#sometimes hes sweet and excitable and gentle

[prism-empurress]

A gentle combing

I had an idea, people really wanted to see it written in the servers I posted this idea in...here it is! Siffrin, Mirabelle, and Bonnie bonding time :3 Thank you to @rufuslupislupis for beta'ing this!

---

In the morning, Siffrin tore out of his shared bed like a dog whenever it's owner returns from the outside world. Today was going to be special. Mirabelle was up, brushing her hair already. Sitting by the vanity.

“Mira!” Siffrin whispered with excitement, “Mira, can you brush me?”

“Ah...one second, Siffrin.” Mirabelle responded, taking great care of her thick, luxurious hair. “I have to apply some products, but afterwards I'd be delighted!”

Siffrin watched impatiently as Mirabelle did her hair care routine. He took note of all the products she used to keep her hair looking so beautiful, but he was getting antsy.

“Did you want to try a different hairstyle today?” Mirabelle asked, patting one section of hair at a time. “Your hair's gotten long enough that I could do a braid, a ponytail...”

Siffrin thought for a moment, running a couple fingers through his entirely darkless hair. The black tips were cut off ages ago, some months after the loops had ended. So now, darkless framed his face, still sticking this way and that.

“D...do you have..a spare ribbon?” He asked sheepishly, wringing his hands.

“Sure, I have plenty!” Mirabelle smiled softly.

“Then...I'd like a braid with a ribbon at the end.” Siffrin said.

“But of course! You'll look so cute!”

Mirabelle got off the seat, ushering Siffrin to sit next. Siffrin took his place at the vanity, not really recognizing his reflection, but he took a deep breath in and out.

Mirabelle got a spare unused comb out, and gently began detangling his hair. Siffrin cringed a bit when some knots were being stubborn, but he didn't make any noise.

“Such lovely hair...it's a rare sight, this complete darklessness for someone's head of hair.” Mirabelle hummed. “I'm not hurting you, am I?”

Siffrin smiled, “No, Mira. I'm good.”

Mirabelle beamed, and Siffrin relaxed, melting into the lovely sensations.

He never took good care of his hair. It was often unbrushed, tangled, matted. But since getting out of the loops, he's gotten a tiny bit better at taking care of it. He still needed reminders to do it every day. So, one day...he asked if Mirabelle would be willing to brush him sometime, and she said yes.

Mirabelle was so sweet and gentle with him. All of her movements, so loving. Putting every ounce of care into every swipe of the comb. But then she stopped.

“Siffrin?” She asked.

Tears streaked down Siffrin’s cheek. He was shaking.

Why would he, someone who said such awful things, ever be deserving of such a kind act?

“Siffrin, what's wrong?” Mirabelle asked, putting her comb down and putting his face into her palms.

“S...sorry.” He uttered out.

“No sorries, Siffrin. Can you tell me what's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong.” He sniffled. ”I'm sorry.”

Mirabelle pursed her lips. “Did I snag a knot? Did that hurt you?”

Siffrin shook his head, muffling a sob. “You're...you're so nice...” he whimpered. “You're so nice and loving and…I'm a bad friend.” Siffrin spat out.

Mirabelle gasped. “Siffrin, no you're not! You're wonderful, in so many ways! We all love you so much!”

She pulled him into a firm hug, and Siffrin hugged back as more tears flowed. She didn't pull away, as they stayed together for a solid minute.

“Are you hungry?” Mirabelle prodded, wiping his tears.

Siffrin shook his head, “I don't feel hungry.”

“Let's get something simple into your stomach, then.”

“Can we finish my hair after I eat?” Siffrin asked.

Mirabelle nodded, and walked over to the bed she shared with Bonnie, gently waking them. Bonnie murmured, smacking their lips. “Hi Belle,” they said drowsily.

“Hi Bonnie, can you make a sandwich for our dear rogue?” Mirabelle asked.

Bonnie's eyes lit up at the mention of food, and nodded seriously.

“What kind?” Bonnie asked, getting out of bed and grabbing their apron from one of the dressers.

“S...something simple. I don't know.” Siffrin shyly muttered.

“Let's go to the kitchen!” Bonnie said, and reached for Siffrin's hand.

Hand firmly gripped, the three saviors ventured to the kitchen, while Isabeau and Odile continued sleeping. Bonnie yanked the fridge open, examining all its contents...and frowning when spoiled meat came into view.

“This inn needs to do a better job.” Bonnie frowned, tossing it all out. “Sorry, Frin. There's no meat.”

Siffrin tried to think of something simple he could eat... something that didn't require much fuss, then he eyed a container of grape jelly.

“...could I just eat that jelly from the jar with a spoon?” Siffrin asked.

“Don't be stupid, Frin!” Bonnie huffed. “No. You'll make your stomach upset.”

Bonnie picked up the jar, checking the expiration date, smiling when they saw it was still good.

“How about a PB&J?” Bonnie offered. “It's simple, plus you get protein and fruit.”

Siffrin nodded, and sat at the table, idly running his fingers against the wood grain. As Bonnie gathered all the ingredients, they saw something peculiar in one of the drawers. Smiling, they grabbed it and presented the finished product to SIffrin.

Siffrin didn't mind crusts on his sandwiches. When one spends most of their life eating table scraps or having to forage for food, one can't afford being picky...

But the sandwich was heart shaped. Siffrin laughed, wiping his eye.

“You found a cookie cutter, I see.” He said in between laughs.

“I found lots!” Bonnie quipped, with hands on their hips. “One was a sock, another was a shamrock, I think one might've been an egg...but I thought the heart would make you happy!”

“It does.” Siffrin smiled, “Thank you, Bonbon.”

Bonnie gasped, taking out the drawer with all the silverware, and removing all the spoons from it. They then dumped all of them near Siffrin.

“Am...am I supposed to eat those, too?” Siffrin raised a brow.

“No, dummy! They're energy spoons!”

“Energy spoons?” Siffrin scratched his head. “I don't...follow.”

Mirabelle laughed softly, ruffling Bonnie's hair. “Have you heard of the spoon analogy, Siffrin?” Mirabelle asked, as Siffrin took a bite of his sandwich.

Siffrin shook his head.

“Well, we all have a bunch of spoons when we start the day. And doing one task uses up one spoon. The more difficult a task is, the more spoons are used up.”

Siffrin glanced at the spoons on the table, idly counting all 20 of them.

“Twenty spoons,” Siffrin murmured. “Uhm...”

“I'm giving you all the inn's spoons so you have all the energy you need to smile and do things!” Bonnie beamed. “You...shouldn't keep these, though.”

Siffrin laughed, “Thank you, Bonbon.”

As Siffrin ate, Bonnie prepared omlettes for Mirabelle and themself. Siffrin hated to admit it, but they were actually feeling better after eating something. He felt warm. Loved by his family. He wanted to do something in return as thanks.

“Maybe today...after Mira finishes my hair...” Siffrin gulped, “We could...feed the ducks at the pond?”

“That's a wonderful idea, Siffrin!” Mirabelle giggled.

”Okay but we can't feed the ducks bread.” Bonnie said. “Too much bread is bad for their digestive systems. But I think we can get seeds for the ducks!”

“I think there's ducklings at this time of year.” Mirabelle added. “So...papa and mama ducks might be territorial! But I think if we show them we mean no harm, we might be able to pet a baby duck.”

“An army of ducks!” Bonnie exclaimed, raising their fists in the air. “No sadnesses will DARE threaten us again!”

Siffrin snorted, “Who's the captain?”

“I am.” Bonnie said. “I'm the shortest, i'm more likely to be accepted as one of their own.”

Mirabelle and Bonnie ate, while Siffrin tried to make omlettes for Isabeau and Odile. Those attempts had to be salvaged as scrambled eggs, but Bonnie made sure they were still edible. Thankfully, no windows had to be opened that time, as there was no smoke.

The day was just beginning, and Siffrin felt full of spoons and smiles.

[midgarangel]

nsfw alphabet sephiroth

contents: unhinged sephiroth hc’s, dom!sephiroth x sub!reader, protective/possessive seph, p*rn w feelings, somnophilia, marking, yandere/stalker archetype mentioned in “j.”

— ʚɞ

a · aftercare

It usually goes like this. You remain pressed together, him inside you, above you, gentle kisses dropped onto your oversensitized skin. He is the only thing that exists, your entire world, all-encompassing, a universe of comfort and love and searing heat. You are far beyond words, and even your tears have stopped running, but it doesn’t matter, because he feels his heart beat in tandem with yours, your soul intertwined with his. Your cunt occasionally clenches around his still somewhat hard cock, but he doesn’t move, careful not to hurt, but loathe to leave your warmth. He wants you to feel how much he loves you, because words will never feel good enough. And right now, after loving you so thoroughly that you are both still shaking, he slowly pulls out, slipping two of his fingers inside you to help you slowly close up, minding the whines that tumble out of your mouth, minding your clit, oversensitive from his abuse. “i’ve got you.” and he settles on his side, facing you, pulling you into him, to kiss and caress and hold you until you fall asleep in his arms.

b · body part

Sephiroth likes his body more for functionality than aesthetics. That can’t be said for his hair though. At first, he liked that he was strong, big, and tough enough to deal with the abuse his father and his shitty environment threw at him. He likes how he’s always been so agile and fast. Always catching others by surprise, their incredulous eyes when his masamune is in their throat before they even see him move. He loved when he could finally fight back and win. Then, he came to love and hate in equal parts the way others looked at him, trying to gauge if they wanted to talk to him or run from him. He knows how tall he is, and that his muscles are packed, the width of his shoulders. He likes his dexterous hands, he likes his strong jaw and smooth voice, how it makes anyone shake a little bit. He loves that he can pick you up and manhandle you so easily, like his body was made to worship and adore yours. He likes his cock too, even though you were weary of it at first, not sure if it would fit. He lives for the way it takes everything in you to take him. How he breaks you apart every time, threading the line between pleasure and pain, between worship and desecration. He goes insane for your pussy, his own personal heaven, made for him to lick and fuck and breed. Loves your thighs and covers them in bite marks, your legs wrapped around him, loves your pretty tummy and the way it goes all taut when you’re on your hands and knees as he presses on your back until your arms give out. He loves your dainty hands in his. He loves your neck with his teeth and his kisses, holding your life in his hands. He’ll sometimes possessively grope your ass out of nowhere, just to make you jump, and he loves fondling your tits in the crudest, most vile way possible, to make his good girl squirm and blush, reminding you that your his. A contrast to when he lays on your chest to listen to your heartbeat, your hands running through his hair, making delicious little shivers run down his spine, his hips and into his cock. And what makes his heart burst and his eyes twitch, what makes him so unbelievably hard, is your face, all of the thousand different smiles you have, your plush lips and your delicate teeth, your sweet tongue, your nose he can’t stop kissing, your jewel-like eyes he has to make himself look away from, your elegant cheekbones and the curve of your jaw. The little beauty marks in random places. Can’t forget about your voice, soothing him and exciting him in turn. Sometimes it almost makes him hate himself, that he was born to kill and ruin and destroy, that this is what he is the absolute best at, when all he wants to do is worship your beauty and your life. He’ll have to settle for sex, to make up for all he cannot say.

c · cum

He’s only a man, isn’t he? It’s natural to want to come inside you all the time, he reassures himself. It’s biology. He loves when you swallow him down too, begging for his cum down your throat, on your face too sometimes. He had to pull out of you (ignoring your frustrated whines) to make himself come on your stomach so many times when you were just starting to mess around. Now that he knows the absolute ecstasy of emptying himself deep inside you, of filling you up, making you utterly his, he’s never, ever pulling out again.

d · dirty secret

His intelligence and terrifying laser-focus, his ability to strategize and predict an exact outcome. Mind tricks and invincibility, combined with his physical abilities and talent for violence, it made him a dream for shinras science department and would have made him a nightmare for such a sweet girl if he didn’t love you so much. Being on the receiving end of his full, undivided, eternal attention feels like standing in the eye of an omniscient god who just really, really wants what’s between your thighs, what’s behind your ribs, what’s inside your skull. His frequent deployments and ventures mess even more with his need to claim you, and your need to be claimed, to be held and possessed by him, and because you’re so smart, you do some research and shyly suggest that he give you a toy only he could control. His brain fully stops functioning for a moment, especially since you bring this up during a fully clothed conversation about your mutual feelings. You take his silence for hesitation, or even worse, rejection, so you give him some more arguments, about how you both love and crave when he orders you around and you obey him perfectly, the relief and sense of rightness that floods you both when you’re at his mercy. How he gets off on telling you you’re his, his and only his, making you repeat it back to him. When his hand rests around your throat at all times without squeezing, just because he needs to feel you with him. When he rewards you endlessly for being such a good girl for him, for keeping yourself safe like he taught you, for sucking his dick when he told you to, for showing him how wet his voice makes you. You say all that, and he says “Anything for you.” in that voice of his, desire burning in his eyes.

e · experience

Not much but that doesn’t mean he can’t fuck. Sephiroth was primarily focused on his goals and his connection to Jenova, not on romantic relationships. But then you came along. In a way you helped guide eachother. He hears your wants and needs, turning them into realities. You learn from eachother.

f · fav position

He loves it all, with a preference for anything that allows him to see your face, all of your blushing, see how you look up at him in pure adoration and love. He needs something that allows him to cage you in, hold you against him, all safe and sound, for him to position however he wants. He’s a big fan of fucking you on your back with your ankles crossed behind his neck, folding you until you’re completely at his mercy, opened up for him to take. Really loves fucking you on your side as well, especially in the middle of the night, under the covers, with you all tangled in his arms, your leg high on his waist, every inch of you pressed against him. Prone doggy works really well too, especially when he covers you with his heavy body, better than any weighted blanket, to take away all your anxieties and help you focus on nothing else than receiving his love, and giving him all of yours. Sometimes he takes you against a wall, when he wants to show off his strength, but your height difference can make it somewhat awkward.

g · goofy

Sephiroth = very dry, and dark, sense of humor. He can be witty at times. When you first began your relationship, he tried so hard to make you laugh even if the jokes were awkward, so you’d relax and feel safer with him. He allowed you to make little jokes in bed, because he knew the tension was hard on your poor nerves. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous either. The nervousness melted away eventually.

h · hair

Sephiroths not very hairy on the rest of his body, courtesy of his light hair. The hair on his head is a different story. Sometimes during sex you’d pull on it without realizing, earning a graon and a, “Do that again.” from above you.

i · intimacy

Any sort of relationship with Sephiroth will need a stupendous amount of trust and intimacy to even exist in the first place. He, just like you, is far too intense, too odd, too traumatized to allow for regular human feelings and relationships. Sex with him feels like you could drown if you aren’t careful. If he didn’t keep you conscious and swimming in his arms, in the tsunami of feelings and sensations you bring to each other. It feels like a declaration of love every time, and you cry under him more than a few times (he’s always so proud of you for giving him so much). Everything about living with Sephiroth is intimate, the s necklace around your neck, the ache between your legs, his scent in your bed, his kisses whenever he’s close to you, his voice permeating your dreams. When you bring him a glass of water while he’s doing reading, and he loops an arm around your hips to bring you closer. He looks up at you just long enough to kiss your hip in thanks, and you curl up with your own book on the couch opposite to him, not prying in his business, but still present. He takes you to bed twenty minutes later. When he makes you strip in front of him while he sits with his legs spread. When you both wake up in tandem at three on some random thursday night, overcome with love, even though you already had each other not five hours ago, you lift your leg over his hip he can slide inside of you. Your face pressed against his throat, while he mumbles insane words about how much he loves you, thanking you for letting him inside you, that he knows it hurts, and you’re his little slut and he loves you to death.

j · jerk off

Sephiroth has this uncanny ability to dominate his environment, to use every single piece of sensory information, of material component for his own purposes. He remembers every sensation, every ache, every movement. He remembers every pleasure, every taste, every feel. When he’s deployed, thousands and thousands of miles away from you, the only thing that can put him to sleep is to drown himself in every sensory memory he has of you. When he’s sharing living areas with his fellow soldiers, he sometimes contents himself with remembering the silk of your skin and the weight and texture of your muscles when he gives you a massage, or the sound and light pulsing of your heart when he lays his head on your chest. Most of the time though, he needs more. He can’t help it, he’s only a man. He’s real good at risking his life, at killing, at being a strategist, analyzing, at manipulating intel out of every person and item around him. He’s also a healthy young guy with a really hot girlfriend and very high libido. He needs the release so he doesn’t go insane again, so his aggressiveness won’t make him do something stupid when he’s out on the field, with dangerously high levels of testosterone thrumming through his blood and his brain reminding him of what you look like bent over. He’s always rough with himself, the way he usually is with you, because he doesn’t know of any other way to express his love for you. Other than to utterly ravage you and himself. He usually thinks of something absolutely depraved, like of being a deranged stalker slipping into your bedroom at night, while you’re sleeping naked and feeling all safe, unaware of the predator looking at you. His hand tugging at his cock faster as he imagines standing over you, pulling your covers down and kneeling over you so he can stare directly between your legs, jerking off on top of your dreaming body, until he comes all over your sex, your inner thighs, your lower belly. A terrifying gift for you to wake up to, so you know there’s a monster watching over you. It makes him so hard to think you’ll always have his claim on you.

k · kink

Panty thief? maybe. Definitely has a scent kink, obsessive/possessive, slight stalker tendencies. Light somnophilia. Very into marking and soft restraints. Wants to know everything about you, all the time. Cannot get enough of hearing you whine and blabber “I love you” when he’s inside you, making you come. Feeling safe to be so utterly needed and worshipped by one he worships also. He knows he likes being in control. he also knows how grateful he is that you give yourself to him. Shibari makes sense then and it makes him go berserk. Nothing else exists in his big brain other than the ritual of tying you up, taking you both into this other space, and you, all bound and pretty, at his mercy, it makes him want to spoil you rotten, want to make you come until you pass out. His whole life, his day to day, his work is a continuum of violence and domination. He’s only ever getting more dangerous, endless potential where most men his age have already reached their prime. It feels sane/normal for him to be in command, to know exactly where he is going, to hurt and kill and destroy in favor of a larger objective. Or maybe the opposite when he actually saves someone. It’s just in his nature, and then he comes home to his partner and takes her as he should.

l · location

He has a preference for your place, because it smells and feels like you. Never in public.

m · motivation

He’s heavily touch-starved, touch-desperate, touch-ravenous. Sephiroth cannot get enough of your hands all over him, caressing his face, tangling in his hair, massaging his scalp, his neck, all over his chest, digging into his back, grabbing his ass, caressing his cock. Even just holding hands gets him going, or when you touch his forearm, trace his muscles and veins with your fingers, and he’s got a thing for you kissing his arm when you’re out in public. It makes him feel so wanted by you, helps him understand you truly do love him. Praise. You praising him. You begging for him. Him providing for you. “Sephi, I love you so much,” with tears running down your flushed face, followed by a little hiccup of pleasure, as he methodically ravages you. “You feel so good inside me, so big, perfect fit.” When you finger yourself open and make yourself take four of your dainty fingers in front of him, dripping wet, begging him that you’re ready, that you can take it, and it’s still a stretch when he fills you up. You telling him you need him, can’t live without him, need his cock, need his cum. Giving yourself to him. He loves protecting you, keeping you safe and sound. Making sure you have everything you need. He needs to be your reason for living, the one you want entirely. He needs you to take his love, take his cock, take his teeth on your neck and his hands all over you. Any show of intimacy gets him going, from you crying in his arms to falling asleep curled up next to him, showering together, whispering your deepest secrets. He also has a (barely) hidden wish to get you pregnant, make you fully his. I should’ve added that to kinks. Breeding kink.

n · no

Not a strict no at first, but he doesn’t really like being penetrated. He’s tried it and it just doesn’t do it quite right for him, though it does make him more considerate towards his partner he tops. A bit of spanking is okay in his book but he’d never want to take it further than that when it comes to violence. He’s rough, and strong, and big, and passionate, but he’d never hurt you for real. You feeling safe in his arms, being needy for his touch is what he craves.

o · oral

Oral is a whole topic for Sephiroth. Its very own category of sex he could spend hours on. He loves eating pussy. He loves giving because it feels so intimate, so good, he wants you on his tongue with your thighs shaking and squeezing around his head. He loves to bite your inner thighs, to make you spread your legs wider. Loves to fuck his tongue inside you and feel you clench, feeling you dripping. Gently sucking on your clit until you go from tense and thrashing to soft and crying his name, begging him to stop, but he knows better, right? This pretty pussy belongs to him, and he’ll lick it for as long as he wants. And you sob out a “Yes, Seph..” that makes his cock throb. He adores making you sit on his face, ready to worship you like the little goddess you are. His offering to you white and sticky on his skin where he came untouched, just from the ecstasy of being surrounded by your body. He loves it as much as you love sucking his cock, taking him on your knees with your aching throat stuffed full. You’ve spent just as many hours licking his cock, the two of you training your mouth, your jaw, your throat to open up enough for him to slide deeper, and deeper, like you cannot get enough of him no matter how much it hurts. He learns you need it as much as he does, and as your dynamic progresses, he learns to use it as a way to center you and himself, to fulfill your mutual craving for obedience. When he comes home and tells you to get on your knees before he even kisses you, tells you to keep his cock warm while he’s reading through a debrief. He never knew there would be so much intimacy in fucking your pretty mouth, holding you down, coming down your throat as there is in licking you open, having his face all drenched in you, feeling every fold of your pussy on his tongue. He also really, really loves to 69.

p · pace

Sephiroth naturally tends towards the rough and fast, but he learns to be soft, to be slow, to be gentle not only because he’s concerned about the stretch he imposes on your sweet cunt, but also because you teach him to explain his feelings without violence. It’s hard for him, but he tries, really hard. He’s especially good at going slow and soft when he’s already come once, or when you’re the more assertive one. He’ll usually be softer when you’re particularly fragile and vulnerable, broken down by whatever troubles your mind and the harshness of the world, to remind you that he’s here and always will be. He’ll protect you against everything but himself, and you can let go of everything else if you just hold onto him.

q · quickie

Penetration with no prep is difficult at best, impossible at worst, but he knows exactly how to take care of you when you suddenly get needy for him and he has no time. Gathers you in his arms, “Spread your legs for me.” and kisses you while his long fingers work you open, mercilessly hitting every single nerve inside you without the slow buildup you prefer, and it feels like electricity running through you, too much, too fast, too strong, and he pulls an orgasm out of you before you can get your bearings, putting you in this fuzzy headspace where he rules everything. Sephiroth loves you all out of sorts and fucked out like this, allowing him to take your body, and to take your mind into a place where you don’t need to think. “I need to leave soon, so you just need to open your pretty mouth and let me fuck your throat, can you do that?”

r · risk

His life is molded around risk and danger. He never risks you, but sometimes the heat of battle, of absolutely dominating during a mission , of danger, it makes him hard, makes him see red, and if you were there, he would do things to you he would not be proud of in the morning.

s · stamina

It took months of continuous sex and of you repeating to him that you loved him and needed him, for his dick to finally occasionally get soft after his first orgasm. It’s better now, but he can still spend the night between your legs, overstimulating you both to tears, coming half a dozen times until he physically cannot get hard anymore, and you can’t even sit up.

t · toys

Big fan of them. Especially since he loooooves overstimulating you.

u · unfair

He’s not that big of a tease, preferring to overstimulate you until you’re sobbing. He knows it hurts to not have anything inside you when you’re turned on, but it also hurts when he forces his cock inside you without any preparation. So he settles for shushing you, gathering you in his arms so he can make out with you while fingering you open, the delicious stretch of his fingers so satisfying. You writhe and moan and curl in his arms like a kitten in heat, and he kisses you endlessly, pressing his weight against you to pin you down, not giving in to your pleas for his dick just yet, “need to stretch you a little more, okay?”

v · volume

Sephiroth is vocal for sure. His voice drops an octave when he’s turned on, he can’t help it. When he tells you dirty things it often ends in animalistic sounds, he’s a growler. He tries to muffle those sounds at first, afraid of scaring you, because you’re so pretty and sweet, you don’t deserve to get fucked by someone who can barely keep himself from sinking his teeth into your pretty throat. Then he understood that you like the gravel in his voice, and his breaths, his moans, his whines, his breathless little growls that rumble in his chest. He learns to be a little louder for you. Most of all, he learns how wet his voice makes you, and that his pet names, loving and degrading and praising you. It makes you go insane. He loves making you whine, cry out, and sob his name. Loves when he manages to break through your self consciousness until you forget everything but him and scream.

w · wild card

Can occasionally be submissive, usually when emotion is breaking him down, and your love is the only thing keeping him from drowning, the only light at the end of the tunnel. That usually means you overstimulating him like he does you, telling him you love him while kissing his forehead, and he whines and comes and comes and comes. Will send you dick pics, and videos of himself jerking off, especially when he’s away. He has a secret folder in his phone cause he just misses you. You make him hard even when you’re not there. He keeps a stash of slutty pictures of his love.

x · x-ray

Sephiroth is big everywhere, and he knows it.
“F-fuck Seph, you’re so biiiig” makes his head spin, and when you add “it’s too big, I can’t take it” with wet eyes brimming with tears, looking up at him in adoration, he has no choice but to reply: “It’s not even halfway in, honey. I know you can take it, though, can’t you? Just trust me, baby, give yourself to me.” He shows you he can split you open without pain, bigger than anything you thought was possible for you, taking you to a place beyond ecstasy. It takes all of your focus each time, feels more like a religious experience than anything else, like receiving a god inside you. But for him you’ll do anything. Rearrange your body however he wants, loving him as intensely as he loves you.


y · yearn

Ready to go at a moment’s notice, ever eager for your touch, your kisses. Sephiroth is a frozen abyss of thought and feeling that never learned how to express anything other than what he needs to accomplish, specific objectives. There’s a presence inside him howling for love, bleeding for your attention. He’d like to have you every morning and every night. Have you preen under his caresses during the day, and allow him to do awful things to your body while you sleep. Trusting him like he’s some kind of knight instead of a wild animal.

z · zzz

Sephiroth has had trouble sleeping for years now, never really having a truly safe place to rest at night has messed with his brain. In your cozy little place though, in your plush bed, his body closest to the door, you curled up in his arms, he slowly learns to relax and let go of constant vigilance. Sex helps too, especially when he allows himself to use you until he’s come once, twice, sometimes thrice or more. Then after you’re both cleaned up, he wraps you up in his arms and kisses you until you both drift off. You usually wake up with his arms around your throat and face, pressing you fully against him, an iron embrace you’d have trouble breaking from if he didn’t wake up at the same time as you.

— ʚɞ

i hc sephiroth as a sub most of the time but i love picturing him this way too.

[dragonjesterwrites]

Things I have learned from HW2:

I need to make Moon +110% more giggly, and Sun +110% more sassy

[bunnis-monsters]

NSFW

A/N: another kofi request!

When you walked for a while through the thick forest near your home, you were able to find a meadow full of deer hybrids.

It was a secret place, one only a few human beings knew about. Among those humans was you, a young woman currently being courted by one of those feet hybrids.

“My dear!”

You felt arms wrap around your torso from behind, your neck being peppered in warm kisses as you were pulled close.

This was your current predicament. A few months ago you spotted a deer hybrid struggling in a trap meant for regular deer. You knew if the hunter found them he’d be taken to the city and sold as a pet, so you quickly used your pocket knife to cut him free.

The second he was out of his bonds, he nearly tackled you, rubbing and butting against your neck and nearly impaling you with his horns.

“Mate… my mate…”

And that’s how you ended up at the meadow again, visiting him. If you didn’t come once a week to see the fluffy thing, he’d try coming out of the woods and into your neighborhood.

Of course, that was dangerous. Between cars, hunters, and lots of people wanting a cute deer hybrid as a pet, the human world wasn’t safe.

You made a deal with him. Every weekend you’d come and spend time with him. The first time you proposed this deal to him, he leapt with joy, his fluffy tail wiggling super fast.

So today you brought your picnic basket, setting out a blanket and preparing the snacks as he waited patiently nearby. Sometimes he could be a bit shy after greeting you, quickly retreating behind other deer hybrids and peaking out at you with his big doe eyes.

The second you were done, he trotted back, letting out a happy whine when you patted your lap. He loved laying his head there.

His ears flicked, and he looked up at you through his lashes, batting them. Clearly, he was a whore for your attention.

You always knew the best spots to scratch and rub, always getting behind his ears and at the base of his antlers.

His tail wagged, and you couldn’t help but lift it slightly too look at his cute butt, making his head jerk up.

“Mate? You want to mate?”

The deer hybrid excitedly nuzzled against you, pushing you down on the blanket. He let out little grunts, his tail still going crazy behind him.

“N-not yet, not yet.”

He pouted, but quickly returned to relaxing in your lap, almost purring at every scratch and pet. You knew rutting season was soon by now antsy he had been to mate with you lately… and you were preparing yourself to help him.

The guy always wanted to be by your side, bringing you fresh berries and honey he collected. You were his mate, and he wanted to give you all the sweet things he could find!

And boy was he possessive! He would let out whines and grunts when other males approached, pointing his antlers at them and holding you close. It was just too cute!

For months you came and went, giving him the attention he needed while getting to relax and escape all the stress life had to give.

Curling up with him, playing with his soft puffy hair and watching him get all giddy and excited really calmed you down. His fluffy tail always wagged when you were around, wagging even harder when you scratched a good spot or gave him snuggles.

But his rut had finally come in full force, and you knew he needed you.

This time when you came to visit, he was alone, whimpering softly and pumping his cock. He seemed distressed, and you were quick to lower yourself by his side, your fingers gently glazing his swollen tip.

“Shh, shh… I’m here. It’ll be okay.”

He looked up at you through his thick lashes, sniffling. It seemed he had grown attached and reliant on you.

“Please…”

How could you say no to those big, warm doe eyes?

The second your fingers wrapped around his cock, he let out a moan, his hips bucking lightly. He needed his release, and your hand wouldn’t cut it soon enough.

He came quicker than expected, and soon he was mounting you.

The entire time he mated with you, he was more gentle than you’d think a buck in rut would be. He was constantly nuzzling into you, thrusting just hard enough to satisfy you, but not any harder.

When he came inside, his ears twitched and tail wagged, and he melted when you reached out to play with his ears while his cum shot into your womb.

After mating you, he was a happy little thing, making a sort of purring sound while he nuzzled his face against your neck.

Perhaps being mates with him wouldn’t be so bad after all…

————————

NSFW TAGLIST: @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @binnieonabike @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko

[moonlightwritingf1]

Slow Burn | LN4

✿﹒❀ summary ━━━━━━━ Though they’d been dating for three months and kept things slow and respectful, tonight—alone in his apartment—all that patient restraint melts away as Y/N playfully presses herself against Lando, clothes still on. She takes the lead, grinding against him until they both come.

✿﹒❀ pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

✿﹒❀ word count ━━━━━━━ 3.6k

✿﹒❀ warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content, dry humping

Based on this request.

Y/N had landed in Monaco late that afternoon, nerves and excitement tangled in her stomach like a knot she couldn’t untie. She still remembered the heat that hit her the second she stepped out of the taxi—the thick, golden warmth of the early Mediterranean evening pressing against her skin. Normally, the view of the calm marina outside Lando’s apartment would’ve made her pause, maybe even breathe it in. But not this time. She barely glanced at it. All she could think about was getting upstairs and seeing him. It had been two weeks. Just fourteen days, but each one had felt like a month. His schedule had been relentless, and she’d felt every single second of the distance between them.

They’d officially been a couple for three months, yet still hadn’t had sex, something Y/N had insisted on taking slow because she was inexperienced, and Lando had respected her wishes every step of the way. He never pushed, never crossed her boundaries, but that didn’t mean the tension wasn’t there, simmering just beneath the surface. He was every bit as horny and desperate for her as she sometimes felt in those lingering moments before sleep.

She let herself in with the spare key he’d given her weeks ago, the quiet beep of the electronic lock announcing her arrival. The blast of cool air hit her as she stepped inside, sending little shivers racing up her arms. “Lando?” she called out, but there was no answer. He was probably in the shower or in the bedroom. The living room was spotless—no hoodies draped over the couch, no controllers left on the floor, nothing out of place. It made her smile. He’d definitely tidied up for her. Just the thought of him doing that, of him caring about what she’d see when she walked in, sent a flutter through her chest and down to her stomach.

A minute later, she heard him behind her. She turned and let out a laugh of pure delight when she saw him: hair damp, wearing a loose T-shirt and gray joggers, that impossibly boyish grin stretching across his face. It was the grin that had charmed her from day one.

“Surprise,” he murmured, stepping up to her and sliding his arms around her waist. The moment his fingers touched her, every ounce of tension she’d carried on the flight evaporated. “I was trying to look cool and nonchalant for when you walked in,” he teased. “Figured you’d let yourself in, but I couldn’t wait to say hi.”

“You look ridiculous,” she joked softly, sliding her arms around his neck, rising up on tiptoe. “Ridiculously cute, I mean.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, letting out a playful groan. “God, I missed you, baby. I missed you so damn much.”

“I missed you too.”

Lando’s lips brushed hers in a kiss that started sweet but soon deepened as days of longing flared to the surface. She tasted faint traces of mint toothpaste—he must have just brushed his teeth—and the scent of his shower gel made her dizzy with need. She melted into him, allowing his hands to roam along her back in slow, reverent strokes.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, he took her suitcase into his bedroom. She couldn’t help following, watching the gentle definition of muscle shift beneath his T-shirt as he walked. It always amazed her that he was so physically strong yet tender with her in every movement.

They decided to spend a quiet evening at home, cooking a quick meal and then curling up to watch a movie. He insisted it should be a comedy, claiming he’d had enough adrenaline for the week and wanted to relax. She settled beside him on the couch, her thigh pressed close against his. The warmth of his body already had her feeling hyper aware of every small contact.

“Which one do you want?” he asked, flipping through streaming platforms with the remote.

“You choose,” she replied, tucking her legs beneath her. She couldn’t concentrate enough to care. All her senses kept drifting back to the fact that Lando was right here, so close, smelling of soap and aftershave, heartbeat strong under that T-shirt.

He picked some random rom-com that neither of them really paid attention to once it started. She tried to follow the plot, but his presence was too distracting. Every time he shifted, her nerves went spiked. A few times, she noticed him glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

After about half an hour, the movie blurred into the background, and her thoughts swirled with longing. She snuggled closer, resting her head on his shoulder, her hand drifting up to toy with a strand of his curls. Lando exhaled a shaky breath at her touch.

“You okay?” she whispered, biting her lip mischievously. She knew exactly what she was doing—turning on the playful energy that had teased him mercilessly before they got together.

He slid an arm around her, pulling her even closer. “Just happy to have you here,” he murmured, pressing a small kiss to her temple.

She wasn’t sure what came over her right then, but the two-week separation had done a number on her self-control. She found herself leaning in to press her lips to his throat, just beneath his jawline. He stilled, inhaling sharply. She grazed her teeth along his pulse point, gently, testing. He let out a soft moan.

“That’s not fair,” he breathed. “You know how sensitive I am there.”

“Mm, do I?” she teased, kissing the spot again. “I thought maybe you’d forgotten about me after all those days away.”

“You’re insane,” he chuckled, the laugh turning to a low growl when she nipped his skin. “God, I missed this.”

Their focus on the movie faded bit by bit, until it was nothing more than soft flickers of light playing across the room—background noise to the tension slowly crackling between them. Her hand slid up his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. God, he felt warm. Real. She bit the inside of her cheek, nerves twisting with want. How far was she ready to go tonight? She wasn’t sure she could handle going all the way—not yet—but she wanted more. More of his touch, more of that fire sparking in her skin every time he looked at her. More than they'd ever dared to cross before.

Without speaking, she swung a leg over his lap so she faced him. Her knees sank into the couch cushions on either side of his hips, and she saw how his pupils dilated with barely-concealed hunger. She set her hands on his shoulders.

“You’re torturing me,” he breathed, sliding his hands to her waist.

She smiled and leaned in to press her lips against his softly. “No,” she whispered against his mouth, “I’m rewarding you for waiting.”

He groaned low in his throat. “I’d wait forever for you, but holy hell, baby…”

Before he could finish, she captured his lips again, guiding him into a deep, hungry kiss that made her entire body tingle. Their tongues brushed, sending sparks through her veins, and she felt him squeeze her hips. His warm palms skimmed the small of her back, urging her closer. She shifted until she was firmly seated on his lap, feeling the subtle but undeniable presence of him beneath his joggers. He wasn’t fully hard yet, but she could still feel the weight and potential of him pressing against her, and it sent a thrill straight through her core.

She rocked her hips forward experimentally, testing the friction, and felt him twitch beneath her. His breath hitched, and his hands tightened on her waist, pulling her even closer. She did it again, this time with a little more intention, and the soft moan that escaped his lips was all the encouragement she needed.

“God, Y/N,” he murmured against her mouth, his voice already rough with desire. “What are you doing to me?”

She smirked, her lips brushing against his as she spoke. “Just seeing what happens,” she teased, her voice low and husky. “Does it feel good?”

He groaned, leaning his forehead against hers. “You’re killing me, baby. You know exactly how good it feels.”

She rocked her hips again, slower this time, dragging herself against him in a way that made his breath catch. She could feel him growing harder beneath her, and the power it gave her was intoxicating. His hands slid down to her thighs, gripping them as if he was trying to ground himself, but she could see the tension building in him, the way his jaw clenched and his eyes filled with need.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” she whispered, her lips trailing along his jaw. “So desperate for me. Do you want more?”

“Fuck, yes,” he growled, his hands moving to her hips, guiding her movements. “Don’t stop, please. Just like that.”

She obliged, rolling her hips in a steady rhythm, feeling the heat growing between them. His body responded to her every movement, his hardness pressing insistently against her. 

He murmured her name, voice thick with longing, as she kept rocking her hips against his now-hard length. He let out a ragged breath, burying a hand in her hair to keep her mouth on his. She kissed him deeper, tongues tangling, moaning softly when he matched her intensity.

When she pulled back for air, he looked up at her with wide, lust-blown eyes. “I—I don’t want you to feel like you have to—”

“Shh,” she whispered, pressing a finger to his lips. “Don’t worry. I want this. Not everything, but more…like this.”

He swallowed hard. “Oh, trust me, I want it too.”

She took the initiative, grinding down on him again, more firmly this time. His hands tightened on her waist, a broken moan escaping him.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he muttered, eyes half-lidded, a faint blush dusting his cheeks.

She felt a rush of warmth flood her own body. Seeing him like this—so undone—did things to her. It was a heady mixture of power and tenderness. For months, he’d been the one pursuing her, chasing her, practically begging for her attention. And now she was giving it, wholeheartedly, indulging in the way he reacted.

She set a slow, rhythmic motion, rolling her hips forward so that her core brushed over the prominent bulge in his pants again and again. It was still separated by layers of fabric, but even through the cotton, the friction was enough to send jolts of pleasure skittering across her nerves.

“Baby, your body…holy shit,” he breathed, letting his head fall back against the couch, his eyes fluttering shut. “You feel so good.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her chest to his, and kissed his jaw, nibbling gently. “Yeah? Tell me.”

A strangled sound left his throat. “Fuck, you’re driving me insane. I can feel how warm you are. I can’t believe you’re—God, I…I can’t think straight when you’re on my lap like this.”

She smirked and shifted again, taking a moment to relish his reaction. He visibly trembled, his breathing coming in shallow pants. She dipped her head to whisper near his ear. “I want you to feel good,” she said, words rolling from her tongue more boldly than she ever expected of herself. “I want you to love this, Lando.”

He swallowed. “I do love it. More than you know. I’m so fucking in love with you. I’ve wanted this for…God, feels like forever. I just—I don’t want to push you.”

“You’re not,” she assured him, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his neck. Her next sentence came out laced with mischief: “I’m doing exactly what I want to do.”

She braced her hands on his shoulders, using them as leverage to move her hips in deeper, firmer circles. The friction, oh God, it shot waves of pleasure up her spine. She was already beginning to feel a persistent ache between her thighs, an ache that made her want more contact, more pressure. He groaned, arching his back to press against her.

“Fuck,” he breathed, a desperate edge creeping into his tone. “You keep moving like that, I might lose it.”

She moved even more deliberately, letting out a small gasp at the delicious friction. “Yeah? You going to cum in your pants for me?” she teased, not entirely sure where this surge of confidence had come from, but thrilling in it.

His cheeks flamed, and he swallowed harshly. “I—damn it, you’re so…you have no idea. You could probably make me do anything right now.”

She giggled softly, though her own breath was unsteady. “Is that so?”

“Absolutely,” he rasped, his voice tight. “I’ve never—God, I’ve never felt this turned on from just…grinding. ”

She bit her lip, pressing herself against him again, feeling the hardness strained beneath his boxers and joggers. “I like that,” she murmured, “knowing I can make you feel like that.”

He looked up at her, eyes glazed with desire, but there was such fondness there. “I’m obsessed with you,” he admitted, voice quivering. “Completely, stupidly obsessed. I’d do anything for you. I—ughh—” He cut himself off with a moan as she slid forward again, pressing deliberately against the throbbing shape beneath her.

She could practically feel the tension tightening in his body, ready to snap. Her own pulse hammered in her ears. The peak of her own orgasm drew closer with each rub of fabric on flesh. The friction was maddening. She pressed her forehead to his, panting. “Fuck, Lando. This is…this is so hot.”

“You’re telling me,” he groaned, tilting his head to capture her lips. His kiss was messy, desperate. They breathed each other in, tongues meeting in urgent strokes. He tasted of need, raw and insistent.

She poured all her frustration from the past weeks into every shift of her hips, whining softly when a wave of pleasure nearly blinded her. Her body was on fire, nerve endings sparked with every move. She curled her fingers into his hair for stability, half-lost in the sensations.

He parted from her lips just long enough to gasp, “You’re so gorgeous…like this…on top of me. God, I love it. I—fuck, I’m close, baby.”

She was right on the edge too, her lower belly tight, throbbing with desperate heat that had her pussy clenching around nothing. Her hips rolled instinctively, chasing friction. She dragged her lips to his ear, breath hot, voice trembling with want. “I’m so fucking close,” she whispered, the words catching in her throat. A flush of shame and boldness twisted through her, but she said it anyway. “Keep talking to me.”

He groaned, eyes rolling back slightly. “You love hearing me lose my mind, huh?”

“Mmm, yes,” she purred. “I love hearing you so turned on for me.”

His breath hitched. “God, I am. I’m so fucking turned on. I love it when you take charge, I love feeling your body, feeling how wet you are, even through your clothes. Shit, I—I can’t believe we can do this with clothes on. My boxers are so fucking tight. I’m losing it.”

Hearing him say such dirty words in that breathless voice made her insides clench. The way he talked to her—so shameless, so fucking dirty—had her clenching around nothing, dripping through her panties, desperate for more. She slammed her hips down against him, grinding hard, chasing the brutal friction like her life depended on it. A loud, broken moan tore from her throat as her clit dragged just right against him. 

“Fuck—right there,” she gasped, breath hitching. The knot in her belly tightened to the point of pain, every muscle trembling, every nerve screaming for that final push. Her body was on fire, on the verge of losing it, ready to fall apart the second he said one more filthy thing. The tension was unbearable—white-hot and pulsing between her legs—so close she could taste it.

His fingers dug into her waist, the pressure of his grip sending a jolt of pleasure through her. “That’s it,” he gasped, his voice ragged and desperate. “Keep going, don’t stop, baby. You feel so fucking amazing. I…I can’t—” His words were cut off as she bent to kiss him fiercely, swallowing his groan. Their tongues tangled again, hot and wet, the kiss deepening with every passing second. She was no longer self-conscious about the needy, breathy noises she made. He drank them in as if they were the sweetest sound, his lips moving against hers with a hunger that matched her own.

Her thighs trembled, the muscles tight and aching as she ground herself against him. “I’m…there,” she whimpered, letting her eyes flutter closed. “Lando, oh my God—” Her voice broke, the pleasure building so intensely that she could barely form words.

“Me too,” he managed, his eyes shut tight, his expression ravaged by ecstasy. “I can’t hold it. You’re gonna make me cum just from this, you have no clue—ah!” His hips jerked upward uncontrollably, his cock straining against the fabric of his boxers, desperate for more friction.

She could feel him, hot and hard beneath her, the fabric of his joggers and boxers doing little to disguise the sheer size of him. Her pussy clenched at the thought, the wetness between her thighs growing with every movement. She ground down one last time, pressing her body firmly to his, and everything inside her erupted. A wave of pleasure slammed through her core, drawing a raw cry from her lips. She shook, her nails scratching lightly at his scalp as she clung to him, her orgasm ripping through her with an intensity she had never felt before.

Her pussy throbbed, the sensation almost overwhelming as her clit pulsed against him. She could feel every twitch and throb of her own body as the pleasure radiated outwards, leaving her breathless and trembling. He let out a strangled groan in response, burying his face in her neck as his entire body tensed. She felt him jerk beneath her, his hands clutching her waist with near-desperate force.

“Fuck,” he choked out, his voice trembling. “I’m—God—I’m cumming.”

Oh my God, she thought, her mind going hazy with pleasure. He was cumming, just from this, just from her grinding against him. The realization sent another wave of pleasure crashing through her, her pussy clenching around nothing as she came again, harder this time. She could feel the wetness soaking through her panties, the heat of her arousal mingling with the pressure of his body beneath her.

His cock twitched violently, and she could feel the dampness of his release soaking through the fabric of his boxers. It was so intimate, so raw, and it made her orgasm intensify, rolling through her in pulsing waves. She collapsed against his chest, her body spent and trembling as she rode out the last tremors of her climax. Her head swam with sensation, the world around her fading into a blur as she clung to him, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

He was panting raggedly, half-whimpering into the crook of her neck. His hands slid down to her thighs, his fingers gripping her tightly as if he was afraid she might disappear. “Fuck,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and shaky. “That was…Jesus, Y/N. I’ve never—” He broke off, shaking his head as if he couldn’t find the words.

She shifted slightly, her pussy still throbbing with the aftershocks of her orgasm. “I can’t believe that just happened,” she murmured, her voice soft and dazed. “You okay?” she asked softly.

He let out a laugh that was half-disbelieving, half-euphoric. “I’ve never been better. That was… I never came in my pants before. Ever. Not even as a horny teenager.”

She blushed at the admission, a surge of pride coursing through her. “Guess there’s a first time for everything.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes shining with fondness. “You have no idea what you do to me. That was insane, in the best way. God, I love you.”

Her heart squeezed at the tenderness in his tone. “I love you, too.” She paused, chewing the inside of her cheek. “Was it weird that I, um, basically just used you to get off?”

He burst out laughing, a soft, joyous sound. “Weird? Fuck, no. I loved it. I love it when you take control. You can use me anytime you want, baby.”

She couldn’t help but giggle, pressing a kiss to his nose. “You say that now, but let’s not ruin all your boxers.”

He cracked up, shaking his head in amusement. “If it means you’re on top of me doing that again, I’d happily sacrifice every pair I own.”

She rolled her eyes playfully, shifting a bit on his lap, and felt the wet spot in the front of his joggers. “Sorry,” she said in a small voice. “You’re kind of a mess.”

He shrugged, eyes twinkling. “Worth it. Besides, I can change.”

She blushed, her cheeks heating at the intensity of his gaze.

He smirked, his hands moving to cup her face. “I’m fucking obsessed with you,” he admitted, his voice raw with emotion. “Every time I think I can’t want you more, you do something like this and prove me wrong.”

Her heart swelled at his words, and she leaned in to kiss him softly. “I’m obsessed with you too,” she whispered against his lips.

He groaned, pulling her closer. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured, his voice filled with a mix of affection and desire.

She smiled, resting her forehead against his. “I’ll try not to kill you…yet,” she teased, her voice light and playful.

He laughed, the sound warm and genuine, and she felt a rush of affection for him. She knew they were both exhausted, spent from the intensity of what had just happened, but she couldn’t help but feel a sense of contentment as she lay there in his arms. She was safe, she was loved, and she was exactly where she wanted to be.

[luveline]

𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐤 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

You and Spencer finally find time for your first time. 6k

fem, afab!reader, mostly confident!reader, foreplay, oral sex, p in v sex, lovey dovey tender loser sex, established relationship, pet names, aftercare, requested here <3

cw for smut, minors do not read or interact, 18+ content

˗ˋˏ ʚ♡ɞ ˎˊ˗

“Can you stay still?”

“No,” you answer honestly.

Spencer climbs further toward you on the bed. “I’m trying to help. You’re no good at buttons.”

You’re no good at buttons because your fingers shake whenever you and Spencer get close like this, and with these intentions. You’d always thought he’d be the shy one —sometimes you take his hand in the back of the work car to watch his cheeks go a rosy, unignorable pink. He’s the more introverted of the two of you and he always has been, so why does his touch have you trembling already?

Excitement, you decide, heart in your mouth as his fingers begin to pop your buttons through each matching slit. This is exactly what happened last time you and Spencer tried (and were sorely interrupted). You’d been out of breath and in his lap, too excited to see to his buttons, too busy kissing him to take much notice as he’d taken care of them himself. And then work called, your plans were cancelled, and he’d promised you that you’d get to do this soon.

“I’m good at buttons,” you deny, leaning back on the palms of your hands as his pinky’s brush up, the sides of your shirt falling open.

“Oh, you’re back,” he says. He’s teasing in bed. You aren’t expecting it. “You went somewhere else for a few seconds, you okay?” That’s less teasing, more sweet.

His hands pause just under where your bra begins.

You take a breath. “I’m okay, I’m thinking about last time.”

He leans in for a kiss, a quick but steady catching that has your face following him as he pulls away again, and undoes your next button. “Which part?”

The part where he’d insisted you’d be laying down for this. The memory alone inspires heat, pleasure and wanting from the depth of your chest, your stomach, ever lower.

“Did you lock your door?” you ask.

Your phones are off. The door is locked. Spencer promises as much in your ear as leans in closer to you, crawls that last few inches of space to have your legs tangled atop his white sheets, his hand disappearing under the open sides of your shirt. The other hand works the last few buttons, but you don’t get to watch him do it, distracted by his fingers hot on the small of your back and his lips as he pulls you in tight for another kiss.

This one’s slow. He holds you like he’s worried you’re gonna slip out of his arm where it curls behind you, cool air kissing your chest as he gets the last button by your neck and encourages either side away from you. You lean into him and shake your shirt down the lengths of your arms, finally shirtless in front of him again after days of trying. You try to keep up with his kissing, he’s intense, he’s everywhere, but you run out of breath.

“Oh,” you say uselessly, your cheek against his as he kisses your jaw.

“What, angel?” he asks, breath warm to your skin, “What’s up?”

“Nothing… I wore my nice bra for you.”

“You did?” He promptly pulls away. His face is pinking, but it’s so warm you can’t blame him for it. You’re sure he’d feel a furnace under your skin if he touched your forehead. Spencer’s gaze falls down to your chest, where it stays, his own rising and falling with a noticeable sharpness. “That’s pretty. You’re pretty.” He swallows as he looks up. “Your nice bra? Just one?”

You cover a breast with your hand and push it up ever so slightly. “This is the one I thought you’d like most. You like blue.”

“I love blue. I love you, I love you,” he says, leaning around you to move your discarded shirt to the floor. “Can I take it off?”

You nod with a stupid smile. Fond and too eager. “Please.”

“How many tries do I get?” he asks, grabbing your sides in two gentle hands, pulling you forward into a hug as he reaches behind you for the clasp.

“You can do it one,” you promise, voice a murmur now he’s close to you.

You let your hands rest on his hips as he pinches the clasp and pushes it together. Like magic, it comes apart. Spencer holds the unclasped sides to your naked back for a few seconds, his breath loud in your ear, before he sits back to look at you.

You push the straps of your bra down, let the support of your bra fall away. You ball it up in your lap, sitting there bare-chested and smiling, waiting, hoping you’re as beautiful to him as he’s always made you feel.

His hand climbs your arm. “You’re beautiful,” he says, “can I–”

“Yeah, please. Please.”

His thumb rubs a short line from your navel to the skin just below your breast. Your chest feels suddenly heavy, the half-lidded set of his eyes on you like a weight, but it’s one you realise you like as he rubs the indent of your bra. “You’re so pretty,” he says, his thumb pressing into the underside of your breast, kind but undeniably there, and your body reacts to his touch, which is another thing. He doesn’t coo, but it’s close. “How does that feel?” he asks quietly, drawing under your nipple with his thumb.

“Can you kiss me some more?” you ask, breathless in a way that’s almost painful.

Spencer clutches you by your sides, unafraid to play with you, pressing you down into the bed as his hands traverse up. You shuffle back into the pillows and let your eyes shutter closed, his nose pressing hard into yours as your lips meet again. He kisses hungrily. He’s treated you to a few heavy kisses in the past, nothing compares now to the open crescent of his lips and the feeling of his hands. His tongue is hot where it touches your lips, wading in. You sigh into his mouth and feel his own sigh in return as he breaks it.

“Fuck,” he says, his breath coloured by pleasure. He’s practically moaning in your ear as a big hand squeezes your chest.

You can’t take this. You lift your hips and graze against him, rushing to reach down and slip your skirt over the curve of your ass and over stocking clad thighs. You try to push them along at the same time, breathing hard.

Spencer notices what you’re doing and reaches to help.

“Your shirt,” you argue, faces close, his confusion an inch away, as are his pinked lips, “take your shirt off, Spencer, I can do this myself.”

“But why should you have to?” he says, though he listens, making quick work of his button up.

You kick your stockings off of your feet and lay there, warm, overwhelmed but desperate at once, watching him on his knees as he manages his last button and peels out of his shirt. You cross your legs tightly against the achy heat blooming in your cunt, uncharacteristically shy.

His chest is pale, without a freckle nor beauty mark, but he’s shapely. You've kissed him so much these last few months, traced the hills and rigid muscle of his front with an adoring hand under his clothes, but the two of you being similarly bared is different.

It’s worse when he reaches for the button of his slacks.

You bite your lip. “Spencer, can I do it?”

“Yeah.” He swallows again. “Of course you can. Don’t ask me.”

He’s getting warm, curls of his hair falling into his eyes, his breath a constant huff. The bulge of him through his slacks draws your attention. You crawl toward him where he’s kneeling, checking his face. When he nods, you rub the very pad of your thumb against the line of his cock, feel it jump at your touch. Your heart jumps in a similar place.

“This okay?” you whisper, your touch light enough that you’re surprised he can feel it.

“Please.” He says your name like you’ve hurt him. “Please. Take them off.”

“I can’t believe you’re like that just from kissing me,” you say sincerely, a mumble as you pop the button and dig your fingertip under the zipper, which you pull down in one smooth line. There’s an immediate release of pressure against his cock. You blink. It’s so warm in here. “Spence, can I–”

“Please.”

You nod to yourself and shift onto one elbow, shocked and even warmer when Spencer plumps a pillow behind you. Your anticipation is an ache that won’t ebb, hands trembling again as you pull the band of his pants down his hips and expose a pair of white and blue boxer briefs. A darkened patch of material rests against the tip of his cock, the curve of him ever harder as you touch him.

He sucks in air through his teeth.

“Aw, Spence,” you say, pressing the length of your thumb to his cock and breathing out as you ride the curve of him up to that wet spot. “Sweetheart… Does that feel good?”

He closes his hand on top of yours and holds you there. “Can I kiss you?” he asks.

“I think I gotta kiss you first,” you say, eyes on his straining boxers. “Think you might need one.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. I’ll ruin everything before we’ve even started, you can’t kiss me like that.”

“Are you sure? I can make sure you’re ready.”

You’d never force him into anything. You’re letting him know it’s alright. You’re not gonna push him over the edge before he’s done, you just wanna do all the stuff with him that you’ve been dreaming about for a while now. You have a feeling he might enjoy it.

“You can tell me to stop whenever you need me to,” you say softly, feeling his cock twitch in your hand at the mere sound of your voice. “I wanna see you.”

He laughs infectiously, almost drunkenly, the two of you giggling as he shifts your hands. He doesn’t say anything more, only moves your hands down over the softer base of his cock to encourage his pants out of the way, and then his boxers.

His cock is pretty like he is as he pulls it out. You knew it would be. A little taller than your hand, he tugs it toward his stomach and you watch in delight as a string of precum catches the light, wetting his palm.

You’re patient. He lets it stand without help and you curl your hand where his had been at the base, his cock shining in lines, that welling of precum spread messily around and worse when you give a soft pump. “Oh my god,” he mumbles, shuffling closer to you on his knees, his hand leaping to your shoulder. “Oh, god.”

You tilt your head. “How’s that, baby?”

“Please, angel.”

You lean in for a kiss.

Just a kiss, but your lips part, your spit ready on your tongue and slick in a heavy line up the side of his cock. All you can think of in that moment is how much you want him, how gentle his hand is on your shoulder despite the wounded little breath he lets out, and the stickying feeling of wetness that grows between your thighs, your underwear damp at the very centre and clinging to you as you crawl as close to his front as you can get. You kiss and kiss up the side of him, not silly enough to love on his most sensitive skin at the head, not after his warning, though the idea of his cock shuddering against your lips and tongue makes you squeeze your eyes closed.

You kiss shy of his tip and tilt your head back to look at him. He’s already watching you, squinting with a palpable agony.

“Are you okay? Is that alright?” you ask, loosening your grip on his cock to draw a loving, sweet line down, and down.

He catches your wrist. “You can’t do that again,” he warns gently, hint of a smile in his eyes. You beam at him adoringly. “Lay back? There’s something in my way.”

“In your way,” you murmur through a smile, laying back in the pillows as he’s asked you.

Spencer sheds his slacks and boxers. You pull your legs up to give him room to kneel on the bed by your legs, pulse like a constant humming ache against your cunt as he takes your calves into his hands and presses your knees together. “You’re not gonna say please like I did, are you?” he asks.

“Do you need me to?” you ask, teasing him with your own hand, letting it travel from the base of your throat and over a tightened breast to your stomach, then your underwear. You flick the waistband. His eyelashes flare. “I can say please, Spence, I’d love to say please for you. Is that what you want me to do?”

“I don’t ever want you to say please, you know that.” He encourages one leg flat to the bed. The other, he pushes up, fabric of your underwear tight to your warm cunt and heartbeat surely taking up station in your throat. “Maybe I can say please.” His hand coasts down your thigh. “Would you like that?”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t say please, or don’t touch you?” he asks, stopping his squeezing.

“Spencer!” you laugh, moving your hips ever so slightly, raising them in hopes of his understanding. “This is cruel, I didn’t tease you.”

“You’re nice,” he says, again pressing your leg up toward your stomach, eyes on the bump of your cunt as he begins to lean down. “You’re perfect,” he murmurs, pressing a surprising kiss to your soft inner thigh. “So perfect.” Closer now, nose skirting toward the elastic of your underwear. “Please, can I?”

You press your shaky hand to your lips, palm out. “Please,” you say into your skin. “Yeah. Yes, you can. Can you?”

A kiss to the skin beside your cunt, his free hand riding up to squeeze the bump of it, his thumb pressing against wet heat, your breath caught. He rubs a line up from the wet to your clit, and he smiles when he finds it, though that smile is swiftly overtaken by parting lips as he kisses a mixture of skin and fabric and starts to suck. You hiccup at the feeling.

“You sound cute when you’re happy,” he says into your thigh. He turns his head slowly, looking up at you, his thumb rubbing almost absentmindedly at the sensitive little hood of your clit, your nerves all over the place. He’s giving you the puppy eyes, big and brown and in sickly love with you.

“Happy’s not the right word,” you breathe out.

“I should fix that, right?”

Your stomach does a hard flip. “Yeah.”

Spencer isn’t as timid about it as you’d imagined he’d be, his reality better than any fantasy, his hands kind but quick where twists his fingers into the waistband of your underwear as he begins pulling them down.

He lets out a long breath as the air kisses your cunt, his eyes trained obviously on one spot in particular as he takes your panties all the way to your feet. He rolls one leg off, leaves the other hanging at your ankle as he grabs the soft underside of your knee and encourages your leg up.

You can feel your cunt spread, feel the wetness that had been growing dribble from you. “Ah,” you say, more breath than word while he holds your leg in place. “Spencer–”

“Am I hurting you?”

“No, no, I just need you to touch me, please, I–”

He says your name, says, “Hey, don’t talk like that, I’ve got you, I’m gonna touch you, just needed to know you’re okay–”

“Spencer–” you squirm with wanting.

“I know,” he says, the tip of his cock turned impossibly red where it’s resting against the heaving of his abs, “trust me.”

He reaches for your abdomen, his palm resting lovingly on the pudge of your tummy. You squirm for it lower. “If you think I’m not gonna give you everything you want, you're crazy. When don’t you get your way?” He leans down, and to your relief, your little gasp of breath, he kisses your naked cunt. “When don’t I want to give it to you?” he asks into your skin.

Every word he says is heat and movement against the nerves that make up your clit. You practically shiver as he lets his lips part against you and kisses all over, unafraid to feel every little bit of you, his tongue pressed wet and flat your softest parts. You spread your legs in anticipation of him, his thank you a kiss that lights up every nerve ending you have that stems from your hips, the breath racing out of you and moans not far behind. He rubs the length of your leg, his fingers trailing towards his kissing. The hand that isn’t up to something just loves on your skin. The hand that is pauses shy of your cunt’s wet hole —you can’t help letting out a choked moan as he sucks on your clit and the skin around it, sudden, the feeling of hot slick dripping from you worse as he pulls away with a quiet pop.

His lips shine in the lamplight. “I’m gonna start getting you ready, okay?” he asks, a small smile somewhere in the midst of a gaze that’s otherwise laden with lust. His fingertips tease your entrance. “What do you think, angel, can I do that?”

You might need a kiss to get through it. You can’t decide whether you want him to keep eating you out like that, like you’re water to the famished, like he’s worried he’s not quick enough to get every bit of you where he wants it, but you’re so desperate to be fucked by him that you can feel it in the pit of your stomach. “Spencer, you need to kiss me,” you decide.

“I am–”

“No, come here. Need you on top of me. You can get me ready,” you agree, eyes peculiarly damp, “but I really wanna kiss you right now, baby, please, please–”

He’s on top of you by your second please. You gasp at the rigidity of his cock pressing to your cunt and find it lost in his mouth, his fingertips wet with sex pressed to the side of your face. He remembers himself, kisses all the same but hand moving down again, turning his weight onto the bed and off of you as he feels at your cunt. His fingers slide through hair and wetness alike to tease at your cunt. You can feel wet on his fingers as he pushes in just a centimetre, again on his thumb when he circles your heat carefully, and all the while he’s kissing you like he’s been starved of you. He’s saying angel and so pretty against your stinging mouth.

It’s strange when he pushes two fingers in, but not bad. You’ve never done this with one another, and it takes him a few careful thrusts of his fingers to figure out where he should be directing his motion, and what to do to make you happy. You nod into his mouth as he finds a sweet spot and presses into it, quirked fingers quick to the very last knuckle, his pinky and index fingers sliding without resistance against the wet mess on either side of your cunt. “There?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say, pulling his face closer to yours, your hands twined deep in his hair.

He digs around against your walls, to your abject joy and something else, some emotion you can’t name, the want to be touched everywhere by him, to be the kind of full of him where you can’t breathe.

He presses his fingers inside you, undulating against the gum of your walls, and groans into your lips as you pull in a shivery breath. His hips jerk hard, his cock sliding against your stomach hot as a brand.

Spencer pulls up. You’re in the throes of one another, but his eyes are clear. “How do you want it?” he asks tenderly. “Can I stay here, or should I move back?”

“Just to start, it’s always tight–” You catch your breath now he’s paused, stroking curls away from his flushed cheeks. “I’ll sit up a little and you can still hold my hand,” —he doesn’t question this even for a second— “just so you can see what you’re doing, and then–”

“It’s okay, we can work it out,” he interrupts. “I’m not gonna rush and hurt you.”

“I didn’t think you would,” you whisper, cupping his face in your hand.

He ducks in for a slow, chaste kiss.

“I know you didn’t,” Spencer says. He takes another kiss, pressing one to the top of your chin.

Then he’s shuffling backwards and off of you, and he’s grabbing your hips, lifting you up as he positions himself at your cunt. You shuffle back in the opposite direction to wedge yourself firmly in his pillows, knees up and heels either side of his lap as he moves in. His cock rubs against your cunt by accident, then quickly again with a deliberateness, like he’d felt you and couldn’t help himself.

“God, you’re so pretty,” he says. His eyebrows pinch together in a glare, his thumb pressing to your clit. There’s no purchase there anymore, your wetness having made its way up, but he rubs it nonetheless. “You’re the most beautiful girl in the world.”

You grab his hand. Twine your fingers into his. “I love you, Spence,” you say easily. “Don’t be shy.”

He’s giving you that Can’t believe I’m with you look that he often does. It reminds you of the first time you met when you’d called him beautiful without knowing he’d mean this much to you one day, because he really was gorgeous, everything you’d ever want in a guy and lovelier after. You flirted your way into being his friend, and one day your hand-holding was hugging, your friendly cheek kissing turned to lazy hickeys, and he’s still giving you that look. Like he doesn’t deserve you. Like you’re gonna disappear.

You reach between your centre and his to nudge his hand down, guiding him into place. “Say you love me,” you request in a murmur.

“I love you,” he says, head of his cock against your opening. He abandons your clit, to your disappointment, but he’s grabbing the rump of your ass and hip to hold you in place.

He is achingly, achingly slow. He’s so gentle with his thrusts that you feel like you could love him twice as much as when you started, his wrinkled brow, his eyes flitting between your face and the stretch of your cunt to check on you as he goes. He reaches a natural resistance, nothing he couldn’t push past if he didn’t want to, but he doesn’t have to —he’s not fully sheathed and yet you’re aflame with pleasure. He’s at just the right angle. All he needs to do is move.

“There?” he asks softly,

“Please, right there.”

He pushes forward and a breath leaves his lips like you stole it. “You’re tight,” he says, “I knew you would be at first, but I didn’t expect– do I need to stop?”

“No, no, that’s the best part…” You close your eyes. If he weren’t holding your hand you’d cover your face. “Spence, it’s supposed to feel like this, baby. You just find the way you like it and I’ll tell you if it’s not right.”

“Promise?”

“Promise– oh.”

The fronts of his thighs press to yours, his cock flush to your walls and digging into something sweet and sensitive enough to make your thighs shake. Good luck, you think, for the two of you to fit together like this, for his cock to fill you without hurting or leaving you wanting, even though he’s just a little over half inside. He goes slow, almost repetitive, his thumb drawing dedicated half circles into the back of your hand where he’s securing it to your hip. Breathe, you think, I have to breathe. There’s nobody here but Spencer. You can show him exactly how this is making you feel.

“Fuck,” you say, letting out a little moan, worried it won’t be something he likes.

“Fuck,” he echoes emphatically, “does that feel good, angel?”

“Uh-huh,” you say. His chest shines with sweat, his cock driving in, all his touching and adoring drawing a litany of your most vulnerable sounds, hiccups and whimpers, beggy breaths that plead for him to do exactly what he’s doing until he can’t.

“Can you keep your leg up?” he asks.

“What?”

“Can you lift your leg, angel? I need my hand.”

You nod hurriedly and hold your leg aloft as he’d been, not pretzeled but giving him the room he needs to drive forward. He’s swift in his intention, pressing his free hand to your cunt, unabashed, marriage and middle finger slippery against the head of your clit and drawing precise circles. After a few timid thrusts of his hips, he matches speed. Every thrust met with a circle of your clit, his face dipping down to kiss your leg.

“There,” he says to your knee, “I got you, I’ll get you there.”

“I don’t wanna cum yet,” you confess.

“No, I know, but you have to feel good, I need to touch my girl.”

You don’t want to argue with that. He’s never said something like that.

He goes on. “You’re so pretty, I don’t know– I don’t–” He gives a tight smile, “don’t think you know how beautiful you are, you feel–” He moans, then, like he’s pleading.

You don’t expect to be close this soon. It had to be the way he’s talking to you, or his lazy mouthing at your cunt before you’d started. “Wait! Wait, Spence, don’t,” —you grab his hand to stop him from drawing anymore circles— “I have to do it, or I’m gonna cum already.”

He says fuck, thrusts in just a little deeper than he had been, head of his cock kissing just the right place, “Show me how to do it the way you need it.”

You play on the edge of your orgasm for long, long minutes, your hand over Spencer’s drawing the smallest of circles, your nerves aching, the pressure of it like his hands pressed to your tummy. Spencer fucks you, fucks into you, ruts into you when you give him a flirty smile, angling his hips a touch to the side.

You usher him down to you, craning your head up to his. “Can I have a kiss?” you ask with a voice stretched to gossamer. You’re in love with him and you could cry for it as he fucks you, but you try not to. Not yet.

Spencer licks his lips. “You can have everything.”

He slows his thrusts to a drag. Slow drag out, full push in. His hips press to yours and you squeak as he fills you with every inch he has, his hands vying for your clammy face.

He can only thrust slowly from there, though it feels like it’s hitting somewhere new, if not deeper. Shifts of his hips against yours, a mess of slick between you and the friction of his skin. You kiss and pant into each others mouths, spit stretching like a string from his lip to yours that he promptly kisses away. It’s everything you needed it to be, and you can’t hold off much longer. “Wanna cum,” you tell him, stroking the skin under his eye, his gaze aligned with yours.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Can you– like before–”

Spencer understands. He sits back, drags you by the hips onto his cock, and set about fucking that dedicated pace, three fingers pressed to your clit. He goes as slowly as you showed him at first, and that in time with his thrusts sends a pleasure through you that makes you gasp. He speeds his hips at the same time as his fingers, your skin so wet that it requires dedication to wind the coil, but he does wind it, over and over and over again until your walls are rigid tight and your hips are working desperately to chase the feeling. He’s pushing you to the edge.

You cum, and your breath gets caught. You force out a breath and you keen in the feeling, covering your face with both hands as Spencer pushes you through it with a few last teasing circles and a couple of quick thrusts.

Spencer knows without asking to slow as you come down. You laugh into your hands.

He doesn’t quibble when you let your legs fall flat around him, only strokes your thigh, paused half inside of you to offer you one of his shy smiles. “You even sound pretty,” he says.

“You think so?”

“Of course I do.”

He takes a measured thrust. He’s not not confident these days, but you can see the man you adore now between your legs, in love with you but not sure what to do. “You can keep going, baby.”

“You sure?” he asks.

It’s gonna be intense, but you want that. “Come back,” you say, angling your tired legs around him. “Come lay on top of me… Please.”

It’ll be nice to hug him now. You whine as his cock slips out of you and again as he lays atop you and slides it back in, your cunt waiting for him and slick as anything as he settles.

“Is this too much?” he asks, cupping your cheek.

He rolls his hips demonstratively. You didn’t know there was anything left there to give him, but he can have it.

You wrap your arms around him, your forearms to the line of sweat on his back, and give him a hard hug. “You can have everything,” you utter, repeating his earlier promise to him with the same encapsulating love as you cling. “Fuck me however you want.”

When it starts again, chills ride up your spine. Spencer finds a place you didn’t know you had and fucks against it with love, so deep you feel like you can’t breathe, his nose rubbing harshly into your cheek. He squeezes your shoulders tight in his arms and you’re sure you’ll never catch your breath again, and you don’t want him to stop. You’ve never felt this close to him.

Your naked chest rises uselessly beneath him as you fall into the whining, pleading bit of sex, your moans half gasp and lost in his hair as he burrows his face into the pillow by your head to hide his same desperation.

“There you are,” he mumbles, hips grinding into yours. He must say your name ten times in a row, each one more frayed than the last, until he’s lost it completely.

“Go faster, sweetheart,” you suggest, squeezing his hips between your thighs.

Spencer begins again in earnest, nipping crescent moons into the curve of your neck, thrusting fast until he can’t. You hear him trip into cumming like it’s an accident, his thighs go all tense and his cock throbs as he presses you flat, flat to the bed.

He gives a last few greedy thrusts before he calms, though he doesn’t stop moving. Spencer rolls his hips for a slow, languishing minute.

His hand finds your shoulder. His face turns to yours as you turn yours to his, two halves of a good kiss.

“I love you,” you whisper.

He’s panting, but his reciprocation is immediate. “I love you more.”

“No, you don’t.”

Spencer lifts himself up enough to wrap his arms behind your head, almost framing your head where you’re laid underneath him. “Trust me, I do.” His eyes shutter. You close your own in wait of another kiss, but he’s sliding the tip of his nose down the bridge of your own. He draws a circle, draws soft lines over your cheek in zigzags.

“Tell me what to do now,” he murmurs.

You scratch his back lightly. “Aw, Spencer, just keep doing this.”

—

Spencer cleans you up and you finally cry, a couple of tears you’re hoping he won’t notice as he drops the towel on your leg. He holds you with his hand behind your back and murmurs words too nice for such silly tears into your cheek, before asking, scared, if he’d hurt you.

“No, no, it’s like the most intense relief in the world!” you tell him, selfishly basking in the muscle of arms where they’re wrapped around you, and his silky hair whispering over your ear. “I feel amazing.”

“I didn’t think you’d be one of the women who cry afterward,” he says. He’s not judging you, simply sharing an observation. It makes sense. You’re not usually emotional in such an unconstrained way.

“I’m really happy.” You pinch his chin mildly.

“Your legs are hurting.”

You let him go. “Yeah, a bit. It’s a nice hurting. Like we went for a really long walk.”

He takes your face into both hands and tips your head back. You’re slouched forward, he’s straight-backed, and he’s taller where he’s grinning at you. His hand comes to rest against one of your breasts, giving it a little cup before he presses it flat over your heart. “I thought you were never gonna calm down.”

“You have that effect on people.”

“Maybe that’s true for you,” he says, tapping your nose with his, encouraging you to lift your chin. “But only one person’s ever made me lose my breath like that,” he adds, your lips touching, not kissing.

You could keep him forever. “Think we should turn our phones back on?” you ask.

“When I’ve made you something to drink, sure. And found you something to wear, right? It’s too cold.”

You’re still hot enough to cook an egg, but you let him take care of you. It’s as good as being fucked, being adored when it’s done. He gives you underwear first, a soft tank top and a pair of panties you’d left here before and he’d washed and pressed, your sweetheart. You’re surprised he doesn’t help you into them, but you notice with fond bemusement that he’s cringing as he steps into a fresh pair of boxers.

“You okay, handsome? Did you tweak something?”

He’s in pants before you realise, standing shirtless with sex-tousled hair. You could ask him back to bed if you weren’t exhausted. “I’m not in shape.”

“I could say otherwise.”

Spencer’s on top of you again in an instant. He sits on your naked leg and pulls down your rising tank top before twinging your hands in his. He’s practically in your lap as he kisses your chin. It’s that earnest you end up giggling, lovestruck, two idiots holding hands. He steals a couple of lazy kisses. You can’t remember how many you’ve had anymore.

“You’re contrary,” he says as he pulls away.

“Can’t you be nice to me? You were acting so nice.”

He slides off of your leg. “You’re my best friend. I hope we’re this happy for the rest of our lives.”

You fist your hand in the rumpled sheets behind you. He’s apparently unaware he’s said the most special thing he could’ve, opening his closet door to retrieve your pyjamas from the shelf he dedicated to you the first time you slept over. You are best friends, is the best part. He’s not exaggerating.

Before he’d ever kissed you, you were in love. You’ve been in love for years.

Spencer drops your pyjamas next to you on the bed. “You want me to help you put them on?”

You have no reason to need help tonight, but you want it. “Yes, please. Can you rub my back after?”

“Yesss. I’d love to rub your back. If we maintain our physical connection after sex, it enhances the relaxing factor but it also prolongs the effect of the oxytocin and dopamine your brain would’ve released when we were–” He picks up your sleep shirt and shakes it out. “Well, you know.”

“Any more sex facts for me?”

Spencer has the nerve to blush, considering the way he’d spoken to you only ten minutes ago. “An orgasm as a woman can lower your risk of heart disease, breast cancer, and depression.”

You smile at him sweetly. “No kidding. How much to get that risk down to zero?”

He kisses your cheek. “You know that’s not how it works.”

“We can still try.”

“Um. Can I have a banana first?”

“I’m kidding!”

“Oh.” He gestures for you to put your arms into the sleep shirt. “Well, maybe you can have a banana too and we’ll see how we feel.”

˗ˋˏ ʚ♡ɞ ˎˊ˗

Thank you for reading!!!!! I hope you enjoyed it! please reblog or let me know what you thought if you have the time, but I hope you enjoyed regardless!

[mwphisto]

LaDs Men and the nicknames they love

Pairings include: Xavier x Reader | Rafayel x Reader | Zayne x Reader | Sylus x Reader | Caleb x Reader

Warning, this post contains: very light smut, nothing super detailed but definitely suggestive! Also fluff! Read at your own risk!

A/N: all moving banners in the post are by @cafekitsune + please be kind, as these are just my opinion / nicknames I have for them in game and in writings I’ve done. I had fun with this one! I def have more to write so you’ll be seeing more of me soon, thank you for the support!

Xavier

🐰Baby

Xavier isn’t sure what it is about the nickname. It’s so popular, so widely used, almost cliche. Some couples even find it cringy, and for him? It’s pretty damn modern. Maybe that’s why he loves it so much. Something about the way you sound when you call him baby, the tone of your voice, the caress of your fingers. That soft and sleepy “good morning, baby.” Sends his heart into a frenzy. It sparks kiss, then two, then three, and suddenly you’re making out and he’s shoving down his sweats to get inside of you.

“Keep calling me that, please. Need you to keep calling me your baby… I love it so much… fuck!”

🐰Xavi

Simple, sweet, playful. The first time you uttered the shortened version of his name, blood rushed to Xavier’s face. It wasn’t expect it, and for some reason it gave him cuteness aggression. He felt the need to tug you close, suffocate you with his hugs and kisses and maybe slip a nibble or two in there. However, the nickname could be used as a weapon against him. You’ve become prone to using it when he’s mad or jealous. “C’mon, Xavi! He was just giving me bread.” Yeah sure, just bread. That’s the first step, next is getting into your bed. Still, there is nothing he loves more than that nickname.

“Xavi, he’s just giving me bread!” His tone is higher, mocking you as he pounds you into the mattress. Xavi being the only name you can utter as he fucks you utterly senseless.

🐰Bunny

A classic. He just… he’s so… you know? How can you not? He’s your little bunny boy, your sweet, totally innocent bunny boy. You usually call him bunny through text, sending him selfies with the bunny plushie he won you in the claw machine (seems he had a new enemy). Bunny has also become a dual nickname, he’ll call you bunny right back whenever you’re excited or… riled up. It just suits him, suits you, makes perfect sense. “we also tend to fuck like bunnies.” A prompt slap to his bare shoulder sent him into a giggling fit.

“Tell—ha—tell me I’m wrong, my lil bunny…”

Rafayel

🐚 Bub or Bubba

This nickname just came so naturally once you and Rafayel had officially began dating. It just slipped out one day and Rafayel didn’t point it out — simply because he didn’t think you noticed. Then, it happened again, and again, and again. The variation between bub and bubba and sometimes both came out within the span of a minute. Eventually he teased you about it, but you claimed you couldn’t help yourself because he was just too cute. “If you can call me cutie, I can call you bubba.” Rafayel wasn’t complaining though.

“My sweet girl.” A gentle coo in your ear as he hugged you tighter from behind, lips ghosting the shell of your ear as his hips grind forward. “Let your bubba take care of you.”

🐚 Guppy

Rafayel had a huge love hate relationship with this chosen nickname. Initially he had gotten a little defensive, pouting his lips and puffing his cheeks and accidentally reinforcing your love for the nickname in the process. Now? He actually had to admit he thought it was pretty cute. Especially when you’d waltz into his studio, arms wrapping around his neck as you peck his cheek. “Is this your latest piece, guppy? It looks beautiful already!” The nickname was sweet, so sweet it made his cheeks warm every time you used it.

“You like this, huh guppy?” He was going to lose it, tugging against the silk restraints with a frustrated whine. “C-course…” but you fixed him in place with a cool stare “I mean… yes!”

🐚 Raffie

It came out while play fighting one night and Rafayel made you repeat it three times before bursting into a fit of giggles. He’d never heard anyone make his name cute before, so it was only right that his cutie was the one to do it. Though, there was also the argument that he had never let anyone get as close to him as you were. So, in a sense, the shortened and cute-ified version of his name was yours for the taking. It always had been, he was certain of it. “Raffie, what are we gonna do today? Wanna walk on the beach?” Or “Raffie, you’re wiggling too much I’m trying to sleep” no matter the context, Rafayel loved hearing the little nickname from you.

“R-Raffie! Feels so… good please don’t stop!” Your hips jerk against his lips, a fist full of his hair in your fingers: still, the nickname slipped past your lips. You weren’t far gone yet.”

Zayne

❄️ My Love

Just like all of your nicknames for him, none of them really shone through until after the surgeon and you made things official. So, it should be no surprise that Zayne’s face turned a shade of crimson the first time you said it. “My love, where did you put my reusable cup? I need it for training tomorrow.” Poor thing, he short circuited for a good two minutes before finally telling you where the cup had been moved to. Once he was used to it? Zayne started using the nickname back at you. “My love” became a common phrase.

“My love, I’ve missed you—“ a kiss “—so damn—“ another kiss “much…!” You were all over each other, two weeks apart due to surgeries and missions really caught up to you both.

❄️ Sweetheart

You picked it up from the man himself. Every time Zayne called you sweetheart, you found yourself calling it back. Turns out you were both creatures of habit. Whatever one did, eventually the other would pick up. “Goodnight, sweetheart. Don’t stay too late, those files can always wait for the next shift.” Your voice filled this ear, a gentle sigh leaving Zayne’s lips as tired eyes scanned over his computer screen. “Don’t worry, I’ll be mindful of the time. I just have to do one more round and I’ll be on my way home. Don’t wait up for me.” The sweet nickname was the mood boost Zayne needed to finish his shift.

“Hi, sweetheart.” It was groggy, a kiss on your brow was all you needed to know your lover was home. “Hi, my love.” You shivered at the cool sensation of his hands slipping under the covers, roaming your skin in search of some much needed warmth.

❄️ Zaynie

A nickname that you had used on him since childhood, and yet it never failed to make his heart beat just a little faster. As cute as it was, it carried a level of intimacy and domestic nature that made Zayne smile. “Zaynie! It’s your day off, what do you want to do?” And — astra help him — he could think of serval things he wanted to do that didn’t so much as involve leaving his bed. You were just too cute for his heart to handle, so sweet and beautiful and— well it is his day off after all.

“How about this, my love… does this work?” Your mind is reeling, a quite plea if “zaynie…” leaving your lips out of habit.

Sylus

🍷Handsome

Sylus could have fainted the first time you called him handsome. You had done it so nonchalantly, so genuinely too, for the first time the leader of Onychinus didn’t know what to do with himself. You noticed, of course, the little hitch in his breath and the widening of his eyes. And you didn’t say a word, just tucked it in the back of your mind for later. Eventually he got used to you calling him handsome, but it didn’t stop the flutter in his chest when you did. “Morning, handsome. Are we going to go for a walk?” Sure, a walk works, but he can think of way better things to do to… warm up.

“S-so handsome, my ha-handsome boy—“ Sylus groaned, hips swiveling against yours. “Still praising me? What a good girl…”

🍷My Beloved

He thinks you got the nickname from him, considering he’s called you it a handful of times himself. So, it becomes a shared nickname for eachother, and Sylus finds himself grinning like a fool whenever he hears you calling him. “Are you ready to go, my beloved?” Your hand is extended towards him, you’re both dressed to the nines, and he swears the butterflies in his chest are about to break through his damn rib cage. “Course I am, beautiful.” With a shaky little breath, his fingers intertwined with your own. Now? It was time to get the job done… hopefully he could focus for that long—

“Couldn’t help yourself, beloved?” This wasn’t exactly your first time getting pressed up against a wall by your lover while on a mission. And it certainly wouldn’t be your last… “you know I’m insatiable.”

🍷Sy

It was so effortless falling from your lips that Sylus barely noticed it the first few times you had used it. It wasn't until the twins had begun to chuckle that Sylus picked up on the key detail his brain had been glossing over. "So domestic, boss!" to which the two of them were banished from the kitchen. All you could do was laugh, a dopey grin on your face as your lover approached you with mock disdain. "Using a nickname in front of those two... what a dangerous game you're playing, kitten." You could only continue your giggling, even as he picked you up and placed you on the marble countertop. "Naughty naughty..."

"S-sy! Sylus! Shit- slow down!" But he could feel you thrusting your hips backwards to meet his erratic thrusts. "You're so indecisive -ha- kitten."

Caleb

🍏 Honey

Caleb had been cheeky back when you pretended to be his girlfriend, using the pet name as frequently as he could to really sell the act. But, somewhere along the way after things became official, you had begun to use the term genuinely. "Hi honey." Here and "honey, where did you put the laundry detergent?" there and suddenly he was doing it too. It made him feel warm and fuzzy every time you uttered the phrase, and he didn’t dare tease you about it in fear that you’d stop using it all together. He could be your honey any time.

“You like that, honey? Like when I do this?” His lips are all over your chest, nipping and sucking and licking. “Bet you do, you’re as sweet as honey… how about I give you some of my honey too?”

🍏 Lover Boy

It had started as a joke, you even changed his name in your phone to the silly little name. Then? It was something that stuck. He’d say something to you with hearts in his eyes and you couldn’t help but chuckle, a fond smile on your face as you whisper “okay, lover boy, whatever you say.” Other times, you’d come home from work with a tired expression on your face and sleepily mutter it. And fuck did it drive Caleb wild. Sometimes he’d even use it against you, just to see your face fall apart as he pressed his body against yours, whispering the beloved nickname in your ear.

“This is what you want your lover boy to do, huh? Fuck this pretty pussy stupid with his cock? Yeah, good girl, I bet.”

🍏 Kay (pronounced like a shortened version of his name)

You’ve used the nickname since childhood, a shortened version of his name that he’s become damn near trained to respond to. “C’mon, Kay, please?” Anytime you’d want him to cook for you, or do your share of chores, or when you needed help with your homework. The list goes on and on, but Kay was such a special term to him. He loved how sweet and natural it felt coming from your mouth. Even if you were whining a majority of the time you used it.

“Kay! C’mon! Harder!” You’re flushed and drooling, nails biting into his shoulders as you plead with him to fuck you just a little rougher.

[eraserbread]

Sigh, thinking about Husband!Nanami coming home after work to his sweet wife and just being overwhelmed by his love for her. Cuteness aggression turned sexual? Because what reason does his wife need to have such an amazing smile if not for him to kiss her lips, both sets while he's at it!

...need i say more? nanami just loves his old lady.

you tried out a new recipe, today. ken's a cookie guy - of course, he is. so, today decorated prettily on a plate he bought you, was a glazed ginger miso cookie. you spent hours perfecting the recipe, throwing out lots of expensive, unsavory doughs, and pining over flavor combinations before you landed on your jackpot.

then you waited for him at home, wrapped in a pretty lace apron that he bought you. for some reason, you were an especially good mood this morning - you had chatted on the phone with a friend for hours, received a surprise text from your perfect husband, and got to open another of his gifts that was painted on your lips.

a new, glimmering shade of lipgloss he so politely asked you to wear for him.

he comes home right at 6:30, spending time at the lock to allude you to his forthcoming arrival. work today had been especially annoying because there were no missions. he just went on a few training ones as a favor to satoru, but didn't break a sweat on the grade-4's he took care of.

all he thought to keep himself motivated was the feeling of seeing your soft, bright smile again. it was hard to leave your smaller, sleeping figure this morning, but he had to. he had to miss you sometimes to keep him excited.

so, he's so damn happy to see your stupidly beautiful face when he pulls the door open. you're waiting for him like a puppy, crossed hands and smiling so big, it renders him motionless upon impact.

"well, aren't you just the cutest?"

"i made you cookies!" you know to keep your voice soft for him after work, but your excitement is tangible. you don't typically bake for him, so when you do, he loves it. "don't worry, I made you actual food, too."

nanami stares at you for a moment, nose picking up on the delicious mix of scents filling his well-kept home. god, he wants to eat you alive.

he still finds time to pull his tie down when he approaches you, both hands reaching for you. you giggle when he captures your cheeks, squeezing them hard, and pulling you into a single, deliberate kiss.

"i just love you."

you two end up sharing a cookie, leaning over the countertop and feeding small, broken-off pieces between each others lips. ken focuses on the glisten of yours as you chew sweetly, making no sounds but a content hum. it makes him crazy - his stomach coils.

"i know this is so lewd, but I think I need you to sit on my face."

he's right. it's lewd - he's witness to all the chewed-up cookie in your mouth when your jaw drops.

but, you let him. no questions asked.

ken lays on his back in bed, already flushed to his neck and licking over his lips. he watches as you shimmy off your pants, under special request to keep the apron on. he just wants access to what's between your thighs, and he didn't make that vague.

you look at him for a second, suddenly conscious and slightly wary of his ability to breathe. he's given you oral countless times, but never like this. "ken, are you sur-

he fucking sighs and sits up, yanking you forward with a gentle, dominant hold on your ringed hand. "you think I can't handle my wife sitting on me?" you join him on the bed, crawling into a straddle so you two can kiss for a moment. he pets at your cheek, humming as he takes in your taste. green tea and ginger miso - what a palate.

but it maddens him even further. he needs you dripping on his tongue - there was no polite way to say it. he would not be polite when he eats you alive.

so, he sits back again, pulling you with him so you don't have a choice but to follow. with sexed eyes, he begs. "please, nanami baby."

that's what gets you this time. you take a breath and crawl up his body, holding it as you hover over his face. his big hands help you along, squeezing into your thighs and guiding you into the perfect position.

you reach down to tangle his messy golden hair between your fingers, giving him a look that kills him. he can't help that whenever you give him a look so pure and sweet, he has to squeeze you a bit harder.

"just follow my lead. pretend like you're humpin' my thigh, baby."

"mm, okay." still highly suspicious, but kinda turned on now, you nod. then, he guides your thighs down until you're fully seated over his head - all of your weight focused there. upon impact, he fucking groans and it sends a tsunami of vibrations through your eager cunt.

you bite down a moan. "ken-

as soon as you say his name, he's digging his fingers deeper and begins eating you alive, just like he wanted. one of his flexed, scratching hands slide against your back, urging you to ride him -- to actually treat him like a coined pony. so, you do... it's so unfamiliar and you're terrified of hurting him, but his thick tongue felt so good and so right smushed against your sensitive clit, that you needed to chase some friction.

he's vocal like you've never heard him before, obscene slurps and moans spilling out from between your thighs as he devours you. on every back thrust, his nose buries itself into your clit, forcing a cry from your throat. it was so overwhelmingly good - you felt him everywhere like your nerves were standing on end.

you cum for the first time embarrassingly fast, crying his name and unable to move, so he drags you through it. it's only on the break he gives you to even out that you see that crazy look in his eyes.

his entire face is soaked in... everything. you, him, more of him, and more of you. so erotic and messy, you hardly get to see him so spent with a ruby-red face and blown pupils.

so pretty...

"i should stop, but 's so addicting."

"no." you're breathless and halfway to death. "no, keep going I'm fine."

"i know you're sensitive." somewhere behind the mania, you can make out a bit of that husbandly worry. you admit that he has much better stamina, but with him doing most of the work, the only thing you have to control is not cumming everywhere all the time.

"keep going." you demand a bit too harshly, tugging his hair as you grind back down on his tongue. you can feel him chuckle against your messy cunt, but doesn't need to be told twice to swallow you again.

you two go on for hours until kento feels like he's going to pass out. these pants are nothing but trash now that he's came untouched. it's a spectacle you only notice when he flips you over to finally lay it down.

he peels off his pants with a wrecked face, tongue slipping from his lips every so often to catch another taste. his briefs are sticking to his skin, stained darker around his cock and unmistakable. you try so hard not to point it out, because you know he's embarrassed, but you can't not breathe out a chuckle.

"when did yo-

"shut up." he decides before fucking you into the bed for hours. no mercy, he's unrestrained and drunk completely off of your deep, familiar taste.

and when he leans down to kiss and love you after it's all said and done, you can taste the ghost of yourself over his lips, and push him to go wash off.

he does, but you catch him letting his tongue linger over his lips until he finally gives in and runs his face underwater.

[reidmarieprentiss]

Lucky

Summary: Based on this request! Reader encourages Penelope to go on a date, which ends in tragedy. This event shakes the team, leading to conflict, particularly between reader and Spencer, who blames her for what happened.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAU fem!reader

Category: angst, fluff

Warnings/Includes: gun mention, Penelope gets shot, typical BAU crime stuff, people getting mad at reader/blaming reader, Spencer icing reader out, Spencer being questionable boyfriend, Spencer saying mean things about reader, happy ending, Penelope is okay, self doubt/blaming

Word count: 16.7k

a/n: Spencer is kind of an ass for a while but it will make sense ! He is still an angel baby

main masterlist alternate ending

“So,” Derek says with that familiar smirk, “who’s the lucky guy?”

Penelope's eyes sparkle as she smiles, her fingers toying with a brightly colored pen on her desk. “His name is James. Just this sweet guy I met at the coffee shop. You know... normal, stable. No dark criminal past.” She tries to sound casual, but the happiness in her voice is unmistakable.

“Uh-huh...” Morgan leans in, tilting his head as if scrutinizing her every word. “And you’re sure you want to go out with him?”

A slight defensiveness takes over as Penelope puts her hands on her hips, feigning indignation. “Yes! Why not? Am I not allowed to date now, Derek Morgan?”

Morgan's grin widens, and he shakes his head, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t say that. Just... be careful, alright?”

Rolling her eyes with a dramatic sigh, Penelope can’t help but huff. “Yes, Dad,” she quips, wondering why Derek is being so weird about this.

But then Morgan’s expression shifts, softening into something deeper, more earnest. “No, seriously.” His voice drops, gentle but firm. “Just... be careful, Baby Girl. Don’t give away your heart to some guy who hasn’t earned it.”

Penelope hardens slightly, feeling slightly hurt that Derek feels the need to lecture her. “I know, Derek. But... he seems nice. Really.”

Morgan nods slowly and walks away, still caught in the cloud of his concern and overprotectiveness. She lets out a soft sigh, looking down at the pile of case files on her desk, feeling a little bit deflated despite her earlier excitement. She loves that Derek cares, but sometimes he can be a bit... much. She starts to drum her fingers nervously against her desk, mulling over their conversation.

That's when you come in. You'd been passing by and couldn't help but notice the tense exchange. Taking a quick survey of Penelope's expression—anxiousness and longing—you decide to step in, offering a soft but encouraging smile.

"Hey, Pen," you say gently, leaning against the edge of her desk, careful not to crowd her. "You doing okay? I saw the little showdown with Morgan. He can be a bit... intense sometimes, huh?"

Penelope chuckles softly, pushing a stray curl behind her ear. “You could say that. I mean, I know he means well, but... I just want to do normal things, like go out with a guy. And James... he seems so sweet, you know?”

“James?” you say, a teasing grin spreading across your face as you lean a bit closer. “Who is this James?”

Penelope's eyes dart to yours, and for a moment, she looks like a deer caught in headlights, her surprise quickly melting into a flustered smile. “Oh, he’s... just this guy,” she says, her voice rising in pitch as she tries to sound nonchalant. “Met him at the coffee shop. He's sweet, you know... normal.”

Your grin widens, clearly unconvinced by her attempt to play it cool. “Normal, huh? And when exactly were you planning on telling me about this ‘normal’ guy?”

Penelope tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, letting out a playful huff. “Oh, come on. It’s just a date... no big deal.” But the glint in her eyes says otherwise, and you know it’s a big deal to her. And that’s exactly why you’re going to keep teasing.

“Well, it’s still a deal!” you exclaim, leaning forward in your seat, eyes wide with excitement. “Tell me all about it!”

Penelope laughs, the warmth of your enthusiasm easing away the hesitation she’s been holding onto. She fidgets with the edge of her sweater, a shy smile creeping onto her face as she starts to talk. “So... I was at my usual coffee shop, you know, the one with the really good chai lattes,” she begins, her voice picking up speed as she gets lost in the memory. “And then, out of nowhere, this ridiculously attractive man just... walks up to me, like he’s in some kind of rom-com or something. And he... he asked me out.”

You lean back, eyes wide, soaking in every detail of her story. “No way,” you whisper, your excitement infectious. “What did you do? What did you say?”

“Well, I said yes, obviously!” she chuckles, though there's an underlying nervousness. “But... I felt so... I don't know. Conflicted. This just doesn’t happen to girls like me.”

“Girls like you?” Your expression shifts from curiosity to confusion, brow furrowing as you try to make sense of her words. “Penelope Garcia, you are one of the most beautiful, kind-hearted, brilliant people I have ever met in my life.” You lean in, your voice gentle but insistent, making sure she understands every word. “ ‘Girls like you’ deserve the world and more. Don’t you dare think otherwise for a second.”

Penelope’s eyes widen, your words hitting her like a warm, unexpected wave. Her smile softens, and she blinks a few times, trying to brush off the tears welling in the corners of her eyes. “You really think so?” she whispers, her voice almost breaking with vulnerability.

“Are you kidding?” you say, a grin spreading across your face as you reach out to squeeze her hand. “James is the lucky one here, Penelope. Trust me on that.” 

She squeezes your hand back, a blush creeping across her cheeks as she ducks her head a little. “So, you’re saying I should go on this date?” she asks, the nervousness wavering just slightly in her voice. “Because... Derek didn’t seem so sure.”

You roll your eyes playfully, leaning back in your chair with a dramatic sigh. “Derek is a man, and men are weird,” you say with a knowing smirk. “I bet he’s got some strange alpha-male possessive thing going on. It’s like, in his DNA or something, to protect his pack. Don’t listen to him. You should absolutely go on this date.”

Penelope’s smile widens, and she lets out a soft, relieved laugh. “Well, when you put it like that... maybe you’re right. I mean, he is just one guy. And he did buy me a coffee...” 

“Exactly!” you exclaim, nodding fervently. “You’ve got a very attractive guy who bought you coffee and wants to spend time with you. And, Penelope, you deserve to have fun. So don’t overthink it, okay? Go on the date, be your amazing self, and if Derek has a problem, he can take it up with me.”

She chuckles at that, the tension finally leaving her shoulders, and the smile that spreads across her face is brighter than ever. “Okay, okay. I’ll do it. I’ll go on the date.” 

“Good!” you say, beaming. “And when he inevitably falls head over heels for you, I expect a full play-by-play report.”

“Deal,” Penelope says, grinning, the confidence returning to her eyes as she envisions a night filled with possibilities.

When you walked out of Penelope’s office, a spring in your step from the lighthearted conversation, you made your way back to your desk in the bullpen. As you approached your workspace, something immediately caught your eye — a fresh mug of hot coffee sitting on your desk, the steam curling upward in delicate wisps. A secret smile spread across your face as you set your things down and wrapped your fingers around the warm mug, the scent of your favorite brew filling the air.

You didn’t need to guess who’d placed it there. Glancing up, your eyes found Spencer across the bullpen, and sure enough, he was looking at you with that sweet, soft smile that always made your heart skip a beat. The quiet gesture was simple, but it spoke volumes about the thoughtful, caring man he was.

You mouthed a silent “thank you,” lifting the mug slightly as a toast of gratitude, and playfully blew him a kiss. Spencer’s cheeks flushed that adorable shade of pink that always surfaced whenever you flirted with him, and he shyly ducked his head for a moment before glancing back up to meet your eyes. With a wink and a barely contained grin, he turned back to his work, trying — and failing — to hide just how pleased he was to have made your morning a little brighter. 

The sweetness of the morning, with its light teasing and the comfort of Spencer’s coffee, was short-lived. The moment Hotch called everyone into the conference room, a palpable shift in energy settled over the team. You quickly gathered your things and followed the others into the room, the coffee that had moments ago been a small joy now forgotten as you braced yourself for the case that awaited.

On the screen in the conference room was the face of a young woman — a bright, smiling 19-year-old with curly brown hair and freckles that dotted her cheeks. The smile in her photo seemed hauntingly out of place for what followed. Abby Connors, the name beneath the picture read. Hotch stepped forward, his face grave, and began the briefing.

“Abby Connors was a 19-year-old freshman at the University of Florida,” he explained. “She left home a little over a week ago to move into her dorm, but she never made it back. Her parents reported her missing, and after three days of searching, joggers found her body near a park in the Everglades, near an area the locals refer to as 'Alligator Alley.'”

A murmur rippled through the room as the next image appeared — a crime scene photo, one that showed just half of Abby’s body. You instinctively held your breath as you took in the gruesome details: everything beneath her waist was missing, consumed by the predators that roamed the swampy area. But it was the condition of the remaining part of her body that made the room go eerily silent.

“She was found with an inverted pentagram carved into her chest,” Hotch continued grimly, pointing to the markings on her torso. “Her fingers were all cut off at the second knuckle, and her throat was slit cleanly.”

You exchanged uneasy glances with your teammates, the horrifying nature of the crime setting in as you processed each detail. “So what are we dealing with?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady. “Some kind of satanic cult?”

Rossi, who had been leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, shook his head. “It's not as simple as that. The idea of satanic cults operating as organized serial killer groups has been widely debunked.” He sat up, his expression thoughtful but firm. “The satanic panic of the ‘80s and ‘90s sensationalized a lot of things, but ritualistic killings like this? They don’t happen often in the way people think.”

“So, not a cult,” JJ mused aloud. “But this is still a ritualistic killing, right? The pentagram, the mutilation... it’s not random.”

“Absolutely ritualistic,” Spencer added, nodding in agreement. “The precision of the throat slitting, the removal of the fingers, the inverted pentagram... they all suggest that this was premeditated, and that the unsub wanted to send a specific message with Abby’s murder.”

“This type of ritualistic behavior can escalate,” Derek said, leaning over the table, a serious look in his eyes. “It’s got all the hallmarks of a kill that’s part of a larger motive. If we don’t catch this guy, he’s likely to do it again.”

“Which means we’re looking at a potential serial killer in the making,” Emily concluded, her voice grim. “Someone with a specific set of rituals and a willingness to mutilate and kill.”

Rossi cleared his throat, drawing all eyes to him as he spoke with an almost reverent gravity. “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate,” he quoted in a low voice, his Italian rolling off his tongue smoothly. Seeing the questioning looks on some of your faces, he translated: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

A silence fell over the room as the weight of those words hung in the air. You knew, as did everyone else in the room, that this case was going to be dark, disturbing, and an all-consuming race to catch a killer who seemed to find something meaningful — perhaps even sacred — in the brutality of his crimes.

And with that, the team set into motion, knowing that every second mattered if they were going to save another girl from meeting the same fate as Abby Connors.

—

After the team closes the case, the team sits in relative silence on the jet, each member deep in thought, processing the horrors. The soft hum of the plane’s engine provides a strange comfort, and the tension of the day slowly begins to ease. Morgan sits across from Rossi, resting his elbows on his knees, staring off into the distance. Rossi watches him for a moment before speaking up.

“You did good work out there,” Rossi says, his voice steady and calm, the kind of voice that always has a way of grounding everyone. 

Morgan looks up, giving a half-smile, but there’s a heaviness behind his eyes. “Yeah... but you know how it is, man. No matter how many of these cases we close, it never feels like it’s enough.” He shakes his head, running a hand over his face as if to brush away the exhaustion. “I just keep thinking about Abby’s family. They’ll never be the same.”

Rossi leans back in his seat, folding his hands in his lap, a thoughtful look on his face. “Yeah, it’s tough. But we gave them answers. And sometimes, that’s all we can do. You know as well as I do, it’s not about winning every battle. It’s about making sure we fight it.”

Morgan nods, his jaw tightening as he absorbs Rossi’s words. “I know,” he says, voice a little softer now. “It’s just... there’s so much darkness out there. And some days, it feels like it’s winning.”

Rossi’s expression shifts into something more reflective, a small, wise smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Maybe it feels like that,” he admits, “but the fact that it bothers you — the fact that it bothers all of us — that’s what makes the difference, Morgan. It means we’re still out there, shining a light in the darkness.”

Morgan's shoulders relax a little, and he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “I guess you’re right. Just gotta keep fighting, right?”

Rossi raises a glass of bourbon from his side table, offering a silent toast. “To fighting the good fight.”

Morgan grins, and they clink glasses in a quiet, shared moment of understanding. The jet continues its journey through the night, a small point of light against the vast expanse of sky.

—

Meanwhile, Penelope walks arm-in-arm with James, her laughter bright and infectious as it echoes down the sidewalk. They reach the front steps of her apartment building, and she turns to face him. “Well, this was... really nice,” she says, giving him a genuine smile. 

James grins back at her, and for a second, he leans in as if he’s about to kiss her. But at the last second, he pulls back, laughing playfully. “Sorry,” he says, scratching his head sheepishly. “Didn’t want to be too forward.”

Garcia giggles, shaking her head at his little fake-out. “You almost had me there,” she teases, turning to fish for her keys in her bag. “Well, goodnight, James.”

“Goodnight, Penelope,” he says, stepping back and starting to walk away, giving her one last wave. 

As she turns to unlock her door, James suddenly stops, a strange stillness in the way he holds himself. He calls out to her over his shoulder, voice casual but loud enough to make her pause. “Hey, Garcia?”

Penelope looks up, smiling as she begins to open her door. “Yeah?”

James turns fully toward her, the smile gone from his face, replaced with an unsettling calm. “I’ve been thinking about doing this all night,” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket.

Before Garcia can even process what’s happening, James pulls out a gun, his movements quick and fluid. The world seems to slow down around her — her eyes widen, her mouth opens to scream, but the sound never comes. 

And then, in an instant, the gun fires. The crack of the shot echoes through the empty street, and Penelope’s body jerks back, eyes wide with shock and pain as she collapses to the ground, her keys scattering across the pavement. 

James stands there for a moment, the smoke from the barrel of his gun curling into the night air. He watches as she gasps for breath, a cruel smile curling on his lips before he turns and disappears into the shadows, leaving Penelope lying there, her life slipping away on the cold, unforgiving ground.

—

Back on the jet, you lean back in your seat, facing Spencer with a thoughtful look. “You know, I keep wondering what Penelope’s date is like,” you muse aloud, spinning your half-empty cup of coffee between your hands. “I hope she’s having fun. She deserves it.”

Spencer’s brows knit in mild surprise, his mouth opening to respond, but before he can even utter a word, Derek’s voice cuts across the cabin. “Wait — hold up.” He’s leaning forward in his seat, eyes wide and brimming with concern. “Garcia actually went on that date?”

“Yeah, she did.” You nod, meeting his incredulous stare with a small smile. “I told her to go for it. She’s gotta put herself out there, right? No reason for her to hold back just because you’re all... alpha about it.”

“Alpha?” Derek echoes, looking around at the others as if searching for an ally. “I’m not... okay, look, I just want to make sure she’s safe. And how do you even know if this guy’s legit? Did you see him? Talk to him?”

You wave a hand dismissively. “No, but she deserves to have fun, Derek. She seemed excited, and it’s not like she doesn’t have a good head on her shoulders. I think it’s great that she’s taking a chance on something new.”

Emily nods along in agreement, leaning back with a relaxed smile. “I think it’s sweet. And Penelope isn’t some naïve kid — she’s a grown woman. She can take care of herself.”

JJ chimes in with a bright smile, “Yeah, and besides, it’s not like she’s going to let someone walk all over her. She’ll know if something’s up. And if he treats her right, then it’s all the better for her. Maybe it’ll turn into something special.”

Rossi, watching the whole exchange with an amused smirk, adds, “Sometimes people surprise you. And sometimes that surprise is exactly what someone needs to get out of their comfort zone. Our girl deserves someone to treat her well.”

Derek’s shoulders stay tense, and he shakes his head, letting out a sigh. “I get that, but... I just want to make sure she’s happy. That’s all. You know Garcia — she’s got a big heart, and I don’t want some guy messing with it.”

You reach over and pat Derek on the shoulder, a soft smile on your lips. “I get it, really. But maybe you should trust her on this. Penelope’s stronger than you think, and she’s allowed to take some risks. It’s not always about protecting her, Derek — sometimes it’s about letting her live.”

Spencer, who’s been listening quietly, finally speaks up. “She’ll be fine, Derek. And she’s lucky to have someone who cares as much as you do. But I think what she really needs right now is support... and maybe for us to just be happy for her.”

Derek looks around at everyone, the tension in his expression easing as he sees the genuine support in the eyes of his teammates. He lets out a reluctant chuckle, running a hand over his shaved head. “Alright, alright. I guess I’m just overprotective.”

“Just a bit,” you tease with a playful nudge.

“Fine,” Derek relents, lifting his hands in surrender. “But if this guy hurts her...”

“Then we’ll all be there to kick his ass,” Emily assures with a wink, and the team laughs, the conversation flowing into lighter banter, the tension dissipating as they talk about how much they hope Penelope enjoys her date — all of them unknowingly letting go of their worry while the truth of the night's events remains just out of reach.

You leaned into Spencer, feeling that familiar warmth spread through you as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, gently pulling you closer until your head rested comfortably against him. You felt the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your cheek, and he gave you a reassuring squeeze, a silent show of support and affection.

The chatter of your teammates surrounded you, playful jokes about first-date jitters and guesses about how Penelope’s night might be going. It was one of those rare lighthearted moments that made the job feel less heavy. And as you closed your eyes for just a moment, feeling the calm of Spencer’s presence, everything felt okay.

The jet touched down smoothly, and you straightened up, reluctantly leaving the warmth of Spencer’s side as everyone prepared to disembark. But as soon as the wheels hit the ground, Hotch’s phone buzzed loudly against the table. He picked it up immediately, his expression going from relaxed to steely in an instant as he answered.

“Hotchner,” he said, his voice flat and professional.

The team began to gather their things, their attention still mostly on wrapping up the casual conversation, until Hotch’s face went stark white, his eyes narrowing as he listened intently to the voice on the other end of the line. His mouth opened slightly, and you saw the shock in his eyes before he steeled himself again.

“What happened?” he demanded, his tone shifting from its usual calm to something far more urgent. He stood up abruptly, stepping away from the team, but you could all still hear him as the rest of the plane went silent, each of you glancing at one another with rising concern. Spencer’s hand instinctively found yours, and you squeezed it, anxiety blooming in your chest.

“Where was she?” Hotch’s voice was clipped, a mixture of alarm and anger. “When?”

You exchanged quick glances with your teammates. It wasn’t normal to see Hotch like this, and that fear in his voice made the hairs on your arms stand on end.

“Is she...?” Hotch stopped, and there was a pause, a terrible pause that seemed to stretch on forever. You held your breath, waiting, every second feeling like a lifetime.

“Understood. We’re on our way.” Hotch’s voice was low, tight with a struggle to maintain control. He hung up without another word, his jaw clenched so tightly you could see the tension in his muscles.

He turned back to the team, his expression grim, and you knew, you just knew, that whatever had happened, it wasn’t good.

Hotch’s voice was like ice, cutting through the stunned silence of the jet as he delivered the news that seemed impossible to process: “Garcia’s been shot. She’s in the hospital, in surgery.”

The world seemed to tilt, a rush of chaos and confusion drowning out everything else. In an instant, you and the rest of the team scrambled to grab your bags, shock and fear flashing in everyone’s eyes. It was like all at once, the air was sucked out of the room, and before anyone could fully understand what was happening, you were rushing down the steps of the jet. The roar of the engines and the slap of your feet against the tarmac seemed distant, muffled, as adrenaline took over. 

Within seconds, you piled into the SUVs, slamming the doors shut as the engines roared to life, and the cars sped off toward the hospital. The journey felt agonizingly long, despite the breakneck speed. No one spoke, but the tension in the car was palpable — every breath was shallow, every heartbeat loud in your ears. Your hand was clasped tightly in Spencer’s, and he held on as if anchoring you to reality, but all you could think about was Garcia and the thought of losing her. 

When you finally pulled up to the hospital, everyone practically flew out of the cars, running toward the entrance. The white lights of the waiting room were harsh and sterile, amplifying the dread that hung over the team. Hotch was the first to speak to the receptionist, his voice firm and demanding answers, but the only thing they knew was that Penelope was in surgery — no word on her condition, no updates, and, most importantly, no word on who had done this to her. 

And so you waited. 

The team paced, hands running through hair, fists clenching and unclenching as they tried to contain the storm of emotions within. The minutes stretched into hours, and the silence felt heavy, like a weight pressing down on each of you. Spencer held you close, one arm wrapped tightly around you as you buried your face into his chest, tears streaming down your face. He murmured gentle reassurances, his hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back, but his own eyes were red-rimmed and his voice strained, betraying his fear. 

Across the room, Derek’s frustration finally boiled over, and he lashed out, yelling at a nurse who could provide no new information. “What the hell do you mean, you don’t know anything? That’s our friend in there! You have to know something!” His voice was raw, the anger masking his pain, but before he could cause more of a scene, Hotch intervened, gripping his shoulder firmly and steering him outside. 

The tension in the room didn't lessen, only growing heavier in Derek’s absence. Emily sat with her elbows on her knees, hands clasped tightly together, staring at the ground as if willing time to move faster. Rossi paced back and forth, his jaw tight, not a word leaving his mouth, but the anger and sorrow on his face spoke volumes. JJ stood near you, hugging her arms to her chest, eyes fixed on the swinging doors that led to the surgery wing, willing them to open with some kind of good news.

Hours passed in that awful purgatory, time stretching and distorting until it seemed like you’d been waiting an eternity. And then, finally, a nurse came out and told you that one person could go back to see her. As a unit, the decision was made for Hotch to go — Garcia had named him her emergency contact, and he was the steady hand, the one who would be able to bring back the information without being overwhelmed by the storm of emotions all of you were feeling. 

The waiting resumed, and all you could do was cling to Spencer tighter, the fear and worry seeming to squeeze the breath from your lungs. 

When Hotch emerged from behind the doors some time later, his face was unreadable, a mask of professionalism over whatever emotions he was truly feeling. The rest of you gathered around him quickly, every muscle tensed as you waited for him to say something, anything, about Garcia. 

“Garcia’s going to make it,” he said, his voice low but firm. You let out a shuddering breath of relief, and the room seemed to collectively exhale. “She’s stable, but...” He paused, glancing at each of you, and in his eyes, you saw a darkness that made your stomach drop.

“It was her date who shot her,” he said quietly. “James. But his real name... is Jason Clark Battle.”

The name seemed to hang in the air like a curse, and it took a moment for the shock to register. And when it did, Derek’s expression twisted with a rage so violent it was almost frightening. “No,” he said, shaking his head as if refusing to believe it. “No, no, no—” His voice rose to a shout, and before anyone could react, he lunged toward you, face twisted with anger and pain. “You told her to go! You told her to go with him!”

His hands reached out to grab you, but before he could touch you, Rossi and Emily were on him, grabbing his arms and holding him back. “Derek, stop!” Rossi’s voice was sharp, his grip firm as he held Morgan in place. “This isn’t their fault!”

“Let go of me!” Derek struggled against their hold, his voice hoarse with fury, his eyes wild and filled with a grief that had no outlet. “I should’ve stopped her... I should’ve...”

Hotch stepped between you and Derek, his face set in a stern, controlled mask. “Enough,” he said, his tone brokering no argument. “This is not how we handle this. We find this man, and we make sure he never hurts anyone again.”

It felt like everything around you was falling apart, the walls closing in as the weight of the world crashed down on you, pressing in from all sides. Your breath caught in your throat, and you turned to the one person who could always make things feel right — Spencer. You reached out to him, seeking his comfort, his steady reassurance. But instead of the familiar warmth of his embrace, you were met with a coldness that hit you like a blow to the chest.

He stepped back, his eyes fixed on you with a look you’d never seen before — something between shock, hurt, and a kind of betrayal that cut deep. The warmth was gone, replaced by an expression that made your stomach drop. 

“Spence?” you whispered, your voice trembling, barely more than a whimper. You felt your world spiraling, desperately trying to grasp onto something to steady yourself. 

Spencer’s eyes darted to the floor for a moment, then back to you, and he shook his head, his expression clouded with confusion and anger. “You told her to go,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper but laced with pain. It wasn’t an accusation, not quite, but it felt like one all the same. He kept backing away from you, his face crumpling into an anguish you’d never seen before, like he was fighting to hold himself together. And then, without another word, he turned and stormed out of the waiting room, his footsteps echoing.

“Spencer!” JJ called after him, her voice urgent, but he didn’t stop. Without hesitation, she rushed to follow him, leaving you standing there, frozen in place.

Your eyes welled up with tears as you tried to piece together what had just happened, a sob choking in your throat. It felt like the ground had been ripped out from under you, and you were falling, tumbling into a void. You wrapped your arms around yourself, hugging your own body, trying to stave off the cold emptiness that seemed to seep into your bones. You wanted to scream, to cry out and make sense of the look in Spencer’s eyes, the pain in his voice. But all that came out was a soft, broken whisper.

“Spencer...”

Rossi was there in an instant, a steadying hand on your shoulder, guiding you gently to a nearby chair as the reality of the situation crashed over you in relentless waves. Emily crouched down in front of you, her face tight with concern as she spoke softly, her words trying to break through the fog in your mind. But you could hardly hear her. The only thing echoing in your head were Spencer’s words — “You told her to go” — a statement that seemed to slice through your heart, over and over again.

—

You left the hospital soon after Spencer did. The cold night air hit your face as you stepped outside, but the chill did little to clear your head. Everything felt like a blur — Spencer’s words, the look on his face, Derek’s anger — it all played on a loop in your mind, each second replaying with sharper edges, digging deeper into your heart. You didn’t know how to feel, how to process the whirlwind of fear, guilt, and confusion. But one thing was clear: you had to find the man who hurt Penelope.

The next morning came all too quickly. The sun hadn’t even begun to rise when you arrived at the BAU. The bullpen was already a flurry of activity, the team moving with a frantic energy that matched your own desperate need to do something, anything, that could bring justice for Penelope. But as soon as you stepped inside, the adrenaline wasn’t enough to mask the raw pain that hit you when you saw Spencer.

He sat at his desk, fingers typing furiously at his keyboard, his face drawn tight with concentration. You stood there for a moment, holding your breath, waiting for him to look up — to give you some sign, any sign, that you could start to fix whatever had broken between you the night before. But Spencer wouldn’t look at you. It was as if you didn’t exist, like he’d built an invisible wall around himself, and you couldn’t break through. The red puffiness around your eyes was the only outward sign of the sleepless night you’d had, but the exhaustion in your soul ran much deeper.

When you walked past JJ’s desk, she reached out and touched your arm gently, her eyes full of concern, the pity unmistakable. “Hey,” she whispered, trying to offer comfort, but you shook your head, swallowing hard. The last thing you could bear right now was pity. Not when you had to keep it together for Penelope.

The rest of the team looked at you with the same expressions — sympathetic, worried, but no one knew what to say. And the truth was, neither did you. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, feeling the familiar sting of guilt rise in your throat, and forced yourself to look away, trying to focus on the task at hand. It was time to work, and that was something you could still do. Something you could control.

Well, the whole team except for Derek. 

Every time he walked by, you could feel his eyes burning into you, his anger practically crackling like static in the air between you. And he didn’t hold back, either. With each passing hour, he took every chance to let you know exactly what he thought, throwing thinly-veiled digs and outright accusations whenever he could. 

“This is your fault, you know,” he muttered under his breath when you passed each other in the hallway. “You’re the one who pushed her into going out with that psychopath. If she’d just listened to me, she’d be safe.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as his words stabbed into you like a knife, but you didn’t reply. You couldn’t. You just kept walking, heading back to your desk with that guilt clawing up your throat, making it hard to breathe. There was no time to argue, no room to let Derek’s words take over. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shut them out.

And then there were the moments when Derek couldn’t hold it in, when his anger boiled over and his voice rose loud enough for the whole team to hear. “You know that if she dies... if she dies, it’s on you,” he spat, his eyes burning with a fury so sharp it left you feeling gutted. “Her blood’s on your hands. Because you thought it was a good idea to let her go out with some random guy.”

You could feel the eyes of the rest of the team on you whenever it happened, the tension in the room growing thick and heavy as they tried to balance the grief for Penelope and the pain of watching their family fall apart. JJ would try to step in, her voice gentle but firm as she said, “Derek, now’s not the time—” or Hotch would give him a stern look, that unspoken command to drop it. But nothing seemed to get through to him, and each word he threw at you landed like a punch, his grief and fear bleeding out as anger directed at you.

You couldn’t argue with him. You didn’t know how to defend yourself. How could you, when deep down, a part of you agreed with every word he said? 

So you did the only thing you could — you kept your head down and worked, staring at files until your eyes burned, listening to updates and following every lead until you were numb to everything except the hope that finding Jason Clark Battle would somehow make it right. You tried to drown out Derek’s voice, drown out the guilt, drown out the sinking feeling that maybe, just maybe, if you hadn’t encouraged Penelope, things wouldn’t have gone this way. But no matter how hard you tried to bury it, Derek’s words followed you, hanging over you like a dark shadow. 

And the work continued, relentless and desperate, with everyone pushing forward to find the man who’d hurt Penelope. But the team was fractured, split between their grief and their anger, and the chasm between you and Derek seemed to widen with every word he threw your way.

Even as you worked, though, you could feel Spencer nearby — that familiar presence that you could always sense, whether you were looking at him or not. But this time, it felt different, like an ache just below the surface, a heavy, unspoken rift. He still wouldn’t look at you, wouldn’t speak to you, even as you shared the same space, both working to the same goal. And no one pushed him. No one had the time or the energy to force him to talk through his emotions, not when there was a dangerous man on the loose and a life hanging in the balance.

But every time you heard Spencer’s voice — every rapid-fire observation, every note of urgency — it felt like a reminder of how things had changed in the space of a night. You worked side by side, but worlds apart, both desperate to save Garcia, but more than that, desperate to find your way back to each other.

And so, the hours wore on, a relentless, all-consuming search for Jason Clark Battle, with every member of the team driven by the same furious need to bring him to justice. Because in the midst of all the uncertainty and hurt, one thing was clear: no one was going to let him get away with what he’d done to Penelope. Not while any of you still had breath left to fight.

The team found Jason Clark Battle quickly, all things considered. The determination to bring him to justice — to make him pay for what he'd done to Penelope — fueled every moment, every step, every search through records and combing of evidence. But as the moment of his arrest neared, it became a new kind of challenge: keeping Derek Morgan away. 

Hotch had to physically block him from joining the takedown, knowing all too well that if Derek got his hands on the man who shot Penelope, it wouldn’t end in an arrest. “Stand down, Morgan,” Hotch had ordered, his voice like a steel blade, cutting through the thick fog of Derek’s rage. It took Rossi and Emily to finally pull him back, their hands firm on his shoulders as Derek cursed and seethed, every inch of his body vibrating with the need to rip Battle apart. But they couldn't afford to lose two team members to the fallout, and Morgan was forced to stay back, simmering with fury as the rest of the team moved in.

When Jason Clark Battle was finally caught, subdued, and taken into custody, there was a quiet satisfaction in knowing that the man who hurt Penelope would face justice. But the victory was bitter, the relief tainted by the damage left in the wake of what had happened. The case might have been closed, but for all of you, it didn’t feel like a win — not when someone you loved was still lying in a hospital bed, healing from wounds she never should have gotten.

Once the reports were turned in and the team was officially dismissed, you watched as everyone else gathered to visit Penelope. There was a sort of reverence in how they spoke of her, quiet smiles and gentle jokes exchanged as they planned to bring flowers, chocolate, and anything else that would bring a smile to her face. But you couldn't go. The thought of stepping into that hospital room, of meeting her eyes, of seeing the pain and understanding what your advice had led to... it felt unbearable. You couldn’t face her, couldn’t let her see how broken you felt, knowing how close you’d come to losing her because you thought you were doing something good.

So, while your teammates headed to the hospital, ready to surround Penelope with love and support, you went home. The silence of your apartment was suffocating, and it took everything in you to not collapse under the weight of your own regret. The emptiness of being away from the team, from Penelope, only deepened your guilt. But it was better than showing up and making things worse — better than her having to see your face and be reminded of everything that happened. 

Instead, you did what little you could from afar. You sent gift baskets filled with all of her favorite snacks — crunchy caramel popcorn, brightly wrapped candies, a couple of silly trinkets you hoped would make her laugh. You sent care packages with magazines, crossword puzzles, and soft blankets she could curl up with while she healed. You tried to send all the comfort you couldn’t bring yourself to give in person, every basket and letter a quiet apology you weren’t sure you deserved to offer. You only hoped she knew that, despite the distance, you were thinking of her. That you were sorry. 

And as the days went on, and Penelope stayed in that hospital, you wondered if she could ever forgive you — if one day, when she was better and things returned to some semblance of normalcy, she might understand that all you wanted was for her to find happiness. That, even though your advice had gone so terribly wrong, it had come from a place of love. But the uncertainty of her forgiveness lingered, hanging over you like a cloud, and all you could do was hope that, in time, the rift could be healed.

Until then, you stayed away, waiting for the moment you could finally make amends — if that moment ever came.

—

The next workday, you sat at your desk, your eyes fixed on the papers in front of you, but your mind felt miles away. The sound of your own heartbeat seemed loud in the quiet of the bullpen, pounding relentlessly in your ears as you willed yourself to focus on something — anything — other than the turmoil of the last few days. You barely slept, and the fatigue sat heavy on your shoulders, making every moment feel sluggish, disconnected from reality. The tension still hung in the air, lingering after Penelope’s shooting, and it felt like every step you took was on eggshells, threatening to crack under the weight of all you hadn’t said. 

You didn't hear Derek's approach at first, lost as you were in your own thoughts. But when you did catch the sight of his broad form looming in your peripheral vision, your whole body tensed up instinctively, bracing for what you knew would be another wave of anger, another round of accusations that would leave you feeling raw and exposed.

Here it comes, you thought. The guilt clenched in your chest as you waited for the onslaught, already picturing the words he’d throw at you, the blame you knew you deserved.

But then, you looked up, and the expression on Derek's face made you pause. It wasn’t what you expected. The hard lines of anger that had been etched there were gone, replaced by something softer, something regretful. He stood before you, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, his hands shoved into his pockets, his mouth opening and closing as if struggling to find the right words.

“Hey,” he finally said, his voice low and rough with emotion.

“Hey.” You nodded back, your voice barely more than a whisper, your body still taut like a rubber band pulled too tight.

Derek glanced down for a moment, and when he looked back up, there was an apology written all over his face. “I, uh... I came to talk to you about... you know.” He trailed off, taking a deep breath as if trying to steady himself. “About what I said. What I did. And... I’m sorry.”

You blinked, the words hitting you like a punch you didn’t see coming. “You’re... sorry?” you repeated, trying to make sense of it, unsure if you’d heard him right.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “I shouldn’t have come at you like that. I... I was angry, and scared, and I let it all out on you, and that wasn’t fair. It’s not your fault, what happened to Garcia. You were just being a good friend.” He paused, letting out a long, heavy breath. “And I guess... in a way, I’m mad at myself. Mad that I couldn’t keep her safe, that I didn’t know who this guy was, that I couldn’t stop it... so I put all that on you. And I’m sorry.”

You searched his eyes, looking for any trace of the rage you’d seen before, but all you saw now was sincerity, and pain, and a vulnerability that you hadn’t expected to find there. Derek Morgan — the strongest person you knew — was admitting his own fear and guilt to you, and it felt like the world was tilting just a little bit on its axis.

The tightness in your throat made it hard to speak, but you forced the words out, your voice cracking around the edges. “I... I get it. I mean, I don’t blame you for being angry, Derek. And I’m sorry too. I never would’ve... I never thought something like this would happen.” You looked down, feeling your eyes burn with tears you didn’t want to shed, not here, not now. “If I could take it back, I would. All of it.”

Derek stepped closer, and before you could react, he reached out, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Hey, don’t do that. Don’t put this on yourself. Penelope’s strong. She’s gonna be okay. And you didn’t do anything wrong — you were just looking out for her, just like I was.” He gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze, his voice softening. “We’re all just trying to do right by each other, you know? And sometimes we mess up. But that’s not on you.”

The tears that you’d been holding back finally spilled over, and you bit down on your lip, nodding as you tried to gather yourself. “Thanks, Derek,” you whispered, managing a small, shaky smile. “I just... I just want her to be okay.”

“She will be,” he assured you, his voice full of quiet confidence. “She’s got all of us in her corner. And I know it’s hard to believe, but... we’re gonna get through this. Together.”

He gave your shoulder one last squeeze before letting go, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a small sliver of relief, like the weight pressing down on you had been lifted just slightly. 

“Derek...?” you said, your voice small and timid, almost afraid to ask the question that had been weighing on your heart since you’d stepped back into the bullpen. 

“Yeah, baby?” he answered, his voice gentle and warm, and the nickname — your old nickname — made you smile, if only for a moment. Spencer had been the one to call you that more often lately, and hearing it from Derek felt like a return to something familiar, something safe.

You took a breath, biting down on your lip as you looked down at your hands, your fingers nervously twisting together. “Have you... have you talked to Spencer?”

Derek’s expression darkened, and he sighed deeply, the sound heavy and full of exhaustion. He ran a hand over his face, the weariness showing in the lines around his eyes, and when he looked at you again, there was a sadness there that made your heart sink even further. “No, mama,” he said softly, shaking his head. “Pretty boy hasn’t really talked to anyone. He’s got something going on in that big head of his, but he’s not letting us in yet.”

You nodded slowly, trying to keep your face neutral, but you knew Derek could see the worry in your eyes. The way Spencer had looked at you — the way he’d walked away from you — it was like losing a part of yourself, and the uncertainty of not knowing where you stood made it so much worse. And now, knowing that he wasn’t talking to anyone, wasn’t letting anyone in... it made you feel like you were watching him slip further and further away, with no way to reach him.

Derek watched you for a moment, then reached out and placed a comforting hand on your arm. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice pulling you from your thoughts. “Whatever’s going on with him, it’s not about you, alright? He’ll come around. You know how Spencer is — sometimes he just needs to get in his head before he can come out again.”

“But what if... what if he doesn't?” you asked, your voice breaking on the last word, the fear you’d been trying so hard to suppress finally spilling out. “What if he never forgives me, Derek? What if—”

“Don’t do that to yourself,” Derek cut in gently but firmly, giving your arm a reassuring squeeze. “You know how much you mean to him. He’s just... processing. And it might take him some time, but that doesn’t mean he’s gone. Just give him space to figure it out. And when he’s ready, he’ll come to you.”

You let out a shaky breath, nodding, trying to hold on to Derek’s words. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right,” you said, though the doubt still lingered.

Derek smiled softly, a warmth in his eyes as he gave your arm one last squeeze. “Of course I’m right,” he said, his tone lightening. “And in the meantime, you’ve got me and the rest of the team. You’re not alone, okay?”

“Okay,” you whispered, trying to believe it. “Thanks, Derek.”

“Anytime, mama,” he said, his voice low and comforting. “Now let’s get that coffee. We’ve got a lot to do, and moping around ain’t gonna help nobody.” 

And with that, he led you to the corner of the bullpen, and you did your best to push the worry from your mind, to focus on what you could do here and now, hoping that Spencer would eventually find his way back to you.

—

The day Penelope returned to work felt almost like a holiday. The bullpen was transformed, bursting with bright colors and streamers that cascaded down from the ceiling. Balloons, in every vibrant hue imaginable, were tied to the chairs, and the break room was packed with all her favorite snacks and drinks — colorful cupcakes, glittery cookies, and more caffeine than the doctor would ever allow. The team had gone all out, putting together a grand welcome fit for the one and only Penelope Garcia. The room was buzzing with laughter and excitement as she entered, everyone cheering loudly as she walked through the doors, wide-eyed and grinning.

It was exactly the kind of entrance Penelope deserved. And as she hugged each person, the joy on her face made the space feel warmer, brighter. But you stood in the back, a small smile on your lips, content to watch from a distance. You clapped along with everyone else, but you kept to yourself, too aware of the gnawing guilt that still sat in your chest. It was wonderful to see Penelope smiling, to see her back on her feet and surrounded by the love of her family. But being there, knowing what you’d encouraged her to do, left you feeling like an outsider, not quite sure where you fit in anymore.

When Penelope finally got to you, it took all your courage to step forward and pull her into a hug. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” you said, your voice trembling slightly, and you clung to her a little tighter than you’d intended. The relief of finally seeing her in person, of knowing she was safe and whole, made your throat tighten with emotion. 

Penelope returned the hug with a strength that surprised you, squeezing you tightly as if she didn’t want to let go. “I’m just happy to see you, hon,” she whispered, her voice warm and forgiving. “It’s been too long.”

You pulled back, offering a small, apologetic smile, but the warmth in her eyes made it clear that there was no anger there, no bitterness — just pure gratitude and love. And for a fleeting moment, you felt the overwhelming urge to spill everything, to apologize for not visiting, to explain the guilt that had been eating away at you. But Penelope gave you a knowing look, a slight shake of her head, as if to say not now. And you understood. This moment was for her — for the joy of being back, for the healing that still needed to happen. The deeper conversation could wait.

But as the celebration continued and the week went on, you still kept your distance. You showed up, of course, participated in the day-to-day, but any time Penelope tried to engage with you beyond work matters, you found ways to cut the conversation short, to avoid anything that could bring up what happened. You didn’t want to push her; you didn’t want to burden her with the weight you were carrying, the idea that anything you say could put her in danger. And you could see she was trying to give you space, to let you come to her on your own terms. But the longer you avoided it, the harder it became to find a way back to the easy friendship you once had.

By the end of the week, it seemed Penelope had had enough. As you were leaving the office one evening, walking toward the elevators, she appeared beside you with a determined look on her face.

“Going somewhere?” she asked, planting herself firmly in your path, hands on her hips.

“Just... heading home,” you said, trying to sound casual, but the way she was looking at you made your heart skip a nervous beat.

“Well, change of plans,” Penelope said cheerfully, not giving you a chance to argue. “You’re coming over tonight. We need some serious girl talk, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“Penny, I—” You opened your mouth to protest, but the look on her face was unwavering, her smile patient but insistent, like she’d already made up her mind and wasn’t going to let you wriggle your way out of it.

“Ah ah ah, don’t even try it,” she said, holding up a finger in playful warning. “We’re way overdue for some quality time, and if I have to drag you to my place myself, I will. And believe me, I’ve got the strength to do it.” She gave you a pointed look, raising her eyebrows.

You let out a sigh, feeling the tension in your shoulders slowly give way. How could you say no? Penelope was right; you did need this. And no matter how afraid you were of having that conversation, of putting her in more danger, you couldn’t keep running from her. “Okay,” you said finally, giving her a small smile. “I’ll come over.”

“Good!” she exclaimed, beaming as she linked her arm with yours, pulling you into the elevator with a bounce in her step. “I’ll see you at seven. And trust me, it’s gonna be like old times. Pinky swear.”

And just like that, with Penelope by your side, the world felt just a little bit brighter again.

Being with Penelope felt so easy, so natural — just like it had always been. From the moment you stepped into her apartment, it was as though nothing had changed, as if the heavy cloud of the last few weeks wasn’t hanging over you. She’d set up her place just the way you remembered, warm colors, quirky decor, fairy lights draped over bookshelves, and the familiar scent of lavender. And Penelope, as if sensing your hesitation, knew exactly how to guide you back into a comfortable rhythm.

It started with laughter, of course. The kind only she could pull out of you, a sound that seemed to break down the walls you’d built around your heart. She leaned back on her sofa, legs curled under her as she went on about the latest gossip in her stack of magazines, her voice rising with excitement and exaggeration. 

“Okay, so tell me this,” Penelope started, waving around a magazine with glossy pages. “How is it possible that Bruce Willis can just get hotter every year? It’s like the laws of nature don’t apply to this man!”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “I guess some people are just blessed like that.”

“And don't even get me started on what I saw in the office last week,” she continued, leaning closer with a conspiratorial whisper. “I swear to you, I saw a hickey on Hotch’s neck. A hickey. On. Aaron Hotchner’s. Neck.”

You nearly choked on your drink, the image catching you completely off guard. “No way!”

“Yes way!” she nodded, her eyes wide with the thrill of gossip. “I’m telling you, our stoic unit chief has a spicy side. And speaking of spicy sides, have you seen how Emily and JJ have been looking at each other lately? I mean, come on, are they not totally vibing?”

The conversation flowed easily, effortlessly, and before long, you found yourself leaning back, laughing, the warmth of Penelope’s company soothing all those frayed edges that had been gnawing away at you for so long. For the first time in weeks, you felt like you could breathe again. It was fun to catch up, to just be with her, to hear about all the little things you’d missed — the world outside the darkness you’d been living in. And you could see how much Penelope was thriving, back in her element, glowing with that infectious positivity you’d always loved about her. 

But eventually, it happened. The laughter faded, and the unspoken truth sat between you like a presence too big to ignore. Penelope’s expression softened, her eyes meeting yours with that gentle understanding you’d come to know so well. “Okay, hon,” she said softly, resting her hand on yours. “We’ve gotta talk about it. About what’s been eating you up inside.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to make an excuse, but it was like the dam broke before you could stop it. All the guilt, the fear, the shame — it all came flooding out. Tears welled up in your eyes, and you couldn’t stop the trembling as you finally voiced the things you’d been holding onto for so long.

“Penny, I... I don’t know how to say this,” you started, your voice cracking. “But I’m so sorry. I... I didn’t know, I couldn’t know what was going to happen, but I feel like it’s all my fault. If I hadn’t told you to go, if I hadn’t encouraged you to see him, then maybe you wouldn’t have...”

“Stop,” Penelope said firmly, squeezing your hand. “Just stop right there.” Her eyes were intense, her voice steady in a way that cut through all the panic you were feeling. “You didn’t know. None of us did. And what happened — what he did to me — that is not on you. Do you hear me? It is not your fault.”

“But what if it happens again?” you whispered, tears spilling freely down your cheeks. “What if I give you bad advice? What if I invite you somewhere, or we’re just hanging out, and I somehow put you in the wrong place at the wrong time and you get hurt again? I don’t... I don’t think I could handle it. I can’t go through that again. I can’t lose you.”

Penelope’s eyes softened, and without missing a beat, she pulled you into a hug, wrapping her arms around you tightly. “Shh,” she murmured against your hair. “You’re not going to lose me. I promise you that.”

You clung to her, the sobs coming freely now as all the fear and self-blame poured out of you. Penelope held you firmly, stroking your back, soothing you like only she could. “I know you’re scared,” she said gently. “But, sweetie, you can’t carry the weight of things you can’t control. What happened to me — that was on Jason. He was the one who did this. Not you. You were just being a friend, trying to help me find some happiness. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But I should’ve known better,” you mumbled against her shoulder, the words muffled but filled with regret. “I shouldn’t have pushed you to go.”

“Hey, listen to me,” she said, pulling back to look you in the eyes, her hands gripping your shoulders. “You didn’t push me. I chose to go on that date. And yes, it turned out horribly. But that doesn’t mean you should stop being my friend, or stop giving me advice, or living your life like you’re walking on eggshells around me. I need you, okay? And I need you to be you, because that’s the person who’s always been there for me, the person I love. I don’t want you holding back because of fear.”

The sincerity in her voice, the love, and the forgiveness shining in her eyes broke down the last of your walls. You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat as you tried to believe her words. “I just... I don’t want to lose you,” you whispered again, your voice small and vulnerable.

“And you won’t,” Penelope said, her voice steady and resolute as she held your gaze. But then, her expression shifted, her eyes searching yours with a gentleness that only she could carry. “But I know that’s not all.”

A flicker of confusion crossed your face. “What do you mean?”

Penelope hesitated, biting down on her lip before speaking, her eyes dropping to her hands as she fidgeted with a loose thread on the blanket draped over her lap. When she finally looked up again, there was a hint of sheepishness in her expression, like she was tiptoeing into territory she wasn’t sure she should tread. “I know you were worried about me, hon,” she said softly. “And I love you so much for that, for being there for me even when you couldn’t actually be there. But… I can tell I’m not the eye of the hurricane inside your head.”

You felt your breath catch, the truth of her words hitting you with a force that left you momentarily speechless. It was as though she had seen straight through you, through all the guilt, all the fear — to the thing that lay beneath it all. And as much as you wanted to deny it, to tell her that it was just about her, you knew you couldn’t lie to Penelope.

You sighed deeply, the weight of everything you’d been holding onto crashing down on you again. You sniffled, trying to steady your voice as you nodded slowly. “Spencer,” you said, the name leaving your lips like an admission of a wound you hadn’t yet looked at directly. “Spencer hasn’t talked to me since we found out what happened.”

Penelope’s eyes widened with sympathy, and she reached out to take your hand, squeezing it tightly. “Oh, sweetie...”

“It’s like he just shut me out,” you continued, your voice trembling. “The day we found out about you, he walked out of the hospital without even looking back. He hasn’t said a word to me since, and every time I try to talk to him, he just... shuts down. I know he’s hurting. And I know he’s probably just processing everything, but...” Your voice cracked, and you shook your head as the tears welled up again. “It feels like I lost him too. Like I lost both of you. And I don’t know how to make it right.”

Penelope listened intently, her face softening with every word you spoke. She could see how much pain you were carrying, how deeply Spencer’s silence had cut you. “Have you tried talking to him? I mean, really talking to him? Not just about work or everyday stuff, but about how you’re feeling?”

You nodded, though your shoulders slumped as the hopelessness of it all settled back in. “I’ve tried, Pen. I’ve tried so many times. But every time I get close, it’s like he just... builds a wall. He won’t even look at me sometimes. And it hurts, because I don’t know what to do to fix it.”

Penelope was quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful as she processed your words. Then she sighed softly, her fingers intertwining with yours. “You know what I think?” she said gently. “I think Spencer is hurting more than he knows how to deal with. And I think he’s taking that hurt and turning it inward — or maybe even outward. But I also know that he cares about you so, so much. He wouldn’t just turn his back on you for good.”

You shook your head, the tears finally spilling over again. “But what if he has? What if he’s blamed me for this just like everyone else did?”

“Honey, listen to me,” Penelope said, her voice firm but full of compassion. “Spencer Reid might be a genius, but he’s also a human. And sometimes, humans don’t know what to do with all the pain they carry. That doesn’t mean it’s your fault, and that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. He just needs time, and you might need to let yourself be okay with that. I know it’s hard, but you can’t carry both your own guilt and his.”

You sat there, taking in her words, trying to let them sink in. It was easier said than done, but hearing Penelope — wise, compassionate Penelope — tell you that it was okay to not have all the answers gave you a sliver of relief. 

“Do you really think he’ll come around?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, the vulnerability clear in your eyes.

Penelope smiled, a genuine, warm smile that seemed to light up the whole room. “I know he will. And until then, you’ve got me.”

You nodded, squeezing her hand, feeling a small, fragile hope begin to grow in your chest. 

—

The kindness and warmth Penelope had shown you was not extended to Spencer when she found him in the breakroom Monday morning. You were still settling in at your desk when you saw her storm across the bullpen, determination in her eyes and anger practically sparking off of her. You didn’t think much of it at first — Penelope’s strong-willed presence was no stranger to the office. But when you saw her walk straight up to Spencer, her expression dark and unyielding, you knew something was about to happen.

Spencer, who had been stirring his coffee absently, looked up in surprise as Penelope closed the distance between them, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. And then she let him have it.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Spencer?” she hissed, her voice low and venomous as she jabbed a finger into his chest. “Ignoring Y/N for weeks? Shutting her out like she’s some stranger? After everything you’ve been through together, and everything she’s done for you, you have the nerve to treat her like this?”

Spencer flinched at her words, his face going pale as the berating continued. He opened his mouth to respond, but Penelope wasn’t letting him get a word in. 

“Y/N’s been tearing herself up over what happened, blaming herself for something that wasn’t even her fault! And you know what? Instead of being the partner she needs — the person who supports her no matter what — you’re just adding to the guilt. You don’t get to treat her like that. Not after—”

“I almost lost one of the most important people in my life because of her!” Spencer choked out suddenly, his voice cracking with emotion as he interrupted Penelope’s tirade. His eyes were wide and filled with fear and frustration, and he looked like he was unraveling with every word. “I almost lost you, Penelope, because she told you to go on that date.”

Penelope’s expression shifted then, the anger replaced by a deep, aching sympathy as she let Spencer’s words sink in. There was a silence, a heavy silence that felt like it filled every inch of the breakroom. And neither of them knew that in that very moment, you’d walked up to the door, hearing Spencer’s words, and froze. The world around you seemed to fall away as his voice echoed in your head, the raw pain in his tone seeping into your bones. You stayed there, heart pounding, unable to move.

“Spencer,” Penelope said slowly, her voice gentle but firm, trying to rein in her own anger. “That was not her fault, and you know it. Do the math, genius. Jason was targeting me from the start, whether I was on that date or not. He had me in his sights long before Y/N ever said anything. Stop blaming her for something no one could control.”

Spencer scoffed, shaking his head and rolling his eyes as if trying to brush off the weight of her words. “Yeah, well, you say that, but it’s not that simple. If she hadn’t—”

“No, Spencer!” Penelope’s voice cut through his, sharper now, and she pointed a finger right in his face. “You listen to me. That is your girlfriend we’re talking about. Your life partner. Your best friend. Y/N has been there for you through everything. Do you remember when you were so drugged up that you didn’t even know what you were doing, or who you were with, when you lashed out at her in the middle of the night? And did she blame you? Did she shut you out? No. She held you, she comforted you, and she made sure you got the help you needed. She has never given up on you, not once, and you’re giving up on her?”

Spencer was silent. His mouth opened as if to respond, but nothing came out. He looked at Penelope, his eyes burning with anger and anguish and something far more complicated. And for a long moment, the silence stretched between them, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, cracking with the strain of what he was feeling. “I love Y/N more than anything else in this world. But how can I trust her to make good decisions for herself, at all, if her last one almost got you killed?”

And that was all you could take. The words hit like a blow to the chest, and before you knew what was happening, you let out a sob, loud and choked and broken. The sound tore through the silence, and both Spencer and Penelope whipped around, eyes wide in shock as they realized you’d been standing there, hearing everything. 

“Y/N—” Spencer started, panic flooding his voice as he took a step toward you.

But you were already moving, already running. You turned and fled, the tears blurring your vision as you rushed down the hall, away from the breakroom, away from the words that had shattered you all over again.

“Shit!” you heard Spencer yell from behind you, followed by the sharp slap of his hand hitting the cabinet in frustration, the loud bang echoing down the hall. But you didn’t look back. You couldn’t look back. All you could do was keep running, trying to outrun the pain that seemed to chase you down with every step.

“Was it worth it, Reid?” Penelope asked, her voice breaking the silence that filled the breakroom after you’d fled. There was no anger left in her tone — only a sadness, heavy and deep, that seemed to echo around them. She looked at Spencer with a sorrowful expression, searching his eyes as if she could somehow pull out an answer that would make sense of what had just happened. “Was it worth it? To get that off your chest?”

Spencer stood there, frozen, his hand still resting on the cabinet door he’d slammed shut in frustration. The thud of it still seemed to reverberate in the air, mingling with the ghost of your sobs. His jaw clenched, his eyes staring blankly at the floor where you’d stood only moments before, now empty. 

He didn't respond, and for a moment, it seemed like he couldn’t find the words. He just shook his head, unable to meet Penelope’s gaze. 

“Did it help?” Penelope pressed, her voice gentle but insistent. “Did it make you feel better? Because from where I’m standing, you just broke the heart of the person you say you love more than anything else.”

Spencer’s shoulders slumped, and he closed his eyes tightly, fighting back the emotions threatening to spill over. “I don’t know,” he finally choked out, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know, Penelope. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make this right. I was just... I was so angry. So scared. And I... I took it out on her.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair, his eyes squeezed shut as he let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know how to take it back.”

Penelope’s face softened, but there was no pity in her eyes, only a deep, aching understanding. “You can’t,” she said softly. “You can’t take back what you said. But you can make it right. You can own up to it. You can tell her the truth — that you were hurting, that you let the fear and anger get the best of you. That you don’t actually believe she’s to blame for any of this.”

Spencer finally looked up at her, his eyes red-rimmed, filled with regret. “But what if she doesn’t forgive me?” he asked, his voice raw with desperation. “What if I’ve lost her?”

Penelope took a step closer, reaching out to touch his arm, grounding him in her touch. “Then you fight for her, Spence,” she said, her voice steady and sure. “You do everything you can to make her see how much she means to you. You remind her that you love her, that you need her, that this — all of this — was just you not knowing how to handle almost losing two of the people you care about most.”

She paused, her voice softening even more as she gave him a sad, knowing smile. “But first, you’re going to have to forgive yourself. Because all that anger you’ve been carrying? It’s not about Y/N. It’s about you.”

Spencer let out a shaky breath, nodding, the weight of her words pressing down on him. He knew she was right — he knew it all along. But knowing it and facing it were two different things. And for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to truly sit with the pain of it, to feel the regret for what he’d done, and the fear of what he might have just lost.

And in that moment, the truth settled in his chest like a stone: if he had any chance of making things right, he’d have to confront his demons, no matter how much they scared him. Because he loved you. And he was going to do whatever it took to get you back.

—

You found an empty office as soon as your legs carried you far enough away, stumbling inside and shutting the door behind you before you could even think of stopping the sobs that clawed their way up your throat. You leaned against the wall, your hands over your face as you let yourself cry — really cry — until the tears came freely, the weight of Spencer’s words sinking in like a stone in your chest. Every breath hurt, and the dam of emotions you’d held back for so long finally broke. It wasn’t just about what he said, but how deeply it cut. 

Minutes passed, or maybe it was hours; you couldn’t be sure. You let it all out, every sob, every tremor that racked through you. And then, as the tears finally slowed and the pain dulled into exhaustion, you knew you couldn’t stay hidden forever. The team was counting on you. Penelope was counting on you. So you pulled yourself together as best as you could, taking slow, deep breaths and wiping your face with the sleeves of your shirt until your hands stopped shaking.

The mirror in the bathroom was unforgiving as you stood there, splashing cold water on your face. You ran your fingers under your eyes, trying to erase the smudges of mascara that had stained your cheeks, and did your best to fix your hair, to smooth away any evidence of your breakdown. But your eyes were still puffy, red-rimmed, the remnants of your tears clearly visible. And you knew, even as you straightened your posture, forcing a calmness you didn’t feel, that everyone would see right through it. That they’d probably all heard what happened.

But you had work to do, and you couldn’t afford to fall apart again. So, with a deep breath, you steeled yourself and walked back out into the bullpen, your head held high, your shoulders squared. Even if your composure was a fragile thing, even if you felt like you could shatter with the slightest touch, you made your way to your desk, focusing on each step as if it were the only thing holding you together.

The bullpen felt different now, the energy heavier than it had been before. Conversations were hushed, the usual buzz of the office subdued as you passed by. You knew they were watching, that they’d seen or at least heard what had happened in the breakroom. But you didn’t look around; you didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. You just sat down at your desk, opened up the stack of files in front of you, and forced your focus onto the work, letting it be the only thing that mattered in that moment.

Across the room, Spencer sat at his own desk, and as soon as you walked in, he saw you. He saw the way you held yourself together — the straight line of your back, the tightness in your expression, the way you refused to let your gaze wander to his. And he hated it. He hated knowing that he had done that to you, his love, that he’d been the reason for the pain and exhaustion etched into your face. He’d never seen you like this before — so closed off, so... dim. 

He watched you bury yourself in your work, your fingers moving mechanically across the keyboard, your pen scribbling across the pages as if each word was a way to silence the hurt. And all Spencer could do was sit there, guilt and shame wracking his mind as he thought about what he’d done — how he’d let his anger and fear control him, how he’d let it spill out onto you, the one person he swore to protect, the one person who deserved none of it. His brilliant, loving, beautiful girlfriend, who had always stood by his side, even when he didn't deserve it.

He made you cry. He made you doubt yourself, blame yourself for something you had no power over. And the light that usually radiated from you — the brightness he loved so much, the joy you carried so effortlessly — was gone, dulled by the weight of the hurt he’d caused.

Every fiber of Spencer’s being screamed at him to get up, to walk over to you and wrap you in the biggest hug he could manage. He wanted to hold you, to whisper a thousand apologies, to promise that everything was going to be okay and that he’d never, ever make you feel this way again. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to move, because he knew that it would take more than that — more than a hug, more than an “I’m sorry” — to fix the damage he’d caused. It would take time, and understanding, and patience — all things he wasn’t sure he even deserved from you after what he’d said, what he’d done.

—

Later that evening, the weight of the day still clung to Spencer like a thick fog. Unable to concentrate, unable to push past the regret that gnawed at his insides, he found himself reaching for a small comfort — your favorite book. It sat on his shelf, the well-worn cover soft under his fingertips as he pulled it down. You had gifted it to him long ago, lovingly annotated with notes, doodles, and highlighted passages. Each page was filled with bits of you — your humor, your thoughts, your heart. Categories like “reminds me of you,” “our jokes,” “my favorite quotes,” and “scenes I wish I could live with you” peppered the pages, showing just how much care, time, and love you’d put into making it special for him. It had been one of the most thoughtful gifts he’d ever received.

He settled onto the couch, the book resting heavily in his lap. And as he flipped through the pages, he let himself be pulled into the memories, letting his fingers brush over your handwriting, your underlines and notes. He read the small snippets where you’d connected a moment in the book to a joke only the two of you shared, where you’d drawn silly little hearts in the margins or underlined lines that spoke to you. And he could almost hear your voice as he read your thoughts, your teasing comments, your kind words. It felt as though you were right there with him, the warmth of you emanating from every page.

The tears came slowly, silently, at first just a sting in the back of his eyes that he tried to blink away. But as he read deeper, the notes growing more tender, the love you’d put into every word more apparent, he let them fall. He let them fall because he could feel the depth of what he’d pushed away, how much you’d loved him, how much you still loved him. And how horribly, deeply he’d hurt you.

He was reading a note that simply said, “This reminds me of the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching”. He laughed softly through his tears at your handwriting, slightly wobbly from when you’d annotated it while on a train, but the joy of that memory only made the pain sharper, cutting through him like a blade. He wished he could take everything back, go back to when things were easier and he hadn’t let his fears get the better of him.

Then his phone started ringing. Spencer’s hand trembled slightly as he reached for it, and when he saw the screen light up with your contact photo, his breath caught in his throat. It was that picture — the one he’d taken when he brought you to New York City for the first time, to the MET and the New York Public Library. You’d insisted on making a goofy growling face next to the stone lions out front, hands curled into claws as you posed, trying to match their fierce stance. He’d laughed so hard as he took the photo, snapping the picture while you were mid-roar. And now, as he stared at it, the memory made him smile, even through his tears.

His thumb hovered over the answer button for a moment, heart pounding in his chest, before he finally pressed it, bringing the phone to his ear. “Hello? Y/N?” he managed, his voice cracking slightly, unsure of what to expect.

“Hi, Spence,” you sighed, your voice soft, almost hesitant. “I’m... um, I’m outside. Can I come in?”

The relief and panic hit him all at once. You were here. You’d come to him. “Y-Yeah, of course,” he said quickly, fumbling to stand as he set the book aside, the pages fluttering closed. “I’ll be right there.”

He hung up, practically stumbling to the door, his heart racing with both fear and hope. And as he reached for the door handle, he tried to steady himself, knowing that whatever came next, whatever words you had to say, he was ready to listen. Because you were here, and he wasn’t going to let this moment slip away.

As soon as Spencer swung the door open, he was met with the sight of you standing there, tears staining your cheeks, your eyes red and puffy, your breath coming out in shaky gasps.

“I’m so sorry, Spencer,” you choked out, your hands trembling as they twisted together in front of you. “I’m so, so sorry for everything. I should have never told Penny to go on that date. I should have... I should have called to check on her, I should have thought about how all of it affected you. I’m—”

“What?” he whispered, his voice coming out strangled with confusion and pain as he cut you off. He stepped closer to you, his eyes searching yours desperately, trying to make sense of your words. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I messed everything up,” you continued, the sobs making your voice tremble as you tried to hold yourself together. “I never meant to hurt you, or Penelope, or anyone, but all I did was make things worse. If I hadn’t told her to go, if I had just stayed out of it, none of this would have happened. And you—” Your voice cracked, and you struggled to find the right words, to get out everything you’d been holding inside for so long. “You wouldn’t have had to go through this, you’d still trust me, and you wouldn’t hate me. I don’t want you to hate me, Spencer. Please don’t hate me.”

Spencer’s heart shattered at the sight of you breaking down in front of him, blaming yourself for something you had no control over, something that had haunted him every day since it happened. He couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand the thought of you carrying this burden when it was his anger, his fear, that had driven you away. And all he wanted to do in that moment was take away your pain, to make you see that you weren’t to blame, that he had been so, so wrong.

“Hey, hey, stop, stop,” he said urgently, stepping forward to close the distance between you, his hands hovering for a second before he pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly against his chest. “Please, don’t say that. Don’t be sorry.” He pressed his face into your hair, his voice desperate as he tried to find the words that would make this right. “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. I love you so much. I’m the one who’s sorry, I’m the one who hurt you, who shut you out when I should’ve been there for you.”

You trembled in his hold, your tears slowing down as you clung to him, and Spencer tightened his grip, trying to convey everything he felt through the warmth of his embrace. “I was scared,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he spoke. “I was so scared of losing both of you. And I know that’s not an excuse, but I... I let that fear control me, and I took it out on you, and it was so wrong. You were trying to help Penelope, trying to be a good friend, and I blamed you for something that was never your fault.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes filled with confusion and anguish, and Spencer could see the questions there, the doubt that still lingered. “But... but I was the one who—”

“No,” he said firmly, cupping your face with his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that streaked down your cheeks. “No, Y/N. What happened to Penelope — that’s on Jason. Not you. And I should have been there to tell you that, to support you, instead of shutting you out. I was so scared of losing you that I pushed you away and I hurt you. And I am so, so sorry.”

The sincerity in his voice, the tears that filled his eyes as he spoke, the pain of being apart, and the love that still held you together, left you breathless. 

“Please don’t apologize,” Spencer said softly, his forehead pressing against yours. “You did nothing wrong. You were just being you — the caring, loving person I fell in love with. And I am so sorry for making you feel like you couldn’t be that person.”

You closed your eyes, trying to steady your breathing as you pulled away, giving yourself some space. Grabbing a tissue from the side table, you dabbed at your nose and wiped away the tears that still clung to your lashes. Spencer watched you carefully, the anxiety on his face clear as he tried to read your silence. You didn’t speak for a long moment, your gaze fixed on the floor, arms wrapped tightly around yourself as you thought through everything that had happened. He stood there, holding his breath, afraid to interrupt whatever was going through your mind.

“I love you, Spence,” you whispered finally, your voice shaking but full of truth. “I love you so much.” You finally lifted your head to look at him, letting the words hang between you like a fragile thread of hope. 

His shoulders relaxed slightly, a small flicker of relief crossing his face as he stepped closer to you, his eyes searching yours. “I love you too,” he murmured, the words spilling out quickly, like he was afraid you might change your mind if he didn’t say it fast enough. “More than anything. And I’m not going to let anything come between us again.” He reached out, his hands hovering just in front of yours, desperate to close the space between you. “Please... don’t leave me.”

“Leave you?” you asked, your brows furrowing in confusion as you took in the worry on his face. “Spencer, why would you say that?”

“Well, I—I treated you terribly, and we weren’t talking, and we fought, and I was so awful to you,” he stammered, his voice shaky as the fear spilled out. “I... I know what I did, and I know I hurt you, and I just... I was scared that maybe... maybe you wouldn’t want to be with me anymore.”

“Spencer,” you said softly, taking his hands in yours, your fingers intertwining as you squeezed them reassuringly. “That doesn’t mean we’re breaking up. We had a fight. A really bad one. But now we have to work through it. Together.”

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, all you saw was vulnerability — the way he was trying to hold himself together, the way he was fighting not to let the guilt and fear overwhelm him. “But what if... what if I hurt you again?” he asked, his voice so quiet it almost got lost between you. “What if I say the wrong thing, and you...”

“Then we’ll talk about it,” you said firmly, your voice steady as you spoke. “We’ll talk, we’ll talk and we’ll figure it out, and we’ll make sure we don’t let it happen again. But I’m not leaving you, Spencer. Just because we had a fight... that doesn’t mean we’re over. We’re stronger than that.” You paused, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand. “I know we have a lot to work through. I know it’s not going to be easy. But I love you, and I’m here. We’ll do it together, okay?”

He nodded, a flicker of hope brightening his eyes, and he let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through him. “Okay,” he whispered, tightening his grip on your hands. “Together.” 

“And, baby?” you asked, your voice soft but steady as you tilted your head to look up at him, trying to catch his eyes and make sure he really heard you.

“Yeah?” Spencer responded, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes meeting yours with that familiar mix of love and uncertainty, as if he was afraid to say or do the wrong thing.

You squeezed his hands gently, your thumbs brushing over his knuckles, grounding both him and yourself in that touch. “You have to talk to me if something is bothering you,” you said, your tone gentle but firm, the words full of the honesty you both needed. “I can’t fix anything, and we can’t work on anything, if I don’t know what’s going on inside your head. If you’re hurting, or if you’re scared, or angry... you have to let me in. Okay?”

Spencer nodded, his eyes never leaving yours, and you could see how hard he was trying to take in your words, to let them settle in his heart. “Okay,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I... I’ll try. I promise.”

You gave him a small smile, leaning in just a little closer. “That’s all I’m asking,” you said gently. “We have to be able to talk to each other. No matter how hard it is, no matter what’s going on — we have to do it together.”

He closed his eyes, and you watched as he took a slow, deep breath, the tension in his body finally loosening as if he’d been holding it in for far too long. When he opened his eyes again, something had changed. It was subtle, but you saw it — a spark of determination that hadn’t been there before, a promise to do better, to be there for you in all the ways you both needed. But there was something else, too — a hunger, an intensity in his eyes that you hadn’t seen in so long. It was the way he used to look at you, that mix of need and devotion that made your heart race.

“God, I missed you so much, darling,” Spencer sighed, and before you could respond, he pulled you into another hug, his arms wrapping around you so tightly you almost lost your breath. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply as if to remind himself of your scent, the comfort of your presence, the closeness he'd gone too long without. His hands gripped your back firmly, holding you as though you might disappear if he let go. 

You melted into his hold, your own arms winding around him as he pulled you flush against him. It was a hug that spoke of all the longing and pain and love that had built up between you, a hug that was both desperate and grounding all at once. You could feel the way his breath hitched as he held you closer, the way his fingers dug gently into your back, and you knew that this was more than just an embrace of comfort — it was everything he’d held back for so long, all the love and want and need finally spilling over. 

“I missed you too,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his ear as you pressed yourself closer to him. And for that moment, nothing else mattered but the two of you, tangled together, holding each other like you never wanted to let go. 

Spencer pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and filled with a need that made your stomach flip. His hands slid up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing lightly over your cheeks as he spoke, his voice low and breathy. “Can I kiss you, Y/N?” he asked, his eyes searching yours, the words full of both desire and hesitation — a question that held the weight of all that had passed between you, of all he hoped to mend.

You giggled softly, your heart swelling at the sight of him so close, so vulnerable. “I’d be offended if you didn’t,” you teased, leaning into his touch, a smile tugging at your lips as you nodded.

Spencer’s lips twitched into a smile, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw that light return to his eyes — that playful, loving look he always gave you before pressing his mouth to yours. And then he was kissing you, soft at first, like he was trying to remember how it felt. But as soon as his lips met yours, you felt the relief and longing melt between you, and he kissed you deeper, his lips moving against yours with all the tenderness and passion he’d been holding back. 

The world around you seemed to blur, everything fading away as you sank into him, the feeling of his mouth on yours so familiar, so perfect, like coming home. You could taste the salt of tears, his and yours mingling together, and as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, needing to feel all of him — his warmth, his love, the steady rhythm of his heart beating against yours.

He kissed you like it was the only thing that mattered, like he was trying to memorize every second, every touch, making up for every painful moment you’d spent apart. There was something so intense, yet so tender about it — a kiss filled with all the love and longing, spilling over with every movement of his lips against yours. It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t slow either; it was the kind of kiss that lingered and sank deep into your bones, like a promise of something stronger, something unbreakable.

It was the sweetest kiss you think the two of you had ever shared. You felt every ounce of passion and desire radiating off him, every bit of love poured into that moment. Spencer’s hands were gentle as they rubbed your back, his fingers moving in small, slow circles, not daring to roam too far but enough to make you shiver at the warmth of his touch. Each caress was careful, as if he was both holding you close and holding himself back, trying to savor every second of feeling you close again.

You clung to him, your own hands gripping the fabric of his shirt so tightly your knuckles were turning white, and you couldn’t bear to let go. You didn’t want to lose even an inch of contact, afraid that if he pulled away, even for a moment, you’d lose this — lose him. The world seemed to dissolve around you, and all that existed was the pressure of his mouth on yours, the faint taste of coffee on his lips, the way his hair brushed against your forehead as he leaned in closer.

Spencer broke the kiss for just a second, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath mixing with yours as he let out a soft, shaky sigh. And then he was kissing you again, pulling you closer, as if he couldn’t bear to be apart for even a second. You could feel the desperation in his touch, the depth of what you meant to each other — not just words, not just promises, but something tangible and real. Something that neither of you were willing to let go. 

And in that kiss, you felt the world right itself, felt the cracks begin to heal, and the pieces of both your hearts start to fall back into place. You didn’t know what tomorrow would hold, but for now, this was everything. And that was enough.

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[anantaru]

— flavored chapstick challenge

synopsis. you put on different chapsticks and make your boyfriend guess the flavor <3

including. alhaitham, venti, scaramouche

genre. making out & slightly suggestive, fluff, gn! reader

— alhaitham

as was expected from somebody like the scribe himself, the moment you have challenged your boyfriend alhaitham to such witty game, he, in return, will take it serious, extremely grave to the point where the more actual reason as to why you wanted to play this game in the first place, went straight down the drain.

notwithstanding the fact that such was the case now, the man will always kiss you slowly and passionately, each time, introducing you to how it felt when time froze, whenever he pressed his lips on you.

naturally, to savor the artificial taste on his mouth, he tenderly swipes the tip of his tongue over your bottom lip and hums, then breaths in as glitter and a faint rosy tone was sticking all over his mouth.

alhaitham opens his eyes and watches you struggling weakly at him.

you're holding yourself close to your boyfriend now, both hands around his neck, watching him with flustered cheeks and stars hidden behind your eyes, greeting him with your precious gaze.

alhaitham blinks and found himself holding the eye contact longer, his lips pressing together to voice a deep, low, pleading tone;

"sunsettia, i assume?" he whispers, almost cruelly, staring at your wet lips and like he didn't just tease the living hell out of you.

yet not so fast, since truth must be served in alhaitham's eyes— following his answer he assured you that in order for him to be truly certain, one hundred percent, he needed to repeat that kiss once again, that exact one, maybe use his tongue a little more while he was at it.

— venti

venti simply takes every opportunity to just kiss you while ignoring the entire purpose of the game, even once asking you about the rules again— this isn't him feigning innocence, or is it now?

ah well, you know your boyfriend pretty well, correct? it's not like he doesn't understand what the chapstick challenge was, in fact, when you proposed the idea to him, the anemo archon was utterly delighted, all impulses of soul and senses numbed when he started to become excited about it.

in a tizzy as he was, one of his most beloved hobbies was the secret art in teasing you, not to forget edging you on and playing sweet, miniature tricks on you while adoring the annoyed tone on your pretty expression.

venti gently props up your face with his hand before leaning in, his gentle dreams long subdued when he faces reality. you let yourself slit into his embrace when he begins to kiss your bottom lip, nibbling on the wet skin before tilting his head to let his tongue inside.

you felt malleable, as if all your troubles and worries simply had melted like snow in the sun, trickling away into pure nothingness— and ugh, he did it once again, making you forget about the game as well.

instead of saying something, you resort to letting yourself drift into his warmth, stroking one hand into his tousled hair before tenderly clashing your tongue against his own— yet before you knew it, venti was senseless once again, abruptly pulling away red-cheeked, "hehe, it's valberry, isn't it?"

— scaramouche

sometimes you wonder if scaramouche genuinely believes that you cannot pick up on what his secret plans are, especially when it came to a game you, in fact, controlled.

you were aware of your boyfriend and on how smart he was, not to mention knowledgable— so why, out of the blue, he pretends to not get the flavor right, even worse, not a single one was guessed correctly the entire day.

come on now, he clearly knows the answer, look at his handsome face blushed with love and that awfully sweet smirk plastered all over his lips, attached with residue of your chapsticks showing a little glitter on his face.

scaramouche was getting more clumsy the more chapsticks you tried out, even swallowing down the first two letters of the real answer before messily uttering the complete opposite.

perhaps, he believes you kiss all the grief and longing away from his flesh, and so this is why he wants to kiss you more, or make you kiss him instead— see it this way, he doesn't need to say it out loud and embarrass himself, despite his progress in trusting the people around him, scaramouche found himself struggling regardless.

even so, all his thoughts, all his passions, all his delights, whatever you stirred enclosed by his immortal frame, he refers to it as a bubble of love, and your touch alone calms his fiery flame within a dark spot in his body.

with gentleness crossing paths in your view, you admire kuni and purse your lips, remaining silent as his mind was long since lulled into soft calmness.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[redcherrykook]

──𐙚 safeword (smut+comfort)

────୨ৎ────

content: daddy!jungkook and sub oc, "bunny, doll, sweet girl , baby, princess", usage of safeword "melon" , doggy, choking(?)/ face into pillow, spanking, rough, soft make up care, praise, very sweet dom JK, size kink, oc has pink tones in her skin, crying

note from cherry: so soft for daddy jk, he's living in my head rent free

────୨ৎ────

Something about Jungkook being so big compared to you made his cock stand stiff without any touch, the way he can tower over your petite frame fully, how your sweet tummy bulges with his entire girthy cock burried deep into you,

"bunny, you're so fucking sweet" he mumbles, words suffocated by your lips that move on his carefully, as though he is the one that could break,

Hands finding your small breasts, he tugs on your pink buds, feeling how delicate the fat feels beneath his hands, how he squeezes them softly just to hear you whimper

His rough, large palms cup your sides, almost entirely covering your stomach as he manhandles you effortlessly,

audibly, he groans, feeling up the dip of your waist

"so tiny, look at that little pussy drooling" his eyes glisten with excitment as they land on your slick hole, thighs pressed together with your back arching, chest stuffed into the mattress, your messy hair flowing around your sides and delicate back

To him, nothing can ever come close to how beautiful your vulnerablity is

Jungkook eyes up the hickies he left along your inner thighs, palms now rounding your flesh in his hands, spreading your cheeks to show him more of what's dripping just for him,

"daddy please, need your cock" you whine impatiently, dropping your head with your cheek squished against your pillow much like you'd always done in this position,

until, without the usual gentle nature, Jungkook thrust his huge length into your greedy centre, throbbing with need as he messily fucks into you, hands digging into your hips,

you cry out underneath him, moaning mindlessly at how he stuffs every inch of you, stretches you delicously

"Yeah? My little doll needs cock so bad? Fucking take it then" he rasps, spanking your sweet skin harshly,

the sheer force of his hips force you to rock into the matteress more, knees digging into the soft sheets and your pussy clenches with each rough thrust, the pain is so good- so good and so overwhelming,

Sex with Jungkook is usually nothing but sweet- gentle, intense, he's so occupied with pleasing you, making you cum again and again before he even dares to let you touch him

Although he is sweet, that's not all,

you quickly learned that much like most doms, Jungkook has untamable passion- that tinge of roughness he sometimes needs to use, and fuck does it feel good

To feel how helpless you truly are, but the submission makes you feel safe, loved even

"yes daddy- need it so much" you mumble, trying to grasp onto the sheets beneath you, he spanks you again, harsher than last time,

"oh fuck bunny, you're so good, so fucking good" jungkook looses himself, his head spins lightheaded at how good you feel around him- squeezing him, warm, so wet,

mindlessly, his hips grow harsher, faster, one of his hands reaches to gather a fistful of your hair, tattooed finger laced into your head, his eyes long shut because the pleasure is so much he can feel any resolve crumble within seconds,

until he hears it, broken, muffled

"melon"

the world almost stops and so does his heart, eyes opening in shock

his hand loosens, while his doe eyes brim with concern, it's only now that he sees just what he'd done in his haze,

"oh sweet girl, my baby.. i'm so sorry, daddy's sorry" he mumbles, trying as best as he possibly can to soften his voice,

gently, he pulls out, wrapping his muscular arms around your shaking frame to lay you into his arms,

"i'm so sorry bunny, so so sorry" he whispers, listening to the little sobs that fall from your wet lips, tears staining that pretty, flushed face of yours,

Jungkook's soft lips pucker kisses all over your shoulder, neck, cheek while his fingers ghost over your naked body, caressing your skin with a silent apology,

you're so vulnerable, so gentle and he'd forgotten just how easy it is to break that,

He can feel his heart clench, reminded by how fragile you are compared to his strength, to his animalistic need for you,

Even more so he has a primal need to protect you, keep you safe and whole in his grip

"daddy's so terribly sorry, i got so lost sweet girl, i'll never hurt you like that again okay?" he says, cradling your face in his big hands, you nod slowly, round eyes full of love for him while the tears slowly stop rolling

Even if that pushed your limit, it wasn't fear- you could never be scared of your boyfriend for the sole fact that he is home, he's your safety blanket,

And once your eyes made contact with the worried frown on his features, his gentleness engulfed you fully,

"never gonna hurt my little princess like that okay? I promise bunny" sealing it with a kiss to your forhead, Jungkook strokes your hair and covers your shaking frame with a real blanket

he attempts to calm down your racing heart, scratching your head, letting the silence heal your jumbled up state

"thank you.. just, when you pushed my head face first into the pillow i- i got to scared i - i don't know-" you stutter, in between apologizing and explaining yourself but he's having none of it,

"shhh.. it's okay bunny, it's okay, you're perfect and you did nothing wrong hm?... you're safe hm? All safe with daddy" he soothes, kissing your lips reassuringly

You can't help but kiss back, the smile returns to your worn out features, wrapping your frame around him, his muscles tighten, squeezing you gently into his firm hold

"prettiest girl, my sweet, sweet girl.. so brave for using your safeword" he hums, pecking your head repeatedly,

the string of little giggle you let out slowly relieve the aching sensation inside his heart

"Gonna spoil you now, yeah? Gonna wash your pretty hair... run you a nice bath.. let you sit in my lap and we watch whatever you want.. eat whatever you want.. i'll make anything" he mutters, rubbing the tip of his button nose to yours, and your eyes immediately flutter shut in appreciation

"you're the best, thank you daddy" you say, kissing his cheek softly,

"anything for my girl" he responds, you know he means it, since he's already wrapping your soft thighs around his hips, carrying you to the bathroom in the secure hold of one of his arms

[rafedarling]

𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞’𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠

pairing: dad!drew starkey x mom!reader

summary: drew tries to play a playful prank by taking off his wedding ring, but his smart and sweet 2-year-old son, rustyn, immediately notices and innocently points out that it might make mommy sad. what starts as a simple joke turns into a heartwarming reminder of the love and connection between you, drew, and your son, and the importance of the little things that symbolize that love.

warning(s): english is not my native language. pure fluff, heartwarming family moments, playful teasing, and deep emotional connections.

au’s: like, reblog and feedback are much appreciated. taglist | tagging: @rafeyslamb @tracymbcm @enjoymyloves @akobx @rubixgsworld @xoxohoneymoongirl @mileyraes @maybankslover @noobmazter69 @littlelamy @wearemadeofstardust0 @xoxosblogsblog @saviorcomplexrry @bisexualcvnt @stuffyownswrld @anamiad00msday

The warmth of the sunlight and the gentle sound of waves from outside made everything feel peaceful and calm—your perfect little haven. You were curled up on the couch with your son, Rustyn, nestled comfortably in your lap, his small head resting against your chest. He was two, but sometimes you marveled at how much older he seemed, with his sharp curiosity and his endless questions.

Rustyn’s favorite book was in your hands as you read to him, your voice soft and soothing as you flipped through the colorful pages. Every few moments, Rustyn would point to a picture and ask you about it. His little hands would grab at the air in excitement as he processed each new detail.

“Mommy, why is that bunny wearing a hat?” Rustyn asked, his bright blue eyes full of curiosity.

You chuckled softly, brushing a hand through his soft curls. “Maybe he’s going on an adventure, sweetie. What do you think?”

Rustyn considered this seriously, his face scrunching up in concentration. “Yeah, maybe. I like adventures.”

“I know you do,” you said with a smile, kissing the top of his head. “You’ll have lots of them when you get bigger.”

Rustyn nodded, clearly satisfied with your answer, and snuggled closer to you. He let out a small sigh, content in the warmth of your embrace. You couldn’t help but smile, your heart swelling with love as you continued to read. These were the moments you cherished—the quiet, everyday moments that made your little family feel complete.

As you were nearing the end of the story, you noticed Drew standing in the kitchen, leaning casually against the counter. He was watching the two of you with that familiar look of affection in his eyes, the one that always made you feel so loved. But today, there was something else—a mischievous twinkle that you hadn’t quite noticed before.

Drew took a sip of water, then set the glass down with a small, playful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. You raised an eyebrow at him, wondering what he was up to. He didn’t say anything, just casually strolled into the living room and leaned down to scoop Rustyn up from your lap.

“Come here, little man,” Drew said, his voice warm as he lifted Rustyn into his arms.

Rustyn squealed in delight, wrapping his tiny arms around Drew’s neck and giggling as Drew spun him around in a playful circle. “Dada!” Rustyn cried out, his laughter echoing through the room.

“Having fun with Mommy?” Drew asked, settling Rustyn on his hip, still grinning as he glanced at you.

“Yeah! Mommy was reading to me,” Rustyn said proudly, his voice full of excitement.

But as Rustyn snuggled against Drew, his sharp little eyes caught something unusual. He tilted his head, his gaze narrowing in confusion as he stared at Drew’s left hand. You hadn’t noticed it before, but now, following Rustyn’s gaze, you realized that Drew’s wedding ring was missing.

Rustyn furrowed his tiny brow, clearly puzzled. His voice, though small and innocent, was filled with a sense of concern. “Dada...where’s your ring?”

You blinked, surprised by how quickly Rustyn had noticed. You hadn’t even realized it yourself, but there it was—Drew’s left hand, conspicuously bare. You glanced at Drew, raising an eyebrow as you waited for him to respond.

Drew, ever the playful one, kept his cool. He smiled down at Rustyn, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. “Oh, that? Dada just didn’t feel like wearing it today, buddy.”

Your mouth dropped open slightly as you watched Drew, a mixture of amusement and curiosity bubbling up inside you. What was he up to? He knew how much that ring meant to both of you, and though it wasn’t a serious situation, you couldn’t help but wonder how this was going to play out.

Rustyn, however, wasn’t so easily fooled. His little face scrunched up again, and he looked from Drew’s hand to your face, his innocent expression filled with concern. He tugged lightly on Drew’s shirt, trying to make sense of what he was hearing.

“Dada,” Rustyn said in his most serious tone, his voice soft but full of wisdom beyond his years, “you know you gonna make Mommy sad.”

The room fell into silence, the weight of Rustyn’s innocent words settling between the three of you. You felt your heart swell as you looked at your son, his little face so earnest and full of love for both of you. His concern for your feelings, even at such a young age, was enough to make your heart melt.

Drew’s grin faltered slightly as he looked at Rustyn, clearly taken aback by his son’s sharp observation. The teasing light in his eyes softened, and he let out a small chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. “Oh really?” he asked, his voice filled with affection as he looked back down at Rustyn. “You think Mommy will be sad if I don’t wear my ring?”

Rustyn nodded, his tiny hand reaching out to touch Drew’s bare finger. “Yeah, ‘cause it means you love her.”

You felt a lump form in your throat at Rustyn’s sweet words, and you had to blink back the sudden tears that pricked at your eyes. How did this little boy know so much? How could someone so young be so in tune with your feelings? It was moments like these that reminded you just how special Rustyn was.

Drew’s eyes softened even further as he looked at you, and the playful smirk faded into something much more tender. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his wedding ring with a slow, deliberate motion. He slid it back onto his finger, never breaking eye contact with you.

“Well, we can’t have Mommy being sad, can we, buddy?” Drew said softly, his voice warm as he turned his attention back to Rustyn. “Is that better?”

Rustyn’s face lit up with a smile so wide it made your heart flutter. “Yeah, Dada! Now you make Mommy happy again!”

Drew chuckled, glancing at you with a loving smile. “What do you think? Is our little man right? Does the ring make you happy?”

You smiled back at him, your heart full as you nodded. “He’s always right,” you said softly, reaching out to gently squeeze Drew’s hand. “You know how much that ring means to me.”

Drew leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, his hand still entwined with yours. “I know, baby,” he whispered, his voice low and full of affection.

Rustyn, clearly pleased with the resolution of the situation, snuggled into Drew’s chest, his tiny arms wrapping around his dad’s neck. “Dada loves Mommy,” he said with absolute certainty, as if there had never been any doubt.

Drew smiled, looking down at Rustyn with nothing but love in his eyes. “You’re right, Rusty. I love Mommy very much.”

Rustyn nodded solemnly, as if he had solved a great mystery. “I knew it,” he said with a proud grin.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, your heart swelling with love for both Drew and Rustyn. You reached out, wrapping your arms around both of them, pulling them into a warm hug. “I love you both so much,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to Rustyn’s cheek before turning to Drew and kissing him softly on the lips.

Drew smiled against your lips, his hand resting on the small of your back as he held you close. “We love you too,” he murmured, his voice full of warmth and tenderness.

As the three of you sat there, wrapped up in each other’s love, the world outside seemed to fade away. It was just the three of you—your perfect little family, full of love, laughter, and moments like these that made everything else seem small in comparison.

Rustyn, ever the observant toddler, let out a small yawn, his little body relaxing as the excitement of the day began to catch up with him. He nestled deeper into Drew’s arms, his eyes fluttering closed as he snuggled into the warmth of his dad’s chest.

As you watched Drew tuck your son into bed, your heart swelled with love once more. It was moments like these—simple, sweet moments—that made you realize just how lucky you were to have this little family.

As Drew gently closed Rustyn’s bedroom door, he turned to you with a soft smile, his hand reaching for yours. “You know I was just teasing with the ring, right?” he asked quietly, pulling you into his arms as he led you back toward the living room. His voice was low and full of sincerity now, the earlier playfulness gone, replaced by a quiet tenderness.

You smiled up at him, resting your hand against his chest as you felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your palm. “I know,” you replied softly, your eyes meeting his. “But Rustyn was right. It does mean a lot to me, even if it’s just a ring.”

Drew’s expression softened even further, and he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it. “I know, baby. I’ll never take it off again, I promise,” he said, his tone serious but still filled with that warmth you loved so much. “At least not without a really good reason.”

You laughed softly, leaning into him as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. “You better not,” you teased, your voice playful but laced with affection.

Drew smiled down at you, his forehead resting against yours as he held you in the quiet comfort of the moment. “I know I joke around sometimes,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I don’t ever want you to doubt how much I love you. This ring—it’s a promise, not just for show.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you nodded, your hand still resting against his chest as you leaned into him. “I never doubt it,” you whispered back. “Not for a second.”

The two of you stood there for a few more moments, wrapped up in each other’s warmth. The house was quiet now, save for the soft sound of Rustyn’s rhythmic breathing coming from his bedroom, and the golden light of the setting sun cast a warm glow through the windows, making everything feel peaceful and serene.

Drew’s arms tightened around you slightly, and he let out a contented sigh, his lips brushing against your temple as he held you. “Rustyn’s growing up so fast,” he murmured, his voice filled with a mixture of pride and awe. “I still can’t believe how smart he is—how much he picks up on.”

You smiled softly, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “I know,” you agreed, your voice filled with love for your little boy. “He’s always surprising me with how much he understands. I wasn’t expecting him to notice your ring like that.”

Drew chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “Neither was I. I thought I’d get away with the prank at least until bedtime.” His smile softened, and he glanced down at his hand, where the ring now sat securely. “But you know what? I’m glad he noticed.”

You tilted your head, curious. “Why’s that?”

Drew’s eyes met yours again, his gaze full of love and affection. “Because it reminded me how much this little ring means. Not just to you, but to him too. He understands that it’s important—he gets that it’s a symbol of how much we love each other. And that… well, that makes me even prouder to wear it.”

Your heart melted at his words, and you reached up to cup his face, your thumb gently brushing along his jawline. “You’re a good man, Drew Starkey,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

Drew smiled, his eyes soft and full of love. “And you’re the love of my life,” he replied, his voice just as tender.

He leaned down then, capturing your lips in a slow, sweet kiss that made your heart flutter in your chest. His hands rested gently on your waist as he pulled you even closer, and you could feel the steady beat of his heart against yours, a perfect rhythm that matched the quiet contentment of the moment.

When you finally pulled away, Drew rested his forehead against yours once more, his breath warm against your skin. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice so quiet it was almost lost in the stillness of the room.

“For what?” you asked softly, your fingers gently threading through his hair.

“For this. For our life. For Rustyn. For everything.” He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his expression filled with so much love that it made your heart ache. “I wouldn’t trade a single moment for anything.”

You smiled, feeling the same rush of love and gratitude that you felt every time you looked at him. “Neither would I,” you whispered back.

The two of you stood there everything felt perfect—your little family, your life together, the quiet joy that filled your days. It wasn’t always grand gestures or big moments that made life special. Sometimes, it was the small, simple things—like the way Drew looked at you when he wore his ring, or the way Rustyn’s innocent questions could change the course of a day—that reminded you just how lucky you were.

[mimicmimikyuwrites]

Jealousy - Lucifer (Hazbin Hotel) x Fem!Sinner!Reader SMUT

Summary: Lucifer's jealousy emerges when your Ex from when you were alive enters the hotel in search of you. Lucifer makes sure to claim you as his.

Contents/Possible Warnings: P in V sex, dom!Lucifer, cream pie, Lucifer being possessive, marking, unprotected sex, degradation (it happens like once), SMUT, MDNI

A typical day in Hell was far from calm, so whenever a peaceful moment occurred, even a small one, you made sure to savor it, appreciating it for what it was. For example, you intended to let the wonderful moment you were currently in last for as long as you possibly could. You had been watching a movie in your room in the hotel, but by now your attention had turned away from the movie in question and onto Lucifer. The king of Hell had snuggled up closer to you than he already had been, his head resting on your shoulder as he watched the show.

The simple gesture made you melt, and you couldn't resist gently turning his face to look at you. Lucifer looked at you curiously, waiting for your next move. You placed a gentle kiss on his cheek, enjoying the smile it brought to his face.

"Hmm, that was nice, but I think you missed, love." He leaned in, closing the gap between you two, kissing you lovingly. You moved to deepen the kiss and— a knock came at the door. You parted from the kiss and looked towards your room door as Lucifer let out a disappointed sigh. "I'll make sure to give you as many kisses as you want later, alright?" You whispered to him, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before standing up and answering the door.

"(Y/N)!" Charlie exclaimed in excitement. "The hotel has a new guest! They said that they know you. You two must've been friends before! Come on, let's go see them!" Without warning, Charlie eagerly grabbed you by the hand, pulling you through the hallways of the hotel and towards the main lobby.

In the lobby, you saw them. The fucker you had hoped would never die purely so you would never have to see them again. Yet, here they were in all of their trashy, shit glory. "Hi." You said with a fake smile, trying to remain civil and hold back the resentment that had since been dormant.

"(Y/N)! Baby!" Your ex grinned, approaching you with wide, open arms. "I'm so glad I found you after all these years. It took some asking around, but we're together again!" They wrapped their arms around you, squeezing you tight enough that it felt like you might suffocate.

"Woah, haha! Hands off, please!" Lucifer appeared next to you, poking at your ex with his cane, annoyance seeping into his forced, polite tone. They finally released you, glaring at Lucifer as he stepped between the two of you.

"And just who the hell are you?" Your ex questioned, watching as Lucifer wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close to his side. "I feel like I should be asking you that question." Your boyfriend replied snidely, any attempt to be polite despite the situation now far gone.

"Alrighty!" Charlie said with a nervous laugh, wishing that she had gathered more information about her hotel's newest guest and their relationship with you before allowing them to see you. "Let's all just relax, and maybe (Y/N) can introduce the two of you to eachother."

You let out a sigh. You loved how sweet Charlie was taking in any sinner, you really did, but sometimes it did more harm than good, usually to no fault of her own. You motioned to your ex, "Lucifer, this is my ex." Then you motioned to your boyfriend, "This is Lucifer. King of Hell...And my boyfriend." The last part felt almost weird to say, the surrealness of dating the Hell's king and the man sometimes known as the devil himself finally setting in.

Your ex only laughed in response, earning an angry, growling-like noise from Lucifer. You grabbed his hand, squeezing it in an attempt to calm him down which only partially worked.

"There's no way this little guy is Hell's king! He's so fucking short. I really thought you had better standards in who you date, babe."

"Fuck you." You hissed, anger bubbling up inside of you as you felt yourself slipping into your more demonic form. "He's certainly better than you ever were." By now the other inhabitants of the hotel had gathered around, some more entertained than anything, while others, particularly Vaggie, were preparing for the brawl that was surely about to happen.

"Woah! Look at the time." Charlie intervened. "It's getting pretty late, why don't we all start heading to bed?" You responded only by turning around and heading towards your room, in desperate need of calming yourself down. Lucifer followed behind you, the walk to your room quiet with no words spoken.

You opened your door, nearly throwing it open in your still-present anger, before flopping down onto the bed with a loud, frustrated groan. You looked to the side, taking notice of the way Lucifer refused to look at you, his arms crossed.

"Honey?" No answer. "Love?" No answer, yet again. "Luci?" That did the trick. He always melted whenever you called him that.

"Your ex is fucking annoying."

You let out a small chuckle at his bluntness, a smile making its way onto your face. "They are, Luci. That's why they're my ex." You sat up, pulling him down onto the bed with you, kissing him, causing both of you to relax, some built-up tension leaving.

"You're all mine, aren't you?" He questioned, already knowing your answer. "Mine to love. Mine to claim." His mouth moved to your neck, sharp teeth grazing the skin, and you let out a soft moan as he began to nibble and kiss at the skin, his teeth leaving a mark you were sure he'd take pride in.

Your head fell to the side, giving him more access to your neck as you took his hat off, throwing it to the side, your fingers running through his hair as he continued to mark you.

"I'm going to ruin you for anyone else. You'll only ever want me." He whispered, lips returning to yours in a fervent kiss. Your lips remained locked together, only occasionally parting for a few seconds so you could help rid each other of the clothes that separated you from what you both craved.

He moved between your legs, the tip of his hardened cock teasing at your wet entrance. Usually, you two would've done more before the main act, but you two were more than ready to indulge in the other right now.

"Don't be a tease, Lucifer." You purred, spreading your legs wider. "Can't you feel how wet I am? How ready I am for you to fuck me senseless?"

He smirked before finally slipping in, biting his lip to prevent an almost embarrassingly loud moan that threatened to surface at the way you felt wrapped around him. He has been in heaven before, and he could say with confidence that being deep inside of you felt better than anything his former home could've offered him.

He began to thrust, his pace starting slow, still teasing you. He wanted you to beg, and you already knew it.

"Faster, harder, please, Lucifer—" You pleaded, giving in to what he wanted from you. "I know you want to pound me into this bed, Lucifer—Ah! Fuck!—" His pace sped up, and the sound of hips meeting yours in rapid succession filled the room. "Fuckfuckfuck–yes!"

"You always feel so fucking good." He growled, wings slipping out as he lost himself in the ecstasy that was your pussy. You ran your fingers through the red and white feathers, and he let out a pleasured whine at the feeling. His wings had always been sensitive.

"Fuck me—Let them all know I'm yours!" You cried out, losing yourself in the feeling of his cock fucking you with quick, deep strokes. You gripped the sheets in your hands, back arching as he angled himself just right, hitting your sweet spot head on.

"Mine. Mine to ruin, mine to fuck, and mine to fill up. All mine." His hands found yours, pinning them down against the bed as he began to fuck you even harder, his climax nearing. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him in closer.

"I'm gonna cum–You're going to make me cum so hard–"

"Then fucking do it." He demanded with a growl. "Cum around my cock like the little slut you are for me." You came around him, cunt spasming as your orgasm coursed through you. Lucifer's wings fluttered as he followed you soon after, filling you up with his hot cum.

You pulled him down into a sweet kiss once your climax subsided, cupping his face in your hands. God, you loved him more than anything. The kiss ended after a good moment, leaving you both to bask in your shared, post-coital bliss.

"You lost a few feathers," You observed with a giggle, holding one up. He chuckled warmly, lying beside you. You rested your head on his chest, enjoying the peacefulness of the moment. You'd have to deal with your ex in the morning, but for now, you were both satisfied with knowing that you were entirely Lucifer's, and that's how you'd always want it to be.

[orphicmusings]

“give me ten minutes and a pillow for his hips”

18+ | MDNI

its not that viktor didn’t want to devour you. take you in the almost impossible positions he’d widen his eyes at reading about when he got bored in the library, attempting to anatomically sketch it out on a napkin to visualize how it would work hastily before anyone came in and caught him flipping through an erotic novel. and he would, through the pain, it would be so worth it— if not for your gentle consideration. the one thing sexier than your dazed face looking up at him, all heated cheeks and hooded eyes, was how perceptive you were— how well you knew him, how well you saw him. you were attuned to him now, an invisible string between you. a phenomenon he could never sit down and wrap his big head around, just how connected the two of you had become that you barely needed words to communicate sometimes. like, for example, an abrupt whine sneakily covered by the clearing of his throat.

you were both excited and apprehensive when he brought up wanting to be on top tonight. you knew he would be putting pressure on his bad leg and of course you brought it up, but the way his voice dipped in velvet and wrapped around you, the lyrical lilt in his accent becoming hushed and deeper as he detailed how he wanted you under him, he wanted to take you, claim you, devour you with no inhibitions. his silver tongue won against your worried left brain, twice technically, until you heard it— the slightest change of rhythm in the strum of your little connective string.

“viktor?” you lifted your head. “what was that?”

he took a deep breath and buried his head in the crook of your neck. “nothing, darling.” he punctuated his assurance was a distracting suckle on your skin. and god, you almost gave in again, almost, but you gently tilted his head up and looked into his darkened eyes. “didn’t sound like nothing.”

damn you and your perceptive skills. he loves them so much.

another deep breath leaves him, and before he could wave it off, you press him. “it’s your leg, isn’t it?” you ask, already knowing the answer, and he can’t lie to you.

“yes.” he breathed in surrender. “i’m sorry, my love i really wanted to-what are you doing?” he frowned, watching you roll out from under him and grab one of the pillows on his bed.

“armchair, now.” you pointed to the chair across the room, with the plush ottoman in front of it that you gifted him. he couldn’t help but let a smirk pull at the corners of his mouth.

“bossy.” yet, he obeyed and made his way over to you. you gave him the pillow, instructing him to put it under his hip as he sat down, making sure his leg was elevated on the ottoman. once you got him all situated, you didn’t even have time to ask if it felt better before he was grabbing the back of your neck and kissing you like a man starved. you melted into his touch, straddling him but careful not to apply too much pressure. “so fucking sweet.” he pants the praise huskily into your mouth. “too good to me.”

his hands traveled down your body to grip your hips, pulling you flush to him. you started grinding slowly, and he guided you, a shaky breath leaving your mouth before you even got to the main event. every noise from your mouth caused a shiver to run down his spine, striking him with irrational need— he didn’t care that the things he wanted to do to you would make him scream in pain, he felt that he would simply die if he couldn’t fuck you the way he pictured it in his head right now.

but then he looks at you, just as dazed and hungry on top of him as you were under him, and a smile creeps up on him. it doesn’t matter if he were to throw you down and ravage you like a love interest in those books, or if you were softly bouncing on his length, burying your little sighs and whimpers into the crook of his neck, he’s still pleasing you. he’s still enough for you. he exhaled a smirk.

“none of that, darling.” he lifted your jaw to meet his eyes. “wanna see you and hear you. can you do that for me?” you nodded, struggling to keep your head up in the throes of pleasure, but having no trouble letting your mouth run wild with curses and praises and whines and whimpers. and it was all music to his ears. “that’s it, sweet girl.” his voice came ragged as he reached his long fingers to press on your clit. you all but screamed, tugging gently on the curls of the nape of his neck. he whined and threw his head back.

“am i hurting you?” you asked hoarsely, your hand hovering over his hair. he shook his head adamantly, taking your hand and tangling it back in his hair himself. each thrust would earn a tug, and each tug would earn a pretty noise from him, causing another push to each of your edges.

“love you….” he whispered against the skin of your neck, pressing a kiss against it as you both reached your peaks, breathing heavily against each other. “love you so much.”

[trashytracktales]

AND softdom lando with slightly unexperienced reader!!!! kill me nowwwe it cannot live only in my head

Nothing less | LN⁴

💌 INSPIRED by anon ──── No, cause you know what, anon? Let me do something about it real quick (I changed some things around on purpose, because I either go hard or go home lmao). ENJOY 💋

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𐙚 summary ──── It's their first time together, and Lando takes the lead, ensuring every touch and word is focused on her comfort and pleasure.

𐙚 pairing ──── Lando Norris x virgin!reader

𐙚 rating ──── explicit

𐙚 catetegory ──── F/M

𐙚 warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, reader's first time, new relationship dynamics, soft dom!Lando, fluff & smut, descriptive language, swearing, unprotected sex, subtle exploration of emotional and physical trust in an intimate setting.

𐙚 word count ──── 2.8k

𐙚 date ──── Dec. 26, 2024

𐙚 a/n ──── Gentle reminder that I know I have a lot of requests I need to take care of, and they are going to be dealt with, slowly but surely. Thank you for your patience 😁🤍

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

SHE THINKS SHE should tell him, but she doesn’t know him well enough to be sure that Lando isn’t easily scared — or worse, that he wouldn’t walk out on her the second her little secret gets out.

They’ve only been dating for two weeks, but somehow it feels longer than that. Obviously, they’ve talked about sex before — casually, the way new couples do when everything still feels exciting and full of possibilities. But she never told him outright that she’s a virgin. He never specifically asked, and she didn’t see a way to bring it up without making things awkward.

In the midst of her chaotic thoughts, two things are certain: 1) she doesn’t want to ruin the moment, and 2) there’s no doubt he likes her. She sees it in the way Lando looks at her, and she feels it in the way his hands touch her: sometimes by accident, other times with intent.

That's why she doesn’t want to burden him with expectations or make him feel like he has to change to meet some unspoken standard. She wants him as he is: unfiltered, imperfect, and real.

It's almost midnight, and the room is drenched in a quiet intimacy, the only sound coming from the muted hum of the city outside. Lando sits on the edge of the bed, his fingers brushing against hers with deliberate slowness. The soft golden glow of the bedside lamp illuminates his face, accentuating the way his lips curve into a smile that’s equal parts teasing and tender.

“You’ve been quiet,” he murmurs, his voice a smooth drawl that makes her stomach flip. His thumb strokes over her palm, coaxing her to meet his gaze. “That nervous?”

Her breath catches in her throat, feeling it closing in from the inside, but she nods, not trusting her voice.

“That’s okay, baby,” says Lando gently, leaning in. The warmth of his breath fans against her skin as his lips ghost over her jawline. “I want to take care of you. Can I do that?”

She nods again, her heart thudding against her rib. But the way Lando is looking at her, like she’s the only thing that matters, eases some of the tension coiling in her chest.

She really thinks that she should tell him—

“Words, love,” he interrupts her thoughts, his tone soft yet firm. Lando's hand tilts her chin up so she’s looking directly at him. “I need to hear you, so I know we're on the same page.”

“Yes, Lando,” she replies back, his name dripping from her mouth like honey. “I want this with you.”

His smile widens, but there’s a flicker of something deeper in his eyes — desire tempered with a bit of restraint. “Sweet girl,” he says softly, the praise rolling off his tongue like a caress.

She closes her eyes, the words making her cheeks flush, but they also spark something inside her, a yearning she’s never felt so acutely before.

The air between them feels charged with so much expectancy. She knows where this is heading, can feel it in the way his eyes linger on hers, in the heat of his touch that seems to burn through her skin. The thought alone forces a wave of excitement rolling through her. At that, her body reacts before her mind catches up — her breaths quicken, her thighs press together instinctively, and a warm, insistent ache blooms low in her belly. She’s wet already, just from the anticipation, her thoughts spiraling into images of Lando gasping for air above her.

She shakes her head to push those thoughts away, just as he pulls her closer, his hands steady and confident as they frame her face. When he kisses her, his lips are so soft, moving against hers in a way that leaves no room for doubt. He’s in control, but he’s also completely attuned to her.

“If you need me to stop,” he says against her lips, “If anything feels wrong, just tell me, and we'll talk about it. Gonna need your words for this, yeah?” he continues as she nods again, making Lando puff out a small giggle, “What did I say?”

Words. Right.

“I promise I'll tell you,” she says, her voice tinged with nervousness.

He hums in approval, his hands sliding down to her waist. He moves her gently, guiding her to lie back on the bed as he leans over her. His movements are measured, his touch firm but never overwhelming. When his hands skim beneath her shirt, she tenses for a moment, squeezing her eyes shut, and Lando immediately freezes.

“Hey,” he says softly, his brow furrowing in concern. “Too much?”

“No,” she says quickly, her cheeks flushing. “I just— I’ve nev—”

He doesn’t let her finish. His thumb strokes soothing circles against her hip as he leans down to kiss her again, silencing her nervous stammer.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “We’ll go slow, alright? You and I. Just trust me.”

His words are like a balm, and she finds herself relaxing under his touch. He takes his time removing her shirt, his eyes never leaving hers as if to reassure her with every move.

“You’re fucking stunning,” he says, his voice low and reverent.

Her hands tremble slightly as she reaches for him, and he lets her take the lead for a moment, watching her with a quiet intensity as she unbuttons his shirt. She fumbles slightly, and he chuckles, the sound soft and warm.

“Relax, love. It’s just me,” he says, leaning down to kiss her temple; a small act of tenderness that somehow steadies her racing heart.

The warmth of his lips lingers, grounding her in the moment as her nerves begin to settle. When there's no barrier left between them, Lando's hands explore her body patiently, every touch giving her goosebumps. Then, his fingers travel lower, slipping between her legs, and he freezes in place, his breath hitching.

“Ah, shit,” he mumbles mostly to himself, almost in awe when he realizes how much of a mess she is already. “So eager, you're soaked. I could just slip right in.”

The words send a bolt of heat through her, a mix of embarrassment and excitement, but they also give her enough courage to take action. Summoning all her nerve, she reaches for him, wrapping her fingers around his cock with a tentative but determined grip.

She guides him to her entrance, her voice quiet but impatient as she whispers, “Then do it.”

Suddenly, that's more than enough for Lando to let his instincts take over.

He exhales sharply as he pushes forward, the heat of her drawing him in inch by inch. The sensation of her wrapped around his length nearly undoes him — soft, tight, and impossibly warm. His jaw clenches as he stills for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He presses his forehead to hers, his voice strained but tender.

“So damn tight around me, baby,” he gasps softly, his hand coming to rest on her hip. “How's it on your end? Can I move?”

She nods quickly, her hands gripping his shoulders as she adjusts to the sweet stretch. “It’s—”

Good. Perfect. Heaven.

“Didn’t feel as big in my hand,” she ends up saying, making Lando laugh in a high-pitched voice.

“Not sure weather it's a compliment or an insult,” he admits, amused.

“Just give me a sec,” she whispers, though there’s a slight trace of uncertainty in her tone.

His thumb begins to stroke soothing circles on her hip, and he kisses the corner of her mouth. “Take your time, baby. I’m not going anywhere,” he reassures her.

She lets out a shaky breath, her body gradually relaxing around him. With one hand, she traces the contours of Lando's face, studying every micro expression, every mole, and the way his breath hitches as she welcomes him in.

“You're perfect,” she says softly, her cheeks flushed with warmth. “Can you fuck me now?”

Lando whines, pulling back slightly before easing forward again, setting a slow, careful rhythm. The friction is intense, almost overwhelming, and he groans quietly, his grip on her hips tightening just a fraction.

Her lips part as a soft moan escapes her, and she tilts her head back, instinctively pushing her hips to meet his movements. “Lando,” she breathes, her voice a mix of need and disbelief.

He pauses for a moment, his eyes searching hers. “Yes, that’s it,” he encourages, his tone laced with affection. “Tell me what you like, what feels good. Let me hear you, baby.”

“You,” she manages, her fingers threading through his hair. “It feels so—You feel so good. All of it, please.”

The corners of his mouth raise into a small, breathless smile. “Such a good girl, aren't you?” he praises, leaning down to kiss her neck as he resumes his thrusts. “You’re doing so well for me.”

Her nails dig lightly into his back, her confidence growing with each movement.

“Faster,” she whispers, her voice trembling with a foreign desire.

His brows raise slightly as he slows down, just to tease her. “Faster? You sure about that?” he asks, his voice taking on a playful edge.

“Lando,” she repeats his name, louder this time, her hips rolling against his.

“You want it that bad?” he says in slight disbelief, his movements speeding up just enough to draw a louder moan from her. Lando studies her closely, his gaze softening even as his control threatens to slip. “Look at you, fuck. Let me take care of you. Let me—”

He swallows his words as his starts thrusting into her, firmly but never rough, his touch always calibrated to her responses.

“God, you’re taking me so well,” he says, his lips brushing against her ear. “So hot and tight around me. Feels right, hm?”

Her breathing quickens at his words, her body responding in ways she doesn’t fully understand but craves nonetheless. His hands trail lower, and she arches into him instinctively, another whimper escaping her lips.

“I know, baby,” he says, his voice thick with approval. “Keep me inside.”

Lando’s rhythm falters, then slows to an almost torturous pace. Before she can question it, he drags his cock out of her entirely, leaving her pussy clenching around nothing. A cry slips from her lips, desperate and aching, but he doesn’t give her time to protest. His length glides up between her slick, puffy folds, spreading the wetness everywhere, his movements calculated and teasing.

Not to mention evil.

“Lan...” she whines, her nails digging into his back as frustration and need overwhelm her. She isn’t gentle, her fingers pressing hard enough to sting, and he lets out a low hiss.

At the sudden pain, Lando stops entirely, his eyes snapping to hers, dark and intense. “Careful, baby,” he warns, his tone soft but laced with authority.

Sitting up slightly, he reaches for a pillow, lifting her hips with ease and sliding it beneath her lower back. When he thrusts back into her, it’s maddeningly slow, as if he wants her to feel everything. His hand moves to her stomach, pressing down lightly as he fucks his cock inside her. The sensation sends shockwaves through her body, and she cries out, her voice high and pleading as the pressure amplifies the pleasure.

“Feel that?” he asks, his voice rough with arousal. “Feel how deep I am?”

She can only nod, tightening her legs around him, her body trembling as she grips the sheets for support. But curiosity and the overwhelming sensations push her to rise onto her elbows, needing to see what he’s doing to her. Her gaze drops to where their bodies meet, and that’s when she sees it — the way her lower abdomen rises and falls slightly with each of his deep, measured thrusts.

Her breath catches, her eyes widening in awe. “Oh my God,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “Is that…?”

Lando notices her reaction immediately, his own gaze following hers. The corner of his mouth curves into a smirk, but his eyes burn with something primal. “Fucking hell,” he murmurs, tightening his hands around her waist, holding her steady. “Yeah, that’s me inside you.”

The realization sends a fresh wave of arousal coursing through her, and Lando seems to sense it. His grip on her waist tightens further, and he begins to move harder, his hips snapping against hers with a rhythm that’s still controlled but far more intense.

The room fills with the slik sound of her pussy as Lando thrusts in and out relentlessly, and her moans grow louder, her body arching into him.

“Let me feel you,” he growls, his voice deep. “Let go, baby. Let me feel you,” he repeats, over and over again.

She wraps her arms around Lando, pulling him closer to have something to support her. The way her pussy sucks at his cock, desperate and insistent, sends him careening over the edge before he can even process it.

“Oh, fuck,” he hisses, his voice breaking as his hips stutter, spilling into her with a throaty moan. He can get drunk on the way she grips him, her heat, her hunger — every part of her pulling him into pure bliss.

His forehead drops to hers, their shared breaths mingling as they pant and moan together, riding out every wave of pleasure as they hit.

Her nails are still buried in his back, the sharp sting blending with the pleasure coursing through him. He winces but doesn’t stop, his body shuddering as her walls flutter around his cock, milking every last bit of him. They’re locked together, shaking, until the pleasure ebbs into a warm, lingering buzz.

After that, Lando finally stills inside her, his body softening, his arms wrapped tightly around her as he rests his weight against her. Only then does the sharp sting on his back pull his attention, and he lets out a low chuckle, his voice rough and spent.

“You really dug in, didn’t you?” he teases, his tone affectionate as he lifts his head to look at her. The corners of his mouth twitch into a smirk despite the ache in his muscles.

Her face flushes with embarrassment, her hands slipping away from his back, burying into his hair instead. “Sorry,” she whispers, avoiding to look at him.

“Don’t be,” he replies, his gaze soft and adoring. “It was worth it.”

Before she can add something else, Lando leans down, his lips finding hers in a kiss that’s the opposite of tender. It’s a stark contrast to the raw intensity they just shared, and a quiet reassurance that he’s still fully present with her. His hand cups her cheek, thumb brushing against her flushed skin as he deepens the kiss, savoring her.

When they finally break apart, their foreheads rest together again, their breathing still uneven but calming. “You okay?” he asks softly, his eyes searching hers.

She nods, a small, blissful smile tugging at her lips.

“Hey, don't go non-verbal on me again,” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

She hesitates for a moment before speaking. “Lan?” she says softly.

“Hm?”

She swallows, her cheeks flushed, but she doesn’t look away this time. “You are… I mean, it was my first time.”

For a moment, her words don’t fully register. He blinks, his brows knitting together as if he’s processing what she just said. “First time?” he repeats, his tone slow, almost disbelieving.

When she nods, her lips parting slightly as she struggles to hold his gaze, Lando’s eyes fix on hers. His first instinct is to check if she’s messing with him, but all he sees is her wrecked, post-sex state. Her hair is mussed and wild against the pillow, her skin flushed from her chest to her cheeks, her lips swollen and parted as she breathes unevenly. The faint sheen of sweat on her body catches the soft light, and her eyes are glassy, still hazy with satisfaction. She looks thoroughly undone — raw and real.

And he knows she’s not lying.

The realization hits him like a tsunami, leaving him momentarily speechless. His jaw tenses briefly, and instead of speaking, he leans down and captures her lips in a kiss. It’s not rushed or frantic but deep and meaningful, his lips moving against hers with a peaceful intensity. His hand cups her jaw, kissing her like he’s claiming every part of her. Because he is. The thought makes his head spin — the fact that she’s his completely.

“You should’ve told me,” says Lando, his voice thick with emotion. “I would’ve been more careful.”

“No, it was perfect,” she rushes to assure him. “Because it was with you.”

His eyes soften, and he presses a kiss to her forehead. “Are you even real?” he whispers.

And then he’s kissing her again; her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, her lips, trailing down her shoulders and neck, where he makes sure to leave marks behind. His hands roam her body with a newfound reverence, as if seeing her for the first time.

“Gonna spend the rest of the night showing you how much you mean to me,” he says, his lips brushing against her collarbone. “If you’ll let me.”

Her heart swells as she nods, “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Good,” he says, his voice a low hum of satisfaction. “Because you deserve nothing less.”

PREVIOUS LN⁴ ONE-SHOT

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© trashy track tales, 2024

[phantasm-ae]

cw: fluff, afab reader x price, baker wife, grumpy x sunshine, domestic fluff, domestic chaos

HEADCANON: Price likes to keep his life separate. You — his sweet little baker wife, all honey and syrupy sweet vs his violent and bitter work as an elite operative. But what happens when the lines suddenly are crossed when your cafe gets robbed?

PAIRING: John Price x reader

You and your husband John owned a small cozy cafe somewhere in a quaint little town secluded in a warmy and sleepy valley. Nothing too exciting of course ever seemed to happen here. Quiet. Homey. Cloistered and remote.

Just the kind of place Price thought would be perfect to better draw the boundary between his life and yours. Where you -- his darling sweet and syrupy love of his life -- and your world remained all scones and sugar packets. While his was smoke and steel.

John didn't mind of course. He liked it perfectly that way. Loved it, even.

You didn’t ask questions when he disappeared for days at a time -- you just packed him a thermos and kissed his cheek like you always did. You didn’t need the details, he reserved. You just know that he was in the military and that was all, too dull and recluse to truly fathom that what he did could turn stomachs inside out.

You only asked him once though -- early on, when you’d burned a batch of cinnamon rolls waiting for him to come home from a mission that went a day too long.

“Did you win?” you asked, hands sticky with sugar, eyes soft and searching.

And he’d stared at you for a long, long moment. Then he nodded. “Yeah, love. We won.”

That was enough.

After that, you never asked again. Instead, you made his favorite blend of tea whenever he came back, warm and steady like a lighthouse in the storm. You mended his uniforms without asking about the holes. Humming softly as you patch through what you thought were just snags from bad fences or brambles, never suspecting the bullets that tore through and almost tore his jugular in half.

You never really knew what that odd smell was buried in the seams on some of his cargos or vests, only scrubbed a little harder, added a touch of lavender to the rinse water, and folded everything just the way he liked. Tight, precise, like the way he made his bed.

You didn’t see the bloodstains or the torn flesh. Nor the daunting threat of death and decay at his fists. No, heavens no.

You saw the man who kissed your knuckles when you handed him warm muffins. The one who grumbled every morning about how you made the café smell like vanilla instead of "real breakfast food" -- and then ate three scones before the door sign flipped to open.

The one you let rest his head in your lap and carded gentle fingers through his hair as if you could soothe away every awful thing he’s done with just a little more tenderness.

That was John. Your John.

The one who would quietly fix the loose leg on your favorite chair before you even noticed it wobbled. The one who grunted and shifted in his sleep, sometimes mumbling things under his breath that didn’t sound like English. The one whose eyes got distant in the quiet hours between closing and bedtime.

But always -- always -- came back to you.

He was a different man in this town, in your arms. Here, he wasn’t Captain Price, commander of elite soldiers, a ghost on the battlefield with blood on his hands. Here, he was John. Just John.

Your John Price. Husband to honeyed and gentle Mrs. Price from the bakery.

He loved the routine of it -- the slow pace, the scent of baked goods in the morning, the sound of your soft voice humming along with the radio as you wiped down the counters. Loved when you wore those little frilly lemon-print aprons and silly heart-shaped earrings. When you brought lunch to the old postman every Tuesday and insisted on naming the stray cat that wandered by the café (“Muffin,” of course).

No one in town ever suspected what John was capable of. Why would they? He looked like a grumpy husband with joint pain and a nicotine habit. Wore thick puffy jumpers that you'd always knitted in the winter and helped carry the elderly ladies’ groceries. Didn’t speak much. Smoked out back and occasionally grunted at tourists.

The townspeople adored you. But they... well they pitied him.

“He’s lucky, that one,” they’d whisper over tea. “Poor dear looks half-dead most days. But she’s so sweet to him.”

John heard it. He didn’t mind.

If anything, it made him smile.

And then came the Tuesday that shattered the routine.

It started like any other: sunrise over the sleepy valley, kettle whistling, you carefully arranging pastries in the display case. John out back somewhere in the kitchen. Grizzling and grumbling about as you voiced out how the espresso machine just wasn't working properly at all since yesterday. Finding the usual muttering and clattering of steel and plastic a soothing backdrop as you kneaded dough and dusted some floury residue off the counters.

Until the door opened.

Too hard. Too fast.

Three men. Military posture .... Wrong energy? Probably just grumpy and hungry you concluded in your sweet little head.

You blinked. Smile not faltering one bit. “Good morning! Table for—?”

They didn’t answer. One reached under his coat. One locked the door behind him.

“Cash. Now.”

“Oh, dear,” you said, wiping your hands on your apron. “Can it wait until I get the biscotti out of the oven?”

“No.” He slammed his hand down. “Now, lady.”

And then, without warning, John was there.

Still clad from the lacy smock you insisted he wore as uniform with you. Adorned with the added crocheted flowers and bunnies in the straps and pockets. Looking like a hulking and fuming bear. impatient and unreserved like someone woke him up too early from hibernation. You didn’t even hear him come out. But there he was, behind the counter, face calm, eyes unreadable.

“Step away from my wife.”

The man turned, laughing. “You’re the barista?”

John didn’t answer. He moved fast -- too fast for someone with a bad back. He seized the soup ladle from the stovetop, swung it like a club, and cracked it across the man’s wrist with a sickening crunch. The gun clattered to the floor. Chaos erupted.

Two down before you could even blink. One tried to run -- John slammed him into the dessert case, shattering glass and scattering éclairs everywhere. The other wry and grimy one -- standing up after being knocked down silly -- ended up with a cookie tin embedded in his skull. You ducked behind the counter, mostly to protect the good china before a tooth came loose and broke your precious porcelain collection.

When it was over, John stood among the wreckage, a shallow cut on his temple bleeding down one side of his face. Panting and slightly disheveled, he surveyed the mess. The three robbers were still stunned, two of them knocked unconscious and crumpled on the floor, the third stumbling towards the door, muttering incoherent apologies, desperate to escape.

He wiped a hand across his forehead, inadvertently smearing the blood deeper into his skin, but didn't seem overly concerned about it. His eyes flickered to the scattered debris -- one of your favorite DIY cookie jars had cracked underfoot, and a few of your pristine biscotti had been knocked into the floor.

John didn’t say anything at first. He surveyed the chaos with a sigh, his hand still on the soup ladle, the faintest traces of a grim look tugging at his lips despite the blood trickling down his temple.

This was always the moment when he felt the weight of the violence seeped in -- when his world collided so violently with yours. He’d wanted to keep it all away from you, protect you from seeing him in this light. All clawed, gnawing, and evil.

But now, here he was.

Standing in the wreckage of your cozy café, a handful of broken china and smashed éclairs scattered around like confetti at a funeral.

You, however, weren’t looking at him with concern or shock. Neither surprise or fear even. No! Your eyes locked onto the mess -- the broken glass, the ruined biscotti, your smashed up DIY cookie jars!

He heard the soft thud of your footsteps as you walked over, a stern frown settling over your face. His chest tightened, and a knot formed in his stomach. This was it. The moment he had been dreading. The moment you’d look at him not as your husband, not as John darling or the John dear who fixed the leaky sink and ate too many blueberry muffins --

But as someone dangerous. Chaos. Bloody. Resolute and messy. Cutting. Squeezing. Strangling all the good until their eyes white and their necks blue. Dealing with devils and killers close to the bone.

He hadn’t meant for any of this to spill over into your world, not like this. He didn’t want you seeing him like this -- fighting in his element. But before he could even speak, you were already swinging --

-- A sticky and wet dish rag smacking him square in the chest.

"Johnathan Price" you snapped, brandishing a broom like a sword next. “What in God’s green earth do you think you’re doing breaking my good plates?! That was the Easter jar! The one with the bunnies!”

He blinked, stunned. “Darling I—”

“You promised no more soup ladle beatdowns inside the café!”

“They had a gun—”

“And I had biscotti in the oven!”

John, a man who’d led covert strikes in warzones with a cigarette in his mouth and a knife in his boot, found himself retreating from a five-foot-two woman armed with a broom and righteous fury. He tried to sidestep your next swat, but the broom caught him on the hip anyway.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing the spot. “You hit harder than Laswell on her third cup of coffee.”

You grabbed a dustpan at that. “Don’t sass me, mister. You just demolished the dessert case and scared off the Tuesday brunch crowd. They’re pensioners, John!”

He gave a sheepish shrug, eyes glancing toward the unconscious men still groaning on the floor. “They’ll come back. You make good scones.”

You huffed, storming toward the shattered biscotti like you were mourning lost children. “Next time you feel like unleashing your inner Rambo, do it outside, away from my marble countertops!”

He crouched beside you, picking up shards of cookie and porcelain, one bloodied knuckle throbbing. “I was gonna apologize, you know.”

“For what? Using my cookie tin as a blunt weapon or bleeding on the tile?”

He gave you a guilty look. “For... letting you see that side of me.”

You paused then, glancing at the trail of éclairs and unconscious criminals in his wake, then at your husband -- your grumpy, violent, cinnamon-roll-consuming husband in a floral apron, bleeding but earnest. A beat passed. And in that beat, something settled deep in your chest -- a quiet, undeniable truth.

Something had truly shifted. Maybe in him. Maybe in you. The boundaries crossed and broken. Something anew was invited when your John decided to wield a knife instead of a whisk today. When he hardly flinched when blood lingered near his teeth. Toying and grunting more pleased than disgusted by the iron taste around his fingertips and palms.

You watched him, framed in morning light and bakery ruin, chest heaving and temple bleeding, the frock of the bunnies in his apron fluttering slightly with every breath -- and in that moment, you saw not a stranger, not a monster, but something... more. Something that had always been there, just tucked behind tea cozies and his grumbling, quiet love.

And maybe you should’ve felt fear. Maybe you should’ve run. But instead --

-- you bonked him again on the head with the broom.

“John, I swear to God, if you’ve broken my grandmother’s pudding dish -- ”

He winced, actually winced, as if your wrath started to sting more than the bullet that probably grazed his arm one time back in Mexico.

“Ow! Ow! I was gonna apologize, woman,” he muttered, ducking the next swing. “Didn’t mean for you to see that side of me.”

“You think I care about that?!” you snapped, jabbing a finger at the mess. “You think I’m afraid of a man in bunny-print pockets? No! I’m mad because you smashed my entire tea set! The limited-edition one with the painted violets!”

John, still bleeding slightly, looked at the floor, sheepish. “They came in with weapons, love.”

“They came in with dirty boots!” you shot back. “And you just let them stomp all over my floor like heathens!”

One of the robbers groaned softly in the corner. Without breaking eye contact, you picked up a scone and hurled it with perfect aim. It thudded against his forehead. He slumped back down.

John stared at you.

“…You terrify me sometimes,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

You narrowed your eyes and crossed your arms. “Good.”

And that -- well, that was the real violence in John's life now.

Not wars or battles or bloodshed. No. It was John Price getting scolded within an inch of his life while holding a rag to his face, trying not to bleed on your embroidered doilies.

-- not the fists, not the firefights. Not the burning of scanting flesh and loose wounds and gunpowder --

But the fury of you. His tiny sweet little flour-dusted wife with a broom in one hand and a lecture in the other.

And John. Your John

Wouldn't have it any other way.

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