side eyes them and makes a gagging noise.

“Can y’all be normal for one night? Please? The rest of us are tryna watch Lebron in peace here,” she complains.

“Shh,” Azzi hisses, fingers brushing hair off of Paige’s forehead. “Be quiet and let her relax.” Ice scoffs from where she’s leaned up against the base of the couch.

“If she wants to relax, she can go back to her own apartment. She doesn’t even live here.” Azzi glares at the younger girl.

“Okay, well I live here. I’ll kick you out,” she threatens in a hushed whisper. Ice rolls her eyes.

“Damn, maybe we should stop making fun of Paige for being a simp. You’re like a goddamn mother hen,” she retorts. Paige blinks her eyes open, squinting at Ice.

“Hey,” she rasps. Azzi’s hands flutter over her shoulders, smoothing over her hoodie. “Be nice to my girl,” Paige warns. Even in her extremely non-threatening state, curled into Azzi’s chest, the rest of the team knows that Paige is serious.

There’s a little bit of grumbling, mostly from KK, but eventually everyone focuses back on their quiet conversations or the game. Paige settles back into Azzi’s embrace, tugging the brunette’s arms around her, tucking her chin into the crease of Azzi’s elbow and humming in contentment. Azzi resumes her soothing motions through Paige’s hair.

The peace doesn’t last long though. The girls grow restless quickly, somebody yells when Lebron hits a three, and Paige mumbles in annoyance as she’s jostled awake again by the noise. Azzi whispers little “shh”s and “just relax baby”s but it doesn’t work. Paige groans and heaves herself into a sitting position. Azzi scowls at anyone making noise.

“Y’all suck,” Paige complains, lacing her fingers tightly with Azzi’s as she tugs them both up off the couch. Several of the girls turn around and look at them curiously.

“What’re you doing?” Jana asks. Paige raises an eyebrow, still looking so soft and sleepy that Azzi thinks it might be giving her cuteness aggression. She wants to bundle her up in a fuzzy blanket and hug her.

She can’t do that here, though, which seems to be exactly what Paige is trying to remedy.

“We’re leaving.”

“Uh, Azzi lives here,” Sarah points out. Paige shoots her an unimpressed look.

“Yeah, and?” Sarah shuts up.

Giggles and whispered teases float down the hallway as Paige tugs Azzi towards the door. The door clicks shut softly behind them, enveloping them in the silence of the hallway. As they pad down the bland, impressonal hallway, Paige slings and arm around Azzi’s waist, hand settling on her hip bone through her sweats. Azzi presses their hips together gently, only pulling apart when they reach the stairs.

As soon as they’re back in Paige’s apartment, the door to her bedroom shut and locked carefully, Paige collapses into Azzi, burying her face into the younger girl’s neck. Azzi loops her arms around Paige’s waist, hands slipping under the fabric of her hoodie to stroke the skin of her lower back slowly.

“You tired honey? Let’s go to bed,” Azzi coos. Paige tightens her hold on Azzi, keeping them rooting in place firmly. She presses a gentle kiss to the crook of her neck, where her face is still hidden. She mumbles something unintelligible into Azzi’s skin.

“What was that, sweetheart?” Azzi whispers. She feels Paige’s face heat against her neck.

“Want you first,” she whispers. Azzi’s mouth melts into a soft smile.

“Oh, you do, huh?” She teases. Paige blushes again.

“You don’t gotta make fun of me for it,” she complains, voice achingly soft. Azzi doesn’t even reply, just slips one of her hands behind Paige’s neck and brings her in for a gentle kiss.

It’s tender and sweet, just light presses of their lips until Paige gets impatient and swipes her tongue over Azzi’s lips, asking for her to open. She does, letting Paige lick into her mouth, tongues brushing together. Azzi lets out a quiet little sigh and pulls away. There’s only an inch or so separating them, and her breath washes over Paige’s mouth.

“What do you want, P?” She asks. Paige hold’s Azzi’s hip with one hand, pulling her towards the bed until they’re both falling onto the mattress.

Azzi lands on top, her arms bracketing Paige’s frame. Paige looks up at her with wide blue eyes, lips parted slightly. Azzi can’t help herself but to lean down and kiss her softly.

“What do you want?” She asks again. Paige’s eyes flicker over her face like somehow the curve of Azzi’s jaw or the flutter of her eyelashes will tell her what she wants.

“Can you just pick?” She asks. Azzi’s face softens.

“Of course, sweet girl. Just want me to take care of you, don’t you?” Paige nods, body relaxing a little further into the bed. Azzi’s fingers play with the hem of Paige’s shirt, tugging it up slightly, asking for permission to take it off. Paige lifts her arms obediently, helping the younger girl get the shirt off.

“Yours too,” Paige urges, already pulling Azzi’s shirt off. It only takes a moment before their pants follow, leaving both girls only in their underwear.

Somewhere in the mess of clothes, Azzi ends up settled against the headboard of the bed, Paige in her lap with her legs straddling Azzi’s. Azzi cups Paige’s cheek, brushing her thumb over the pale skin. Paige isn’t paying attention, though.

The older girl’s vision is locked in on Azzi’s tits, round and heavy and looking so enticing that Paige actually starts to salivate. She leans down, sliding down Azzi’s body so she can press her face into the warm flesh. Her mouth is open, tongue dragging messy and lazy lines as she shakes her head back and forth. Her eyes are closed, and Azzi tucks a piece of hair behind Paige’s ear to get it out of her way.

The soft touch seems to give Paige a sense of purpose. She focuses her attention on one of Azzi’s nipples, thumbing over it gently, her expression full of desire as the action makes it harden slightly. Then she leans back down and licks over her nipple slowly.

Azzi lets out a breath. She slides a hand into Paige’s hair, holding her in place gently. Paige flattens her tongue and repeats the action, making her way over Azzi’s tits, almost like she’s exploring.

When she sucks one nipple into her mouth and brings her hand up to squeeze at the other side roughly, a moan finally escapes Azzi. Paige feels the wet patch on her boxers grow bigger. She pulls off Azzi’s chest with a quiet pop, looking up at the younger girl with an expression that might have been innocent if her face wasn’t framed by Azzi’s breasts.

“Oh, my sweet girl, look at you,” Azzi coos. Paige flushes, cheeks turning a light pink that contrasts prettily with the blue of her eyes. She presses another kiss to Azzi’s nipple, dragging her tongue over skin as she pulls away again. Azzi runs her hand through Paige’s hair soothingly.

“I bet you’ve got yourself all worked up from this, don’t you?” Azzi’s voice is gentle when she asks, but it makes Paige whine. Her hips shift, looking for contact and finding none. Azzi pulls Paige’s face back to her own and kisses her.

It’s messy, tongues and spit and teeth scraping. Saliva stretches between their lips when Paige pulls away, panting. “Please mommy,” she whines. Azzi throbs between her legs. It always gets her especially hot when Paige gets needy and unfiltered like this, when that name slips from her lips.

She grips Paige’s jaw, maybe with a little too much force, but it gets the blonde’s eyes to focus on her face.

“Do you want my fingers or my tongue, baby?” Paige looks like she’s genuinely thinking about it, her brain working very hard to fight through the fog she’s feeling.

“Tongue,” she answers slowly. Azzi nods, already flipping their positions so Paige is laid on the mattress and she’s hovering above her.

Azzi spreads Paige’s legs carefully, eyes shooting right to the wet patch on her gray boxers. She licks her lips and traces over the fabric with a finger. Paige’s hips twitch and a needy little noise escapes her lips.

“What was that, pretty girl?” Azzi asks, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of Paige’s boxers. The older girl lets her head fall back onto the pillows, chest rising and falling with anticipatory breaths.

“Need it,” she mumbles.

“What do you need, baby?”

“You, mommy,” Paige pleads, voice full of desperation. Azzi places a chaste kiss to the inside of Paige’s thigh and pulls her boxers down. They join Paige’s shirt, flung across her desk chair haphazardly.

Azzi slides herself down between Paige’s legs, getting comfy as she moves Paige’s legs over her shoulders. Her eyes zero in on the slick glistening between Paige’s legs. She blows a light breath over Paige’s cunt, making the older girl twitch. Her fingers fist in the sheets, knowing better than to mess up Azzi’s hair. She had just washed it this morning, and she definitely didn’t want to deal with all the complaining if she had to detangle it again because of Paige.

Paige’s eyes flutter closed when she feels Azzi’s tongue slip through her folds. Azzi keeps it simple, going slow, just little kitten licks through her folds. Paige’s breath stutters out, hands twitching in the sheets.

“Need more, mommy, please,” she begs. Azzi licks over her clit once, making Paige’s tummy tense. She pulls away just far enough to speak.

“You taste so good. My sweet girl, dripping onto the bed for me. So good,” she praises. Paige is officially gone. A little whimper slips out of her mouth just from the words. Azzi watches as her cunt clenches around nothing. She quickly brings her thumb down to play with Paige’s clit, giving her just enough stimulation to bring the pleasure back and erase the overwhelming feeling of emptiness.

“Shh, I got you honey. Just relax and let it feel good. I’m gonna take care of you, I promise.” Paige’s body is relaxing before her mind has really even processed the words. She’s rewarded with Azzi’s mouth back on her cunt, licking through her folds again but with the added pressure of her thumb on her clit this time. It feels euphoric.

The tension in Paige’s core is building and building as Azzi continues her gentle but focused actions. The little sounds coming from the older girl are continuous now as she shifts, trying to get even more pleasure out of every movement.

“Just breathe for me, Paige,” Azzi instructs. Paige’s body obeys without thinking. She sucks in a deep, steady breath, and the pleasure washes over her deeper. She breathes out and suddenly Azzi is sucking her clit into her mouth. Paige lets out something like a sob.

“Does that feel good?” Azzi asks, knowing the answer. Paige nods desperately.

“Mommy, I can’t– please– so close,” she gasps. Azz’s free hand slides over Paige’s stomach in broad, soothing strokes.

“I know honey, you’re doing so good for me. Doin’ so good, pretty girl. Just keep breathing. I’ll make you feel good,” Azzi promises. The words push Paige even closer as she focuses on her breathing, trying her best not to buck her hips when Azzi goes back to sucking on her clit.

It takes an embarrassingly short amount of time for Paige to be writhing on the bed, Azzi’s words washing over her in waves as she begs to come.

“Gonna cum, please, can I cum, mommy, can I–” her mouth splits open on a cry as Azzi thrusts her tongue into her cunt.

“Let go, Paige. You can come. Feel good for me, sweet girl,” Azzi coos. That’s all it takes. Paige shakes to pieces on the bed while Azzi keeps fucking her on her tongue, humming as she feels the slick gush from Paige’s cunt.

“That’s it. You taste so good babygirl. Being so good,” she soothes. She pulls away from Paige’s cunt, letting the older girl twitch through the aftershocks of her orgasm. She just runs her hands over Paige’s arms and legs and stomach– any skin she can reach.

“You did so good for me, Paige,” Azzi whispers one last time, pressing a kiss into Paige’s hair. Paige breathes out shakily, still trying to make her lungs work.

“Thanks,” she whispers back. Azzi laughs quietly.

“You’re welcome, baby. You ready to go to bed now?” She asks. Paige starts to nod before she stops herself.

“Wait, lemme get you before we sleep,” she says, brows knitting together. She looks genuinely distressed at the idea of going to bed before getting Azzi off, but the younger girl just pushes her back down onto the bed carefully, tucking the blankets around her.

“I’m okay,” she says. Paige starts to argue but she shuts her up with a kiss. “Really, Paige. I promise. You’re tired. We can go to sleep,” Azzi promises. Paige still looks like she wants to fight the statements, but Azzi just cups her cheeks and looks her right in the eyes.

“You can get me off tomorrow. I swear. But right now we’re both tired, so let’s just go to bed. Please.” Her voice softens on the last word and Paige’s resistance crumbles. All it takes is their arms wrapped around each other, a couple of whispered I love you’s, and the warmth of the blankets. They’re both asleep in a matter of minutes.

[misserabella]

could u pls write a fic/blurb of virgin spencer having fantasies of being dominant 🩷 btw live ur work!!!

my first orgasm goes to you! ♡

cw; +18 content, minors dni!!, watching of p0rn, bondage, dom and sub dynamics, spencer’s livid mind, imagining of spanking, male masturbation (spencer), dirty talking (he talks to himself while he thinks of you)…

okay… so spencer doesn’t know how he’s gotten into this situation.

he’s not one to… indulge in this kind of activities.

intelligence is correlated with sexual desire. most evidence indicates a negative correlation between intelligence and sexual activity. researchers find that higher intelligence is associated with a delay in the initiation of a wide range of partnered sexual activities, from holding hands to sexual intercourse —that’s why he was still a virgin— . statistically though, scientists have discovered that, the higher the sex drive of the individual.

but spencer could probably count the times he has masturbated in his 25 years of life with one hand. he just… didn’t get the need.

well, that was a lie. there was obviously a need. a physical one. he, like any other man, woke up with morning wood every morning. but there wasn’t a… psychological one. he had never… fallen in love. sure. he could find beauty in a woman. even a man. but… he just didn’t…

couldn’t finish.

he had tried. made research. tried again…

and when he couldn’t make it. he would gave up.

spencer reid has never had an orgasm.

until today.

after trying pretty much everything. he tried the thing he wished he’d never have to use: porn.

just a few clicks and he was into one of the million of pages for it. and there was a lot of… content. a lot of options in which you could choose from.

but one video caught his attention. it was about dom/sub dynamics, and a little bit of bondage. he had informed himself about them, and curiosity won as he clicked on it.

his eyes widened when the view of a beautiful —and completely naked— woman caught his eyes. her wrists were tied to the posts of the bed in which she was laying, cries and mewls leaving her lips along with some ‘stop’s and ‘it’s too much!’s. in between her thighs, a man of his complexion —although spencer was more skinny, lean, but skinny—, laid, devouring her cunt as if he were starved, arms keeping her pinned, still, as the woman tried to scape from the pleasure and overstimulation, hips jerking against the man’s face, thighs shaking, tears streaking down her face.

but what really did it for spencer was not the sight, it was the fact that the woman looked like you. same hair and eye color, same complexion, same full lips… if he took off his glasses he could…

no. that was wrong.

you were his coworker.

it didn’t matter if he’s had the biggest crush on you since you had joined the team a year ago, or that he was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with everything that made you… you.

he had never fantasized about you. well, he had. how couldn’t he, you were beautiful, and smart, and kind, and… and he couldn’t control his subconscious mind while being asleep or what he would dream of. so of course he had had wet dreams about you.

but he had never touched himself with you in mind. he believed that you didn’t deserve to be objectified like that.

so he wouldn’t.

he tried and focus on the video. on the moans, on the groans and touches. and it worked. he was hard. he teased himself over his slacks, slowly, a breath leaving his lungs before pulling down the zipper and pulling down his pants and underwear, releasing his semi and taking it in his hand with a sigh.

he focused on the video, cheeks reddening at the embarrassment he felt for be doing this. but he had to try.

slowly, he started to jerk his cock, long drawn out faps from the tip to the root. he moaned as he played with the sensitive and weeping slit on the head, before continuing.

but after minutes and minutes of trying, his high wouldn’t come. he groaned and stopped. of course it wouldn’t come.

a flash of you passed through his mind and thoughts of you in the position of the woman in the screen, with him being in between your thighs, making you feel good, making you feel so good you couldn’t take it. but he would make you take it.

his cock twitched, and he groaned as he started moving his hand right back up. he was just so desperate to cum. it hurt. and he just couldn’t not think about you. he did all the time. also. you wouldn’t know right? it would just be this one time.

he took off his glasses, and went back to the video, where now the man was pushing up and in between his thighs, pulling a scream from the woman when he thrusted inside her, fast and hard.

spencer’s pupils were blown, his breathing ragged. it’s as if he could see you, see him. fucking you just like that man was fucking the woman. pounding into her swollen, overstimulated and squelching cunt over and over again, pulling his legs up against her chest in a mating press, reaching so deep he was on her cervix.

‘i can’t please. i can’t! it’s too much!’

spencer whimpered, going faster, hearing the woman cry. would you cry too? would you beg him to stop? would you beg him for more? how would you sound moaning his name? screaming it?

“fuck.”

please spencer, i can’t take it anymore, it’s too much!!!

he could almost hear it. your sweet voice lost in pleasure. could feel your plush soft skin under his fingertips as he’ll spank your thigh, taste the salt on your skin as he’d suck on your neck and chest.

“take it. fucking take it. you know you want it. you know you want this cock.”

he got lost in the moment, pretending with his eyes closed that the moans of the woman were your moans, moving his hand at the punishing ruthless rhythm the man fucked her.

jesus, this felt good…

more spencer, give me more!

“you want more?”

yes, please, please spencer, fuck me more, fuck me harder!

“holy fuck. yeah, i’ll fuck you harder.” his fist moved faster up and down his cock, slicked in his precum. “i’ll fuck you so hard you’ll have a hard time walking for days.” he tightened his hold. “fuuuuuck.” he moaned your name. “you’re so tight. so perfect for me. taking it so well… you were made for this. for taking my cock, hm?”

yes, yes, only for you spencer… i want you to cum inside. please cum inside. breed me, spence.

he groaned, his eyes rolling, a new unknown tight feeling growing in his lower stomach, his dick leaking and twitching like crazy.

“you want me to cum inside? inside this pretty little cunt? want me to breed you? leave you full and dripping?”

he could picture you, nodding, babbling, pleading.

“then take it. take my fucking cum. gonna fuck it so deep… right into your womb. fuck. take it take it take it!”

and with a last moan, his world was breaking up, vision whitening, whole body spasming as thick heavy loads of creamy white cum shot out of his cock, making a mess out of his wooly vest and hand. he was moaning, groaning and gasping, continuing to move his hand through his high, until nothing else was coming out. the video had ended long ago.

he looked up at his blurry ceiling. and groaned.

fuck.

he had just had his ever first orgasm.

and the reason had been you.

@cafekitsune ‘s separators!

@kittyisick ty for your support angel, hope you like it!💋

[reidmarieprentiss]

Quickie?

Summary: Reader wants to sneak in a quickie before the BAU takes off again.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x FBI fem!reader

Category: fluff, suggestive (16+)

Warnings/Includes: suggestive content, secret relationship, reader works at FBI but not BAU

Word count: 1.7k

a/n: this is much more positive than the last post :)

main masterlist

You and Spencer have been secretly seeing each other for a few months now. Since you work in a different department, you don’t get to see him as often as you’d like, and you never have the chance to join him on cases. 

The moment you see the news that the BAU is heading out on another case, your heart sinks just a little. You understand that Spencer’s job is demanding—he’s always chasing criminals across the country, putting his mind to work in ways that save lives. But it doesn’t make it any easier when he’s gone for days at a time, leaving you to miss him in silence.

With a quiet sigh, you pull out your phone and type out a message:

Meet me upstairs before you go?

You don’t have to say where. You both know. The fifth-floor office—empty, forgotten, your little sanctuary within the walls of the FBI. It had started as a joke, just a place to escape prying eyes when work got overwhelming, but over time, it had turned into something more. A safe space for the two of you.

The reply comes almost instantly.

Give me five minutes.

You don’t hesitate, pushing away from your desk and making your way to the stairs instead of the elevator. The anticipation sits heavy in your chest, a mixture of excitement and something almost desperate.

By the time you push open the office door, Spencer is already there, leaning against the desk, his messenger bag slung over his shoulder. His eyes soften the moment they meet yours.

“You’re fast,” you say, closing the door behind you.

“I wasn’t going to waste any time,” he murmurs, already reaching for you. His hands find your wrists, pulling you closer as he stays seated on the desk. His touch is warm and grounding, even through the layers of clothing.

Your fingers drift up to the collar of his cardigan, playing with the fabric as you let yourself relax in his presence. “I hate that you have to go.”

“I know.” He sighs, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I hate it too. But I’ll call you as soon as I land.”

You nod, though it doesn’t really make it easier. “I just wish we had more time.”

His hand moves to your waist and tightens ever so slightly. “Me too.” There’s a pause, a hesitation in his expression, before he adds, “I think about you all the time when I’m gone.”

Your heart stutters at his confession, a warmth spreading through your chest. “Yeah?”

Spencer huffs out a soft, shy laugh. “Yeah.”

You can’t help but smile, reaching up to brush a lock of hair away from his face. “Then you better come back to me in one piece.”

You lean in, pressing a sweet kiss to Spencer’s lips—soft, slow, something that feels like a promise. When you pull away, he stays close, murmuring against your mouth, “Always.”

Something about Spencer’s breath ghosting across your lips sends a shiver down your spine. The soft pink hue creeping down his neck is so endearing that it stokes a fire deep in your stomach, pooling heat beneath your skin. You lean in for another kiss, slow and deliberate, savoring the way he melts beneath your touch. One hand threads gently through his hair, fingers curling lightly at the roots, while the other traces delicate patterns against his chest, nails just barely scratching over the fabric between you.

Spencer gets lost for a moment, his mind short-circuiting as he tries to process the reality of you—of your lips on his, of your hands in his hair, of the way you look at him like he’s something to be devoured. It still feels surreal, like a dream he’s half-convinced he’ll wake up from because someone as beautiful as you want him like this doesn’t seem possible.

But then reality crashes back in—the fluorescent hum of the office lights, the distant chatter from the floors below, the ever-present risk of someone walking in. His fingers tighten briefly against your waist before he forces himself to gently push against your shoulders.

“Wait…wait,” he murmurs, his voice breathless and uneven as he tries to collect himself. “We can’t do this here.”

Your lips are already trailing along his neck, warm and teasing, and the way you hum against his skin makes his resolve waver.

“Do what?” you tease, your voice laced with mischief as you press another slow, deliberate kiss just beneath his jaw.

Spencer exhales sharply, his head tipping back slightly before he forces himself to lean away, his cheeks flushed as he fumbles for words. “Um… this.”

Your fingers curl at the nape of his neck, holding him close, your voice dipping into something dangerously sweet.

“What are we doing, baby?” you whisper, letting the words linger between you, daring him to say it.

Spencer’s breath stutters as he struggles to find the right words, his hands hovering uselessly over your hips as if he can't decide whether to pull you closer or push you away. His face is already flushed, the color creeping down his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.

“I—I’m… Y/N, I’m going to… uh, get—” He swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tries and fails to look anywhere but at you. Finally, he forces the word out in a near whisper as if saying it any louder might make it worse. “Hard.”

A slow, knowing smile spreads across your lips as you tilt your head slightly, fingers still tracing lazy patterns along his chest. His honesty is endearing, his nervousness downright intoxicating, and the way his voice wavers only makes the fire in your stomach burn hotter.

“Oh,” you murmur, feigning innocence as your hand moves just the slightest bit lower. “Is that a problem?”

Spencer squeezes his eyes shut for a brief moment, exhaling sharply through his nose like he's gathering every ounce of self-control he has left.

“Yes,” he says, though it sounds more like a plea than a protest. “We’re at work.”

“And?” you press, leaning in just enough to let your lips ghost over his jaw.

He shudders, his grip on your waist tightening. “And… I can’t walk out of here like that.”

“Who says you’ll have to leave here hard?” you murmur, your voice dripping with mischief, your fingers still dancing lightly over his chest.

Spencer’s breath hitches, his body stiff as your words' weight settles over him. His pupils dilate, and for a brief second, you see the internal war flashing across his face—temptation battling with logic, desire against reason.

“Y/N…” His voice is barely above a whisper, shaky and uneven, like he’s already losing control. His fingers dig into your waist as if anchoring himself, but it’s no use—you can feel him unraveling beneath your touch.

Still, he shakes his head, his resolve clinging to the last fragile thread of professionalism he has left. “No, we can’t—not here.”

But his voice lacks conviction, and the way he’s looking at you, lips parted, breath shallow, tells you he wants nothing more than to give in.

You pout, tilting your head as your fingers trace slow, lazy circles against his chest. “Not here?” you echo, feigning disappointment. “That’s a shame… I was really looking forward to helping you with your little problem.”

Spencer exhales sharply through his nose, gripping your hips a little tighter like he's trying to physically keep himself in check. “It’s not—” He swallows, glancing toward the closed door like he’s calculating the risk. “It’s not a little problem.”

A slow, knowing smile spreads across your lips as you press closer, feeling the way his breath stutters at the contact. “Oh?” you tease, letting your hand trail just a little lower—not too much, just enough to make him squirm. “Is it a big problem, then?”

Spencer groans, tilting his head back in exasperation. “Y/N…” he warns, though his grip on you doesn’t loosen. If anything, it tightens.

You press a quick, teasing kiss to the underside of his jaw, feeling the way his pulse hammers beneath your lips. “I just think it’s kind of unfair,” you say innocently. “You’re about to leave for who knows how long, and I won’t even get to see you. The least I could do is make sure you’re… comfortable before you go.”

Spencer squeezes his eyes shut for a moment as if trying to gather every ounce of restraint he has left. “You are not making this easy.”

You hum, dragging your nails lightly over the fabric of his shirt. “You told me you didn’t want it to be hard.”

His breath catches, and he glares at you, but there’s no real heat behind it—just frustration laced with something darker, something wanting. “You cannot say things like that.”

“Why not?” You bat your eyelashes at him. “You’re the one who admitted to getting hard at work.”

Spencer groans, dropping his forehead against your shoulder like he’s conceding defeat. “You’re evil.”

You giggle, threading your fingers through his hair and scratching lightly at his scalp. “But you like it.”

He huffs out a breath against your neck, warm and shaky. “Unfortunately.”

You grin, pressing a lingering kiss to the side of his face before pulling back just enough to look at him properly. “Relax, baby,” you whisper, smoothing your hands over his chest. “I wouldn’t actually do anything here.” You lean in, your lips brushing against his in the softest tease of a kiss. “I just like making you squirm.”

Spencer exhales a laugh, shaking his head, but you can see how his eyes have darkened and how his fingers are still gripping your waist. “Yeah,” he mutters, his voice lower than before. “I noticed.”

You smirk, pressing one last playful kiss to his lips before pulling away completely, smoothing out your shirt like nothing had happened. “Well,” you say cheerfully, stepping back toward the door. “Have fun on your case.”

Spencer stares at you like he’s still recovering as if he’s not entirely sure if he should be frustrated or turned on. Probably both.

“You’re evil,” he repeats, though the way he’s looking at you says he wouldn’t have it any other way.

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

tag list <333 @yokaimoon @khxna @noelliece @dreamsarebig @sleepey-looney @cocobean16 @placidus @criminalmindssworld @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @charismatic-writer @fxoxo @hearts4spensco @furrybouquettrash @kathrynlakestone @chaneladdicted @time-himself @mentallyunwellsposts @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @gilwm @reggieswriter @loumouse @spencerreidsreads @i-live-in-spite @fanfic-viewer @bootylovers44 @atheniandrinkscoffee @niktwazny303 @dead-universe @hbwrelic @kniselle @cynbx @danielle143 @katemusic @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @laurakirsten0502 @geepinky @mxlviaa @libraprincessfairy @fortheloveofgubler @super-nerd22 @k-illdarlings @softestqueeen @eliscannotdance @pleasantwitchgarden @alexxavicry @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @criminal-spence @navs-bhat @taygrls @person-005 @asobeeee

[kainuhsblog]

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ I'm Better Than Him

prompt         when jeongin got the text from you that you were upset at him, he rushed over to your favorite take out spot and got you extra chocolate. what he didn't expect to see when he got there though, was you on your couch CUDDLING SOME OTHER DUDE?! pairing          idol!jeongin x fem!reader genre           misunderstandings, established relationship, fluff, humor (idk, it seemed funny in my head at times) warnings      mentions of infidelity, jeongin being a weirdo, chan being the root of the problem word count  1,450 (i had fun!) a/n                 hi! i'm back! i can't really remember what inspired me to write this (since i took too long to actually write) but here's something short and sweet for my bias jeongin! want more skz posts from me? check them out here, here, here and here!

“I sure hope whoever that man is on your shoulder can fight, because I’m about to knock him out!” is what startles you out of your drowsy state, eyes widening in shock as you turn to see your boyfriend placing a bag on the counter and rolling up his sleeves. 

You blink at him a few times, mostly to blink the sleep out of your eyes, and partially to figure out what he was even talking about. The person he mentioned makes no headway to move from your embrace. 

“What?” you stupidly ask, eyes still trying to blink away the sleep, not noticing how red in the face your boyfriend has gotten. 

“The guy with his head on your shoulder? Hugging you? In YOUR APARTMENT? WITH NO REGARD OF THE FACT THAT YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND?!” Jeongin exclaims, getting louder and louder by the sentence. 

“Jeongin, sweetie, what in the world are you talking about?” You sleepily inquire, watching as his eyebrows hide behind his bangs and try to touch his hairline from the shock that morphs on his face. 

Jeongin makes a gruntled sound that mixes disbelief and surprise in his tone, walking closer to the couch with heavy steps that vibrate the room. 

“So I’m seeing things? Are you literally not cheating on me right now?” He accuses. 

You move your eyes from your boyfriend of almost three years to scope your surroundings. Your eyes drag across the room, taking in your shelves with figurines and books, smoothing over to your tv that displays your 439th rerun of Avatar: The Last Airbender, catching the glint of the plates and utensils that sit on your coffee table, before coming to look at the arms that encase your body. You look up to see the face on your shoulder, and in your half asleep haze, you crack a smile at the head that rests on your shoulder. 

“And you have the audacity to smile at him like I’m not standing here! What qualities does he have that I don’t, huh? I’m pretty sure that I’m better than him. I can sing, I can dance, I can cook, I crack the funniest jokes, I have the best style, I come at your literal beck and call?!?! What does he have on me, huh?” Your boyfriend starts to spiel, hands raising and falling as he runs his mouth a mile a minute about the conclusion he seemed to jump to all on his own. 

The body beside you moves slightly, adjusting himself as he hears the shouts of his bandmate above him. He opens his eyes slightly, head pounding as he takes in the noise. Then, he moves from you to stretch his body, bones cracking satisfyingly at the movement. He looks up when he notices the noise dying down around him. 

Jeongin’s bandmate takes a look at you, then at Jeongin, then raises his hand up with a small smile to greet him.

“You’re cheating on me with my HYUNG?!”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Jeongin kneels before you, head bowed in remorse as he looks at the fluff on your inside slippers. The embarrassment swirls in his chest faster than a blender can make a smoothie. The shame slaps pain onto his stomach quicker than the butterflies of anxiety can flap its wings. 

He doesn’t even look up when he feels his groupmate pat him on his back reassuringly. All he feels is shame. He wants to cry from the amount of embarrassment that threatens to crawl up his neck from his chest. 

“Jeongin, can you at least look at me?” You ask him softly, watching as your boyfriend shakes his head swiftly in response. 

You turn your head over to Chan, who scratches his head in indifference. He yawns a second later, and that tells you that he still feels sleepy. At least one of you can close your eyes and sleep right now. 

You stretch your hand out to touch your boyfriend’s face, placing your fingers under his chin to guide his gaze to you. When you see his flushed cheeks and watered eyes, your gaze softens, and you chuckle innocently. 

“I’m sorry.” Jeongin says once his eyes find yours. 

“I’m sorry for accusing you of cheating on me. That was not right of me to do, and it was not right of me to grip Channie hyung by the collar like that either.” Jeongin finishes, eyes looking from you to his hyung and then back to the floor. 

“No looking at the floor Jeongin. C’mon, let me see those beautiful eyes of yours.” You ask him, using your fingers to nudge his face up some more. 

“Now, I can’t say I’m not upset with you right now for wrongfully accusing me as soon as you step into my apartment.” You start off, moving your hand over to the side of his face to tap them whenever he moves his eyes away from yours. 

“The fact that you tried to fight me was very surprising as well, Innie.” Chan says from the arm of the couch that he decided to sit on. 

“I would just like to know how you even came to that conclusion. What brought this on?” You ask him, watching as his hands start to fiddle with the hem of his shirt. 

Jeongin makes no move to look from your eyes, especially since your hand is now on his cheek instead of his chin, but he can’t exactly find the words to say to justify his thought process.

He got a text that you were upset with him, so he ran over to fix whatever it was that he messed up on. Then he walks inside your apartment to see someone cuddling you, comforting you. The sight made his blood boil like no other, and despite being a very rational guy, his thoughts just tumbled out of his mouth with no warning. 

When he explains this to you, all he gets is a head tilt of confusion in return. 

“When did I send you a text? The last time I remember talking to you about anything was this morning.” You ask, eyes narrowed and face contorted to express your emotions clearly. 

“You sent me a text thirty-five minutes ago?” Jeongin answers back, equally as confused. 

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, holding it to his face so that it can open. It opens right to your message, so he turns the phone around to show you. 

“Yang Jeongin, I am actually so upset with you right now, when you get home you will pay?” You read off, ending your reciting with a tilt of bewilderment at the message. 

“I don’t remember texting this to you darling.” You tell him after racking your brain for a minute and a half to figure out what could’ve happened for you to even send that message. 

You and your boyfriend don’t notice the person who stiffens beside you until you hear him clear his throat. 

“Ah, that was actually me.” Is all Chan confesses at first, shying away slowly from the looks that you and Jeongin were giving him. 

“You ate the last bit of cookie butter at the dorm, so I came to (name)’s place to ask for hers and vent about it. I think I picked up her phone by accident when I went to text you. My bad.” He spills out, avoiding both of your gazes as the words process in your brains. 

Jeongin looks over to the coffee table to see that there were two phones with the exact same case lying there. Then he notices how one phone was white and the other … was black. 

Jeongin taps your hand slightly, giving you the hint to move your hand away. You move your hand from his face. 

Jeongin then stands up for a second, looking at his hyung for a few seconds with an unreadable expression. 

Then Jeongin grips his hyung again by the collar. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You eat your favorite takeout with a giddy smile on your face, watching the scene where Toph swindles the man out of money and safely manages to keep Sokka’s sword. 

“Want some?” You ask the guy to your left, who shakes his head no at your question. 

Jeongin kneels in front of your shelf with four books in his hands above his head, eyes staring at the floor of your apartment in shame. Chan readjusts the ice pack on his jaw as he yawns once again. 

You laugh a bit at the words Toph says to Katara, and tell your boyfriend to lift those books higher in the air.

That’ll teach him not to jump to conclusions like that ever again.