#spatial practices

[gemmahale]

Suddenly hit with a memory of middle school (~12 yo) Gemma answering the trivia question of “countries that start with U” with “Urugli” (pronounced ‘you’re ugly’) from Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen’s “Our Lips are Sealed” that I had just watched over the weekend at a sleepover.

Thank god the PE Coach misheard me and thought I said “Uruguay.” 🤦‍♀️

This has been your reminder that I have always been, and always will be a gullible dipshit.

[irkendogma]

zim with that fuckin water balloon WOMD mocap

[khajiitclaws]

FFXIV raiding while autistic is not for the faint of heart I’ll tell you that. Half the time I can’t visualize space correctly and go to the wrong spot. I’m putting my hands up for left and right to figure it out mid fight. I’m constantly hyperaware that the rest of the party probably thinks I’m an idiot

[orthosispsychosis]

i dont enjoy the aesthetics of my own figure drawing practices and usually end up distorting/stylizing them if i use them as a base for a more personally enjoyable work but they are useful for realizing things such as 'hm i seem to have gradually drifted away from awareness of where the bellybutton goes'

[exopelagic]

liveblogging my descent into madness

[beloveds-embrace]

(p2 of mail order soldier könig)

Despite everything, you really weren’t ready for how big he was.

Sure, his profile had mentioned it- “tall” in bold, all-caps, like a warning label or a selling point, depending on your preferences alongside his equally intimidating name. And his vibe? Absolutely screamed haunted clock tower. You had expected “tall” in the way NBA players were tall, or the way celebrities looked tall on red carpets but were actually like 5’10” in real life. But this? This was different. This was architectural: König didn’t just walk into a space; he filled it like a cathedral with opinions. You stood next to him and felt like a misplaced LEGO figure who’d been granted custody of an ancient war relic. Every time he moved, you felt the displacement of air like God was adjusting a chess piece.

You had thought all of that because the trip back to your temporary apartment had been… an ordeal. König didn’t drive. You hadn’t even gotten far enough to ask why. It could’ve been a moral objection, a PTSD trigger, or just the fact that his knees probably touched his chin in a Toyota Corolla. You didn’t drive either (personal trauma plus urban nihilism), so rideshare it was. When the driver pulled up and caught a glimpse of König, who stood beside you like an executioner summoned from a darker, angrier timeline, the man audibly gasped and his foot started to inch toward the gas pedal.

You leaned in through the passenger window with your brightest, most deranged smile. “Five stars and I’ll make sure he doesn’t flay you.”

The driver nodded- poossibly blacked out. And drove like the devil was behind him, which, to be fair, he kind of was.

Arriving at your building was when the spatial tragedy truly began. König had to duck to get into the lobby. Not in a cute, awkward way, but like a kaiju visiting a dollhouse. The fluorescent lights buzzed uneasily overhead, dimming just slightly as if reacting to his gravitational pull, and you became hyper-aware of everything you owned and how none of it was rated for the stress test of Austrian death cryptid.

The elevator? Out of the question. Your third-floor apartment? Suddenly way too far from the ground. König climbed the stairs like a war machine from a documentary about siege tactics, each footstep a dull thud that you were certain would cost you your damage deposit, but at least he seemed to have no complaints… though you were sure he was unhappy with how you had to stop to catch your breath lseveral times while he remained military-commercial ready.

When you opened your apartment door and gestured grandly, the words that came out were: “This is… home. Temporary. Probably. Until you accidentally break the building and we need to live in a cave.”

König said nothing. Just paused in the doorway, ducking under the frame with practiced effort, and lingered there for a moment. His eyes- somewhere behind that hood, surely?- swept the place with a slow, methodical awareness that made you wonder how many exits he could already map and how many sniping points your living room offered.

You gestured to the couch with the fatal optimism of someone about to learn a lesson. “You can sit. If it holds.”

It did not. Or rather, it gave one last dramatic gasp of life. There was a creak, a pop, and then a long, soft crunch that felt less like furniture collapsing and more like it was filing for a legal separation. König, to his credit, looked apologetic. Or maybe he didn’t; it was hard to tell with the hood, but his shoulders hunched slightly, and that seemed like the body language equivalent of a Canadian “sorry.”

“…Okay. Floor’s fine too. Floor is classic.”

He lowered himself with all the elegance of a collapsing war monument, folding into a sprawl of limbs that somehow took up more space despite being on the ground. He sat cross-legged like a monk, if monks were built like tanks and radiated a kill count.

And then- the doorbell rang an unwelcome, familiar tune that made you freeze.

Not the good kind of freeze, and not the surprise-party kind. The fight-or-flight-oh-god-it’s-him kind. That sound- that arrogant, familiar, triple-tap of someone who thought your doorbell was a buzzer for attention? That was him.

Your ex-fiancé.

You turned slowly to König, who had stilled completely. His body didn’t move, but his attention locked onto the door like a predator scenting blood. He was suddenly alert, dangerous, like a loaded gun that had remembered it had a purpose.

“Okay,” you whispered, as if trying not to disturb a spirit. “This is a test. A dry run. Like a fire drill, except instead of fire, it’s a narcissistic man with commitment issues.”

König tilted his head slightly, and though you couldn’t see his face, you were 90% sure that meant, Shall I gut him or just remove the legs?

You held up one finger. “Let’s just… see what he wants first.”

You cracked the door open, just enough to peek through and block most of König’s terrifying silhouette. And there he was. Your ex-fiancé, smug as ever with his hair gelled within an inch of its life, shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a gold chain that you were pretty sure had been repossessed twice.

“Hey, babe,” he said with that smirk that had once seemed charming and now just looked like he was trying to seduce his own reflection. He completely brushed over the fact that he had followed you all the way here, to this supposedly hidden apartment you got until you had König with you. “You haven’t been answering my texts.”

“I changed phones,” you replied instantly. “And numbers. And species.”

He gave a little laugh like you were just being coy. Leaned on the doorframe with the forced casualness of someone trying to win you back with zero self-awareness and all his tricks learned from BookTok. “Look, I know we’ve had our differences, but I’ve been thinking-”

And that was when König rose. Not stood, but rose.

The doorframe went from well-lit to eclipsed in seconds. A gloved hand slid into view and gripped the edge of the door, the fingers longer than your ex’s attention span. Your ex’s expression did a full software reboot.

“…Who the hell is that?”

You offered a cheerful shrug. “Oh, that’s König. My security system. He came with knives and trauma.”

König took one slow, deliberate step forward. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The pressure of him, the sheer atmospheric density of his presence, did all the work. It was like standing in front of an oncoming avalanche and realizing the snow hates you.

Your ex-fiancé made a sound- a half-choked, half-whined hiccup that suggested his ego had just herniated. Still, he tried to rally. Puffing his chest. “I’m not scared of him, okay? You think you can threaten me with some… some cosplaying lunatic?”

König stepped forward again. Just one inch. Just enough.

The air grew heavy.

Your ex backpedaled so fast you almost heard cartoon sound effects. “Y-you know what? This is toxic. You’re toxic. I was trying to be the bigger person!”

König tilted his head again. Just enough to reveal a single glint of eye behind the hood, and it made your ex scream.

Actually screamed. Like a man encountering the consequences of his actions for the very first time. And then he was gone. Fled down the hallway like the answer to a prayer you hadn’t had time to finish.

“We’ll talk later!”

No, we won’t.

You shut the door with the satisfying click of sealing a tomb, you grin slowly stretching.

König turned back to you, then, silent and still waiting. .

You reached up and patted his arm- gently, because you were fairly certain that bicep could be registered as a medieval weapon. “A+, no notes. Extremely threatening. Ten out of ten cryptid vibes. You are great!”

He made a low soun that was not quite a grunt and not quite a sigh, and you took it as a thank-you.

Later, after the adrenaline had faded, you handed him a mug of tea- which looked comically small in his massive hands, like a Barbie accessory. He held it delicately, reverently, as if you’d handed him a precious museum piece instead of an herbal infusion from a grocery store.

You curled up on the wrecked edge of your couch, eyeing him across the room.

“Y’know,” you murmured, half to yourself, “this might actually work out.”

He didn’t reply, but he did lean a little closer.

“What d’you want for lunch?” You finally remembered to ask, standing up with your hands on your hips like you were Superman awaiting orders from Batman and not actually one of the miserable civilians that need to be saved regularly.

“We gotta keep you big and thick, König! So just say what you’d like.”

…he was staring a little too intently at you, actually. You kind of felt like you were kinning your ex-fiancé in this moment.

[lowrisemiller]

ꜰɪᴇʟᴅ ᴛᴇꜱᴛ

you can imagine whichever Reed you want ;)

reed richards x assistant!fem!reader

you're reed richards’ long-suffering lab assistant. brilliant in your own right, you handle everything from data entry to inter-dimensional rift control. you’ve been nursing a hopeless crush on him for months. the man can design a quantum field stabilizer in his sleep, but he’s absolutely blind to the way you touch his shoulder a beat too long or always bring him his favorite coffee without asking. how could someone so brilliant be so stupid when it came to people?

masterlist | 4.7k words | MDNI SMUT | reed neglecting basic things bc scientist duh, reader(me) is DOWN BAD, reed is oblivious to everything that isn’t science, finger & oral f!receiving, reed stretching things, him being a nerd while eating ur pussy😍 unprotected piv sex DONT DO THAT ! aftercare:)

The lab was quiet, except for the soft scribble of pen on paper and the low, constant hum of equipment Reed swore was essential, even if it sounded like white noise to everyone else. You sat perched at your workstation, chin resting in your palm, eyes drifting from your screen to the man pacing ten feet away—muttering under his breath, brow furrowed, fingers twitching.

You’d seen that look a hundred times.

It meant he was close to a breakthrough.

It also meant you could scream I want you in morse code and he wouldn’t register it.

You sighed, clicking your pen against your notebook. He didn’t glance up. Not even when you shifted in your seat and stretched in a way that was definitely for his benefit.

Ten months.

That’s how long you’d worked beside him—helping with calculations, organizing lab notes, fending off media inquiries, even stopping one of his machines from literally catching fire last Tuesday. You’d poured yourself into this job. You knew his schedule better than he did. You brought him his coffee the exact way he liked it. You wear that plum lipstick because he’d once said it was a “pleasing wavelength” for visual stimulation.

He hadn’t looked twice.

You weren’t just harboring a crush at this point. No, this had evolved into something much more volatile—an emotional chemical reaction waiting for a catalyst.

And Reed? Reed was… oblivious.

Gorgeous, brilliant, maddeningly unbothered Reed Richards. With his rolled-up sleeves and distracted glances, the way he chewed on pens when deep in thought, the offhand compliments he gave without realizing they were compliments—“Your spatial reasoning is exceptional,” he’d said once, looking at your notes. You’d practically melted.

Now he stood a few feet away, talking to himself like always. You watched the way his hands gestured mid-air, sketching invisible shapes.

“Frustrated with the equations?” you asked, keeping your tone light.

“No, no. Just… considering variable Y’s response under quantum fluctuation,” he murmured, barely registering your voice. “Though I suppose an extra set of eyes wouldn’t hurt.”

He handed you the clipboard and your fingers brushed. He didn’t even flinch. Your heart did.

You took it wordlessly, biting the inside of your cheek. How could someone so brilliant be so stupid when it came to people?

Maybe that was unfair. Reed wasn’t cruel, or cold. He was kind in his own absent-minded way. But he had tunnel vision—for science, for discovery. He didn’t notice the things that didn’t present themselves in a neat, testable format.

Like how you lingered in his orbit.

Or how your eyes followed him when he wasn't looking.

Or how sometimes, after long days, you fantasized about climbing into his lap right in that damn desk chair and making him pay attention.

Your pen scratched against the clipboard now, pretending to read the data while you watched him from the corner of your eye. He was back to pacing, lips moving silently. His sleeves were pushed up again, exposing strong forearms, veins prominent, hands twitching like he needed to do something with them.

God, you were losing it.

You placed the clipboard down. “You ever think maybe the problem isn’t quantum fluctuation, Reed? Maybe it’s just human error.”

He blinked and turned. “Are you suggesting I made a mistake?”

“I’m saying maybe if you took your head out of the wormhole generator long enough to eat or sleep or…” You paused. Look at me.

“…notice things, you’d think clearer.”

He looked like he might ask what “things” you meant. But instead, he turned back to his calculations, nodding. “Duly noted.”

You stared at his back, silent for a moment. And that’s when the thought struck you: He’s never going to see it unless you make him.

He would go the rest of his life chasing black holes and entropy and would never realize the way you burned for him—not unless you showed him.

Your pulse skipped.

Your patience is snapping.

You were going to be an anomaly he couldn’t ignore.

It was a new day, but nothing had changed.

Reed was still buried in data, half-dressed in a rumpled button-down he probably hadn’t noticed had two buttons mismatched. His hair was slightly damp, like he'd showered ten minutes before walking into the lab and immediately got lost in thought again. You stood at your usual station, sipping lukewarm coffee and pretending not to glance over at him every thirty seconds.

You weren’t pretending very well.

This was your fourth twelve-hour day this week, and you’d long since passed the phase where your crush felt cute. It was heavier now—dense, loaded with tension you had nowhere to put. Not when he kept looking right through you, offering praise only when it was tied to data points or completed tasks.

Today, he barely looked up when you walked in, just said, “Morning,” like you were air and math and all the other constants in his life.

You sat your coffee down a little too hard.

“Sleep okay?” you asked, typing with one hand as you glanced toward him. His back was to you as he scribbled across the whiteboard.

“Didn’t,” he replied casually. “The formula’s been looping in my head since 2 a.m.”

Of course it had.

You nodded to yourself, refocusing on your notes—but your brain wasn't on line graphs. It was on how his voice sounded deeper in the mornings. Rough. Scraped thin. It was on how he'd rolled his sleeves again, unconsciously, like he was giving you just enough to fantasize about but never enough to touch. It was on how he’d leaned over your shoulder the day before, close enough to make you forget your own name, then pulled away without even noticing how stiffly you sat for five minutes after.

You were starting to feel stupid.

Or worse—transparent.

You tugged at the edge of your shirt, adjusting it subtly, then pushed your chair back.

“Reed,” you said after a moment, tone careful.

He glanced up.

You hesitated. You could say it. “Do you ever think about me when we’re not in this lab?” Or even just “Do you notice when I’m trying to get your attention?” But all that left your mouth was:

“…Do you want lunch?”

He blinked. “No, thanks.”

You smiled tightly and nodded. “Okay.”

A long beat passed before he added, “You should eat, though. Your concentration dips if you skip meals.”

That nearly made you laugh. He didn’t notice your new lipstick or the way you leaned closer when talking, but he noticed a dip in your concentration?

“Noted,” you muttered, turning away. Your heart was starting to feel like an overworked computer—on the verge of burnout.

Still, you stayed.

He asked you to help calibrate a device and you did, even though his hands grazed yours and he didn’t seem to feel it. You reorganized his notes for the hundredth time and he said, “I’d lose my head without you.” Your stomach flipped, and you cursed yourself for letting it.

Eventually, the day wore on. The lights buzzed overhead. He worked in silence. And you sat across from him, eyes on your computer screen but brain nowhere near it.

You weren’t going to say anything today. You weren’t ready. But you were closer.

You were watching him more intentionally now. Watching how he moved. Noticing when he forgot to eat, when his jaw clenched at a miscalculation, when he sighed like the weight of the universe had settled into his spine.

And more importantly… you were starting to plan.

Because if Reed Richards wasn’t going to notice you on his own, maybe it was time you made it impossible for him not to.

You started small.

A hand on his shoulder when you passed behind him—just a light touch, fingers lingering a little longer than necessary. A compliment you slid in while reviewing his data aloud. Your tone didn’t change, but your eyes watched his face this time, looking for any flicker of reaction.

Still, nothing overt.

But you were a scientist too, in your own way. You knew not all reactions happened in the open.

So you adjusted variables.

Today, you wore something just a touch more fitted under your lab coat. Nothing flashy. Just subtle. Intentional. Your lips were glossed in a soft cherry sheen and you had your hair tucked behind one ear, leaving your neck bare when you leaned over your notes.

You didn’t say much when you came in. Just a soft, “Morning, Reed,” as you brushed past him to your desk. He looked up. Briefly. His eyes caught on your profile, then flicked back to his screen. But there was… a beat. Just long enough to file away.

You smirked, barely.

He worked for hours, absorbed as usual. But today, you noticed something.

His eyes flicked to you more than once.

Quick glances. Measured. Like he was calculating a change in the room’s atmosphere. Like he felt something different but hadn’t yet assigned it meaning.

When he handed you a tablet to review notes, your fingers touched—warm, steady. This time, he paused.

Just for a second.

Not long enough to be certain of anything. But long enough to make your heart thud against your ribs.

You gave him a slow smile. “Thanks.”

He blinked and muttered, “Of course,” then turned away like he needed to recalibrate.

You kept working. Quiet. Focused.

But later—when you reached for a beaker on the shelf above his head—he stood behind you, offering, “Let me.”

You turned, close enough that your chest brushed his arm as you stepped aside.

He stilled.

You looked up at him, wide-eyed, like it wasn’t completely on purpose. “Thanks.”

His gaze flicked down. A flicker of something behind those eyes. He handed you the beaker wordlessly, but his jaw was set. Not tight. Just… aware.

There it is.

It wasn’t much. A subtle shift in the lab’s atmosphere. But it was enough to keep your spine humming, your thoughts racing.

You’d pushed the threshold.

And Reed felt it.

It happened again.

Reed forgot what he was saying mid-sentence. You were across the room, head bent over your tablet, pencil in your mouth, lab coat slipping slightly off your shoulder. His sentence just… stopped. Hung in the air unfinished.

And for once, he noticed you noticing.

You looked up slowly, eyebrows raised like well?

“I—” he cleared his throat, adjusting his collar. “Never mind.”

You bit back a smile.

Another day in the lab. Another carefully applied variable. You weren’t loud about it. Just present. Vivid. A little perfume on your wrist. Lip gloss again. A comment here and there, perfectly timed to stick in his head.

“Careful,” you murmured when he bumped into the desk beside you. Your voice was soft. A little amused. “You almost ran me over.”

He looked down at you, flustered. “Sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

Liar.

You knew he had near-total environmental awareness. Reed Richards didn’t miss anything. But lately, he missed a lot—because he was looking at you and then pretending he hadn’t.

You kept it casual. Calculated.

You’d brush past him with a hand on his back, stand just a little too close while looking at the same screen, ask questions in that tone you saved for only him.

He was unraveling slowly. Quietly.

You caught him watching once—when you walked away to grab a coffee. His gaze dropped to your hips and stayed for three full seconds before jerking back to the screen like he'd been slapped.

You pretended not to see. But your grin behind your coffee cup was downright smug.

Later that day, he dropped a tool and you crouched down to grab it first. When you stood and handed it back to him, your fingers touched. He held on a little too long.

You tilted your head, teasing. “Forget what you needed it for?”

He blinked down at your joined hands and pulled back sharply. “No. Sorry. I—”

He coughed. “I’m distracted.”

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t need to.

By now, you knew the exact cadence of his footsteps when he was deep in thought. The slow, uneven rhythm that meant he was pacing without realizing it, caught in his own mental spiral.

You could hear them behind you now—soft thuds on the concrete floor of the lab. Reed Richards, brilliant, infuriating man, walking through formulas with half his shirt untucked and his fingers twitching at his sides. His muttering was barely audible over the hum of the machines, but you caught bits of it:

“Non-linear increase… No, that’s not right. Unless…”

You didn’t look up. Not yet.

Instead, you sat at your workstation, half-focused on the screen in front of you, legs crossed slowly under the table—exposed just enough to draw the eye if someone were finally looking.

And he was.

Reed had been distracted for days now. You saw it in the way his gaze lingered when you bent forward to check wiring. The way his voice wavered slightly when you spoke too close to his ear. The way he’d started pausing in his work like something had thrown off the trajectory of his thought process—and that something was you.

It was working.

He still hadn’t named the tension, but it was eating at him.

So today, you’d decided: no more hints. No more tests.

You were going to prove it to him in a way he couldn’t ignore.

You stood slowly, walked to the central console where he was now bent over a string of data projections, brows furrowed. He didn’t notice you at first—not until you placed a hand lightly on the edge of the table next to his.

His voice faltered. “The waveform collapse pattern could still—”

You leaned in just enough that your shoulder brushed his. “Still what?”

He straightened slightly, blinking at the screen like it had betrayed him.

Your voice was quieter this time. “You’ve been off lately, Reed.”

He turned his head, barely. “Off?”

You tilted your head. “Distracted.”

He opened his mouth, closed it. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

You hummed. “I know. But I’m starting to think the problem isn’t in your equations.”

That got his attention. His eyes flicked to yours, guarded. “What do you mean?”

You let the silence hang for a moment. Then:

“I think the thing disrupting your work… is me.”

Reed went still. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. He was computing. Processing. Trying to refute it. But his body betrayed him—his hand clenched on the table, his gaze briefly darting to your mouth before jerking away.

“I’m not—” he started. “You’re not a disruption.”

You smiled softly. “Then why do you keep looking at me like you’re afraid of what happens if you do it too long?”

He looked stunned. Then—guilty.

You took a breath, slow and steady. This was it.

“I’ve tried everything,” you said. “The lipstick. The touching. Standing so close you could feel my breath.” You leaned in, lower now, voice like silk. “And still, nothing.”

Reed was frozen in place.

“I think,” you continued, “that you’re just waiting for someone to spell it out.”

You stepped back, slowly, and hopped up onto the edge of the table in front of him—knees parted, one leg brushing his thigh. You leaned back on your hands, tilting your head like a challenge.

“Well, Reed?” you asked softly. “Do you need a demonstration?”

His pupils were blown wide. His breath caught. And his hands—god, his hands—hovered like he didn’t know where to touch first.

“You…” he said hoarsely. “You’re serious.”

You nodded, lips curled into a smile. “You want to calculate the pattern? Fine. Let’s start with some field data.”

You reached forward and took his hand—placed it firmly on your thigh.

He made a strangled sound. His fingers flexed. “This is… highly inadvisable.”

“Why?” you whispered, leaning forward so your lips nearly brushed his. “Because you’ve thought about it?”

His jaw clenched. “Yes.”

Your breath hitched.

“Every day this week,” he rasped, voice low now, broken open. “I’ve tried to ignore it. Tried to focus. But I’m… I’m failing. Every time you walk by me. Every time you touch me. I—” He shook his head. “I can’t think when you’re near.”

You dragged his hand a little higher, slow, teasing. “Good. Don’t think.”

And that’s when Reed snapped.

He surged forward, kissing you hard, like he’d been starving for air and only just found it. His hands were everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding up your sides, tugging your lab coat open like it was a barrier to understanding.

You moaned against his mouth, arms around his shoulders, legs parting instinctively as he stepped between them. He kissed like a man undone—like every theory he’d ever held was shattering under your touch.

“You have no idea,” he breathed against your neck. “How long I’ve been holding back.”

“Show me,” you whispered. “All of it.”

He groaned, low and guttural, and then his hands turned curious. Focused. Scientific. One settled at your throat, not squeezing, just holding—fingers spread like he was feeling your pulse, measuring your response. The other slid under your skirt, over the curve of your thigh, then—

“Oh,” you gasped, spine arching.

“I need to know,” he murmured, almost to himself, “what makes you tremble like that.”

Another touch. Another gasp. “That’s a reaction. Fascinating…”

“Reed—”

“I’m cataloging,” he said, voice filthy and analytical. “You’re the most compelling data set I’ve ever encountered.”

And then his fingers stretched.

Not just in confidence. Literally.

You whimpered as two elongated fingers traced up your inner thigh while another hand—normal-sized—cupped your breast through your shirt, thumb teasing slowly. The other hand remained at your throat, grounding you, steadying you.

He was everywhere.

“Can you feel what you’re doing to me?” he whispered, pressing forward until you felt the thick, hard line of his cock against your core through layers of fabric. “You’ve disrupted every model. You’ve introduced chaos.”

You pulled him closer, panting. “Then let it consume you.”

“Consider this your field test,” he whispered against your lips.

And then he kissed you like he was sealing a pact—hands spanning your body, holding you like something he’d discovered and didn’t intend to release. His mouth was hot and searching, lips sliding down your jaw, teeth grazing your neck. You gasped, clutching his shirt, and that one sound made him groan hard, hips bucking against you without thinking.

“You make that noise again,” he muttered, “and I swear I’ll never let you leave this table.”

You did.

Just to see.

A breathy, needy gasp as he licked a slow stripe up your throat—and his hands tightened on your thighs, dragging you closer to the edge of the table until your hips tilted forward and your clothed core was flush against the bulge straining in his pants.

He cursed under his breath, forehead pressed to yours. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

“Then study me,” you whispered, breath hitching. “Make sense of it.”

He did.

God, he did.

He dropped to his knees between your legs, hands spreading your thighs open as he looked up at you like you were divine—something to worship, something to break open and understand. His fingers pushed your skirt higher, until it was bunched around your hips. When he reached your panties, he paused.

“Wet already,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Stimuli, minimal. Response, immediate.”

You shivered.

Then—he pressed a kiss right to the center of the damp fabric. Slow. Gentle. Reverent.

Your hips jolted, and he smiled.

He peeled your underwear down your legs, lips brushing your inner thigh as he murmured, “I’ve never wanted anything this badly.”

Then he finally—finally—tasted you.

His tongue was hot and slow, dragging a firm, wet stripe from your entrance to your clit. You cried out, and he groaned like he could feel it in his bones.

And then the muttering started.

Low. Incoherent. So Reed.

“God—taste is sharper than expected… pressure response is increasing…” His tongue flicked faster, and your head fell back. “Sensitivity peak here—yes, that’s it, I knew it—”

“Reed,” you gasped, fingers burying in his hair. “You’re talking—”

“I’m studying,” he said against your clit, tongue relentlessly. “Don’t interrupt the process.”

You moaned.

He grinned. “Good girl.”

That made your whole body jolt.

Reed caught it instantly. “Huh. New variable: verbal praise. Noted.”

His tongue circled tighter, and then—another hand slid up your torso, not the one braced on your thigh. It was soft, gentle, and a little too synchronized.

You looked down.

Another finger. Stretching from the hand holding your hip. Long and curved and perfect.

“Multi-point stimulation,” he murmured between licks. “Let’s test your threshold.”

You whimpered as his tongue lapped at your clit while that second hand slipped beneath your shirt, under your bra, pinching your nipple softly. Another elongated finger curled between your legs, circling your entrance, teasing—but never pushing in.

“I need to see you come apart,” he said. “I need to feel it.”

And then he did it all at once.

Tongue flicking. Finger pressing deep inside you, curling like he knew. Fuck, was that another?—spanning your lower back to hold you down as you arched off the table.

“Oh my god—Reed—”

“Give it to me,” he whispered. “Let me feel what I’ve done to you.”

You shattered.

Your orgasm hit like a burst of static—crackling down your spine, clenching around his fingers, your legs trembling on either side of his head.

You cried out his name, again and again, and he ate it up, moaning like it was his reward.

When you came back to yourself, he was standing again—his hands all back where they belonged, his mouth slick and shining. He looked wrecked.

And then—his belt hit the floor.

“You think I’m done?” he rasped. “You think I’d stop at one data point?”

He pulled you forward—off the table, into his arms—and turned you around until your back hit the cool surface. His cock, thick and flushed, pressed against your slick entrance.

“I’m going to learn you,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “Every reaction. Every tremble. Every time you scream my name—I’ll know why.”

And then he pushed in.

All the way.

Slow and deep and perfect.

You sobbed into his shoulder as he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours, cock twitching inside you like even he was shocked how good it felt.

His breath hitched. “Oh… oh, fuck. You’re…”

He couldn’t even finish the sentence.

He started to move.

Slow strokes at first—grinding in, pulling out halfway, pushing deeper again. His hands explored every inch of you—mouth on your neck, chest, shoulder. He whispered your name like it was a formula. He muttered observations even as he fucked you harder.

“You clench when I say your name—tight around me, just like that—fuck—”

“Your back arches when I hit here—god, you’re perfect—”

“You feel like you want me to lose control—so I will.”

And he did.

He lost it.

His pace stuttered, then snapped—hips slamming into you with brutal precision, every thrust angle to hit that perfect spot. You clung to him, moaning shamelessly, barely coherent as he fucked you like he’d been waiting years.

You came again—harder this time—and he groaned so loud it echoed in the lab.

“Gonna come inside you,” he warned, wild-eyed. “You want it?”

“Yes, yes, Reed, please—”

He slammed deep and stilled, cock pulsing as he filled you, one last ragged cry falling from his lips as he buried his face in your neck.

You held him as he trembled through it, panting, hands tangled in your hair.

It took a full minute before either of you spoke.

Then, voice hoarse, he whispered:

“…I think I need to run a full repeat trial.”

After.

The lab was quiet, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex. You were still sprawled across the console table, legs shaking, chest heaving. Reed leaned over you, both hands braced on either side of your hips. His head was bowed, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin.

Neither of you moved.

Finally, he let out a shaky laugh.

“...I think I blacked out for a second.”

You let out a breathless huff. “Welcome back.”

He looked up. His hair was a mess—curling wildly at the edges, gray hairs damp with sweat. His eyes were wide and stunned and so soft, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And then he leaned in again, slower this time, and kissed you like he meant it.

Not a theory. Not a test. Just feeling.

When he pulled back, he looked at the mess between your thighs and the growing stickiness on his abs. When did his shirt come off? His brows pulled together, equal parts concern and fascination.

“I, uh—there’s a shower down the hall. Private. It's not… state-of-the-art, but…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’d like to take care of you.”

You nodded, still dazed. “Okay.”

He helped you up with this heartbreaking gentleness, hands steady at your waist like you might vanish if he let go too fast. He gathered your clothes in silence, cradled your hand in his, and led you barefoot down the corridor to a sealed side room.

The lab shower was built for function—stark white tiles, a metal bench, one glass wall—but it felt almost sacred now. Reed adjusted the water temp with clinical precision before motioning for you to step in first.

Then he joined you.

And just… looked at you.

Not with lust, not yet. With wonder.

His hands were slow as he lathered soap across your shoulders, over your back, down your arms. He was quiet now, like something had settled deep in him. His thumbs traced gentle circles into your hips, his forehead brushing yours beneath the spray.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen today,” he said quietly. “Not like that.”

You met his eyes, searching. “You regret it?”

“No,” he said instantly. Then, softer: “I regret how long I ignored it.”

You swallowed.

He washed your thighs carefully, then cupped between them—not to tease, just to clean you, slow and reverent. You bit your lip and let him.

He kissed your forehead, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

Then you reached for him.

His cock was half-hard again—because of course it was—and when you wrapped your hand around him, his eyes fluttered. He leaned back against the wall, mouth parted, not stopping you.

“I want to try again,” he breathed. “When we’re not losing our minds.”

You smiled. “You want another trial?”

His head tipped back against the tile, a low groan leaving his chest. “God, yes. Multiple. Longitudinal.”

dividers by @cyberbeat @cursed-carmine 🏷️ @zevrra @bleed-4-bey @littlemillersbaby @millersdoll @pandapetals @kellielovesmovies @rafeysgirl5 @dearstcupid @ivuravix @worhols @hoeforsirius @axshadows @aj0elap0l0gist @ladyshrike

[astrologydray]

Mercury Sign Intelligence Ranking (From Sharpest to Softest Thinkers)🧠✨

Note: Everyone has strengths in different kinds of intelligence (emotional, analytical, spatial, linguistic, etc.). Mercury in Pisces may write the most moving poetry. Mercury in Capricorn might write the best business plan.

1. Mercury in Gemini

Keyword: Mental Gymnastics

This is Mercury’s domicile, meaning it functions at full strength here. Sharp, witty, fast-talking, and excellent at multitasking. Absorbs trivia like a sponge. Thinks in hyperlinks.

2. Mercury in Virgo

Keyword: Precision

Also in domicile and exaltation. Analytical, detail-oriented, and mentally organized. Masters systems, edits flawlessly, and thrives on logic. Their brain is a high-speed filing cabinet.

3. Mercury in Aquarius

Keyword: Genius-Level Pattern Seeker

Independent thinker, visionary mind. Thinks ten steps ahead and outside the box. Often “ahead of their time” — the rebels and inventors of thought.

4. Mercury in Scorpio

Keyword: Psychological Sleuth

Obsessed with depth. Highly intuitive and investigative. Can detect lies, read minds, and process information beneath the surface. Strategic thinker with razor focus.

5. Mercury in Capricorn

Keyword: Strategic Planner

Thinks long-term. Practical, grounded, and goal-oriented. Absorbs knowledge through structure and discipline. Excellent at putting ideas into action.

6. Mercury in Libra

Keyword: Diplomatic Logic

Highly intelligent socially and verbally. They weigh perspectives and speak with poise. Great debaters, lawyers, and artists of articulation.

7. Mercury in Sagittarius

Keyword: Big Picture Thinker

Philosophical, adventurous, and open-minded. Not always detail-oriented, but sees overarching meaning and vision. Brilliant storytellers and educators.

8. Mercury in Aries

Keyword: Quick and Blunt

Snappy thinkers. Acts on impulse and trusts instinct. While not always reflective, they’re sharp, decisive, and quick-witted in arguments.

9. Mercury in Leo

Keyword: Creative Communicator

Thinks with flair and heart. Loves storytelling and spotlight communication. Not the most logical, but brilliant at inspiring and performing.

10. Mercury in Taurus

Keyword: Slow and Steady

Learns at their own pace. Strong memory and focused attention, but slower to process new ideas. Excellent at mastering one subject deeply.

11. Mercury in Cancer

Keyword: Emotional Intelligence

Learns through emotion and memory. Not always linear, but intuitive and empathetic thinkers. More subjective, but deeply wise in a nurturing way.

12. Mercury in Pisces

Keyword: Dream Logic

Highly creative, imaginative, and intuitive — but struggles with linear or rational processes. Their intelligence is spiritual, artistic, and symbolic rather than logical.

[russellmoreton]

Gildengate Vessels : The Poetics of Space, Gaston Bachelard. by Russell Moreton Via Flickr: russellmoreton.blogspot.com

[antiadvil]

Ok final decision: definitely intertwined

If their hands were cupped I would expect the back of Dan's hand to be facing more towards the camera and his wrist to be less bent. He could be holding his hand in a weird position, but if their hands were cupped, that would force Phil's hand to be more sideways, but his fingers wrap around Dan's hand from the bottom, not the side.

TLDR: if their hands were cupped then their fingers would have to point in different directions at a right angle. But their fingers both point downwards, so their fingers are intertwined.

Okay but have we decided if their hands are cupped or if their fingers are intertwined.

[p0orbaby]

Max Potential

summary: baby fever has never felt so good!

warnings: none! other than my rambling and probably some repetition…

a/n: thank you for the request!

word count: 2.2k

-

“You know, you’re staring again.”

You blink. Caught. Not that you make any effort to stop. The staring is involuntary now, reflexive—like blinking or coveting other people’s children. To stop would imply guilt, and you’ve long since evolved beyond the primitive shame response. Especially when your delusions are so intricately curated, so immaculately dressed. They are not delusions, you reason, but aesthetic projections of an as-yet-unfulfilled domestic future. Visions. Mood boards. Pinterest-worthy hallucinations.

What isn’t a hallucination however, is how right now, your wife is crouched on the grass, toddler balanced on her hip like a Chanel crossbody, her profile softened by golden-hour light so divine it feels commissioned—that’s not madness. That’s prophecy. That’s architecture. That’s fate wearing Nike trainers and a Barça hoodie from last season’s limited drop, the one with the slightly off-centre embroidery that makes her irrationally angry but that she wears anyway because it’s “practical.”

“I’m not,” you say, deadpan. Emotionless. The way you’d deny murder if confronted with photographic evidence and a signed confession.

Pathetic.

“Right,” Patri says, dragging the syllable so slow it feels bureaucratic. She doesn’t look up from her phone, which is blaring a voice note at full volume in a dialect you can’t quite place —probably one of her cousins who sells NFTs shaped like jamón. “Then maybe stop doing the little nose-flare thing. You look like a cult leader preparing for a mass baptism. Or a sacrifice. Hard to tell.”

You ignore her, not out of rudeness but necessity. You’re already five elaborate daydreams deep into a scenario where Alexia, tragically delayed at training, entrusts you with a baby for forty-eight hours and you perform miracles. One-handed nappy changes while deglazing a pan with white vermouth. Cradling a sleepy infant with the same tenderness you reserve for crystal stemware. Whispering lullabies you’ve translated from old Nina Simone lyrics. You’ll be maternal, incandescent, cruelly efficient. You will not—and this is important—you will not cry in the IKEA soft-play toilets like last time, when a four-year-old called you “Auntie Ale’s wife” in that loose, liberal tone that children use when describing mammals. Like you’re just another fun woman their mother lets sit on the sofa.

Alexia is twenty feet away. Twenty precisely—you’ve counted. You’ve always had a good sense for spatial measurement; it’s why you’re the only person in the house allowed to hang the art. She’s too far to hear you whisper something reasonable, like Hey, want to ruin our extremely curated life with a chaotic, yoghurt-smeared creature? but close enough that you can trace the sun-freckles across her cheekbone in perverse, forensic detail.

And she’s smiling. Really smiling. The sort of smile that feels excessive for public consumption. Molars bared. Dimples engaged. You feel it like a cavity. The child—niece, not nephew, right, the one with the pathological love of strawberries—is wedged contentedly on her lap, gently mauling a half-eaten banana. A banana that, in Alexia’s hands, has taken on some sort of symbolic resonance, some holy significance. She cradles it like a sacred relic. You imagine the Vatican ringing, asking to borrow it for a midweek exhibition.

She’s speaking in that voice. The voice. The one reserved exclusively for dogs, children, and you during hangovers. A weird, sacred dialect made entirely of descending notes and whispered vowels. Like the audio version of cashmere. You hate how good she is at it. No—not hate. Something worse. Something hotter. Something twisted and envious and biological.

You mentally open a new list:

Get pregnant.

Somehow

Investigate witchcraft

Steal a child?

No

Okay. Maybe

Legal route. Adoption? IVF? Black market?

Speak to that one teammate who’s always carrying a baby in a sling.

Make PowerPoint. Include graphs.

The child sneezes. Alexia reacts with unflinching, goddess-level poise. She plucks a napkin from somewhere—you didn’t even see her reach—and gently wipes the baby’s nose with the solemnity of a priest performing last rites. Then she laughs again. A low, throaty sound like crushed velvet. And it’s so natural, so confident, so violently maternal that your uterus performs a spontaneous backflip and detonates. You think you can hear your reproductive organs screaming in Latin.

Patri kicks your shin. Not hard, but pointed. You jolt like someone’s just caught you watching something very adult in a public library—which, emotionally speaking, you are.

“You’re acting unwell again,” she says, without inflection. Just starts picking at the label on her water bottle like she’s scraping barnacles off a yacht. Speaking to you like you’re a recurring medical condition. An intermittent rash.

“Do you think,” you murmur, almost to yourself, almost reverently, “that my hands are too small to hold a baby?”

She freezes. Tilts her head slightly, like a golden retriever trying to process classical music. Then—“What the f—what kind of Victorian hysteria is that?”

You hold your hands up in front of you. Examine them with genuine suspicion. Turn them over. Palm. Back. Palm. Like they’re evidence in a trial you’re slowly losing. They are small. Not childlike, not freakish. Just… delicate. Decorative. The kind of hands designed for turning pages or applying expensive serums—not for cradling the soft, wobbly head of a human infant. You can’t even remember the last time you held anything heavier than a glass of Albariño or the emotional weight of your generational trauma.

Patri sighs, long and operatic. “You do realise you’re not actually pregnant, right? You look like a divorced wine mum watching a Pampers advert on mute.”

You glare at her. It’s unfair to be mocked in the throes of a physiological delusion. Hormonal or not, this is real. Primordial. Caveman-level. She might as well be shaming a salmon for swimming upstream.

“It’s not about pregnancy,” you say stiffly. “It’s about potential. About the ineffable sorrow of unrealised maternal capacity.”

She blinks. “Have you been reading Sylvia Plath again?”

You ignore her. Because Alexia, ten metres away, is gently bouncing a baby she has somehow acquired, in a rhythm so ancient, so exact, it could be a ritual. Or a spell. Or a muscle memory from a parallel life where she was barefoot and fertile and wearing white linen by a stream. She doesn’t hesitate when the baby dribbles on her shoulder. Doesn’t flinch when tiny hands yank a fistful of her hair with the chaotic malice only children possess.

And you? You’re sitting on the edge of a bench chewing the inside of your cheek like it’s jerky from a military ration pack. You’re trying—genuinely trying—to manifest ovulation by sheer force of will. You imagine your ovary revving like a reluctant lawnmower.

“She looks good with a baby,” you say, voice flat as pressed linen.

“She’d look good holding a live grenade.”

Fair. But not the same. There’s something grotesquely lovely about it—the baby on her hip, the sun bouncing off her sunglasses, the mild flush on her cheeks. It’s like watching a Vogue editorial about wholesome fertility.

And you know those sunglasses. Of course you do. Tortoiseshell frame, vintage Céline, not the logo-heavy reissue. She picked them because she said they made her look “less severe,” which is laughable because she could be wearing papier-mâché and still look like the ghost of a pre-Revolutionary French duchess. The shirt is from that Barcelona-based boutique that only produces seventeen pieces per season—hand-stitched by a woman named Claudia who doesn’t believe in buttons. The detergent she used on it is that eco-lavender one she insists on ordering in bulk, even though it smells vaguely like a taxidermied grandmother.

You know everything about her. Her ring size. Her cholesterol. The way she arranges the dishwasher like she’s playing Tetris with a PhD. The fact that she eats cereal with a dessert spoon because she says the bowl lasts longer that way. The sound she makes when she yawns — tiny, involuntary, like a content kitten. You know she cries at dog commercials and wipes her eyes with her sleeve because tissues are, quote, “a scam.”

You know how she sleeps: right side, always curled, one arm pinned under the pillow. And that when she dreams—truly dreams, the deep REM kind—she speaks in Catalan, mumbled and unintelligible, except for your name, which she says like it’s a secret.

And still, you have no idea why you haven’t sat her down with a pointer and a projector and unveiled a colour-coded presentation titled Reasons We Should Have A Baby Immediately, If Not Sooner (Also, Twins?). You’ve got names picked out. Outfits saved. Instagram captions drafted. She doesn’t know this, but you’ve already followed three Montessori parenting accounts. Just in case.

The baby squeals. Gurgles. Kicks its tiny socked feet like it’s conducting an invisible orchestra. Alexia beams at it, and for a brief second—cruel, gorgeous—you imagine that beaming directed at you, and a baby that is not borrowed, not visiting, but yours. Hers. Shared.

You feel something pop behind your ribcage. Probably your ovary again. Or your sanity.

“You’re going to combust,” Patri mutters, still peeling. “Like a Victorian woman seeing a piano leg.”

“I think I’m ovulating,” you whisper.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I felt it spiritually.”

Someone walks past and ruffles your hair like you’re a toddler with a snack cup and undiagnosed motor issues. You swat at her hand too late. It’s already ruined—the aesthetic, the illusion, the dignity. You glower. You don’t even know which teammate it was. Could’ve been Mapi. Could’ve been the one who still calls you “guapa” despite the fact that you are visibly continental and married. Doesn’t matter. You’re humiliated.

“Are we the only lesbians in history to not have a baby by thirty?” you mutter, as if narrating a doomed documentary.

“You’re not thirty,” patri says, with the calm cruelty of someone holding a pin to a balloon.

“I feel thirty.”

“You’re wearing silk trousers and haven’t brushed your hair.”

“Exactly.”

There’s a silence. Not a comfortable one. A loud, damning, echoing silence that feels like standing in an empty nursery. You glance again. You can’t help it. Alexia’s holding the child against her chest now—one palm firm across the back like she’s shielding royalty, or treasure. The baby is smacking the top of her head and she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t grimace. Doesn’t even react. Just continues her little one-woman waltz—swaying slowly, like a lullaby with hips. That subconscious, millennia-old rock. The one that lives in the bones of mothers and women who are dangerously good with babies.

You know this rhythm. You’ve seen it in supermarket queues. On park benches. In post-apocalyptic films where the only thing anyone still knows how to do is sway.

“She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” you say softly. Devastated.

Jenni doesn’t even glance up. “You said that about the Dyson.”

“That was different.”

“You said the Dyson would change your life.”

“It did. But I didn’t marry the Dyson, did I?”

She pauses. “I feel like you tried.”

You lean forward. Elbows on knees. Fully possessed. You stare—hard—at Alexia, as though you might be able to manifest the child directly into your arms through the sheer hormonal force of your gaze. Like psychic IVF. Like Jedi maternal instinct.

You picture the baby lifting off her chest—levitating gently, like a helium balloon—and floating toward you. You hold out your hands, just slightly, like a deranged Mary from a nativity play.

Alexia glances up. Catches your eye. And smiles. The kind of smile that should come with a warning label. Sweet and slow and private. Like she’s handing you a secret in the shape of her mouth. You wave. You actually wave. Your hand does a little flick-flick motion like you’re a court jester in a rom-com set on a farm. It’s humiliating. She raises one eyebrow in return—playful, droll, knowing. And you swear to God the baby lets out a gurgle that agrees with her. As if the infant, this strawberry-hatted oracle, understands the erotic stakes of this moment.

“I’m going to tell her,” you say.

Patri groans, deep and guttural. Like something from an ancient tomb. “No, don’t.”

“I’m going to tell her we need a baby.”

“Define ‘need.’”

“As in: we are already, cosmically, spiritually, emotionally parents. The baby is just the physical manifestation of what we already are. Like a prophecy fulfilled.”

“Just tell her you want to ruin your pelvic floor and be done with it.”

“I do, though. I want my pelvis obliterated.”

Patri stands. Dusts invisible lint from her jeans like she’s washing her hands of you. “I’m leaving.”

“Coward.”

“Pervert.”

She walks off. You barely notice. Because your wife—your wife—is over there bouncing a baby like she was engineered in a lab for this exact purpose. Like the gods handed her a child and said: “Here. No notes.”

And you watch. You watch her move and smile and coo like a woman who has always known. Who has always seen the trajectory. Marriage. House. Child. Dog. Second child. Matching tracksuits. School pickups. That lavender detergent, but for onesies. You watch her and you realise this isn’t a phase or a fantasy. It’s gravity. This is a freefall.

Later, when the sun droops and the child is gone and you’re walking hand-in-hand through the car park—the one that always smells like tarmac and old Capri-Suns—you’ll look at her and say, “We should have a baby.”

And she’ll say, completely deadpan, without a single ounce of shock: “I thought you’d never ask.”

And maybe she didn’t. Maybe she’s known the whole time. Maybe she’s just been waiting for you to get hysterical enough to admit it out loud.

But for now—you sit, and you watch, and you want.

And it’s absolutely fucking disgusting.

[kabr0ztrousers]

Similar to the portal one. But reader is a chubby witch in a house full of diffret species (not picky on the type). Anything with a big size differance is chefs kiss though. She has a crush on one of them. So she puts a portal spell on a toy and leaves it out for him to find. And he does but what she didn't realize was how many of her roommates share there toys. And now she has live with the consequences or for some the reward

You can even do a continuation were they figure out what she did and they give up on the toy and just start to use her instead

Kabr0z Writes episode 68: Toying Around

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: infidelity via deception; dubcon via deception; public sex; free use; autocunnilingus

A/N: Ah, my two great loves, portals and free use... Whatever would I do without them.

########################################

You finally figured it out. You'd had the hots for Andy for months, ever since he moved in with you. You were already living with Debbie, and the pansexual lupines Paul and Brian couldn't object to the new housemate; they were fucking practically every night, and weren't quiet about it. The only problem is, Andy only had eyes for Debbie, and you weren't about to fuck up the flat dynamic by stealing her man.

But what a man he was, the very ideal of a minotaur. Eight feet tall and as wide as a doorframe, 150 kilos of pure muscle and sinew, with biceps thicker than your plush thighs. The time you walked in on him in the shower (totally by accident, you understand) sealed it. He was equally huge down below, a cock as long and thick as your forearm. You got wet just thinking about burying that flared monster in your cunt. You just had to get around his obnoxious fidelity first.

That's where a little bit of magic comes in.

Magical study can be understood as ten domains, or spheres, interacting with one another. Forces is the flashy one for tossing fireballs, entropy is the scary one for making things degrade, life is the one for healing wounds or changing your shape, if you can think of it, there's a sphere that does it. Your speciality was a little more esoteric: correspondence. Correspondence is the magic of spatial relationship, specifically the realisation that distances are an illusion and can be subverted with a little know-how and just enough gumption. Theoretically, correspondence lets you teleport too, through a process of literally not being here and being somewhere else, but when that goes wrong it's not uncommon to accidentally become part of a building or worse, so prudent mages only pull that trick in times of direst need.

This trick was almost too easy. You'd get his usual cocksleeve, take out the insert, and link the end of it with the gusset of a pair of knickers. Barely a party trick, it's the same mechanism for pulling a rabbit out of a hat, though with any luck there wouldn't be any pulling out happening. A few magic words, and one exsanguinated mouse later, a hazy film lay on the top of the toy you'd pilfered. You pushed a finger into it, and watched it come out of the inside of the underwear you'd used for the other side. Pulling on the panties you tested again.

Yep, you could feel your finger stroking your pussy lips, a hint of wetness coming away on your hand as you did. You'd always been curious of this. You brought the tube to your face, smelling the warmth of your cunt through the portal as you licked yourself through it. Damn, you taste good. Too good, and god does it feel right. Your tongue explored your nethers, running up and down your slit, lapping up your wetness and circling your clit. Either you're a natural at this, or you're getting far too turned on by the idea of being able to really fuck yourself.

It wasn't easy to stop, but you knew if you let yourself cum like that you'd be there all day, and you wanted to be out of the house before Andy came home from work. He was always pent up when he came back, and modifying his normal cocksleeve into your enchanted pocket pussy was a simple job. He probably wouldn't notice, at least not until he was already balls deep into you. By that point, he might not care.

Replacing the toy, you slipped on a sundress and made your way to the park. You weren't going to risk being caught in the flat while he wanked off with you. There's a quiet spot under a weeping willow, right near the river, about a mile into the park where nobody goes, not even the dog walkers.

That's where you sat, channeling the power of the river and the forest, recharging as you waited. Getting fucked here would probably help, if anything, sex carries powerful magic. It's just a pity he wouldn't be here in person.

Something touched you. A gentle fingertip slid some lube over your pussy, coating your lips in a cold, slick film. The finger pushed in, rubbing the lubricant around the inside of you, feeling the texture of your inner walls. It pulled out. Moments passed. Seconds felt like hours as your mind raced. Of course he'd figure it out, he'd have to lube his toy before fucking it otherwise that huge bitch-breaker would rip it in half!

Or not. The flare pressed against your hole briefly, before forcing its way in. You groped a tit as it pushed in, filling you slowly before he started fucking himself properly. He was going fast, faster than anyone could fuck. Every push made you yelp, your eyes rolling back as it hammered into you, getting deeper and deeper with every push. Your yelps and whines reached a crescendo, the hammering cock driving you to orgasm hard against it.

You felt yourself tensing, gripping the flared beast inside you as your toes curled and your body shook. The force of the orgasm almost made you fall backwards, your arms catching you as your back arched, your hips pushing up against a man who wasn't there as you groaned.

He wasn't far behind. The flare flattened against the entrance of your womb as he pulsed into you, delivering his cum right where you wanted it. The thick liquid steamed through your cervix in a river, filling you in an instant before threatening to spray out around the sides. He held the toy down, keeping you hilted as he pumped you to bursting.

At last, the flare started to recede, he pulled out. You felt the still too wide tip pulling on your entrance before popping out in a fountain of thick cum. You lay, panting on the sparse grass, shielded from passers-by by the fronds of the willows above. It's another simple spell to prevent pregnancy, a handful of river water mixed with a little ash and daubed over your belly neutralises the semen filling your womb. Life magic wasn't your speciality, but a witch knows the rudiments.

You picked yourself up and started to walk back to the main park. It's about a 20-minute walk at a decent clip, but you were taking your time.

Something touched your pussy again. Not a finger, not Andy's flared member, something else. Thinner, shorter, already leaking fluid into you. Have you been borrowed?

The new cock was slower, fucking you like it was savoring the experience. The minotaur cum lubricating him as he slid in and out.

You looked for somewhere to duck out of the way, slipping into a bush as the cock slowly fucked you. It wasn't as big as the minotaur, but the languid pace made you squirm.

It sped up for a few pumps, making you arch yourself again, before slowing down. The cock twitching and throbbing in your cunt, it hadn't knotted you yet, the slippery precum adding to the mix of fluids dripping out of you.

Over and over, the slow stroking punctuated by fast thrusts, each time drawing moans and gasps from you as the canid cock edged inside you; each time brought you to the very edge, before slowing back down and leaving you panting.

The fast fucking started again, this time you clenched yourself against it, feeling the thickness of the cock pressing back at you. You created your peak, tears welling in your eyes as you half-moaned, half-sobbed your release. The knot filled you up, and another man's cum started to fill you.

Walking is hard when you have a tennis ball sized knot plugging you up, harder still when that knot is moving and thrusting with a mind of its own.

You staggered home, the knot staying hard, holding the rest of his cock in you as it twitched and pumped more and more into you. Lupine cum isn't as thick as a minotaur's, but there's just so much of it; you could feel it dripping down your legs, the unmistakable smell of fresh cum filling your nostrils. You were just glad you didn't need to take the bus.

You finally got home, the knot still in you, and slid into your room, waiting for it to pull out.

A knock on the door

"Hey" It's Andy "I know what you did. I gave you to Paul, he's loaded Brian up with boner pills, so don't expect to be getting out any time soon. Next time you want to hook up, just ask, OK?"

Well, looks like you're in for the long haul.

Worth it.

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Not sure how I did on that. The minotaur fucking was fun, but was the lupine as good, or did it overstay its welcome? Maybe I'm being over critical because it's my work.

Either way, if you have a request for any scenarios you want to see or kinks you want me to explore, please do drop an ask! If you're not sure if it oversteps any boundaries, send it and I'll make a decision. The worst I'll say is no

[verstappenverse]

can you do a fic based on the Live event? can it be a charles fic?

Five Minutes Off-Schedule

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: At the F175 live event there’s no room for distractions. The collision is unplanned, the attraction immediate, and the interruption entirely unwelcome. Five minutes with Ferrari’s golden boy might just be enough to derail your night.

Author's Note: First Charles request hope you enjoy 🫶🏼

1.9k words / Masterlist

You’ve been on your feet for hours. Between checking stage setups, coordinating media schedules, and making sure nothing spontaneously combusts, the F175 live event is running as smoothly as one can hope. Every moving piece of the event relies on your ability to juggle a dozen different tasks at once, and there’s no room for distractions. Not when a single oversight could send the entire schedule into chaos.

Your phone is practically an extension of your hand, vibrating with new emails, last-minute schedule adjustments, and frantic messages from colleagues trying to keep the event from spiralling into disaster. Every few steps someone stops you with a question, a problem, or an urgent request, and you barely have time to breathe, let alone pause and take in the spectacle around you.

Which is probably why you don’t see the heavy-duty equipment case in your path, at least not until you walk straight into it. And because the universe has a twisted sense of humour, it’s spectacularly unsurprising that the one and only Charles Leclerc appears in front of you at the exact moment you do.

Your clipboard clatters to the ground, papers scattering in disarray.

“Shit—” You exhale sharply, steadying yourself with one hand on the case, the other instinctively reaching for your phone before it slips from your grasp. Your heart pounds in irritation, but the moment you lift your gaze, your breath catches in your throat.

A pair of familiar green eyes meet yours.

Strong hands steady you before you can fully wipe out, and suddenly, you’re looking up at a familiar face. Charles stands before you, brows slightly raised, hands lifted in a half-hearted attempt to prevent the collision. His black suit blazer is unbuttoned over a fitted white shirt, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the sinewy strength in his forearms. His expression wavers between concern and amusement, his lips twitching like he’s holding back a laugh.

"Ah, merde," he mutters, a hint of a smirk curling at the edges of his lips. "That was dramatic. Are you okay?"

Your brain short-circuits for a second. The adrenaline from the near-fall mixes with something undeniably mortifying as you take a quick step back, putting a safe distance between the two of you.

“I—uh, yeah.” You clear your throat, willing the heat creeping up your neck to disappear. “Sorry, I didn’t see—” You gesture vaguely at the offending equipment case, even though it was very much in plain sight, as if that excuses your complete lack of spatial awareness.

“You were walking like you had somewhere to be,” he counters, his tone light, but his eyes assessing.

“Because I do,” you reply, a little too quickly.

He watches you with interest, one hand slipping into his pocket, the other resting casually on his hip. “So serious,” he muses.

You huff out a breath, more focused on straightening the disheveled papers than on the amused man in front of you. “Some of us are working.”

He crouches at the same time as you, and in the process your fingers brush his. The contact is brief but enough to make your stomach do something ridiculous. You snatch the clipboard quickly, standing up before you make more of a fool of yourself.

“Sorry, I don’t have time for whatever this is,” you say firmly.

“'Whatever this is'?” He tilts his head, his smirk deepening. “I think this was just an unfortunate accident.”

You roll your eyes, stepping to the side to move past him. “Great, then let’s not make a habit of it.”

“Tsk,” he clicks his tongue. “So cold. You’re sure you didn’t plan this? Walking straight into me?”

You let out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, absolutely. I rearranged the entire event schedule just so I could trip into you.”

But before you get too far, his voice follows you. “Ah, but now I’m intrigued. Maybe I should be the one rearranging my schedule.”

You don’t bother looking back. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

An hour later you spot him again, leaning against the bar in the hospitality suite sipping something dark in a lowball glass. The dim lighting casts a golden glow over the polished wood, the soft murmur of conversation filling the space. You’ve just finished dealing with a minor crisis when your eyes meet across the room.

He smirks.

You turn away, determined to pretend the moment never happened.

It should end there.

But then he’s suddenly beside you, his presence felt before he even speaks. The faint scent of expensive cologne lingers in the air between you, mingling with the sharp tang of whiskey from his glass. He moves like someone who belongs here, at ease in a way you envy.

“Are you avoiding me?” His voice is smooth, threaded with quiet amusement.

You sigh, tilting your head slightly as you glance at him. “Avoiding implies I was thinking about you.”

That earns a low chuckle, rich and genuine. “You wound me.”

“Unlikely.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. Instead, he tilts his head, studying you with an infuriating sort of patience. “So you’re working here, for the event?”

“Yeah, sort of. More like ‘thrown into the fire and hoping not to get burned.” You shift the clipboard in your grip, forcing yourself to focus. “Making sure everything runs smoothly. Not doing a great job of it apparently.”

“I think you’re doing great,” he says easily, glancing around the room with practiced observation. “Everything looks very…well-organised.”

You let out a dry laugh, rubbing your temple. “You say that because you can’t see the chaos behind the scenes.”

“Ah, but that’s the point, no?” His smile is warm, a little too knowing. “If it looks perfect to the outside world, then you’ve done your job.”

You blink. He’s right, obviously, but you didn’t expect him to say something like that, insightful and understanding.

“Maybe,” you admit. “Or maybe it’s just good PR.”

His lips quirk, like he’s fighting back another smirk. “That bad, really?”

You sigh, shifting the clipboard in your arms. “Let’s just say I’ve spent most of the night convincing your fellow drivers not to wander off five minutes before they’re supposed to be on stage.”

He laughs, the sound low and unrestrained, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Sounds about right.” He leans in slightly, lowering his voice like he’s about to share a secret. “So who’s been the worst?”

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. “I’m legally not allowed to disclose that information.”

“Oh come on.” He nudges your elbow lightly with his own. “Give me a hint. Just a small one.”

You narrow your eyes. “Absolutely not.”

His grin deepens, like he enjoys the challenge. “Fine. I’ll just have to guess.” He taps his chin, feigning deep thought. “Lando?”

You press your lips together, refusing to give anything away.

“Aha,” he says triumphantly. “That’s a yes.”

You groan, rolling your shoulders. “I swear, keeping drivers in one place is like herding—”

“Children?”

You snort, unable to help it. “Your words, not mine.”

Charles grins, pleased with himself, and takes a slow sip from his glass. His gaze remains on you, curiosity flickering behind the teasing. You wonder, briefly, if this is how he always is, charming, easygoing, entirely too confident for his own good.

And, annoyingly, it’s working.

“I suppose I should let you get back to preventing disasters,” he muses after a beat, though he makes no actual move to leave.

“You suppose correctly.”

He hums, setting his empty glass down with an exaggerated sigh. “A shame.”

You arch a brow. “Why?”

“Because I think it'd be much more fun if you took a break.” His voice drops just slightly, a thread of something almost challenging woven through it.

You exhale, shaking your head. “I don’t have time for breaks.”

His smile is slow, deliberate. “Maybe you should make time.”

And then, just as easily as he appeared, he turns and disappears into the crowd, leaving you standing there, pulse annoyingly uneven.

You think that’s the last of it. But Charles seems determined to prove you wrong.

You see him again near the backstage producers area, where he absolutely doesn’t need to be. The space is a flurry of activity, you’re mid-discussion with a sound tech, trying to sort out an audio issue that could derail the entire segment, when you feel a familiar presence.

He walks by, clearly in no rush, hands in his pockets, he catches your eye, smiles, and keeps going, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Then again when you’re near the dressing rooms, balancing a stack of equipment, you sense him before you see him. This time he doesn’t just walk by, he stops, standing directly in your path, one hand outstretched.

“Need help?”

You narrow your eyes, shifting the weight of the equipment in your arms slightly. “Are you even supposed to be here?”

He shrugs, entirely unbothered. “Probably not.”

“Charles.”

“What?”

You exhale, shaking your head. “I don’t have time to babysit you.”

He places a hand over his heart mockingly, eyes twinkling with mischief. “So harsh. And here I was, just trying to be helpful.”

“Shouldn’t you be doing Ferrari things?” you ask, arching a brow.

His lips twitch. “Ferrari things?”

“You know. Smiling for cameras, charming sponsors, pretending you’re not dying for the event to be over.”

He tilts his head, smirk deepening. "Who says I’m pretending?"

You scoff. "So you are over it."

"Not everything." His gaze lingers just a beat too long. "Present company excluded."

That gives you pause. He studies you for a moment, then gestures to your clipboard. “Five minutes. I promise not to steal your precious clipboard.”

You arch a brow. “Bold of you to assume I’d let it out of my sight.”

His laughs. “I figured. But if I have to compete for your attention, I’d at least like a fair shot.”

You hesitate, glancing around at the chaos still unfolding around you but then again, Charles Leclerc is standing in front of you, eyes locked onto yours like he has nowhere else he would rather be.

“…Five minutes,” you relent.

His smile is triumphant. “That’s all I need.” He waits until you set your clipboard down, watching with an amused tilt of his head.

“I have a million things to do,” you counter.

“Then what’s five minutes?” He leans against the wall, entirely at ease.

You cross your arms. “And what exactly do you plan to do in these precious five minutes?”

His grin widens. “Well, I was thinking of just standing here and watching you stress, but that feels a little cruel.”

You huff, unimpressed. “Glad to know you’re self-aware.”

“I try,” he muses. “But I was actually going to ask if you wanted to grab a drink. Or at the very least, breathe.”

You glance around, half-expecting someone to swoop in and drag him away to something important. But no one does. He stands there, patiently waiting, like the answer genuinely matters to him.

“You’re persistent, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.” His expression softens, just slightly. “Look, I know how these events go. Nonstop. Overwhelming. Sometimes you need someone to remind you to take a second for yourself.”

You hesitate, just a beat too long, and Charles seizes the opportunity.

“I’ll even let you complain about my fellow drivers,” he offers. “No names needed. Just a little vent session.”

You press your lips together, fighting a smile. “Tempting.”

“Isn’t it?” He steps a fraction closer, lowering his voice. “So? What’ll it be?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already reaching for your phone to set it aside. “Fine. Five minutes.”

Charles grins and his eyes sparkle like he’s just won a race.

And as he leads you toward a quieter area of the venue, you can’t help but think that maybe five minutes isn’t such a bad idea.

[verricherri]

spencer with ballerina!reader getting turned on while she warms up/ stretches... i'll let you take this wherever you want <3

En Pointe for You (NSFW///MDNI)

A/N: i was thinking of post-prison spencer and his fingers while writing this, nothing else. Warnings: spencer reid that rearranges your insides, intense eye contact - dont say i didn't warn ya Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated  ☀️

The tiny bell above the studio door chimed just as you were waving off the last of your students. A cluster of tiny ballet shoes and sparkly leotards disappeared out the front, giggling, their voices still echoing faintly against the wooden floor and mirrored walls.

You turned, expecting one of the moms had forgotten a water bottle.

But it wasn’t a mom.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Spencer said softly, fingers laced in front of him, standing awkwardly just inside the doorway like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to exist here. “Dr. Reid,” you smiled, eyebrows raised as you tucked a flyaway strand of hair back into your messy bun. “You stalking me now?”

His mouth opened — then closed — then opened again. “No! I mean. Not intentionally. I was in the neighborhood. Sort of.” You dropped to the floor to unlace your slippers, deliberately slow. “Sure you were.” Spencer cleared his throat. “I wanted to see where you danced.” “And you picked after-hours for that?” “I didn’t think there would be small children. Not that I mind them. I just—" He cut himself off, eyes skating over the studio. “I didn’t know you taught.” You stretched your legs out, leaning into a deep forward fold. “You never asked.”

Spencer stepped further in, the door clicking shut behind him. He stood there for a moment like he didn’t know where to put himself. Eventually, he settled on leaning against the mirror near the barre, arms crossed.

“You’re very… in your element here,” he murmured, watching as your back curved gracefully and your palms pressed flat against the wood floor. “I could say the same about you when you’re spitting out ten facts a second,” you said, glancing up at him with a teasing smile. His ears went a little pink. “Right. Yes. Well.” He gestured vaguely. “This feels more like your… natural element.” You sat up and rolled your shoulders, breath still even from the cool-down. “You don’t have to hover, you know. There’s a chair in the corner.”

He didn’t move. Just watched you with that impossible gaze of his, the one that saw too much.

“I like the view here,” he said quietly. You blinked. “Excuse me?” Spencer stiffened. “I just meant—objectively. Scientifically. From a spatial standpoint. You can see the lines of the room more clearly when you’re not seated and—” You laughed, stretching your arms above your head and arching your back into a cat-cow motion. “You’re so bad at lying.” He flushed deeper. “I’m not lying. I’m—circumlocuting.” “Oh, big word. That mean you’re distracted?” “It means I’m trying to respect your space,” he said, a little too fast. “And your… athleticism.” You tilted your head. “Athleticism?” “Flexibility,” he corrected, then immediately regretted it. “I mean. Not like—” His voice cracked slightly. “Not in a sexual context. Not that—well, not that it wouldn’t be considered that by some people. But—” You stood slowly, letting your body unfurl one vertebra at a time, your shadow stretching long in the evening light. “Spencer.”

He looked at you like a deer caught in headlights.

You smiled. “Relax.” “I am relaxed.” “Sure,” you drawled, walking past him toward the stereo, hitting a button to shut off the soft classical music still humming low in the background. “You look so relaxed you’re practically vibrating.”

Spencer didn’t respond. But when you turned around, he was still watching. Still standing in the same spot. Still not blinking.

“You’re not really here to talk about floorplans or music theory, are you?” you asked, walking back toward him, each step deliberate, the click of your heel against the floor echoing. “No,” he said, voice rougher now.

You stopped in front of him, close enough to see the way his pupils had dilated, the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’ve still got a few stretches left.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe, maybe. Just stared — jaw tight, lips parted, like he was trying to commit every line of you to memory. You turned from him slowly and padded across the floor again, the click of your heels replaced by the soft pad of your bare feet.

“I usually take twenty minutes to wind down,” you said over your shoulder, letting your voice stay airy. “You can go if you’re in a rush.” “I’m not,” Spencer replied, too quickly. You smirked. “Didn’t think so.”

You stepped into a deep lunge and twisted, spine curling in a way that left your chest open to the ceiling, fingertips brushing the floor behind you. Breath slow. Controlled.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him shift. Not away — just slightly. Like his equilibrium was off.

You lifted into a split, legs extending in opposite directions, toes pointed. Spencer made a sound. It was quiet. Almost nothing. But you heard it.

“You okay over there, Doctor?” you asked, not looking at him. “…Fine,” he managed. “I’ve seen you get shot at with less tension in your voice.” “That’s… different.”

You held the pose a second longer before slowly rising, your thighs flexing with the movement. When you straightened and looked at him, Spencer was definitely no longer pretending to read the titles on the wall.

“Want to join me?” you asked, already stepping toward the barre. “I can help you stretch. Loosen up. You’re a little—” you waved your hand vaguely at his posture, “—tense.” His hands clenched at his sides. “That’s not a good idea.” “Why not?” Spencer licked his lips. “Because I’ve imagined this before.”

You stilled.

He looked instantly mortified. “I didn’t mean—” “No,” you said gently, voice quiet. “Say it.” He took a breath. “I’ve imagined… this. You. Dancing. Stretching. Looking like that. Saying my name like you did earlier.” You tilted your head. “And what happens after that?”

Spencer didn’t speak. He didn’t have to — the flush on his neck was already halfway to his jaw.

You stepped closer. “Let me guess. I do something like this—” you raised your leg and planted your foot on the barre, bending forward slowly over it, deliberately giving him a full view of your ass, your back, the curve of your body. “And then you forget every statistical fact you’ve ever learned?” His breath left him in one sharp exhale. “You’re evil.” “I’m flexible,” you corrected, turning your head just enough to meet his eyes. “You just didn’t know how much.” “I knew,” he said, and his voice had changed. It was lower now. Hungrier. “I’ve always known.” You dropped your leg and turned to face him, stepping closer, chest rising and falling just a little faster now. “Then come here and do something about it.”

Spencer didn’t hesitate this time.

One step. Two.

Then his hand was cupping your face, and he kissed you like the oxygen had finally run out of the room.

—

Spencer kissed like he solved crimes — intense, focused, and utterly consuming.

Your hands fisted the front of his sweater, pulling him closer, while his fingers trembled against your jaw like he couldn’t decide whether to worship you or ruin you. His mouth slanted over yours again, slower this time, but deeper. Hungrier. Like he hadn’t just imagined this — like he’d memorized it.

“God,” he whispered, pulling back just an inch, breath shaking. “You’re going to kill me.” You grinned against his mouth. “I haven’t even started.”

You reached for his hands and tugged him with you — backward, step by step — until your spine brushed the mirror. The cool glass kissed your shoulder blades, and Spencer’s chest hovered just inches away. He didn’t touch you again until you guided his palms to your waist.

His fingers flexed.

You tilted your head, teasing. “You always this slow, or just with me?” Spencer’s laugh was soft, dangerous. “You think I haven’t wanted to touch you? You think I haven’t stayed up nights imagining how you’d sound if I did this—”

His hands slid down, curved over your hips, gripped tight.

You inhaled sharply, thigh pressing forward between his. “Do it again.”

He did.

And then his mouth was at your neck, tracing every breath you gave him like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. One hand slid behind your thigh, lifted it — and your leg hooked around his hip like instinct.

“You were watching me stretch,” you murmured, rolling your hips against him. “You liked it.” Spencer groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “I liked it too much.” Your laugh was pure sin. “Good.”

You unwrapped your leg and turned — facing the mirror now. You met your own gaze, flushed and wild, then looked at his reflection behind you.

“Want to see something you’ll like even more?” Spencer’s pupils blew wide. “Yes.”

You placed your hands on the barre, leaned forward, and lifted your leg in a smooth, practiced motion — one perfect arabesque, your toes pointed and high, the line of your back arching seductively.

Behind you, Spencer made an unholy sound.

“You’re killing me,” he whispered again, stepping in closer. “You said that already.” “This time I mean it.” You wiggled your hips slightly, playful. “Show me.”

He didn’t need a third invitation.

Spencer’s hands gripped your waist, tugging you back against him — you felt how hard he was, thick and hot through his slacks. He rutted once, just to feel the way you molded against him, and you gasped when his teeth grazed the shell of your ear.

“You stretch like this for your students?” he rasped. “Fuck no.” “Just me?” “Only you.”

His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, slow and reverent. When they finally dipped down, he hissed.

“God, you’re wet.” You smirked into the mirror. “I was stretching.”

He swore softly and slid one finger through your folds — teasing, learning you with every stroke. You clenched around nothing, grinding back shamelessly.

Then, with a grip like velvet and steel, he pressed in — one finger first, then another, curling deep, and your hips bucked against him.

“Say my name,” he whispered. “Spencer—”

Again.

“Spencer—fuck, don’t stop—”

He kissed the back of your neck, the line of your spine, even as his fingers worked you open. Then he stepped back just long enough to yank your shorts down and undo his belt, breath jagged. You braced yourself on the barre, legs spread, eyes locked on the mirror in front of you.

And when he pushed in — slow, thick, overwhelming — you both let out matching gasps.

You saw it happen in the glass — how his mouth fell open, how his eyes fluttered shut, how his hands gripped your hips like you were slipping through his fingers.

“Look at you,” he breathed, bottoming out. “Perfect.”

He moved slowly at first, each thrust a study in control. But that didn’t last. Not with how tight you felt. Not with the way you moaned his name like it meant something.

“Just like that,” he panted. “So good—fuck—you feel like heaven—”

The mirror fogged.

The barre creaked.

You broke first — shuddering around him, eyes half-closed, fingers gripping the rail so hard your knuckles turned white.

But he wasn’t done.

Spencer pressed deeper, voice wrecked. “Can I… inside? Please?”

You nodded, barely able to form words.

Spencer’s thrusts grew sloppy, rhythm stuttering as your walls clenched around him, your name tumbling from his lips like a prayer — desperate, reverent, a little broken.

He pulled back just enough to angle deeper, hands sliding to your stomach, drawing your back flush to his chest. His fingers splayed wide across your belly, holding you there while he rutted into you in short, dizzying strokes that made your knees go weak.

You whimpered, eyes fluttering half-shut.

“Okay?” he rasped. “Perfect,” you gasped. “Spencer—please—” He groaned, pressing his forehead to the curve of your neck, breathing hard. “I don’t— I’m not gonna last.” “I don’t want you to,” you whispered.

His breath hitched.

“I want you to lose it,” you murmured, hips pushing back to meet his every thrust. “Right here. Right inside me. Please.”

He cursed under his breath, one hand flying up to the mirror, palm flat, bracing himself above your shoulder. The other dragged down your thigh, grip tight, trembling.

“Can I…?” he choked out. “Can I cum inside you?”

You turned your head just enough to catch his eyes in the glass — wild and dark and hungry.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please, Spencer. I want to feel you.”

That was it.

He drove into you once, twice — hips stuttering — and then with a low, guttural moan, he buried himself deep and came.

Hard.

Hot pulses spilled into you as he shook against your back, his breath ragged and broken, hips still twitching like he didn’t want to stop. Like he couldn’t. Like he needed you to keep him grounded.

He didn’t move right away.

Just stayed there, wrapped around you, one arm tight at your waist, the other still trembling against the mirror. You could feel his heart hammering through his chest, pressed against your spine.

You reached up, covering his hand with yours on the barre.

He let out a soft, shaky laugh — just one.

Then, in the most wrecked, reverent voice you’d ever heard:

“You make me want to believe in God.”

—

He stayed buried in you long after the shaking stopped.

Neither of you spoke — just shared air. You could feel the sweat slicking your skin, the rise and fall of his chest against your back, the way his hand tightened slightly around your waist every time your body clenched around the aftershocks.

Your fingers stayed curled around the barre, but your legs were barely holding. Spencer must’ve felt it, because with one last gentle breath against your neck, he shifted.

“Let me…” he murmured, slowly pulling out, catching your hips as you stumbled a little. “Hey—easy. I’ve got you.”

You let him guide you down to the floor, the polished wood cool against your thighs. He knelt beside you like a worshipper, hands hovering, unsure where to touch first.

You laughed quietly. “You can relax, you know. I’m not made of glass.” “You’re definitely not glass,” he muttered. “You’re… titanium. Wrapped in silk.”

You smiled, settling onto your side, hair messily falling from its bun. Spencer sat next to you cross-legged, his hand resting lightly on your knee, his other arm propped behind him. His cheeks were still flushed, curls damp at the edges, lips kiss-swollen and dazed.

You watched him watching you.

“You okay?” you asked, softly.

He looked at you like you were still spinning pirouettes in front of him.

“I think you ruined every ballet performance I’ve ever seen.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“In a good way,” he rushed to clarify. “Like. Nothing will ever compare. That was…” He exhaled. “That was art.” You rolled onto your back with a grin, staring up at the ceiling. “Pretty sure barre sex isn’t in the curriculum.” “Then the curriculum is severely lacking.” You snorted. “You gonna file a complaint?” Spencer leaned over you, arm bracing beside your head. His voice dropped low again — less flustered this time. More sure. “Only if it gets me an encore.” You bit your lip. “You trying to make me a habit, Doctor?”

He bent down and kissed you — slow, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

“I think I already did,” he whispered against your mouth. You smiled into the kiss. “That so?” “I’ll be thinking about this the next time you say plié in front of me.” “You always look like you’re thinking.” “Not like this.”

He kissed you again, hand tracing the length of your thigh now, fingers ghosting over the slight tremble there.

“You’re still shaking,” he murmured. “You did that,” you reminded him. His eyes flicked up. “Proud of it.”

He shifted to lie beside you, pulling your leg over his hip, keeping you close. You cuddled in easily, your head resting against his chest.

“You meant it?” you asked quietly. “When you said you imagined this?” Spencer nodded. “More than I care to admit.” You smiled into his skin. “Next time,” you whispered, “don’t wait so long to kiss me.” He groaned, slapping a hand over his eyes. “Please. Let me preserve some of my moral high ground.” You giggled, then leaned up just enough to murmur near his ear: “Studio’s always unlocked after dark, Doctor.”

His breath caught. You felt him grin

You giggled.

But then he turned, serious again — brushing a strand of hair from your cheek, looking at you like you were the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

“You’re breathtaking,” he said softly.

You blinked.

He kissed your forehead.

“You move like poetry. Like muscle memory and emotion fused into something… divine.”

You stared at him.

“I’m literally still dripping with your cum and you’re out here writing sonnets?” Spencer shrugged, flushed but unashamed. “I’m a man of many talents.”

You laughed — full, warm, glowing.

“I know,” you said. “Trust me. I know.”

[solxamber]

Hi! I had some questions about your guideverse AU after reading one of your fics. I’ll admit most of it is just because I’m unfamiliar with the concept of a “guideverse” AU.

How does the guiding work? How do the bonds actually work? The idea of being able to force one ruined any understanding I could piece together. One of your fics mentioned the reader being a battle-type esper, so there must be something like support-type espers too? How is that classification determined? I assume it has to do with the type of powers manifested. Also, I noticed there’s a pattern of calling espers dramatic. Is this just a plot thing, or do the powers make them more emotionally unstable?

Sorry for the wall of questions.

omg guideverse questions yippee (don't be sorry i get really excited when i see questions about guideverse!!!)

these are not answers for every guideverse, this is just how things work in mine specifically!

How does guiding work?

When a Guide touches an Esper—always skin-to-skin—it acts as a conduit that opens a psychic link. This link allows the Guide to "hear" or "feel" the Esper’s emotional and neural frequencies.

Once contact is made, the Guide consciously pushes their own stable frequency toward the Esper’s. Think of it like tuning two instruments to the same pitch.

How do these bonds work?

So there are 2 types of bonds: Temporary and Permanent. They're both used for making the guiding process more efficient.

Temporary Bonds:

A temporary bond is a flexible, short-term connection between a Guide and an Esper. Its usually initiated when there's a large rank difference between Esper and Guide to make sure that the Esper can feel the exertion and stop when the Guide is getting dangerously drained.

Permanent Bond:

A permanent bond is a rare, lifelong psychic connection formed when a Guide and an Esper resonate at a near-perfect frequency and both willingly consent to solidify the link. The guiding is more efficient when the pair is permanently bonded.

Consequences of a permanent bond:

For the Guide:

They become unable to guide anyone else.

For the Esper:

They can no longer be effectively guided by anyone else.

Others may try, but the effects will be weakened, often feeling hollow or even physically uncomfortable.

Forced Bonding?

A forced bond occurs when an Esper deliberately overwhelms or hijacks a Guide's resonance without consent, attempting to lock a bond against the Guide’s will.

These are extremely rare and universally condemned—both ethically and legally.

Consequences:

For the Guide:

Suffers psychic trauma—the equivalent of being set on fire from the inside.

Experiences a sharp, often permanent loss in guiding efficiency.

For the Esper:

The bond does not become permanent, no matter how hard they push. It eventually collapses under its own instability.

Most Espers who attempt this do so out of desperation, not malice—but it’s still treated as a serious offense.

Types of Espers?

There are Battle Types and Support Types. They're classified according to the abilities that they get.

Battle Type Espers:

Primary Role:

Offense, combat engagement, and direct suppression of Gate-born entities.

Abilities:

High-output, volatile, or destructive in nature.

Manifest as elemental control, psychic force projection, weaponization of thought, or raw energy manipulation.

Prone to power surges and emotional bleed-through during high-stress combat, making them heavily reliant on stable guiding.

Support Type Espers: (Very rare)

Primary Role:

Defense, utility, stabilization, and team augmentation.

Abilities:

Subtle but essential—often involve shielding, spatial control, time perception slowing, healing, detection.

Designed to regulate or manipulate the Gate environment itself, rather than destroy what's inside it.

Still emotionally reactive, but generally more stable than Battle-types.

Are espers dramatic or is it a side effect?

Almost all Espers are emotionally unstable.

Emotional instability isn’t a flaw in Espers—it’s practically a feature of the job. The very nature of being an Esper means existing with your psyche wide open, constantly flooded with noise, power, and pressure. Even the strongest ones—the SSS-Ranks who clear Gates single-handedly—aren’t immune. In fact, the more powerful an Esper is, the louder the chaos gets.

1. Noise

This “psychic noise” never really turns off. Sleep doesn’t mute it. Solitude just sharpens it.

Guides help quiet it, but outside of those sessions? It’s like trying to meditate during a rock concert.

2. Guilt

Espers are the first into Gates and the last out.

They’re trained to fight, save, contain—and failures stick. Hard.

Many Espers carry survivor’s guilt or a martyr complex. They can’t save everyone, and that gnaws at them.

Hope this cleared up some things!!

[darkmatilda]

𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐲 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: in which spencer struggles a bit to come to terms with the fact that you don’t celebrate your birthday.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, reader doesn't celebrate birthday, karaoke bar, reader wearing a dress

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 2k

𝐚/𝐧: anon's request marathon masterlist

“NOBODY TAUGHT YOU TO WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING—”

“DO YOU HAVE TO YELL AT ME—”

“WHEN YOU CAN’T WALK STRAIGHT—”

“You were the one glued to your phone—”

“Well, I work on it. What were you doing, genius, pondering paramecium’s sex life?”

“Parameciums reproduce asexually—”

“So you were thinking about it?”

“What does that have to do with anything—”

“Kids,” came a heavy sigh from their left.

Both turned their heads to the side. Rossi was passing them, clearly having caught part of the argument—and now shaking his head slowly.

“You’re worse than preschoolers. No offense to preschoolers.”

Spencer realized they were standing right in the middle of the hallway, practically blocking the way. The things they'd dropped when they bumped into each other were still waiting to be picked up at their feet. The papers he had been carrying, the empty coffee cup he intended to throw away, and those belonging to the woman he'd bumped into— a thick folder the size of an encyclopedia, a granola bar, a red lipstick, a magazine with a black-and-white cover, a holder for ID cards and other documents that had spilled open, and the question of how on earth she'd managed to fit all those things in one hand.

Rossi had disappeared from their sight, but his comment about childish behavior lingered. Spencer rolled his eyes upward and, with a reluctant expression on his face, crouched down to collect everything. The woman didn’t seem like she planned to do the same. An irritatingly self-assured expression appeared on her face, one that clearly indicated she still believed the collision was in no way her fault. He huffed but decided to behave his age—ignoring the hint of humiliation that arose within him as he found himself so close to her shoes, he picked up the things that belonged to both of them.

He barely managed to fit them all into his arms, which required nearly professional spatial planning—something that was definitely not Reid’s forte. When he held out the items that belonged to her, she didn’t move.

A sly smirk appeared on her face.

“Oh, how sweet of you to take this to my lab,” she said with a dramatic smooch and...

...She bypassed him, not even bothering to turn around to check if he was following her.

Spencer stood there for a moment, mouth agape, but then quickly shook his head and followed her. Of course, it was just to play her camel for the day. Oh, no. He needed to shove her stuff back at her because, seriously, what the hell else was he supposed to do with it?

"If you don't take this, I'll just drop it on the floor," he threatened in a serious tone as they stepped into the elevator.

Her red lipstick slipped from the top of the items he was carrying and fell to the floor. The woman bent down to pick it up and placed it back on top of her complicated pile.

"Thanks," Reid said automatically, immediately slapping himself in the forehead. "No, no thanks! If you think you’ve found yourself a servant, you’re mistaken. I don’t have time for that, so if you think I’m taking this straight to your lab, you're deeply mistaken—”

In her lab, he set down each item one by one on the counter, sighing with admiration at himself for actually managing to get them there.

“You did great as a camel,” she complimented, patting him on the shoulder.

“I hate you.”

“Affectionate?”

“No!”

The woman rolled her eyes. Spencer adjusted the documents he was holding in his arms, realizing that there was one last item of hers left between them. He handed her her ID, but as her fingers closed around it to take it, something suddenly stopped him. They both held the document on either side, and her eyebrow shot up questioningly. But before she could ask, Reid finally tore his gaze away from the date printed on it.

“It's your birthday today,” he said, looking at her in surprise.

She took the document from him, delaying her response. He registered it with some surprise. She had always struck him as the kind of person who would show up to work on her birthday wearing a golden crown, a royal cape draped over her shoulders, and every intention of bossing people around more than usual. Yet she hadn’t mentioned it—nor had Morgan or Garcia, both of whom he’d spoken to that day—leading him to assume they didn’t know either.

“Congratulations, Dr. Reid, you can read dates,” she scoffed at last.

He should’ve responded with the same level of endearing snark and simply walked away—he had hundreds, if not thousands, of better things to do than engage in their usual bickering. But something just wouldn’t let him leave.

Spencer cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had settled between them.

“So, what are your birthday plans?”

He was met with a shrug.

 “I don’t celebrate birthdays.”

“You don’t celebrate birthdays?” he repeated, incredulous.

 “Do I have to say everything twice for you?”

 “Do you always have to act like a complete—” he cut himself off, taking a deep breath and reminding himself that maybe insulting someone on their birthday wasn’t exactly appropriate. “No, you don’t. I’m just surprised you don’t. I figured it would be the opposite. I mean, it’s your day, after all.”

“Every day is my day,” she replied in an obvious tone.

He held back an eye roll. Of course. But despite the rather dry answers, he kept going.

“You don’t like your birthday?”

“I don’t celebrate it. Doesn’t automatically mean I cry into my pillow every time it comes around. Finished your interview?”

He ignored the end of her sentence.

“I used to be the same,” he started, not entirely sure why he felt the need to share this. But since he had, he decided to keep going. Some inner sense of duty, maybe. “But then I joined the team and, well, it feels completely different when others actually remember your birthday and put effort into celebrating it for you. Now I…actually kind of like them. Maybe it’s the same with you.”

As she listened, her eyebrows lifted slightly with intrigue, but overall, she didn’t seem convinced. His gaze dropped to her arms crossed over her chest, one of her fingers tapping absentmindedly against her shoulder.

"I don’t think so," she replied stubbornly. “There’s no difference between a party on the day you’re a year older and a party on any other day of the year. It’s not some kind of special day.”

Spencer had completely forgotten about his plan to leave her lab as soon as he handed over her things. He also wasn’t sure why he suddenly felt so determined to change her mind about birthdays. Maybe over the years, and through his friendships with the team, he had gotten used to the idea that everyone threw each other surprises and gave gifts, using the occasion to show mutual appreciation and remind each other that work wasn’t the only thing that connected them—that they really mattered to each other. 

Accepting the fact that some people were missing out on that was unexpectedly hard for him.

“I think I could easily prove you wrong,” he declared smugly.

She propped her elbow on the counter, giving him a look laced with amused pity.

“Prove me wrong,” she repeated, one brow arching mockingly. “And how exactly do you plan to do that? Bake me a little cake and buy some party hats? Invite my stuffed animals?”

“Well, if that’s what your dream birthday party looks like…” he spread his hands in a why not? gesture. But then his tone shifted—more serious now, as if he wasn't joking at all. What had started as a spontaneous idea was now beginning to root itself deeper. The longer it stayed in his head, the more he felt compelled to make it happen.

“If your opinion doesn’t change, you won’t lose anything.”

“And will I gain something?”

She seemed genuinely intrigued. Apparently, she enjoyed proving him wrong too much to dismiss the idea outright. Reid shrugged at her question.

“A relatively pleasant evening?”

“So you’re taking me somewhere,” she said, her face a strangely entertaining mix of disbelief, reluctance, curiosity, and—maybe he was imagining it—just a hint of excitement.

“Congrats on your deduction.”

“Be nice, it’s my birthday.”

“Oh, so now you do celebrate?”

“Only when I need to keep you in line.”

His amused huff marked the end of the conversation. But just before he could leave—step out of the lab—one last thought danced on his lips, the final thing he wanted to say Dress nicely.

Yet the moment he opened his mouth, his gaze slipped over her figure. A little too thoroughly—like someone who’d promised himself he’d only read the final page of a good book, but whose eyes were already drifting to the next. He shook his head, turning toward the exit.

Whatever she wore, it would be fine.

Besides, he didn’t even know where he was taking her.Something he only realized once he was out of her sight and earshot—prompting a loud, exasperated fuck. 

*

"Can you explain why we had to find out it’s your birthday from Reid?"

She was being squeezed in a hug so tight—classic Penelope—that she could barely get a word out. A couple steps away, he stood with his arms crossed over his chest, curious to hear her answer. They were all seated at the same table in a karaoke bar—nothing fancy, but the company mattered more than the place. To his surprise, his entire team had offered to come along on their own, and her team agreed without even a second of hesitation, shocked that they hadn’t known it was her birthday. He’d asked them where she might want to spend it.

“Your friend’s been spying on me,” she answered, adjusting her dress that had gotten bunched up from the merciless hug.

Well, turned out he’d been right. He hadn’t even needed to tell her to dress nicely—clearly, she just did. 

Once she had smoothed herself out, another arm wrapped around her—this time Morgan’s.

“And good thing you did,” he said, nodding toward Spencer. Reid met her eyes and let Derek’s approval hang in the air between them. She rolled her eyes, of course, but there was a small smile on her lips. One that filled him with a quiet sense of triumph.

“I knew something was off this morning,” Morgan added. “You look older.”

“Screw off,” she snorted, bumping his shoulder and shoving him gently toward the stage. “Now get up there and make my birthday wish come true. I want to hear you and Pen sing me a duet.”

Garcia snapped her fingers like she was gearing up for an epic battle.

"Whatever your heart desires, darling. Britney Spears, ABBA, or maybe..."

"I’ll leave that decision to you two."

There was a flicker of dread in Derek’s eyes—he didn’t even get the chance to blink before his friend dragged him toward the microphone.

And while the two of them quietly bickered over the song choice, Spencer felt someone step right up beside him.

She wasn’t looking at him yet, her eyes fixed on the pair up on stage, which gave him a moment to study her expression. She could deny later that she was having fun, but he already knew better.

She must’ve felt his gaze, because she met it.

Reid, instead of looking away like someone caught staring, leaned in slightly so she could hear him over the noise.

“Happy birthday.”

It suddenly hit him that he hadn’t said it once.

“Does this qualify as your relatively nice evening?”

She pretended to consider, biting her lower lip.

His eyes followed the motion before returning to hers when she gave the tiniest nod—not quite confirmation.

“As of right now, no,” she answered mysteriously. “But it has potential. There’s one thing you can do to change that.”

They looked at each other in silence for a second—him, waiting for her to go on; her, waiting for him to figure it out. Eventually, she glanced toward the stage.

“You want me to join them?”

A snort of laughter, suggesting he wished that was what she meant.

“I want you to sing with me.”

what song should diva reader sing with reid?