#tilt top tables
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
Lamp table, Tripod table - Fine quality late Regency mahogany pedestal pembroke work table, in the manner of Gillows. Good small size and elegant proportions. Drop leaf top over a cockbeaded drawer fitted with a brass ring handle.
#Regency Pedestal Pembroke Table#drop leaf table#work table#pedestal work table#antique tables#tripod tables#antique tripod tables#antique occasional tables#antique tilt top tables#tilt top tables#antique lamp tables
0 notes
Text

A Treasury of Great American Houses, 1970
#vintage#vintage interior#1970s#70s#interior design#home decor#living room#parlor#library#bookshelves#wood paneling#carved filigree#fireplace#tilt top table#antique#furniture#classical#American#style#home#architecture
192 notes
¡
View notes
Text
Desperately trying to be hysterical all night again in advance of my doctor's appt in the morning because honestly I'm barely holding onto sanity as it is lmao
The amount of pre-appt research I do never stops turning up horrifying new pieces of information like this one:

Like my guy I can barely manage to stomach the ½ teaspoon of electrolytes I put in my water every day and you want me to eat SIX GODDAMN TIMES THAT MUCH??????
I would rather fling myself into a dying star I'm so fucking serious
#i have been frantically tracking my BP over the past few days and it goes tachcardic around 5min into standing up every time#that's not even include the at-risk measurements taken before that threshhold that aren't good they just aren't TACHYCARDIC#and then on top of it I'm basically just yo-yoing back and forth between full blown hypotension and tachycardia with rare moments of#quote unquote normal BP here and there#homestly it explains why i always shitty like who wouldn't#anyway I've got a 12 item list for my new pcp in the morning and I'm honestly fucking terrified because I don't know how I'll cope if they#blow me off yet again after everything I've done to protect myself#i literally can't keep living like this there's a really good chance i just throw myself off a bridge to be done with it and I'd rather not#anyway i think i've made a really good case with clinical treatment guidelines for 3-5 major medical interventions#and I'm so fucking desperate to get at least those covered#i need a new tilt table test i need rx fludrocortisone and IV saline/nutrition or prescription electrolytes and multi-vitamin#i need compression garment scripts and i need long-term PT and if I'm very lucky I will also get to need assessment of my stenosis/csf#i don't dare hope for a disability referral
15 notes
¡
View notes
Text
Table Top Tilting Wet Grinder â Effortless Grinding for Perfect Batter
When it comes to achieving the perfect consistency for idli, dosa, and vada batter, a Table Top Tilting Wet Grinder is an essential appliance for both home and commercial kitchens. Unlike traditional grinders, this model comes with a tilting feature, allowing you to pour out the batter easily without any mess. Whether you are a home cook or running a restaurant, investing in a high-quality wet grinder ensures efficient and hassle-free grinding.

At Sri Lakshmi Industries, a leading table top tilting wet grinder manufacturer in Coimbatore, India, we specialize in premium-quality grinders that combine durability, efficiency, and user convenience. Our grinders are designed to deliver the perfect batter while saving time and effort, making them an ideal choice for every kitchen.
Why Choose a Table Top Tilting Wet Grinder?
A Table Top Tilting Wet Grinder offers several advantages over conventional models. Hereâs why it stands out:
Effortless Tilting Mechanism: The tilting drum makes it easy to transfer batter without lifting the entire grinder. This reduces spillage and enhances user convenience.
Durable Build: Made from high-quality stainless steel, the grinder is resistant to corrosion, ensuring long-lasting performance.
Heavy-Duty Motor: Equipped with a powerful motor, it provides smooth and efficient grinding, reducing the time and effort required.
Compact and Space-Saving: The sleek design makes it ideal for both domestic and commercial use, fitting easily in any kitchen setup.
Energy Efficient: Designed to consume less power while maintaining high grinding efficiency.
Table Top Tilting Wet Grinder â Product Details
Capacity: Available in various sizes ranging from 1.5L to 10L to suit different grinding needs.
Material: The drum is made from rust-resistant stainless steel for hygiene and durability.
Motor Power: Equipped with a high-performance motor that ensures smooth and consistent grinding.
Usage: Ideal for preparing batter for idli, dosa, vada, and other South Indian delicacies.
Tilting Function: Allows easy batter removal, making cleaning and maintenance simple.
If you are searching for a table top tilting wet grinder in Coimbatore, explore our premium Table Top Tilting Wet Grinder Royal model. This grinder is engineered to offer superior performance with minimal maintenance, making it a preferred choice for households and commercial establishments.
At Sri Lakshmi Industries, we take pride in being one of the most trusted table top tilting wet grinder manufacturers in Coimbatore, India. With decades of expertise, we bring you innovative products that ensure smooth and efficient grinding every time.
Upgrade your kitchen today with a Table Top Tilting Wet Grinder from Sri Lakshmi Industries and experience effortless grinding like never before!
Company Name :-Â sri lakshmi wet grinders
Website Link :- https://srilakshmiwetgrinders.com/
Contact no :- +91 638-249-9543
Mail id :- [email protected]
Address: :- RSB Towers, No. 1274, MTP Road, SAHS College Post Near Saibaba Temple,Kuppakonam Pudur, Coimbatore - 641043 , Tamil Nadu , India
Social media link
facebook link :- https://www.facebook.com/lakshmigrinders
instagram link :- https://www.instagram.com/lakshmiwetgrindersÂ
linkedin link :- https://www.linkedin.com/company/80220589/admin/dashboard/
short describiton :- Sri Lakshmi Wet Grinders is a trusted name in kitchen appliances, specializing in high-quality wet grinders for home and commercial use. The website showcases a range of products designed for efficiency, durability, and ease of use, ensuring perfectly ground batters every time. With a legacy of excellence, it caters to culinary needs while maintaining exceptional standards in craftsmanship and performance. Explore the site for innovative solutions that elevate your cooking experience.
#Table Top Tilting Wet Grinder#table top tilting wet grinder manufacturers in coimbatore#table top tilting wet grinder royal#table top tilting wet grinder in coimbatore#Sri Lakshmi Industries
0 notes
Text
It's been a while since you've seen a doctor, and you're nervous as you follow the nurse back to my office. What's there to be nervous about, this is just a little checkup, right? You notice the nurse's manicured burgundy nails as she knocks sharply on the door. She turns to you, smiling prettily, and says, "the doctor will see you now."
You push open the door and enter quite a large room. The nurse follows, closing the door behind you. In the center is the examination table, off to the right is a small crowd of young adults, appearing to be made up of men and women, and on the left is me, seated at my desk. "Welcome," I say, standing and extending one hand. My voice is deep, warm, and smooth, and you fumble for a moment, blushing a little, before you remember to shake my hand. Your hand is dwarfed in mine, my strong fingers encircling you, and a thought flashes unbidden through your mind - what would those fingers feel like inside you? - but, come on now, that's really not appropriate...
"I have a few students with me, as you can see. Is that alright?"
"Well, yes, of course!" Why shouldn't it be?
"Excellent. Now, I'm pioneering this new full-body examination method - it's really quite extraordinary, the maladies I can detect this way - but be warned, it is, shall we say, unorthodox. Is that alright?"
Just for a moment, you see something in my eyes, something behind the genial smile and gentle, reassuring tone. Just for a moment, you feel like some specimen, some piece of meat, pinned down under the lights with nowhere to go... but just for a moment. Surely, nothing bad can happen, and I'm a doctor, aren't I? You can trust me. So you swallow your fear, and you acquiesce.
"Excellent! Let's have a seat on the table, if you don't mind, and we'll make a start. Nurse V, if you would..."
As you sit on the table, the clinical, sterile seating a little cold against your skin, the pretty nurse steps behind the table, facing you, waiting for something. From your right, I approach, and you feel again just how much larger than you I am as my broad shoulders block out one of the ceiling lights. With all these people watching you, it takes all you have not to squeeze your legs together, just a little bit.
We begin with a quick examination of your face - "you have beautiful eyes, you know," I purr into one ear. I place one hand on the side of your neck and tilt your head; god, you've been reading too much, haven't you, the way you want these strong, expert fingers to close around your throat.
"Now, open your mouth for me, please." You oblige, and I cup your chin and slide my thumb into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. Your eyebrows jump in surprise, and you look at me questioningly.
I smile again, still inside you. "Unorthodox, remember? Now, close your mouth and try to swallow." From behind, the nurse strokes your cheek with the back of one hand, and you feel a sudden ache between your legs. You close your lips around my thumb and swallow. It tastes... clean, mostly, as one might expect from a doctor, but you can taste the sweat underneath.
"Very good, one more time for me."
You swallow again, and you feel me slide my thumb over the surface of your tongue, pressing down, swirling in circles.
"And, one more time... yes, that's it, good job, very good job."
The praise for this degrading task is more than you can bear, and you squeeze your thighs together. Fuck, it's humiliating, everyone just saw you do that... All these eyes on you, the beautiful nurse behind you, this big, strong doctor with these big, strong hands and that big fucking bulge... but no, this is just a checkup, nothing is going to happen, right?
While you were thinking, I dried my hand off and had begun speaking.
"I'm - I'm sorry?"
"No worries. I was saying, can you remove your top, please? We need to examine your heart and your breathing."
You stare at me. "Remove my - "
"Yes, remove your top. The fewer barriers between me and you, the less interference with my examination." My face is quite serious, almost bored - this really must be routine. You look back at the nurse, and she smiles slightly and nods. So you undress, your nipples betraying you, standing at attention. You blush as the crowd of students looks at you intently. The nurse lays one warm hand on your shoulder, slender fingers gripping you reassuringly, and your eyes are drawn once more to those burgundy nails.
I step in close, and you feel my breath warm on your chest. "Now, observe the stiffness in the patient's nipples - this is to be expected, given the cool air, and it's certainly nothing to be ashamed of," I say, smiling. I press my stethoscope up over your heart, the metal cold on your skin, and your mind is betrayed by the pounding of your heart. My eyes flick up to meet yours, and I grin, predatorily, and once again you feel like a piece of meat beneath the lights.
I examine your breasts, starting with your left. Enclosed in my big, strong hands, I squeeze and push, prod and pull, ostensibly feeling for any abnormalities, but the way my fingers brush over your nipples, the intensity with which I sink them into your soft breasts, heaving now as your breath comes faster... My practiced tongue rasps over one nipple and a tiny moan escapes your lips as you try desperately to hide how much you're enjoying this; try desperately, and fail.
Abruptly, I pull back. "Excellent! All seems well here." I rest one hand on your other shoulder and turn to the students. "Note the pleasure response during this section of the examination, and I hope you were paying attention to the oral technique."
I turn back to you, my eyes dancing as they meet yours. "Fully undress, if you would. The inspection must continue."
Your hands tremble as you slide your clothes down off your waist, and the nurse aids you, her lovely hands stroking along your thighs and calves as she does.
"And spread for us, please."
Obediently, your thighs open, exposing your cunt, your needy, aching wetness, to all.
"Note the beauty of the patient's sex, here. The shape of the folds," I murmur, tracing one finger along your sensitive lips, "the balanced ratio of the clitoris to the vulva overall," sliding two fingers on either side of your clit, squeezing gently between them, "the appropriate pleasure response in - "
You lose what I say as I plunge two fingers inside you, powerful and dextrous, knuckles slipping past your tightness easily. It feels so fucking good to finally have something inside you, after all this aching and teasing, and god, so many people are watching, they're all watching your pussy spread and toyed with by this big, strong, handsome older man, and now the nurse's slender fingers are across your throat and her lips are on your forehead, and she tells you that you're doing so well for me, you've been so good...
My fingers press up inside you, finding your g spot, and with my thumb rubbing on your clit, I start melting you. Waves of pleasure course through your body, you gasp, moan, whimper, and with your eyes closed you can't tell whose lips are so soft on yours, but it feels so fucking good, and all those people are watching and it makes you want it more, your back arching, chest heaving, melting under the attention, and finally, mercifully, you cum, contracting around my fingers, squeezing your thighs together, trembling, shaking, gasping for air. You hear me say something, but you're so overwhelmed with pleasure that all you can make out from my speech is "very, very good".
The hand withdraws from your throat, and I gently, gently, extricate my fingers, and settle my hand atop one thigh, fingers slick with your desire.
The nurse whispers affirmation in your ear as I address the class. "Stimulation in this manner, of the two most sensitive sex stimuli, brings the most consistent and powerful orgasms to those possessing these organs." I stroke the inside of your thigh reassuringly, before turning to you.
"The final part of this examination is seeing how well you handle penetration. I'm going to need your unequivocal verbal consent before proceeding."
The nurse leans in and whispers into your ear, "might I suggest 'please, sir, will you fuck me?'" You'd blush harder if you could.
You swallow, nervously, and there's a twisting in your gut as you say it. "Please," you begin, voice cracking. "Please, sir, will you fuck me?"
"Yes, that is sufficient. I must say, though," I warn, unzipping my jeans, "that I am quite large." I slap my cock down on your tummy, and the sheer weight of it shocks you. You've seen size like this in porn, sure, but fuck, you've never touched something like this. When you tear your gaze away from my cock, I'm grinning down at you, predatory again. "You can back out at any time, you know." My voice is low, teasing, challenging. "Should we continue?"
You nod shakily, and spread your legs a little wider.
One hand on your raised knee, one hand guiding my cock, I push against you. For a moment you realize the exam had to be done in this order; if you weren't so fucking wet, there's no chance you'd be able to take me. But all thoughts are blasted out of your mind as I push harder and slide in.
It's so fucking thick that you can't help but groan. You've never felt so full, so strained inside, being pushed in every direction; you're not built for this, maybe there's just too much, your body is rejecting me - and then I push again, another few inches, and you slam your head back against the padded table, a long, drawn-out "fuuuuuck" wrenched from your lips. You feel my strong hands brace at your hips, and with a final thrust, slamming your cervix up into your guts, moving your entire body, the ridges of my cock sliding deeper and deeper, sliding painfully, pleasurably past your walls, I'm inside you.
The nurse rests her hands on you again, and purrs in your ear, "you're doing so well for him, I know it's hard, it's so hard, but you're doing such a good job, pretty girl..."
Glacially, I pull out, allowing you a moment to rest, before thrusting in again, hands still at your waist. You sob once, loudly, and then you sink into it as I pick up a rhythm, deep, deep strokes inside you. You hear me grunting, whispering something, and I grow more frantic, impaling you a little harder, and through the wall of pleasure you hear me rumble, "nurse V, begin the overstimulation procedure."
"Certainly, doctor." She leans over you, lips fiercely meeting yours, and one of those slender hands reaches down to abuse your clit. An image of those burgundy nails on your cunt flashes through your mind as I continue pounding you, forcing you to spread for me, adjust to me, even as the nurse plays your clit like an instrument, and fuck, she's a virtuoso.
You sing a song of moans and voiceless curses under our combined mastery, knowing your audience is entranced, filled with a blazing, lusty pride. The deep bass of my voice, resonant in your skull, is saying something, but you cannot hear me; you're moaning, groaning, pleading, "yes, yes, oh my god yes" over and over...
The song swells to a crescendo and with two sudden strikes, two powerful thrusts into you, it ends with a thick, hot, sticky white wave of my approval inside you. You feel it pulse deep, deep inside, filling you, load after load delivered straight past your bruised, abused cervix.
You come back to reality with my cum spilling from between your legs, trailing thickly down onto the exam table. I zip up my jeans while the nurse helps dry you off, from all the sweat and saliva. She dabs caringly at your mouth, and you notice that the cloth is dyed the same shade as her lipstick.
"Now," I address the class, "I hope you were paying attention." I rest one hand on your aching, trembling thigh. How many times did you cum with me inside you? How long were all these people watching you writhe beneath me, begging, losing yourself in the pleasure? You have no fucking clue. "This patient has bravely volunteered for each of you to examine her, here and now, while she's available to us."
Your jaw drops. When did you agree to that? You would never - but you were begging, "yes, yes, yes" earlier, weren't you, while I was talking. You agreed. Everyone heard you say it.
"One at a time, please. And," I say to you, grinning wolfishly, "don't worry. I'll be watching the entire time."
#size difference#size k!nk#fr33use#mine#cnc k!nk#free use kink#free use slvt#medical play#cnc free use#rough cnc#rapedoll#rapekink#rapetoy#rough kink#r4pepl4y#r4p3 fantasy#r4ape kink#r4p3 kink#bimboification#dumb slvt#dumbification#needy wh0re#dumb wh0re#good slvt#fr33use slvt#size matters
26K notes
¡
View notes
Text
romantic chocolates? - op81

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader summary: in which you and your best friends brother accidentally eat aphrodisiac chocolate OR you and oscar get so fucking horny while on a yacht in the Maldives. warnings: smut smut smut, all smut basically. oral, p in v, dirty talk, language, marking kink, slight voyeruism, exhibitionism??, not sure what else...NOT PROOFREAD! (might be some typos) word count: ~3.9k author's note: SURPRISEEEE ITS OUT EARLY (I worked hard over the weekend lol) hope you guys enjoy!! THIS IS MY FIRST TIME WRITING FOR OSCAR EVERRRR (aside from a one shot i've had sitting in my drafts for months lol) comment and let me know what you think!!! xoxo
ln4 cl16 mv1 op81 cs55
â˘â¤â˘â¤â˘â¤â˘â¤â˘â¤â˘â¤â˘â¤â˘â¤â˘â¤â˘â¤â˘â¤â˘â¤â˘â¤â˘â¤
Youâve always had a sweet tooth.
Everyone knew it. Oscar especially. He used to tease you over it when you were younger. Would point out when your fingers were sticky with something sugary.
He never said it unkindly. Just amused. Soft. Something like youâve got chocolate on your face and then passed you a napkin you didnât ask for.
Heâs always been like that. Gentle. Kind. The boy who was never loud. More of a listener than a speaker.
And he never made you feel silly. Not when you cried after falling off your bike and scraped your knee. Not when your towel slipped. Not even when you accidentally spilled juice all over your shirt on a long flight. He just handed you a new one from his backpack like he knew itâd happen.Â
Youâd grown up like that.Â
And now here you were, years later. Sunburned and salty on a private yacht in the Maldives, still with a sweet tooth and one of his old McLaren shirts he gave you when he first got signed. Pulled over your bikini.
His sister, your best friend, left on in the morning for a tour with the rest of the group. Something about history and snorkeling. Youâd both waved your hands declining. Something about being too burned and too sleepy for it.Â
âSheâs going to get bored halfway through,â You sip on your drink. âProbably will call us in two hours.â
Oscar gives you a shrug. âI give her one.â
âShe said it was a once in a lifetime experience.â You throw up your hands while repeating her words. Mocking her almost. Smiling.
âSo is sitting here.â
And you laugh.
Heâs sitting across from you, towel slung around the back of his neck, sun catching his shoulders. His hair is damp. Skin flushed from the sun. No shirt. Just a pair of swim shorts and bare feet.
You shift slightly where you are. Curled up in the shade. Bare legs stretched out. The oversized shirt clinging to you just a little too much where your bikini top was wet.
He glances at you when you move. Doesnât speak. Just tracks it with his eyes. And looks away again.
His hand reaches for the table. âWhatâs this?â
You look over.Â
A little box. Dark. Red ribbon wrapped around it.
âSome welcome thing, I think.â You shrug. âDropped it off yesterday.â
Oscar pulls the lid open, brows lifting. He picks up a wrapped square, amused.
âWell, well.â He says, looking at you. âYour kryptonite.â
You grin. âShut up.â
âYou gonna pretend you didnât spot this the second we sat down?â
âI did not.â
He tilts his head, giving you a look.
âMm, youâve got that look.â He says.
âWhat look?â
âThe one you used to get before stealing cupcakes at birthday parties.â
You roll your eyes, but blush. Cheeks reddening. âI did not stealâŚâ
âYou did.â He cuts you off. Already unwrapping one of the chocolates. âAlways had sugar on your hands. Icing on the corner of your lips.â
You open your mouth to protest, but he tosses a piece toward you.
You catch it.
You watch him bring the chocolate to his mouth, tongue darting over his lip without thinking.
Peel open your piece and press it to your tongue. It melts fast. Rich.Â
You hum, licking a smear of it off your finger. âThatâs actually really good.â
He doesnât respond right away.
You glance up and catch him mid-swipe across his bottom lip. Looking dazed. Distracted.
Then he blinks, clears his throat. And nods. âYeah, pretty good.â
He closes the lid of the box, slides it to the side. Then leans back, looking at the water.
And you sit there with him. Across from him on the cushioned benches. Chewing slowly. Feeling that heat bloom beneath your skin.
Itâs soft at first.
Then deeper.
A warmth in your chest. A pulse between your thighs.
The wind sweeps your skin. And the fabric of your bikini suddenly feels too damp. Too thin. Too tight.
You swallow. Trying not to fidget.
Oscar hasnât moved much. His gaze is still on the ocean, but it isnât really. And you watch the way his jaw flexes. The way his foot shifts on the deck. Like he was grounding himself.
He doesnât look at you.
And he always looks at you.Â
You shift again. Cross your ankles. Press your thighs together.
You glance at Oscar again.
And his lips are parted. Just a little bit. And his brow is slightly furrowed.
You sit up slightly. âYou okay?â
He shifts. Then clears his throat, blinking. âYeah. JustâŚhot.â
You nod slowly. âSame.â
He leans forward, breathes out. But his fingers twitch. And you notice as his back muscles roll slightly as he drops his head down, towel slipping down.
He stays like that for a few seconds. Then rubs a hand over the back of his neck.
His voice is quiet. Flat. âWhat was in that chocolate?â
You donât answer right away. Because youâre fucking throbbing now. And your bikini is definitely soaked.
âDo you feelâŚâ He swallows, throat bobbing. âStrange?â
You nod. And then remember he isnât even looking at you. âYeah.â
His jaw clenches.
He shifts again. Still not looking at you. And thatâs how you know something is wrong.
Because he never acts like this.Â
Youâve seen him flustered, sure. After a race, dealing with the media, around too many people. But never like this. Not this tense. As if heâs afraid.
âI didnât think chocolate couldâŚ.fuck.â His voice cracks. And he laughs under his breath.Â
He grips the bench. Looking like heâs in pain.
âI think I need to go inside.â
And he stands too fast. Towel falling down. Hands clenched at his sides as he turns on bare feet and walks toward the main cabin.
You stare at his back. His shoulders. And he disappears down the stairs.
Youâre so hot that you could cry. Unbearable.
You press your palm flat to your stomach. Like itâll help.
But it doesnât.
Because itâs not just the chocolate.Â
Itâs him. Oscar.
Gone for less than a minute and his voice is the only thing in your head. The way his mouth looked when he licked the chocolate off his thumb. His hands. The muscles of his back straining as he leaned forward
The silence stretches heavy.
You make a quiet sound in your throat. Barely audible. And you canât sit still. Can barely think. Canât stop seeing him.
Your hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt. Youâre hesitant at first. But then trail your fingers to the center of your ache.
And your hips lift off the cushion. A heavy breath escaping.
Your other hand grips the bench as you rock slowly against your own fingers. Over the bikini. Slow circles. Each one, pressing harder.
You let your head fall back. And the sky above is almost blinding.
âOscarâŚâ
You donât even realize you said it out loud. It just slips.Â
And a few moments later, you donât even hear him come back. Your fingers still at your bikini. Rubbing.
You lift your head. Heâs there.
Flushed. Hair ruffled like he ran his fingers through it a million times. Eyes fixed between your legs like heâs in some sort of trance.
He just stares. Doesnât even speak.
âI canât stop,â You whisper. Honest.
âYouâreâŚâ He blinks. Voice low. Stunned. Like he just walked into his favorite fantasy and doesnât know what to do. âYouâre fucking touching yourself?â
You nod. And he groans.
âTo me?â
âCouldnât stop thinking about you,â You whisper.
âJesus.â His hands twitch at his sides.
You shift, spreading your legs a little wider without meaning to. Unable to stop rubbing the tight circles.
âYou look so pretty like that,â He mutters.
You tremble. âI need help.â
And his eyes widen.
âPlease,â you whisper. âI canâtâŚOsc, please.â
He groans. Hands dropping to the front of his swim shorts, palming the hard line of his cock through the fabric.
âCome closer.â You plead.
And he stares at you with wide eyes. Flushed. He doesnât move. At least, he doesnât at first.
But then his gaze drops back down to your legs. Spread open. Your fingers rubbing slow, desperate circles. And his hands twitch.
âIâŚâ He says, but heâs already squeezing himself. âI shouldnât.â
âOscarâŚâ
âI shouldnât be seeing this,â his mutters. âAnd I shouldnât be this fucking hard.â
Your eyes fall to where his hand squeezes against his cock. Like heâs trying to fight the ache between his legs.
And you whimper. Hips jerking. âI canât. I needâŚ.I need help.â
His hand squeezes himself tighter.
âFuck.â A pause. A few silent moments of heated stares. âDo you know how many times I used to think about this?â
His voice has gone rough. And you blink at him. Heart stuttering.
âI used to jerk off in my room and feel sick after,â He whispers. âBecause it was you. My sisterâs best friend. Always walking around in those tiny shorts. That blue bikini. Always so fucking sweet.â
Your fingers slow. Jaw falls slack.
âIâve thought about it,â His voice shakes. âFuck. Iâve thought about this. When we were younger.â
Your breath hitches.
âThought about your pussy more than I shouldâve.â He mutters. âWondered how soft youâd feel. How tight. If youâd let me take my time or if youâd beg me to fuck you rough.â
Your back arches.
âWondered what youâd sound like when you come.â He continues. âIf itâs all breathy. Or if youâd cry. If youâd say my name.â
âIâd press the pillow over my face after so no one would hear me,â He admits. âEvery time.â
You gasp.
âI would.â You gasp.
His hand pushes harder into his cock. Groaning. âIâve thought about fucking you with my tongue. Holding your legs and licking you for hours.â
You press your fingers even harder.
You whimper, other hand reading for a pillow or something to grab onto. âOsc, please.â
âYou want my fingers?â He whispers. âRight here? Want me to fuck you with my hand?â
You nod. Repeatedly. Fast. Almost pathetic.
Oscar lets out a whimper. And then heâs kneeling in front of you before you can blink. Hand still pressing into his cock. The other trembling as his fingers brush your thigh.
âYouâre so warm.â
Your hand falls away and he replaces it instantly. Pressing two fingers against the soaked fabric. Groans loudly when he feels it.
âFuck, prettyâŚâ He groans. âYouâre soaked. Fuckinâ dripping.â
And then he pushes the fabric aside, stares. Pupils blown. âGod, look at youâŚ"
You shake your head. âPlease.â
âIâve thought about sliding my fingers into you since I was seventeen,â He pushes them in. Half-laughing. âThought about curling them deep and slowâŚ.hearing you moan just like that.â
Oscar swears under his breath, leaning closer. Jaw locked tight. âIâd keep you like this for hours if I could. Legs spread and needyâŚ.mine to play with.â
You cry out. Rocking your hips.
And he curls his fingers. Watching your face.
âYeah?â His thumb circles your clit now. Slow. âRight there? Knew Iâd find it.â
And you careen forward. Hands flying to grab his shoulders.
âCome for me,â He mutters. âRight here. In my fucking shirt. On my yacht. On my fingers.â
And you do.
Hard.
And he watches every second. His lips parted. Cock throbbing.
And then he drags his fingers out of you slow.
Brings them to his mouth.Â
Licks them clean. Eyes locked on yours.
âTaste better than I ever dreamed,â He says softly.
And then heâs grabbing the back of your neck. Pulling your lips to his. Kissing you like heâs starving.
His tongue licks your mouth like its his. Like he already knows how to pull those sounds out of you and wants to hear every single one.Â
And his hands slip down your body. Down your shoulders, over your ribs. Brushing the dip of your waist. Until heâs gripping your thighs.
âWanna see bruises here,â He says. âWant people to see bruises and know.â
He stays kneeling between you, chest heaving.
âYouâre soaking, baby.â His voice cracks.
He leans forward. Kissing your inner thigh. And then opens his mouth, sucking hard. Pulling a moan from you.
You feel the bruise forming as he licks over it. Sucks it again. Fingers pressing into your skin, gripping it.
âThatâs one,â He mutters.Â
He leaves another one. Higher.Â
Then a third on the other leg. Right by your cunt. So close that it makes your hips jerk into his mouth.
And then heâs standing. Grabbing you under your thighs. And lifts you.Â
Laying you down on the table. The welcome basket crashes onto the deck with a thud, but neither of you acknowledge it. The box of chocolates dangling on the edge.
He grabs it.
âWhat are you doing?â You ask. Breathless.
He doesnât answer. Opens the box, takes out a single piece and holds it up. Gaze dropping down to your cunt spread open for him.
âNeed to taste you with this,â He mutters.
He leans over you. Pressing the chocolate between your lips. âBite.â
You do.
The sunâs hot against your skin.
And then he kisses you hard. Tongue lapping against yours, sharing the chocolate. You both moan and groan into each other before heâs dropping back to his knees.
âLook at you,â He breathes. âAll messy. Want my mouth, baby?â
You nod.
And he leans in. Licks you.
One long drag up your slit.
You cry out. And he groans into your cunt. Licking you. Tasting you.
âFuckin heaven.â He drags a hand to your leg. âCanât believe I waited this long.â
âOscarâŚâ
He doesnât stop. Just hooks his arm under your thigh, and pulls you closer to the edge. Legs over his shoulder.
And buries his face in your pussy.
You grind into him instantly. Chasing every flick of his tongue.
Your hands fist into his hair, dragging his face closer against you. And he moans. Wrecked.
âFuck,â you yell. âOscarâŚoh myâŚfuck.â
He drags his tongue through you. Flicking your clit over and over.
âKeep fucking my face,â his voice is hot.
âYou soundâŚmy God..Oscar, you sound obsessed..â
âI am.â He grunts. Fingers curling in you as he nudges your clit with his nose.
And then he pulls one arm away. You barely notice it. Until you hear it and look down.
Heâs got his hand wrapped around his cock, fisting it fast. Leaking.
He jerks his cock faster. Hips twitching into his own fist as his mouth works harder against you.Â
âGonna come,â he confesses. âGonna come from tasting you.â
You cry out.
âCâmonâŚâ He urges. âLet me taste it, yeah?âÂ
And it breaks you.
You moan into the open sky. Grinding against his face. Jaw slack. Eyes squeezed shut.
And then he groans, standing up and comes hard onto your cunt.Â
Hot, messy ropes of it. Spilling over you.Â
And then heâs dragging you off the table without a word. Not giving you time to even breathe. Panting.Â
His hands tight around you, and then heâs spinning you. Forcing you to face the ocean. Chest hitting the metal railing.Â
And heâs behind you. Silent.
You start to turn your head, âOscarâŚ?â
âNo.â He says. Voice rough. âStay just like that.â
His hands drag your shirt up. Slow.
His name in bold letters stretched across your back.
He groans. Violently.
âI shouldâve fucked you in this years ago.â
Your breath falters.
âFucking knew it,â He grabs a fistful of the shirt, twisting his hand in it. âKnew one day youâd bend over in this and Iâd lose my fucking mind.â
You feel the heat of his body behind you, shoving your bottoms down with one swift flick of his hand. Cock thick and heavy. Dragging through your folds, collecting his come and your wetness.
He groans. You shake.
He presses forward, hips rocking against you. Grinding into your thighs.
âYouâve no idea what you look like.â His breath is heavy behind you. âBent over. My name on your back. Come still dropping down your cunt.â
And you bite your lip. Arching into him harder.
One hand grips your hip, the other fisted around the shirt.
âYou wore this shirt for years like it meant nothing,â His voice quieter. Mean. âDidnât think about what it did to me every time you wore it.â
âOscâŚâ You attempt to say his name, but he shifts his hips into you harder and your voice cracks.
He laughs.
âNow look at you. Dripping all over me. Wearing my name like you belong to me.â
He sinks in slow. So slow that you feel every pulse. Every ridge.Â
And you whimper. He groans behind you. Like heâs in pain. Like heâs trying so hard to not ravish you.
But when his hips meet you, and heâs bottomed out. He justâŚ.stops.
Breathes in heavily.
âFuck.â He says soft. âYouâre so fucking tight around me.â
His fingers dig into your hip even harder. Bruising. Marking.
âYouâve ruined me,â He laughs. âYâknow that?â
And you donât even get a chance to answer.
Because he pulls back and slams into you. Hard.
You cry out, hands gripping the railing that your knuckles turn white.
His pace isnât gentle at all. Itâs feral.
âFucking ruined me,â He says again. âYou in this shirtâŚ.you in my fucking name..do you even know what that does to me?â
You moan. So loud. And his hips smack into you. Over and over.
âYouâve been walkinâ around in it for years.â He spits. âLike itâs nothing.â
He thrusts deep, angling his hips at a better angle. âLike I havenât been dreaming of fucking you in it since I gave it to you all those years ago.â
Youâre babbling now. Unable to breathe properly. Your entire body trembling.
His hand slips from your hip and slides up your spine. He grabs the back of your neck and pushes you down. Just a little bit harder. Forces you to arch even more.
And fuck, he nearly collapses when he feels you clench tighter around him.
âYou should see yourself,â He grunts. âSqueezing around me like youâre desperate to never let me go.â
And heâs lost all rhythm. Heâs just slamming into you. Cock so deep.Â
âCanât believe this is real.â Heâs panting. âCanât believe I get to fuck you in my shirt. Pussy covered in me.â
Your orgasm is close. And youâre shouting. Moaning.Â
"Bet she'd lose her mind if she knew what a slut you were f'me..."
You cry out. He feels you teetering on the edge.Â
âDonât.â He snaps.
And you cry, âOscarâŚplease.â
âYouâre gonna wait.â He demands, fucking into you more rapidly.Â
And heâs losing his mind. Itâs sooo good.Â
âSay whoâs inside you.â His hands squeeze the back of your neck. âSay it.â
You gasp. Jaw falling slack. Chest pressed harsh into the metal railing. âYouâŚOsc..fuck, itâs so good..â
You sob out his name and Oscar fucking snaps.
âThatâs it, baby.âÂ
His hips hit you faster. Deeper. The filthy sound of it heard over the waves lapping the hull.Â
You sob into the railing.Â
He leans into you, head falling forward.
âGonna come,â He chokes out. âGonna come right inside you. Stuff you full. Let it leak out.â
And you break.
Orgasm ripping through you. Violent and hot. Back arching so hard into him. You sob out his name. Your walls clenching around him in a tight grip.
And he crashes with you. Body shuddering. Cock throbbing. Spilling into you.
Heâs still panting against you when he pulls out. And itâs a fucking mess in between your thighs.
But before you can say anything, heâs dragging you upright. And youâre stumbling as he drags you across the hot deck. Hand across your stomach. Keeping you close.
And then heâs shoving you into the rinse off shower.
He reaches up. Turns the handle. And the water is so cold that you gasp from it.
Oscar laughs behind you. âToo cold?â
Your head falls onto his shoulder. âAsshole.â
And then he turns the temperature warmer, and then itâs all steam and heat again.Â
You expect him to rinse you off gently.
Instead, he grabs the shower head. Detaches it from the hook. And pulls your back against his chest.
âGonna clean you up.â
Youâre about to ask what exactly he means. But then he;;s nudging your legs apart. Brings the shower head straight to your cunt.Â
And you jolt forward with a sharp cry.
The heat. The pressure.
âOh my godâŚOsc,â Youâre mumbling.
And he watches you. Holding one leg to keep them apart.
âStay open,â his voice is soft. âWanna see you come again.â
And you whimper. Begging. âToo muchâŚfuck.â
But he doesnât stop. Just tilts the shower head just right. Hitting your clit.
âThought Iâd have to work harder for this,â He mutters. âBut youâre soaking already.â
âFuckâŚfuck.â
"Y'like this, hm?" He whispers into your ear. "Being used like some filthy secret?"
Your hands reach behind you and slip their way into his hair. Pulling it. He groans. Rutting his hips into your backside for some friction.
âCâmon, pretty.â He grunts.Â
And the water just keeps hitting you.Â
You sob. And then crash again.
Your legs shake. Cunt clenching around nothing. But he holds you up, turning you to face him. Pressing your back against the wall.
He finally sets the shower head down. Lets it spray onto the deck.Â
And then his hands are back on you. One at your lower back, one gripping your thigh, pulling it up to wrap at his waist. You balance on one leg.
He presses a kiss to your temple. âYâokay?â His voice gentle. Caring.
And you nod, pressing your head into his neck. And his heart stutters when you lean into him. Like he can finally breathe.
âIâve got you,â He whispers.
And then, he sinks back into you.
Slow. Gentle.
Your mouth falls open. The stretch still almost unbearable after everything. But the way he slides in, feels too fucking good.
You gasp. Digging your nails into his skin. And he cradles you against the wall.
He moves slow. Rocking. No rhythm. And he feels massive. Thick.Â
âOscar,â You hush into his skin. âYou feelâŚYâfeel so good.â
He nods. âI know, baby. I know.â And his voice is a whisper.Â
He grinds deeper. Barely moving but pressing into you. âCanât believe youâre still this wetâŚâ He grunts. âStill want more? Want me to stuff you full again, hm? Fuck you til it leaks down?â
You nod. Mouth open. Moaning.
âCâmon,â He pants. Hips jerking. Cock throbbing.Â
Itâs quick. The feel of you wrapped around his cock. The overstimulation of the stretch.
You both come quick. Crying out into each otherâs skin. Soft kisses in between the moans.
And then youâre both laughing. Smiling at one another.
-
âHoly shitâŚIâm dying.â Your best friend announces. âNever let me go on another tour ever ever again.âÂ
Oscar snorts from beside you on the bench, looking at his phone. âTold you youâd hate it.â
âYou didnât say Iâd almost drown.â
You keep your face still. Sipping your drink.
And she plops down on the lounger across the deck, sighing.
And for a momentâŚitâs quiet.
Until Oscar leans in slightly, elbow brushing your arm.
His voice low. âYâthink she noticed?â
You glance at him. Shake your head.
âSheâs never been less observant,â You whisper back.
And he grins. One of those fuck-you grins that makes you stutter.
And you hold back a smile.
Your best friend groans across the deck. âGod, I feel disgusting. Should we order dinner in an hour?â
Oscar clears his throat. âSure.â
âYeah,â You say.
And then you lean, just slightly, into his side. Just enough that his thigh is touching yours again.Â
He doesnât move. And he doesnât stop smiling.
"Hey, what happened to the welcome basket?"
Oops? taglist (holy shit SO MANY OF YOU ILY): @landoscarinthefastlane @dudenhaaa27 @330bpm-whiplash @xoln04f1xo @sainzluvrr @minjiahyung @madicecream123 @star73807-blog @simpfortoomanymen @art-h1ve @annaswrites00 @forumlabee @butterfly-daisies07 @nothereneverherever @widow-cevans @suns3treading @fmejenson @megatrilss1885 @10iceicebaby @sh1nedreamsm1le7 @ptrickbateman @chasingosc @uuoozzii @idkwtdwml123 @pinkdeadtopia @chiara8104 @ellie-bellie-29 @piastri-my-boy @1-of-my-many-obsessions @8junejpg1 @jaydensluv @astrlape @idontknow0704 @whistlef0rthechoir @op814kitty @asmoothoperator @illicit-affcirs @lilith-123321 @teddybearbeth @saudianna @skylyn-vais @fleurdangz @angxedxtz @marekmybeloved @liafics @dxrlxb @gabyasworld @treebranch23 @drysdalesv @morganalatina21 @bigcatharmony @ilovemuppets @acina27 @angelabunbun @megatrilss1885 @ilikecarsalotsometimes @roxanne-ragnvindr @euphoriapillz @luminouskalopsia @trinity2058 @livsturnioloo @wdsara48 @ini3103 @shimmermotorsport @marslovesran4eva @wherethezoes-at @monsterdesandia @mythicalmaven @3in1shampooconditionerbodywash @ella284-3 @landossainz @redcrescentmoons @jaeger-chan @altaccount283927 @ericasdumbworld @aerie717 @the0twst0shrimp0mc @ysavelelelel @phillza-my-beloved @thenalovescars @zicosbitch @scaroscar8115 @wertyuizxcvbnm @needy02 @dessashippr @quill-vy @o6hellnah @enchantedwaspwhisper @awesome-fandom-panda @biancathecool @lilorose25 @wowzees (not sure if all these worked but I took them straight from my comments on the sneak peak)
#oscar piastri x female oc#oscar piastri angst#oscar piastri fanfic#oscar piastri imagine#oscar piastri x you#op81 imagine#op81 x reader#op81 fic#op81#f1 one shot#f1 fanfiction#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#f1 x reader#f1 imagine#oscar piastri x reader#oscar piastri#oscar piastri smut
4K notes
¡
View notes
Text
suggestive
simon riley with his favourite dancer
simon never indulged in many things, he was never one for loud noises and clubs until he was dragged in. tucked away in the corner eyeing the dimly lit room, dancers on the poles moving sensually but none of them appealed to him.
but you did.
you didnât move as confidently compared to the other dances, your eyes down casted as if you wanted to leave the stage as quickly as possible. his eyes roamed around your body, the hidden curves as the way you delicately moved around the pole. though when he scanned the room it was clear that he wasnât the only one admiring you.
so he had to make his claim on you.
âyer do private dances birdie?â his voice rough as he approached you after your performance, your eyes wide like a startled deer as he towered over you. âi do,â your voice barely audible as you avoided eye contact, simonâs calloused hand gently tilting your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. âwho else do you dance for?â he tried to ignore the jealously brewing inside, but he couldnât. the idea of your body on someone else drove him insane.
you shook your head, âno one.â
well if it wasnât his lucky day. he grabbed a hefty amount of cash before tucking it under your bra. âwell, better start your first one today.â
he has never been so hard in his life.
it became a routine, after his missions he found himself back at the tacky club that reeked of cheap alcohol. his fingers would drum on the table tucked away in the corner as he waited impatiently for you to show up on stage. every time he saw you, your confidence increased, which for the most part made simon proud.
after all, his little birdie was finally realising her beauty.
but another part of him felt territorial, like he had to mark you as his.
so he did.
everyone knew you as simonâs little birdie, the one that arrived and left the club under his arm. the one who got paid the most by him, receiving large amounts of cash without any hesitation from the man. simon was damned to let anyone take you.
âlookinâ good birdie,â his voice soft just for you to hear as he placed cash in between your thin top and chest. âdonât worry about finishing late, got you booked for the whole night so you can leave whenever,â his gaze roamed around your body, the way it moved so sensually but shyly to the music, your face pink despite the low lightening that concealed it, but simon knew to too well.
âmeet me at the back alleyway yeah?â he whispered softly before giving you a firm tap on the ass.
tag list: @happysmappy @mydickishuge560 @dolli333 @madebyyicarus @l-otti @butlerslut @vampwifee @i-wanabe-yours @bluebarrybubblez @cinnamongrl2006 @akkahelenaa @yanfeiiiiii @actualpoppy @lilyalone @other-fandoms-reblogs @goonette6969 @doubledizzy22 @lucienofthelakes @arabellatreaty @tessakate @kayden666
#simon riley#simon ghost riley#simon riley x female reader#simon riley x you#cod#simon ghost x reader#simon riley imagine#simon riley x f!reader#cod simon ghost riley#cod simon riley#simon riley cod#simon riley x y/n#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley x female reader#simon ghost riley x you
3K notes
¡
View notes
Text
insomniac bf!sukuna who always struggled with sleep until he starts falling asleep around you. he starts dozing off randomly and you watch his tilting. he's confused and annoyed by this habit until you tell him the fact of falling asleep or being sleepy around the people that you love
he says it's a stupid fact. but it's one he remembers at the tip of his tongue whenever his nephew yuji probes him for a question.
'you fall asleep when you start liking or hanging around the same people too much, did you know that?'
'really?' yuji lifts his head in curiousity, a half coloured lion on the coffee table as he sits with crayons.
'yeah.'
'who told you?'
he shrugs, 'it's from the top of my head.' knowing fully well that you were the one who had told him.
#angel writes#he's so cute i love him#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jjk x reader#sukuna x reader#jujutsu kaisen#ryomen sukuna x reader#ryomen sukuna#sukuna fluff#sukuna x reader fluff#sukuna#sukuna ryomen#jjk sukuna#jujutsu kaisen sukuna#sukuna jjk#jjk fluff#jjk headcanons#jjk x reader fluff#jjk
5K notes
¡
View notes
Text
-> caleb âjealousâ of a vibrator colonel:
jealousy, thy name is caleb. caleb crosses his arms, glaring at the bedside table like itâs personally offended him. or, more accurately, at the small, traitorous piece of technology sitting on top of it. his eyes narrow.
âso thatâs the competition.â
you stifle a laugh, adjusting your position on the bed as you watch him go through the five stages of grief over a vibrator. âcompetition?â
He scoffs. gestures at it. âi mean, what else would you call it?â
âa necessity.â
his jaw drops. ânecessity?â
you shrug, feigning innocence. âit doesnât tease. doesnât make me beg. doesnât get all cocky when iââ
caleb lunges, pinning you under him in a second. his hand wraps around your chin, tilting your face up so youâre looking right at him. the usual mischief in his golden eyes darkens, something possessive creeping into his expression.
âyou think i donât give you what you need, pipsqueak?â his voice is low, slow, tracing fire down your spine. you bite your lip, letting your lashes flutter just to provoke him. ââŚmaybe i like the consistency.â
his smile is dangerous.
âalright then,â he murmurs, fingers ghosting down your stomach. âletâs see if you still think that when iâm done with you.â
guess you shouldnât have challenged caleb like this, youâve realized it long ago. the way his evol pins you down, vibrator smudged between your folds against your clit, pulsating, throbbingâ for what feels like a long time. Your legs are pressed together, hands tied behind your back, âcaleb-â you mumble, mewling at the ache. Your scalp is sweaty, like youâve done a rigorous workout. guess three orgasms is all it took to make your voice sound so tired and sexy.
you loved the first orgasm, the way the vibratore tore through your walls of pleasure and dropped you from that delicious high. Then⌠when it didnât stop, when you could feel your nerves fry up, that you realized that caleb isnât playing around. âcaleb, please ââ you whimper and whine, feet moving like a caterpillar because of how closely your ankles are tied. It only adds to the torturous pleasure.
âcaleb!â you exclaim, you beg, and when the third orgasm comes inâŚ. Forcing you to see god. You break down. âcalebââ sobs and sniffles echo through the room. âMy name isnât a safeword, honey.â Caleb soothes your back, kissing it softly, peppering tender lovings.
âdo you think the vibrator is all you need pips?â Caleb asks once more, and you shake your head no frivolously and adamantly. âno no no calebâ please sâ too much!â your breath is ragged and bated, nerve endings hurting from every corner of your body.
it feels like caleb wants to associate discomfort with the vibrator so you only come to him and him alone⌠when you need pleasure. When you need anything really⌠âcanâtâ no more.â you struggle against his evol, feeling your begs and moans subside into something submissive, something broken.
itâs okay though, you know caleb would piece you back together. He carefully removes the vibrator, looking at your disheaveled body, your eyes drenched in tears. the warmth of his hugs feel like a necessity right now. you sob & cry in his arms, and he holds you through it, telling you how good you are, telling you how amazing you are and just how much he loves and adores you. until you finally calm down, body shaking every few minutes from post orgasm bliss, curled up in fetal position against him as he runs his hands through your hair.
âGonna fucking get back at you.â You scowl, pouting when you feel your senses powerful enough to move again, to speak again.
âsure pips, but i donât use anything apart from your delicious cunt to help me⌠you got nothing to be mad about.â Caleb smiles, kissing your forehead.
hmphâŚ. That jerk.
#love and deepspace#lads x reader#lads smut#love and deepspace smut#caleb smut#caleb x reader#caleb x reader smut#lads xia yizhou#lads#lads caleb
3K notes
¡
View notes
Text
Guard Dog vol.I
jason todd x fem!reader
aka donât fuck with jasonâs girlfriend
4 in 1 blurbs
vol. II
warnings: mildly creepy guys, standard protective bf methods



Jasonâs good at shutting people up very quickly. Youâd almost call it a talent.
He shuts you up with a kiss when you get stuck in a rant, or with a hug to calm your worried rambles.
And when youâre in an incorrigibly teasing mood, heâll throw you over his shoulder and carry you back to your bedroom to really shut you up.
With other people though, he hasâŚdifferent methods.
You sit atop your kitchen counter, trading lazy kisses in between giggles with your boyfriend. He stands in front of you, hands massaging your thighs as he leans in for another. You happily oblige.
You break off the exchange to lay a series of sweet kisses on that spot under his jaw.
His head tilts back, letting out a groan so low you nearly miss it. âSweetheartâŚâ he warns.
âSorryâŚâ you resign with a sheepish smile.
A knock at the door bursts you out of your shared reverie. You press a kiss to his knuckles and hop down to start setting the table.
Jason gets the door, greeting the pizza guy with a nod as you shuffle around the kitchen. The delivery guy hands him a receipt, asking for a signature.
Jason uses the door as a surface to sign, giving the delivery guy an apt view into your apartment, where he sees you getting out plates in the kitchen. More noticeably, he sees you in your boyfriend's shirt, which rides up just a little bit when you stand up on your toes to reach the top cabinet. The lift of the shirt exposes the bottom of your underwear, though it falls back into place again just as quickly.
Now, lucky for this guy, Jasonâs facing the door and does not see him checking you out in your own home. Unlucky for this guy, he has wildly misread the vibe of your relationship. Or at least your boyfriend.
âMan, how do you get anything done around here?â He jests.
Jason looks up at him, and the pizza manâs eyes tear away from your legs to meet his hard gaze. It does not take him long to realize his mistake.
âTry again.â Jason behests, arms crossed in front of him.
The pizza boyâs eyes go wide and he shakes his head, stuttering. âIâuh, I said have a good night.â
âMhm.â He grumbles.
The pizza guy hands Jason the box with shaky hands and scuttles back down the hallway.
Thankfully, you didnât seem to notice the exchange, but even so, your boyfriend still glowers down the hallway after him.
âJay?â
His attention snaps back to you, demeanor changing instantly. âYeah, baby?â
Youâre sitting in your usual spot at the table, his chair empty and waiting just around the corner from you.
âCome sit.â You say, with eyes that might as well be hearts.
He gives a reassuring nod and kicks the door shut behind him.

You and Jason are sitting on the floor in his old room at the manor, your legs thrown over his. You lean up against his bed, asking him about posters on the walls and trinkets on the shelves.
His knee is propped up and your arm dangles across it, his hand in yours. He plays with your fingers and periodically leans forward to leave a kiss on them.
Youâd just woken up less than an hour ago after spending the night post-gala, and itâs a peaceful, if not unusually quiet morning.
Dick shouts your name from another room, audibly booking it towards you. Yeah. Thatâs more like what Jason remembers.
He grumbles some annoyances, dropping his head against your intertwined hands.
Dick bursts into the room, clearly incredibly excited.
âWhatâs up, Dick?â You ask, calm as ever. Jason lets an unseen smile creep up, head still down.
Dickâs practically jumping up and down, âYou gotta see the shit that Tim just found in the cave!â His face drops as he directs his gaze to Jason, âYouâre not invited.â
âThank God.â
Dick ignores him and grabs your wrist, yanking you up from the floor. This is one place where he differs from Jasonâheâs not always quite so aware of his own strength.
His grip doesnât hurt really, but itâs firm enough that you imagine thereâll be bruise marks there later.
âHey.â Jason calls out, nodding his head to where Dick is holding your arm. âEase up.â
Dick follows his gaze and immediately loosens his hold, apologizing to you before pulling you along once again (this time much more gentle).
You grin at Jason as he tugs you out the door, him returning it with an endeared smile as he watches you go.
Fuck he loves you.

Jason had a decent break from his night job for once, and was happy to let you drag him out to a bar for a little date. Youâd been linked at the hip for most of the night, his hands maintaining their ever present home on your waist with yours rested on his thighs as you told him about your hectic day.
Heâd usually prefer to stay in bed with you for as long as possible when he gets time off, but youâd looked so excited asking him to go out with youâhe never stood a chance.
You look up into the mirror as you wash your hands, a strand of hair falling into your face as you do. You push it back behind your ear and smile to yourself, recalling the several times Jason had wordlessly done the same throughout the night as you rambled.
You make your way back to the bar, smile immediate on your face when you see your boyfriend. It gets replaced rather quickly though, when a man slides in front of you, cutting off your view of him.
âHey there.â
You have to take a step back because of how close he decided to stand to you. He looks sober (enough) but wildly overconfident in whatevers about to happen.
"Let me buy you a drink, pretty thing."
Jason calls you pretty thing sometimes. It makes the blood rush to your cheeks and an inescapable smile creep up on your lips. When this guy says it, it makes you literally frown.
"Oh no, I'm okay, myâ"
"You seem like a dirty martini kinda girl." He expertly ignores you, clearly trying and failing to make some kind of innuendo there.
Jason's sitting back against the bar, watching the interaction carefully. You still canât see him, but heâs close and you can rest comfortable knowing heâs looking out for you.
With that reassurance, you donât play this out quite as carefully as you would if you were alone.
"Look, I don't want a drink from you, thanks."
Apparently that was the wrong thing to say to him because his face contorts quickly to mock-disgust that you figure is really just embarrassment.
âHey, donât be a bitch just âcauseââ
You try to sidestep around him, thoroughly done with this interaction, but he grabs your upper arm harshly, pulling you to an abrupt stop.
Jason stands up real quick, yanking the guy backwards by his collar before you can even process what's happening.
Now, you know that Jason is an objectively intimidating guy. There's not many people that will come face to face with that absolute unit of a man and still decide to keep on trying him. However, you tend to forget that when you're so used to your gentle giant that only ever speaks to you kindly and touches you softly.
But his intimidating status becomes very apparent when the guy spins around, looks up at Jason, and immediately takes four steps back. He actually almost bumps into you in the process, not doing anything to tame Jasonâs acute distaste for this man.
"Listen to meâback the fuck off before you get hurt."
âSheââ
âI donât give a fuck. Leave.â
The guy hesitates.
âNow.â Jason adjusts his posture to stand at his staggering full height, clearly with no qualms about putting him back in his place.
That does it for him, the man stumbllng away with half-committed mumbles of âwhateverâ or âsomething something lame anyway.â
Jason watches him until he walks out the door, before turning back to you.
He delicately takes your upper arm in his hand, pulling your sleeve up to search for bruising. But as harshly as he had grabbed you, it didnât have the time to cause a bruise before Jason intervened.
âWhatâd he say to you?â Jason asks, brow furrowed as he inspects your arm.
âNothing very interesting.â He looks at you mildly.
You smile and comb his hair back from his forehead, âDonât worry about him. Iâm good.â
He lets your arm go, and exchanges it for holding the back of your head, planting a kiss on your forehead.
You take his other hand and guide him back to your seats.
âBesides,â You look over his shoulder and let out a little shocked gasp. âGuess who just walked in.â
He gives you a questioning look before his face slacks, eyes widening in realization.
âNoâŚâ And you smile so brightly it almost makes up for what's coming his way.
You redirect your smile over his shoulder and give a wave to the door. Jason swigs down the rest of his drink, hand finding your waist once again.
âJaybird!â

Jasonâs still exhausted from patrol last night but heâd insisted on going with you to the bar to meet your friends. Youâd tried to convince him that it was okay to stay in and rest tonight, youâd be fine. But it was a losing battle.
You suspect it has something to do with him not liking when you go out in Gotham at night, especially when youâre drinking.
So he hangs out in the background of the buzz, with you sat in front of him, in between his legs.
Youâre talking it up with Roy, whoâs been making jokes about how Jasonâs âmoody assâ tricked you, âthe ray of sunshineâ into this relationship somehow.
You laugh, taking a sip of your drink. âRight, âcause you and Kori were in love at first sight.â
"Oh, fuck off." Roy jeers.
He doesn't say it with the cadence of a joke, but it is.
You know he's joking, he knows he's joking.
Jason, who very well may have been tuned out of the conversation up to that point, does not seem to know he's jokingâor he doesn't care.
You don't need to look behind you to know that your boyfriend is in defensive mode, though the look of regret mixed with amusement on Roy's face gives a solid hint.
You hold your hand out to block Jason his path as he moves forward. He lets you stop him, though you're certain he could get past you without so much as blinking, no problem.
"Right. My bad, forgot your guard dog was here. Don't fuck off." Roy backtracks, hands up in front of him.
Jason just rolls his eyes, slouching back down. You reach behind you for his hand, giving it two squeezes. You know heâs tired, so much so that he almost punched his best friend for making a typical joke.
âFive more minutes, okay?â You say softly over your shoulder.
He nods at you blearily, and ducks his head down to rest on your back. You adjust your posture a little bit to make it more comfortable for him and continue on talking, his hand still in yours.
If he hadnât fallen asleep so quickly, five minutes wouldâve been five minutes, but instead it became something more like fifty.
He goes through patches where sleep isnât always so welcoming, a phase heâs been in for the past couple of weeks. Youâd been waking up to find the bed half empty, your boyfriend resigned to doing research on cases in an attempt to at least be productive while heâs awake.
You canât protect him in the same ways that he protects youâyouâre not a fighter or necessarily âintimidating.â But you can protect him like this, in these little ways. Letting him nap on you, making him close the case files and rest with you, holding his hand throughout the night so that when he inevitably has nightmares, he knows immediately that youâre still with him. That heâs safe.
So if he can get some much needed sleep while only costing you a stiff back tomorrow, youâll happily take that deal as many times as he needs.

vol. II
#i got about a million of these up my sleeve#jason todd loves his gf#jason todd the doberman#jason todd imagine#jason todd fanfic#jason todd fanfiction#jason todd x reader#jason todd x you#jason todd/reader#jason todd/you#batfam imagine#batfam x reader#batfam fanfiction#batfam x you#batfam fanfic#red hood x you#red hood imagine#red hood x reader#red hood fanfic#red hood fanfiction#protective bf#protective
16K notes
¡
View notes
Text

strike the match
pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x college student f! reader
you fuck joel miller, austinâs fire chief, in your old room while your parents sleep down the hall.
tags/content warning: +18, mdni. f! reader. age gap. joel is 52, reader is 25. battalion chief joel miller. brief scene of attempted forced kissing (not by joel). reader wants that old man so bad. unprotected piv. creampie. wear protection please. dry humping. thigh riding. mouth covering during sex. oral f!receiving.
w/c: 9k
Hold the wide end of the cue stick with your dominant hand, palm facing up. Find the point where the stick balances, then shift your hand two or three centimeters back.
Form a circle with the thumb and index finger of your other hand.
You raise an eyebrow as you sip the espresso martini through a straw. Who knew pool could be this interesting?
Slide the cue stick through the circle and rest it over your middle finger. Set the outer edge of your hand on the pool table andâ
Someone calls your name and you glance away from your phone, which is still open on a page titled âPool for Dummies: First Steps,â just in time to catch the wide smile of one of your friends.
âAnother round?â she asks, tilting her head toward your espresso martini. âSome guy just bought us drinks.â
Your glass is still half full, but you nod and agree, adding that the next one better come with a straw too. Free drinks are a no-brainer.
Once the waiter walks off with the order, your eyes drift again to the corner of the bar, to the pool tables surrounded by loud men downing tall mugs of frothy beer.
But youâre only watching one of them.
Your lips close around the straw again, and though your vision is slightly blurred at the edges, you stay locked in on the silver-haired man in his fifties, full beard and all, leaning against the wall with a cue stick in hand as he waits for his turn. He laughs at something his buddy says, and somehow, the drink tastes sweeter while youâre watching those broad shoulders under a plain black T-shirt and those strong thighs in faded dark jeans.
His turn.
He leans over the table, lines up the shot. His biceps flex, looking even bigger as he makes that typical forward-and-back motion before striking. His eyes are fixed on the red ball, untilâŚ
Suddenly, theyâre on you.
Your stomach drops like you swallowed an ice cube. Still looking your way, brows slightly furrowed, he makes the shot. You donât even have to follow the ball to know it sank clean.
His friend says something, and just like that, he looks away.
âOh my God, stop flirting with the geriatrics,â your friend says, placing another espresso martini in front of you. âAdam wants to take you home. You know, the skinny blond guyâŚâ
âThe twenty-seven-year-old,â you say. âHeâs a baby. And I bet heâs circumcised.â
âYouâre twenty-five. Whatâs your beef with circumcised guys?â
You skip that question because thereâs no polite way to explain your preference when it comes to pool cues.
âI like my men the way I like my cheese.â
âOld and stinky?â
âAged!â you correct. âYâall can keep your cheddar. I want my Gruyère.â
Your table erupts in laughter.
Itâs your oldest friendâs birthday tonight, and you all decided to celebrate her twenty-ninth at Millerâs Bar, run by Tommy, an old friend of your dadâs, and his wife, Maria. Luckily, your summer break from grad school lined up with her birthday, and coming back to Austin is always worth it for nights like this.
And itâs not hard to imagine the kind of attention a group of girls in short skirts, high boots, and crop tops draws inside a traditional Texas bar.
Youâre halfway through your espresso martini on your next sip, and for some reason, that reminds your bladder it needs attention. You excuse yourself and get up, though no one really hears you, and head straight for the bathrooms in the back of the bar, tucked at the end of a dim, nicotine-reeking hallway, where the air clings to your skin and the walls are hung with fading paintings of bulls, cows and longhorns.
Your bathroom mission is quick, mostly because itâs way too dirty to linger. Pee, quick reflection while perched on the toilet seat (layered in toilet paper), a bit of lipstick, a quick hair touch-up.
The music from outside, a Dolly Parton classic, fills the bathroom as you open the door, and it only takes one step into the dark hallway for you to slam into a wall of concrete.
âShit,â says the wall.
Strong hands catch your shoulders and push you back, and suddenly your face is being tilted up by firm fingers.
âYou alright?â
Black T-shirt. Gray beard. You blink, looking up, and your stomach flips again. Heâs even bigger up close.
âOww,â you whisper dramatically, touching your temple. Showtime. Anything to keep his hands on you a little longer. âI think Iâve got a concussion.â
âDoubt it. Looks to me like youâve had a few too many.â
âYou sure? Here,â you grab his hand and place it on your forehead. âDo I have a fever? What if you gave me a concussion?â
âYour fault for not lookinâ where you were going.â
You squint up at him again. He pulls his hand away and only now do you realize just how big it is and how thick his fingers are.
Heâs raising an eyebrow, but thereâs a hint of amusement on his lips that pushes you to blurt your name, offer a handshake, and say:
âHow about I buy you a drink as an apology?â
The smile dies. He ignores your hand, pats the top of your head twice, like you would a puppy, and sidesteps you, saying:
âGo find someone your age, kiddo. Plenty of boys in thereâll want you.â
âI donât want someone my age!â you call out after his retreating back.
âToo damn bad.â
He steps into the menâs room, and you feel your shoulders slump with disappointment. Would a lower-cut top have helped?
âWhen you think like that, feminism goes back twenty years,â your friend says when you repeat that exact thought to her. âHeâs supposed to like you for your personality.â
âI donât want him to eat out my personality.â
He walks past your booth and heads back to the pool area, and your eyes eat him up again, but then Adam, the allegedly circumcised boy, and his crew show up, cramming into your booth and blocking your view.
Itâs hard, but you resist the urge to roll your eyes and order another espresso martini instead.
At some point in the night, you get fed up with the boys and their dumb incel-tier jokes, so you decide to leave. Your friends ask if you want company walking home, but you decline, even though your legs feel a little wobbly as you stand. You pay your part of the bill, say your goodbyes and make your way to the barâs exit.
Thereâs a chilly breeze outside that raises goosebumps on your arms, and you shift your weight from foot to foot, leaning slightly against the wall as you dial your dadâs number.
It rings ten times and goes to voicemail.
You try again.
Voicemail.
âI donât sleep until youâre home,â you mutter mockingly, repeating what they always say. âBet theyâre deep in REM by now.â
Youâre typing your home address into the Uber app when the bar door opens again. Your eyes meet his.
âChanged your mind?â you ask, trying to sound alluring.
He closes the door behind him and looks both ways down the empty sidewalk before turning back to you with indignation.
âWhat the hell are you doing out here alone? Whereâre your friends?â
âThey stayed.â
âAnd they just let you stand out here by yourself?â
You ignore him, already over this conversation, and hit enter on the app. The fare loads. Shit. Twenty bucks to get home? Thatâs ridiculous. And the nearest driverâs twenty minutes away.
âWhere do you live?â he asks.
âIâm not telling you where I live, stalker,â you mutter, eyes still on your phone.
âFive minutes ago, you were trying to buy me a drink.â
âSo? Telling you where I live is crossing a line.â
âI ainât leaving you out here alone.â
âHey,â you spin to face him and point a slightly shaky finger in his direction. âYouâre not responsible for me. I can take care of myself.â
He stares at your red-polished finger, then at your face, then raises his hands in surrender and walks past you toward the barâs parking lot in silence.
Fine. Gotta love a hot guy who thinks he owns the damn world. Most exhausting type.
Alone again, you refresh the app a few times, and on the third, the price jumps from twenty to twenty-five dollars.
âNoooo,â you groan, leaning your head back against the wall to stare at the stars. Could you walk home? No⌠way too dangerous. And your high-heeled boots were not made for that.
The bar door opens again. You donât look up to see who it is, and you donât need to, because ten seconds later, thereâs a hand on your waist. You jerk away, startled, trying to shake off the touch, but the grip is strong.
âHey there, baby girl,â Adam says, way too close. You can feel his booze-soaked breath. âI got your message.â
His blown pupils freak you out, but itâs the fact that you canât break his grip that makes your heart spike. Youâre trying, but your espresso martini-filled body is sluggish. His hands feel like steel clamps against your dull reflexes.
âWhat message?â
âYou wanted me to follow you out.â
âNo, I didnât. I just wanna go home. Let go.â
You try again. He holds tighter. Now heâs pressing his hips against yours. You push him, but every one of those espresso martinis slows you down.
âNo need to make this so hard, baby girl. I saw the way you were lookinâ at me.â
âLet me go!â
Bile creeps up your throat and you swallow it down just to gather enough air to screamâ
âHey, kid,â a deep voice growls to your left, and your body nearly buckles with relief when he, Mr. Difficult, steps into view. He looks pissed.
âYou back off her or youâre heading back to college five teeth short.â
Adam stumbles backward immediately, fear plain on his face. Mr. Difficult gives you a short nod, and you rush to him in quick steps, heart racing, tucking yourself beneath his broad frame like itâs shelter from the storm.
âThese cameras,â he says, pointing to the ones mounted on the barâs exterior, âIâll have those tomorrow. Sexual harassment? I hope you donât have a scholarship.â
Adam starts to say something, probably begging not to be exposed, but you donât hear it. Youâre gripping the manâs forearm, and heâs guiding you toward a black pickup parked between the shiny little cars of the boys still inside the bar.
In silence, he opens the passenger door and waits for you to climb in: slow, one foot on the step, the other in, legs together, finally settled. Then he shuts it and walks around to the driverâs side. For a moment, you feel like Bella Swan hopping onto the back of that weird guyâs bike in New Moon.
He gets in, shuts the door, and takes a deep breath before saying so firmly you donât even think to argue:
âGive me your address. Iâm taking you home.â
Defeated, you tell him. Only then does he start the truck and pull out of the barâs lot.
âYou know that guy?â
âI know his nameâs Adam, but I donât know him. Donât even know his last name. Heâs a friend of a friend.â
âGoddamn criminal little punks,â he mutters, rolling up the windows and turning on the heat when he notices youâre trembling, even though the cold has little to do with it. âYou alright?â
âIâm⌠yeah. I think so. Thanks for stepping in.â
He keeps driving, and you use the quiet moment to steady your breath and your hands. The streets of Austin are empty, ghostly, barely any cars out, and your mind wanders for a second. Maybe itâs time to finally sign up for that self-defense class your dad kept telling you to take back in Houston.
You wedge your hands between your thighs to warm them and settle into the seat. You pretend not to hear when Mr. Difficultâs phone rings and he answers:
âMiller,â he says flatly. Someone talks on the other end. âWhat the hell happened to Jesse? Tonightâs his shift, not mine.â More silence. Then Miller, his newly revealed last name, curses under his breath and snaps, âIâm on my way.â
He hangs up and makes a sudden, hard right, jostling your body and making your eyes go wide.
âAre you kidnapping me?!â
His frustrated sigh fills the cab.
âYouâre way too damn annoying to be kept in captivity,â he grumbles, accelerating. âThey need me at work and I canât drop you off first. Itâs urgent. Youâll wait for me.â
âI can call another Uber.â
âYou ainât calling an Uber drunk like that.â
âWhy do you care?â
âBecause,â Miller says through gritted teeth, eyes on the road, âitâs literally my job to protect dumbass civilians who walk themselves into danger. I swore an oath. Now zip it.â
Civilians? Swore an oath?
Five minutes later, you get your answer as the wide property of the Austin Fire Department fills your vision, the U.S. and Texas flags flapping hard in the night wind. Miller drives through the open gate and parks beside the building.
âCome with me.â
You follow, still dazed, clacking behind him in your high-heeled boots. He doesnât check if youâre keeping up, just walks with long, fast strides, and when he reaches the covered part of the station, three mustached men in full gear look at him like heâs the second coming.
The rest of the crew is further back, checking one of the trucks. Theyâre all huge.
âChief,â one of them says. Chief?
âWe need you. We got a call onââ
âWhere the hell is Jesse?!â Miller practically growls. The three of them look at each other, shrinking a bit despite all standing well over six feet. âHe think heâs back in school? What if Iâd been drinking tonight? Youâd go on a call short-handed? Hell of a teammate, that one.â
Youâre only noticed when Miller turns his head toward you and calls out again:
âCome on.â
You do, still quiet. The firefighters tear their eyes off him and look at you, and yep⌠there it is. Raised brows, head-to-toe glance, lingering a bit too long on your skirt, and an open flirt-ready expression.
Miller shuts that down real fast:
âEyes off, punks. Iâll be down in two.â
You give them a sheepish smile, but what you really want to say is: Yeah! Thatâs right, punks! Eyes off!
With a little bounce in your step, like a kid who just got praised by the teacher for their stick-figure drawing, you follow Miller up the stairs, metal steps creaking beneath you both.
Upstairs, you find the firefightersâ break room: a big dining table, a flat-screen TV, leather couches, and a kitchen tucked in an attached nook. You glance away from the wall of photos just in time to catch Miller stepping into his bunker pants, still over his jeans, and pulling the suspenders over his shoulders.
Shameless, you watch the whole thing while having a revelation. Yeah, now you get why firefighters are in every clichĂŠ fantasy ever. If Miller climbed into your window wearing that gear, youâd one hundred percent say something ridiculous like, âHere to put out my fire, officer?â
Next comes the heavy coat, and you can already see the sweat forming along his hairline as he zips and buttons everything up.
âWait here for me. Thereâs coffee, waterâŚâ he gestures vaguely around the room, clearly in a rush. âBathroom, running water, all that. Wonât be long.â
Before you can say anything else, he grabs his helmet and gloves and jogs down the stairs, pulling the Nomex hood over his head as he goes.
Moments later, the siren roars through the station, and as it fades into the night, it becomes nothing more than a ghostly hum at the back of your mind.
You sit on the couch, staring at the white wall with your hands tucked between your thighs. A firefighter. The chief.
Have you accidentally wandered into one of those steamy books you secretly read before bed? Or are you still sitting on the toilet in that grimy bar bathroom, hallucinating on espresso martinis?
The TVâs on. The news is covering a convenience store fire, result of an electrical short. Flames rage against the dark Austin sky, the interior swallowed by orange heat, yellow police tape keeping the crowd away. Thankfully, the store was empty when it caught fire.
Firefighters are en route, the reporter says, visibly relieved, and you curl onto your side on the couch, hands folded beneath your cheek, watching the broadcast.
You blink a little slower this time, and then everything goes dark.
âWere you trying to flash your panties to everyone in here? Damn short skirt.â
Thatâs the first thing you hear when you come to, groggy, as something is gently draped over your legs. You crack one eye open to find Miller carefully placing a leather jacket that smells like menâs cologne across your thighs. Only then do you realize just how comfortable youâd been lying there, considering the length of your skirt.
He keeps adjusting the jacket until everythingâs covered. Thereâs no judgment in it. No irritation that you passed out like that. Just care, obvious in the way he pulls and tugs at the edges without ever letting his fingers brush your skin. And that, somehow, disorients you more than if heâd called you a name or scolded you outright.
âYouâre back,â you mumble.
He shoots you a sidelong glance. His cheeks are smudged with soot and ash, his hair sweaty and tousled. The jacketâs gone, his suspenders hanging loose by his hips.
âYeah. Didnât die.â
âThank God,â you murmur, eyes falling shut again. âWhat a waste that wouldâve been.â
He clicks his tongue, exasperated.
You hear footsteps moving away, and peek through one eye to see him heading toward one of the adjoining rooms, tugging off his soaked black T-shirt in the process. The sight of his broad back makes your mouth go dry, especially with the reminder of what that body does for a living. All that strength. All that control.
Before the thought can spiral, other firefighters filter into the room, looking just as worn out as Miller.
âYou the chiefâs new girl?â one of them asks in a low voice, clearly trying not to be heard by said chief. He looks suspiciously like Bradley Bradshaw from Top Gun.
âNo. He doesnât want me.â
That earns you a burst of chaos. Whistles and chuckles like a group of teenage boys, not grown men who just came back from a fire call. Someone at the back yells, âI do!â and you ignore it, because you donât kiss babies. Not when thereâs a fire chief with a back like that about to drive you home.
You sit up on the couch, keeping Millerâs jacket across your lap, and glance at the coffee carafe theyâre passing around.
âCan I have some?â you ask, motioning toward it.
They scramble like itâs a competition: whoâll pour, whoâll carry it over, whoâll get that sweet little âthank youâ you sing out.
âAlright, thatâs enough,â Miller says as he reappears, now in a fresh T-shirt bearing the Austin Fire Department logo on the chest and a clean face to go with it. His silver hair is damp, slicked back. He points at you. âUp. Letâs go.â
You rush to finish your coffee, burning your tongue in the process, and set the cup down to join him, still holding his jacket.
âI donât know whoâs been in contact with Jesse, but tell him heâs off the rest of the week. Maybe a seven-day suspension will help him get his shit together.â
One of them steps forward. âChiefââ
âThatâs not a request, Lieutenant, thatâs a decision. You boys need to learn the weight of the oath we swore.â
Silence.
Millerâs voice sharpens. âAre we clear?â
âYes, sir.â
Miller places a hand on your shoulder and guides you forward. You walk ahead of him, down the stairs and out to his truck in silence.
âTell me your address again,â he says once youâre both seated, looking worn out.
âYouâre the fire chief.â
âBattalion chief,â he corrects, starting the engine. âAddress.â
You tell him. He starts to drive. You watch him for a few seconds, then say:
âThat was hot. The way you chewed them out? Extremely hot.â
âWhatâs with your thing for older men?â
âI thought youâd never ask!â you exclaim, and Miller rolls his eyes. Still grinning, you explain, âItâs not a thing. I just prefer older guys because they actually know what theyâre doing. Itâs not a crime.â
âHow old are you?â
âYou gonna judge me?â
âSeriously?â Miller stops at a red light even though the streets are deserted. Itâs well past three a.m. âYouâve said all kinds of crap tonight, and this is what youâre worried about being judged for?â
âBecause then you wonât wanna kiss me.â
âIâm not gonna kiss you either way.â
âSee? Thatâs discrimination.â
âYou still drunk?â
You think about it. Your visionâs clear now, no blurs at the edges. That weird rush in your ears is gone. The coffee and the nap did wonders.
âIâm not,â you say, turning in your seat to face him. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, like heâs afraid to admit youâre even in the truck with him. Finally, you say, âTwenty-five.â
âIâm twenty-seven years older than you.â
The light turns green. He drives.
âThat just sounds like motivation to me,â you say, watching the way his thumb tightens around the leather steering wheel for half a second, his only reaction. âAre you married? Dating? Secret vow of celibacy?â
He shakes his head. No to all.
âMy women need to be at least forty. Thatâs my cutoff.â
âTotally fair. Women in their forties are delicious,â you say, giving him a thumbs-up. âBut thereâs always an exception, right?â
âNo. Not with you.â
âAm I ugly?â
âYou know damn well youâre not. Those boys at the station were practically undressing you with their eyes.â
A Cheshire cat smile spreads across your lips.
âYou noticed? Look at you, paying attention,â you tease, but he doesnât respond, and you know your limit. You stop pushing. âOkay. You donât want me. Got it. Iâll stop.â
Silence. His forearms have so many veins. You bounce your leg, restless, and because you canât shut up, you say:
âThanks for taking care of our city, Chief.â
More silence. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, a deep laugh fills the space between you, and the sound makes you melt right into the seat.
âYouâre really somethinâ else, sweetheart.â
âOh God,â you groan. âYouâre gonna make this harder if you call me sweetheart.â
âWhatâs the difference with older men, anyway?â
âFishing for an ego boost?â
âForget I asked.â
âNo, no, wait, sorry,â you say quickly, folding one leg under you and straightening like youâre about to give a TED Talk. Youâre not wasting this moment. âOkay, listen, I lost my virginity in collegeââ
Miller rubs a hand over his face. âToo much information.â
ââand it was awful!â you go on, like he didnât interrupt. âI didnât finish. I told him that, and he said it was normal. So I slept with another guy, and that sucked too. I tried to settle because I thought thatâs just what straight-girl life was.â
Somewhere in the universal rules of womanhood, thereâs probably a clause that says never trauma-dump on a man. No man is different. But now that your mouth is open, it wonât stop.
âSo I went out with this guy.â
âA guy,â he repeats, leaning slightly to check the passenger-side mirror.
âI think he was forty-two at the time. Miller⌠was addictive.â
âI can already imagine why.â
âMhm.â
âBut thatâs not a rule. Not every older guy knows how to do that.â
You resist the urge to ask if heâs talking about himself.
âHavenât had any bad experiences yet.â
The car goes quiet for five more minutes. You recognize the avenue youâre on, which means youâre probably only ten minutes from home.
âHave you always been a battalion chief?â
âI transferred here four years ago. Before that, I was a commander in Seattle.â
âSo thatâs why I didnât know you. When you came, I was still in college,â you say mostly to yourself. âGot it. You like it here?â
âIâm from here. Tommyâs my brother. I left for Seattle twenty years ago.â
âTommy from the bar?!â
âTommy from the bar,â he confirms.
Mouth falling open, you lean back in your seat. Makes sense. His last name is Miller.
âWow. Tommyâs friends with my parents,â you process the information bit by bit. âYouâre Joel.â
âMhm.â
âJoel Miller.â
âYes.â
âI remember he used to talk about you all the time when he came over,â you say, because itâs true. Everything was Joel. Apparently, Joel had been his savior when they were kids. âHe must be happy youâre back⌠and as battalion chief, no less.â
Itâs subtle, but the line between Joelâs brows eases just a little when you say that last part. Other than that, he doesnât react much.
âFamilyâs family,â he replies simply.
You reach your parentsâ street and direct him to the house. Joel parks in front of it, and you notice all the lights are off, the windows dark. The porch light is on, and you know the keyâs tucked inside the lilac flower pot.
You unbuckle your seatbelt as you say,
âThank you so much for the ride. Iâm sorry if I pushed too much and made you uncomfortable.â
You open the door to get out. Joel says,
âClose that door.â
Your hand freezes on the latch. Joelâs pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes down. After a beat, you shut the door and sit back in your seat.
The console light dims.
You give him a moment because he looks like heâs wrestling half a dozen battles inside his own head.
âYou didnât make me uncomfortable,â he says quietly, rubbing his hands against his jeans. âI just donât think Iâm what you really want.â
âI think Iâve made it pretty damn clear youâre exactly my type.â
âSweetheart, no offense, but this feels more like some drunk little adventure youâll laugh about with your girlfriends tomorrow.â
If there was even a drop of alcohol left in your system, that sentence burns it out.
âJust because youâre older?â you ask, trying to keep your voice level. âCome on, Joel. Thatâs crap. Yeah, weâve got a big age gap. But I told you what I like and why I like it.â
âBecause you wanna be the wild friend?â
Your eyes go wide in disbelief. Your cheeks flare with anger, and you decide youâve had enough. You reach for the door again, and the next second, a large hand covers yours and pulls it closed.
âOkay,â you murmur, still staring at his hand on top of yours, frozen. âNow I actually think youâre gonna kidnap me.â
âShit,â he mutters, and heâs way too close. âSorry. If you wanna get out, you can. I just⌠Iâm sorry. Didnât mean to offend you.â
âSo whatâs this whole speech for, then?â you turn your face toward him, and now youâre only inches apart, since he leaned over to shut the door. âYou donât want me. I get it. Iâm a big girl. I donât need a speech.â
Joel looks from you to your house, scanning the darkened façade, probably noting the lights all off. When his eyes return to yours, thereâs a new kind of resolve etched into his face.
âItâs gotta stay secret,â he says. No wiggle room.
Your breath starts coming just a little heavier.
âI wonât tell a soul,â you promise immediately.
âNot even your friends.â
âWhatâs the big fear?â you ask, half-teasing, though thereâs a flicker of real curiosity beneath it. âYou married?â
âHell no. Iâm just the brother of the guy whoâs friends with your dad, and I guarantee he wouldnât want some fifty-year-old sniffing around his little girl.â
âIâm twenty-five,â you repeat, but your voice wavers a bit as Joel leans closer. âItâs not up to my dad who I get involved with.â
âGood for you,â he says, like he couldnât care less, his hand coming up to cradle the side of your neck. âStill damn young.â
âAnd yet, Iâm gonna be your exception.â
He squints, confused, until it clicks.
âOh. Right. The first twenty in my rulebook.â
You lean in, ready to kiss him, but Joel holds you still with his hand at your neck, like heâs waiting for something.
You say what he needs to hear:
âWonât breathe a word about what you do with a younger girl in front of her house.â
âGood. That stays between me and God.â
He pulls you in, and the second your lips meet, youâre gone, falling into that familiar place youâve always adored with older men.
Your brain short-circuits and Joel takes the lead in everything. His hand moves from your neck to the base of your skull, tugging you deeper, and heâs the one to part his lips, the one to tilt just right so your mouths fit like itâs a damn movie scene.
Your fingers slide into his hair, thick strands slipping between them, as you sink further into the seat. He follows, body hovering over yours. The moan that escapes your throat when his tongue brushes the seam of your lips is honest. The one that comes when he finally kisses you with tongue, though just as real, is so drawn out it makes your cheeks burn with the fear he might think youâre faking.
God. That kiss.
âItâs a crime to keep that kind of kiss from me,â you whisper breathless, chest rising and falling in quick bursts. Joel kisses your bottom lip, your jaw, drags his mouth down your neck. The ceiling of the truck blurs as he finds your collarbones, and you arch into him to give him more room. âJoelââ
His tongue meets the skin of your chest and you thank every higher power that your necklineâs just deep enough for him to reach the dip between your breasts. The ache between your thighs tightens, that telltale pulse of being soaked hitting you all at once.
âMore,â you whisper, tugging his hair, just enough to let him know you want another kiss.
He gives it to you. One hand on your waist, the other on your neck, he kisses you again, and this oneâs filthy from the first second, now that you both know exactly how to move together. You press harder into his hands.
âYou canât be this polite,â you murmur. âArenât you gonna slip your hand under my skirt?â
âBoundaries,â he whispers, eyes fluttering shut when you trail kisses along his jaw, rough with beard stubble. Thereâs still a faint trace of sweat and smoke from the earlier call, and you should probably care about that, but you donât.
âNo way youâve got boundaries still holding steady in that brain,â you say. You watch his face up close as you take his hand and guide it down from your waist to your thigh. He opens his eyes at the heat of your skin and keeps them on you as you lead his hand higher, higher⌠right to the hem of your skirt. You pause. Ask: âCan I?â
He swallows hard.
Heâs the one who moves now, sliding his hand beneath your skirt, grabbing a handful of your ass and squeezing like he means it, hard enough to make you giggle. His fingers find the lace of your panties where it sits snug between your cheeks.
âNo oneâs out here,â you murmur. Your hand finds the thick bulge in his jeans, and you raise your brows at him. âCan I make you come?â you ask, giving just the faintest stroke, enough pressure to make the denim feel good, not rough. âPlease. Want me to take my panties off while I touch you?â
Joel clenches his jaw. Moves his hand from your ass to the front of your panties, cupping your pussy fully, probably feeling the heat radiating for him. You spread your legs as much as the car seat allows, giving him space to explore, all while trying to slip your hand inside his jeans toâ
âNo,â he breathes, shaking his head like the effort to say it physically hurts. You pull your hand away instantly at his no, but raise an eyebrow, waiting for more. âNo. Not here. Iâm not about to come in my jeans like a goddamn teenager.â
He pulls his hand back from between your legs, taking a steadying breath.
âNot here,â says again.
God. You could cry.
âOkay,â you say instead because youâre an adult and you respect a no. âAlright. Okay.â
âGo on. Get inside.â
But before you do, you raise a finger.
âCan I suggest something?â
Youâre not quite sure how you manage to convince him, though that alone would be something worth bragging about, but somehow, you do. You talk Joel into parking a little farther down the street, just to be safe, and into sneaking in with you through the back door, because the front oneâs too damn noisy.
Your fingers wrap around his wrist as you guide him through your dark house. A stop in the kitchen for a glass of water. A pause in the living room to make sure no oneâs there. Then the stairs. One step at a time, silent. His brown eyes find yours every time you glance back.
And then Joel Miller is in your bedroom and youâre locking the door.
With his hands on his hips, he looks around: at the old band posters from when you were eighteen and just starting college, at the lilac bedsheets covering your mattress. The curtains are cracked open, letting in the pale glow of the moon and the streetlights outside, casting his silhouette in silver while you kick off your boots and socks and toss them aside.
âProve to me youâre not drunk,â he says low.
âYou want me to do a four?â
He keeps staring. You roll your eyes but do it anyway, lifting your right leg and crossing it over your left thigh, making the shape of a four with your legs.
âYouâre so old,â you mutter, reaching ten in the count. âI already told you Iâm not drunk. You know that perfect little buzz? Thatâs all Iâve got.â
âEnough to not regret this in the morning?â
âRegret you? Only if I were out of my mind.â
The plush carpet cushions your sore feet as you walk toward the bed. He just watches you. Watches as you climb onto the mattress, toss the pillows to the floor, and lie back on your elbows, looking straight at him.
One raised brow. A wordless well?
Joel looks up at the ceiling, like heâs saying a silent prayer, then bends down to remove his boots.
âYou think you can stay quiet?â he asks, stepping closer. He mutters, âRefuse to come in my jeans like a damn teenager, but here I am sneaking into your house like one.â
Joel stands at the foot of your bed. You smile at him, about to unbutton your skirt, but heâs faster. His hands slip under the fabric, tugging your panties down your legs and tossing them aside.
You realize what heâs about to do when he plants one knee on the bed and starts lowering his head between your legs, but you stop him with your foot against his chest.
âYou donât have to,â you say quickly. Youâve been out all night with your friends. Sure, you showered before leaving, but still⌠itâs been hours. âItâs okay, I donât needââ
âI do. I want to,â he murmurs, and the way he brushes your foot aside like it weighs nothing sends a wave of heat down your spine. Now both hands are on your thighs, spreading them gently. âUnless you donât want me to.â
He waits for a sign to stop. You donât give it.
A smile curls his lips.
âYeah. Stay quiet and let me enjoy it.â
The hands that were holding your thighs now push your skirt up, the leather bunching around your hips. Then Joelâs large frame lowers, and his mouth finds you.
Your head falls back as his warm tongue slips between your folds with torturous precision, the sound of his spit mixing with your slick making your stomach tighten, and you have to practically bite down on your bottom lip not to moan. He grabs your hips, pulls you toward his mouth, and my God⌠he really wanted this.
Joel seems to be patiently gathering every drop of your arousal with his tongue, like heâs not in any rush, not until heâs good and ready to start licking your clit, his lips closing around it and sucking, slow and steady.
A moan nearly slips out, but you manage to turn it into a shaky exhale.
Your leg gives a little and you canât hold yourself up on your elbows anymore, so you lie all the way back, legs splayed around his broad shoulders.
You glance to the side, clutching the sheets beneath you as you start, slowly, to ride his face. The mirror on your vanity catches everything, still cluttered with makeup youâd used while getting ready, and now it reflects the way Joelâs body covers yours, one foot still on the floor, your skirt bunched up, the outline of him pressing hard inside his jeans. You lower your right leg and catch a glimpse of his jaw working as he eats you out, desperate, beard slick with your arousal.
âGood?â you ask sweetly, fingers threading through his silver-streaked hair as your eyes meet. He canât answer with words, but his eyes speak volumes, and he definitely grips you harder when you teasingly say: âYou fifty-somethings really know how to eat pussy.â
Joelâs no exception.
You only pull him up because you want to kiss him again and because you obviously want him out of that fire department t-shirt. He peels it off, revealing a broad chest covered in dark hair that radiates strength.
Joel helps you slide your skirt off, and your mouths meet as you wrap your legs around his hips.
âI probably smell like smoke,â he murmurs.
âJust a little. More like sweat. And itâs delicious.â
Another smile. Heâs on a roll.
âYouâre insane,â he mutters, lowering his hips. The friction of his cock, denim-rough, grinding against your clit makes you whimper. He catches it. âFeel good?â
You nod. Joel watches you, then dips his hips again, and the seam of his jeans hits just right. You nearly come undone.
âAgain,â you whisper.
He listens. Joel makes sure not to hurt you with the zipper, but grinds down hard enough, at just the right angle, to knock the air from your lungs. Your clit throbs under the pressure, the rough rub of the denim, and the solid heat of his cock beneath it only makes it more intense.
He licks two fingers and drags them between your legs just to give you a little extra slick, enough to keep it from turning raw, and keeps rocking into you. You hadnât planned to come, but you also canât stop it, not when that feeling keeps rising, rising, untilâ
It bursts, a sweet sharp rush that spreads from between your legs through every inch of you, and Joel keeps it going, those slow, steady grinds that donât overwhelm but wonât let the afterglow slip away either.
You place a hand on the waistband of his jeans, gently stopping him.
âYou need to fuck me. Now.â
âUrgent?â
âMhm. So I can come again.â
âYouâre so damn direct,â he mutters, clearly amused. Then he leans over and says, âArms up.â
You obey. He takes off your top, and itâs you who unhooks your bra, now completely naked. Joel watches as he strips off his jeans and boxers, and when heâs bare, you prop yourself up on your elbows to look.
Thank you, God. Uncut.
You look up at him.
âCome here.â
Joel climbs onto your bed, his knees sinking into the soft lilac sheets, and settles between your thighs. Together, you shift higher up the bed until your head rests on the lone pillow left on the mattress.
âMight come too fast,â he warns, and you believe him by the way his cock is rock hard as he guides it to your entrance.
âI donât mind.â
âSure you donât. Youâre an expert in old men.â
The head of his cock pushes in with a wet sound that shuts your mouth. You bring your fingers down between your legs, starting to touch yourself again in slow, careful circles as Joel eases into you. Heâs gentle, taking his time, eating you up with his eyes, and once heâs fully inside, his body covers yours.
You feel the soft press of his belly against yours, the hair brushing your skin, the weight of him, and itâs enough to stir you back up. Joel draws his hips back and fucks you, and the sound that escapes your mouth is nearly inhuman. Your eyes fly open, meeting Joelâs startled ones, and before either of you can react, his big hand covers your mouth.
âQuiet,â he says, then thrusts again.
You grip his wrist with both hands and wrap your legs around his hips, taking the rough, perfect rhythm of his thrusts â thankfully quiet, the bed doesnât creak â as his thick cock drives deep into you, raw and goddamn delicious. Joel presses his hand firmer against your mouth to muffle you and clenches his jaw. The trimmed hair at his groin drags over your clit with every thrust, his balls slapping against your ass, and your eyes squeeze shut. You donât even have the strength to keep touching yourself.
Joel goes again, once, twice, three times.
âFuck,â Joel breathes, voice rough and shocked, sweat trickling down his neck. You feel a pulse inside you and then a warm rush spreading. âFuck, fuck⌠I was supposed to pull out andââ
âItâs fine. Really,â because it is. Youâve never understood the drama around guys coming too fast. To you, itâs a compliment, as long as youâre properly taken care of. You repeat it, not wanting the afterglow to turn tense for him. âItâs okay.â
You pull him close and press a soft kiss to his lips, your fingers running through the softer strands at the nape of his neck.
âI had a vasectomy,â he confesses suddenly, lips still against yours, like the thought just occurred to him and he needed to reassure you.
âGreat. Iâve got an IUD. Though we probably shouldâve talked about this before, huh?â your hands slide down his sweaty shoulders. âThink you can get hard again?â
âGive me a minute.â
âOkay. Pull out.â
Joel shifts back, kneeling between your legs and wrapping his hand around the base of his cock as he slips out of you. You watch his softening length, slick with both of you, and wonder for a second why the hell you like that image so much. And even more⌠why the feeling of him dripping out of you turns you on.
âSit there,â you tell him, nodding toward the headboard.
Silently, like a good student, he does exactly what you asked, leaning back against the headboard, his cock now fully soft resting on his thigh.
You crawl over on your knees, slipping between his legs to straddle his right thigh that feels solid under you, the thick hair tickling the insides of your thighs.
âHow sensitive are you right now?â you ask, dragging a finger slowly along his cock, the head still tucked away. Joel jerks his hips back, pulling away from the touch. You lift your hand and arch a brow. âOkay. Got it. Very. I could try sucking you hard again.â
âSuck a soft dick?â
âWhy not? I wouldnât mind.â
âAlright. But I wouldnât feel right about it.â
You rest your arms on his shoulders and lean in. âOkay. I respect that.â
Joel gives you that look, the one older people always get when theyâre a little impatient with your ideas or mouth, but you know itâs not about you. He seems like the kind of man who grumbles about everything. Besides, the impatience doesnât match the way his hands move across your back, soft and slow, up and down.
You say, âI was gonna learn pool just so I could play with you tonight.â
âYeah? You learn anything?â
You pull back just enough to lift your hands. With your left, you pretend to grip a cue, and with your right, your thumb and index finger make a ring.
âNow I know how to hold a pool stick.â
Joelâs lips tug into a half-smile.
âYouâre left-handed,â he notes, and you lower your hands again, nodding. His grip returns to your hips. âWell done. You shouldâve come, by the way. I mightâve let you win.â
âYouâd never let me win.â
âIâm softer than I look. And,â he cuts himself off when he notices your smirk, âif you make a joke about my soft dick, I swear Iâll have your name on a wanted poster by tomorrow.â
âI donât get why it bugs you so much. Come on.â
You say that just before leaning in to press your lips to the pulse at his neck. Joel tilts his head slightly, giving you space, and you pepper kisses there, then across his shoulder. You press your chest to his, and his hands grip you tighter.
âBet the single women in this town chase you down,â you murmur, arms around his neck. âAnd⌠the married ones too?â
âNo comment.â
âAustinâs most wanted bachelor.â
âThe divorcĂŠ,â he corrects.
Oh? You pull your mouth away from his neck.
âHow long?â
âFive years.â
âGood. Tombâs been sealed.â
He laughs against your mouth when you kiss him, but soon cups your face to kiss you properly, exactly the way youâre asking, even if youâre not saying a word. His kisses are so addictive, itâs strange to you. Thereâs something about Joel that turns a kiss into full-body contact. He kisses and touches you, strokes your cheek, your back, pays attention to what you need.
And he reads you well, because his hand slips between your legs.
âLift up a little,â he says, and you rise onto your knees, no longer sitting on his thigh. His fingers slide between your folds, gathering the slick there. Joel lets out a low grunt, and you watch the way his cock gives a tiny twitch. âLet me eat you out again.â
Ah. Yes. But actuallyâŚ
âCan I try something else?â you ask.
Thatâs how Joel, with lips slightly parted, ends up watching as you settle back down on his thigh, right over the thickest part, your legs spread wide.
You almost feel shy the first time you grind up against his thigh with his eyes on you. Your whole body shivers, breath catching in your throat, and you steady yourself with your hands on him. Youâre so wet, from yourself and from him, that the movement is easy. Heavenly. The hair on his thigh adds just the right amount of friction on your clit, and it nearly sends you reeling.
âYou like that?â he asks, genuinely curious, and you, dry-mouthed, nod your head. You grind again. Whimper.
âBeen neglecting this pussy, huh?â
You shake your head. Joel touches your body, running his hands along your sides, gripping your waist. The next time you grind down, he helps, his biceps flexing, guiding your rhythm. Forward. Back. The muscle of his thigh tensing under you, his skin slick with your wetness.
He watches you, sees how close you are and how hard youâre biting your lip to keep quiet. Immediately, his thumb presses to your bottom lip, freeing it from your teeth, and he slips it into your mouth. You meet his gaze as you suck it in, hands clutching his arm, hips faltering in the next few rolls.
When you come, Joel lays you back on the bed, spreads your legs, and slides back inside. Heâs not fully hard, but it doesnât matter because he fits, thick and slow, and the way he stretches you prolongs your orgasm so sweetly it nearly breaks you apart.
You feel him stiffening more with each thrust, and as he grows harder, he goes deeper.
âFucking perfect,â he breathes into your ear, biting your neck. âYouâre driving me outta my mind.â
Your smile wavers when, after a few more thrusts, he slips out and lies beside you, then shifts you onto your side and pulls you back against his chest. He drapes an arm over your chest, grips your thigh with the other, lifts it over his hip, and slides into you again. His movements pin you, keeping you from doing anything but taking it when his fingers find your clit again, even oversensitive as it is.
Your whole body shakes.
âJoelââ
âCome on, baby. I know youâve got one more in you.â
You try to jerk your hips away from his fingers as he rubs harder, faster, but thereâs nowhere to go, and Joel doesnât relent. He holds your thigh, keeps you open for him, slowing his thrusts just enough to drag it out. You grab the arm draped over your chest, twist your hips, and itâs almost too much.
Almost.
Because right before it crosses the line, you come. And then you go limp.
âCan I keep going?â he asks. âWant me to pull out?â
âNo. Just⌠stay off my clit.â
The kiss he presses to your damp temple sounds like an âokay.â
You reach back, fingers slipping into the sweat-damp strands of his hair, and feel his ragged breaths against your neck as he keeps moving inside you. His next orgasm takes longer, but somehow it still only lasts a few seconds, and leaves you leaking all over again.
When itâs over, your ears are ringing, his body is hot behind you, and your heart wonât stop pounding.
Goddamn.
Thanks for your service, Chief.
You canât stop staring at the top-left corner of the peach pie.
Itâs not broken, exactly. The crust in that corner just sank a little lower than the rest, and itâs driving you nuts. You rotate the pie dish so the pristine edge faces front, hiding the flaw.
âPie?â you offer with a smile as sweet as the amarena syrup your mom made, holding out a slice to the father and two sons approaching your stand.
Today is the neighborhood charity fair where your parents live. It happens every six months in the town square and has been around for maybe a decade. The goal is to raise funds for local nonprofits. Neighbors donate pies, sandwiches, roasted meats, inflatable toys for the kids. The whole thing.
When you were fifteen and a painfully annoying teenager, you thought wearing an apron and handing out pie was humiliating. Ugh, mom. Charity is soooo lame.
Ten years later, here you are: uneasy, borderline neurotic because the crust of the pie you helped bake has a deformed corner.
The father and sons leave with their slices in little styrofoam containers and colorful forks. You glance around.
Your mom is helping out at one of the roast beef sandwich booths since someone called in sick last night. Your dadâs at his own stand, trying to sell fishing gear, though bamboo hooks donât exactly draw crowds.
Farther down the square, you spot the fire truck. Your heart does a little skip, part nerves, part excitement. The fire departmentâs on site for safety, at least for the first couple hours. But you havenât seen Joel yet.
âAny pie here sweeter than you?â
You turn toward the front of your booth and find the fireman who looks like a knockoff Bradley Bradshaw. Heâs wearing an Austin Fire Department tee, aviator shades, and a grin thatâs way too⌠youthful.
Still, you smile back.
âDefinitely. Iâm pretty sure the pie also knows the number for the AFDâs misconduct hotline.â
âKidding.â
âAnd because of that joke,â you say, grabbing three styrofoam containers, âyouâre buying three slices to support the cause.â
He doesnât even protest. Quietly, he waits as you cut the slices and hands you the money. You thank him with a sugar-sweet smile and a blown kiss.
Once he walks away, your eyes sweep the square again. Where thereâs smoke, thereâs fire.
And thereâs the fire, staring at you from across the plaza, arms crossed under the shade of a tree. Joelâs in the same black Austin Fire Department tee, and you see his eyes dip briefly to read the name stitched onto your pink apron.
The Sweetest Bite.
That barely-there smile curves his lips.
You grab a styrofoam plate, cut a generous slice of pie, and pull five bucks from the back pocket of your denim shorts, dropping the bill into the flower-covered tip jar your mom set up.
Then you toss the apron onto the counter and ask your dad to watch the stand for a few minutes.
Joel doesnât even see you approaching. Heâs surrounded by three women asking what itâs like âto be responsible for a city like Austin.â
âSuch a hard-working man,â you say, slipping in between two of them to hold out the pie. âFresh, warm cream pie. A little thank-you for protecting the city.â
Joel looks from the pie to you. Your smile grows even sweeter. When he takes it, the women scatter.
âYou got an endless supply of short shorts like that?â he asks, not even pretending to start eating. His eyes stay on the pie. âCream pie.â
âMy favorite,â you reply. And, about the shorts: âItâs summer in Texas.â
âRight,â he says to both.
You glance around. No oneâs near. One of the other firefighters is tossing rings at a carnival booth.
âYou should come to the barbecue at my place after the fair. Tommyâs going and I can ask him to invite you.â
âIâm not goingâ to your house.â
âWhy not?â
âIâm not buddying up to your parents. Youâre out of your mind?â
âI donât want you to be friends with them. I want you to sneak up to my room when no oneâs looking.â
âNo,â he says flatly, like the conversationâs over.
A few hours later, that victorious little grin creeps across your lips as you see Tommy walk through the back gate of your house.
And right beside him, carrying a cooler of beer, is Joel Miller.
#joel miller#joel miller x you#joel miller x reader#joel miller fanfiction#the last of us#pedro pascal#pedro pascal x reader#pedro pascal x you
3K notes
¡
View notes
Text
Lamp table, Tripod table - Late Regency mahogany pedestal table. Single drawer, with figured front and fitted with brass knobs, opening to reveal a writing slope and sliding ink tray. Raised on a turned pedestal and umbrella pod base formed of four reeded legs capped with brass castors.
#Antique Pedestal Writing Table#antique tables#tripod tables#antique tripod tables#antique occasional tables#antique tilt top tables#tilt top tables#antique lamp tables#lamp table#antique etageres#Thakeham Furniture#Horsham#UK#Antique Tables#Lamp table#Tripod table
0 notes
Text
christmas mirror sex with vi ŕ¨ŕ§

summary: you look a little too good in your christmas pajamas, and vi simply can't control herself.
content: answer to this req!! dom!vi, sub!r, desperate!vi, strap (r!rec), makeout and through-the-chonies rubbing just for a little bit, dirty talk i guueeesssss, rough!vi, mean!vi, vi's thrusts are like a fucking JACKHAMMER like paralyzingly fast (is paralyzingly a word (did i just make that up (call me an entrepreneur))).
notes: this is pretty filthy guys. merry christmas my kittens eat well. OOH OOH ALSO GUYS. yk when cait and vi fucked and cait was like "while you were gone... i- i saw someone..." and vi is like "i dont fucking care."? yeah thats what the line later on thats in red is giving. muehehehehehhehe. and i double posted too iâm such an active queen. read soft christmas morning with vi thru the link ;)
(wc 1.2k)
your head slammed against the plush of the mattress as vi roughly dropped you on the bed.Â
just twenty minutes prior, you were just standing in the kitchen brewing two cups of tea, one for yourself and one for her. the two of you were in your own version of matching christmas pajamas: the pants of the set were sitting low on viâs hips, her toned v-line visible with a taunting red happy trail peeking out from under a plain wifebeater. the long-sleeved, buttoned shirt of the set loosely draped across your body, the top few buttons undone and showing your upper chest, and the lower hem just barely covering the fat of your ass, clad in a pair of white, cheeky underwear covered in little red and pink hearts.Â
vi was splayed across the couch with her phone dangling in her hand, her eyes unabashedly trained on your ass while you moved in the kitchen. just looking at your bare legs in the warm light of the kitchen was enough to get her going, and once you turned around with a mug of tea in each hand and approached her, nipples erect and poking through the fabric of your pajama shirt, she knew the two of you were going end up in the bedroom in the next fifteen minutes.Â
âhere, baby,â you said, carefully setting her mug of jasmine tea on the side table next to the couch. âlet it cool a bitâit's really hot.âÂ
âis it, now?â vi mockingly mumbled, not caring how obvious her intentions were, her gaze lowered to your thighs. âcâmere,â she says, hooking one hand around your waist and the other under your ass cheek to pull you onto her lap.Â
âjesus, i have piping hot tea in my hand, violet.â you rush to carefully place your mug of tea next to where you set hers on the wood side table. your voice wavers a bit when viâs lips suction to your neck, suckling on the skin and leaving wet patches as her mouth moves.Â
her kisses trail up the side of your neck to your jaw, disconnecting right when she gets to the corner of your mouth. your breath has already begun shuddering from her sudden teasing, and you pant into her parted lips.Â
âbut, i just made... but the tea,â you squeak out, trying to stop her from devouring you, because you know once she starts, you wonât be able to say anything but yes and please.Â
her head tilts to the side, lips brushing over yours. with a scoff, she says, âi could not care any fucking less about the tea,â and then pulls you by the back of your neck to close the small gap between you, immediately pulling moans from your chest.
a particularly sharp thrust from vi snaps you back to the present. you lay on your back on the edge of the bed, your head dangling off and facing a full-length mirror in front of you. Â
through your upside-down view, you watch her lean figure snap forward at a diabolical pace through the mirror. her wifebeater was discarded, her bared chest making your clit throb as she pistoned into you with a long, red strap. with every jolt of her hips, her small breasts bounced and hypnotized you in the mirrorâs reflection.Â
if your vision wasn't getting blurry from the stimulation and the blood rushing to your head from your inverted position, youâd try telling her how salivating she looked. you give up the thought of even trying because the idea of forming words dissolves just as quickly as it came about, pleas and begs the only coherent words your brain can make.Â
vi had the stamina of a seasoned race horse, so while you had already cum twice, she was steadily building up to her first orgasm and had barely broken a sweat. out on the couch, she had unbuttoned all of your shirtâs buttons except for two at the bottom to expose your boobs, her mouth latching onto them immediately while her fingers rubbed your swollen clit. your shirt was still unbuttoned, and your free boobs bounced with every one of viâs devilish thrusts.Â
âjesus christ- can't believe i hadnât fucked you like this yet,â she ekes out. âi love this pussy so damn.. so damn much...â her voice trails off with a long grunt.Â
that familiar, hot swirling begins in your body, your legs softly twitching on either side of viâs hips. Â
âvi, please- please donât stop,â you whisper, unable to remember how to speak at a louder volume.Â
âoh, what was that?â she evilly taunts. âdid you say something? iâm gonna need you to speak up, mama.âÂ
you whine in frustration. in between cries, you mumble, âplease, donât stop, please. keep going, keep going, donât move.â tears fall from your eyes and up your face from gravity being flipped, salted drops disappearing into your hairline and down your hair that hung to the floor.Â
your strained begging just eggs her on more, her thrusts somehow picking up speed even more and further bruising your already abused cervix. Â
you wonder how at such a relentless pace, she has remained nearly silent, but before the thought can develop, youâre cumming hard around her cock, your mouth open in a silent scream. vi grins at your helplessness and continues fucking you through it, only slowing down once you begin nonsensically babbling. your dumbification pushes her to her climax, too, and she fucks the both of you through your orgasms.Â
after a minute or so, once the two of you have come down from your highs, she grabs a fistful of your hair at the crown of your head to lift your ragdoll-like head up to face her.Â
âyou think you got another one for me in that hollow skull?â she teases, slightly shaking your head side-to-side by her grip on your hair. her smile is evident in her eyes, knowing you couldnât give her another one even if you wanted to.Â
all you can do is pant words out incoherently and shake your head, your eyes nearly crossed from the sheer strength of your orgasm. Â
pulling your body fully onto the bed by your thighs, she sets your head onto a pillow, pulling out and removing the strap from her hips to get a warm washcloth to clean up the mess youâve made in between your legs. Â
she walks around the bed to where your head rests on a pillow and smooths the hair stuck to your forehead with sweat out of your face. Â
âyou did good for me, baby, iâm proud of you. i know i was rough.â leaning down, she drops a kiss on the tip of your nose, chuckling at how you still havenât seemed to get a grasp on your surroundings. âmerry christmas, mama.âÂ
merry quismos chat. make sure to wish all your favorite skibids a merry gyattmas (iâm gonna throw up in my mouth iâm cringing)
#mystellenia đ°â§â#elle answers đ°â§â#vi x#violet arcane#vi#arcane vi#arcane violet#dom vi#vi arcane#vi arcane smut#vi smut#vi x you#vi x reader#vi arcane x reader#violet smut#smut vi#arcane#arcane smut#arcane vi x reader#arcane vi x you#arcane vi x y/n#vi x y/n#merry quismos#merry chrysler
4K notes
¡
View notes
Text
Dad!Rafe and late night wake ups...



The room was pitch black, except for the faint glow of the street lights outside Tannyhill, which gently seeped into the room through the blinds. Y/n stirred first, groaning softly as the sound of the babyâs cries filtered through the monitor into the silence of their bedroom.
âSheâs upâÂ
Y/n mumbled, burying her face into her pillow. Motherhood had been the most beautiful thing sheâd ever experienced, every moment with their baby, every tiny coo, soft sigh, or fleeting smile, felt like magic, a love so profound it stole her breath. It filled her with a joy so overwhelming, that sometimes she found herself crying tears of gratitude just holding her. But as much as her heart was full, her body was weary. The late nights, the constant feeds, the endless cycle of changing, soothing, and rocking had started to wear her down in a way she hadnât anticipated. She was more tired than sheâd ever been in her life. Y/n let out a long sigh, pressing her cheek against the cool silk fabric of the pillow, she wanted to move- knew she had to- but the weight of tiredness anchored her to the mattress. Rafe shifted beside her, the bed creaking under his weight.Â
âIâve got itâÂ
He said, his voice thick with sleep. He blinked a few times, scrubbing a hand down his face, letting out a low groan, before rolling out of bed. Y/n murmured, already half-asleep again.
âYou sure?âÂ
âYeah, go back to sleep.â
Rafe padded down the hall, his steps heavy with exhaustion. He stepped into the nursery, the soft glow of the nightlight casting a comforting warmth over the room. The babyâs whimpers echoed through the stillness, her little body squirming restlessly in her crib. Rafe moved quickly, used to the familiar route to the kitchen and back to the nursery. He set the bottle, which heâd just prepared, down on the changing table and gently reached for her, her cries growing louder as he picked her up into his arms.Â
âHey baby girl,â he whispered, his voice soft and soothing.Â
âWhatâs the matter, hmm?â
She quieted a little at the warmth of her father's embrace but still whined slightly, looking up at him with wide eyes. Rafe smiled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the top of her head,Â
âLetâs get you fed.âÂ
He murmured, cradling her against his bare chest as he walked over to the changing table. He moved to offer her the bottle, but as he tilted it toward her lips, she turned her head away stubbornly, a small whimper escaping her. Rafe blinked in surprise, holding the bottle closer and gently coaxing her to take it.Â
âCome on, sweet girl,â he murmured, his fingers brushing lightly over her cheek, âitâll make you feel better.â She turned her head again, the tiny furrow in her brow deepening as she whimpered louder. Rafeâs shoulders sagged slightly at her refusal.Â
âStubborn, just like your mommy huh?âÂ
He chuckled softly, shaking his head, though the faintest feeling of worry lingered in his chest as she let out another whine. He tried again, holding the bottle gently in her direction, but she pushed away again, her tiny hands flailing in frustration as her whines grew louder. Rafe shushed the baby, his voice calming, but there was a hint of concern underneath. He shifted her carefully in his arms, making sure she was comfortable before bringing the bottle closer once more.Â
âItâs okay, sweetheart.â
This time, she slowly turned her head, her tiny mouth opening slightly, her little lips grazing the bottleâs nipple. And just when it seemed like she might latch on, she pulled back again, her eyes wide and her face scrunching in discomfort. Rafe sighed, a soft laugh escaping him despite the situation.Â
âYouâre going to make me work for it, huh?â he muttered under his breath.Â
Y/n slowly stirred awake at the soft sound of their babyâs whimpers getting louder. Her eyes fluttered open just enough to see Rafe now standing by their bed, his brow furrowed as he held the bottle, trying yet again to get their daughter to take it. She turned her head away from it, and Rafe sighed softly, clearly at a loss, gently rocking her in his arms. With a tired movements, Rafe placed the bottle on the nightstand; his eyes flicking to Y/n, who was laying peacefully under the covers. She'd shifted slightly, sensing the change in the air. He hated to wake her, but he knew sheâd be the one who could calm her down.
âY/n,â he whispered, gently shaking her shoulder. âShe wonât take the bottleâ
Y/n mumbled something incoherent but shifted, her eyes barely opening as she adjusted herself, pushing herself up the bed, back against the headboard. With a soft groan, she pulled the strap of her vest down, goosebumps rising on her now exposed skin, and moved their baby into position, lining her up to her breast. Instantly, the baby latched onto her, and Y/n hummed softly, her eyes half-closed as she rested her head against the headboard. Rafe stayed close, his hand gently brushing her thigh as he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. His lips lingered for a moment, the tenderness in his touch speaking more than words could.
âYou okay?â he asked, his voice low, his gaze soft with concern.
âMmm,â Y/n hummed, barely lifting her head, âtired.âÂ
She murmured, her eyelids fluttering closed again, exhaustion seeping into her voice. Rafe smiled faintly, his heart swelling as he watched her.Â
âI know, baby,â he whispered. âIâm sorry I woke you.â
She tilted her head slightly, her voice barely audible. âWhy are you sorry?â
Rafe chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. âDidnât want to disturb you.â
âYouâre never disturbing meâÂ
Y/n smiled faintly, her hand gently resting on their babyâs back, her voice full of warmth. Settling down beside her on the bed, Rafe propped himself on one elbow, his eyes fixed on their daughter. She was feeding peacefully now, her tiny hand resting against Y/nâs chest, her eyelids fluttering closed in contentment. The room was quiet except for the faint sounds of suckling, Y/n's soft breaths and the rhythmic hum of the monitor on the bedside table. Rafe reached out cautiously, brushing the back of his finger against their babyâs cheek. His eyes then flickered up and watched Y/n, eyes glistening in the dim light. He could see how tired she was- the faint lines under her eyes, the way her shoulders slumped ever so slightly- but even now, she glowed with an effortless grace that took his breath away.
âHey,â he said quietly sitting up, drawing her attention back to him. She turned her head slightly, her eyes heavy with sleep but full of love.
âHmm?â she hummed. He pressed another kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering as he murmured,Â
âIâll take her after, yeah? You need rest.â
Y/nâs lips quirked up in a soft smile, and she nodded faintly, her head resting against his shoulder. Letting her eyes flutter closed for a moment. Rafe watched her, his gaze flicking down to the baby, who was still latched on, her tiny body snug in Y/nâs arms.Â
âWhat if she spits up?âÂ
Y/n asked softly, not even opening her eyes, her voice tinged with a playful worry. Rafe grinned, shaking his head.Â
âI think I can handle a little spit, baby. Sheâs got nothing on your pregnancy nausea.âÂ
He teased, leaning his cheek against her hair. Y/n opened one eye, giving him a sleepy, knowing look.Â
âYou say that now, but youâve never taken a proper hit.â She murmured with a small smirk. âCâmon,â Rafe replied, tilting his head back dramatically.Â
âSheâs like nine pounds. Whatâs the worst she can do?â
As if on cue, their baby let out the tiniest hiccup, followed by a soft gurgle. Both Y/n and Rafe froze for a moment, staring at her, before a wet, unmistakable sound followed- a small spit-up dribbling down her chin. Y/n bit back a laugh, her shoulders shaking as she glanced up at Rafe,Â
âYou were saying?âÂ
She quipped, her voice thick with amusement. Rafe sighed, shaking his head with a wry smile as he grabbed the burp cloth already draped over his shoulder.Â
âAlright... guess I earned that one.âÂ
He dabbed gently at their daughterâs chin, his expression softening as he looked down at her, âstill the cutest, though.â
Y/n chuckled softly, leaning her head back against his shoulder again. âWelcome to parenthood,â she murmured, her voice laced with affection. Rafe grinned, placing one more kiss on the top of his daughter's head, her soft hair brushing against his lips as he said quietly.
 âWouldnât trade it for anything.â
Dad!Rafe has my heart
#Baby Cameron Series#dad!rafe cameron#dad rafe#mom!reader#obx#obx x reader#outer banks#rafe cameron#rafe cameron imagine#rafe cameron outer banks#rafe cameron x female reader#rafe cameron x kook!reader#rafe cameron x reader#kook!reader#rafe obx#rafe x reader#obx rafe cameron#rafe outer banks#rafe cameron fanfiction#rafe cameron x you#rafe cameron x fem!reader#rafe cameron x y/n#rafe cameron and reader#rafe cameron and y/n#rafe cameron and you#dad!rafe au#rafe cameron fluff#obx season 4#obx fanfiction#obx fic
3K notes
¡
View notes
Text
SLYTHERINSLUT0âS KINKTOBER
fuckfest. the slytherins â groupsome / drunk sex.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.
summary: malfoy manor is a great place for drinks, laughs, andâŚ. orgys?
warnings: 18+ MDNI, SMUTTTTTT, porn with negative 100 plot, literally just sex and mentions of alcohol, group of uni students that love to consensually gangbang when they have the chance (sorry iâm cackling at that), pansy and reader kiss a few times, multiple orgasms from some of the boys, anal sex, fingering, oral.
Habits are simple, predictable things, slipping into your life without much thought. Some are reckless, some harmless. And some, wellâsome come with the taste of someone else's lips.
You're not sure when kissing Pansy Parkinson became one of them. What started as a drunken dare, a little more fun than you'd planned for, has now undoubtedly turned into something elseâsomething almost close to ritual. With every night that stretches long, every round of drinks that comes too fast, it's inevitable that your lips will find hers at one point or another, like clockwork.
And a habit is just a habit, but this oneâthis one you never feel like breaking.
"You ever try body shots with tequila?" Pansy whispers, breath warm against your lips as her smirk hooks you, the same way it always does.
"Plenty of times." You grin back, your mouth barely brushing hers. "What, you want me to lay back for you, Parkinson? Shirt pulled downâor off?"
Theo whistles, and Pansy giggles. They've seen this before, watched it unfold in countless variations, yet it's still equally as entertaining every single time.
"Pull it down, take it off, whatever gets me there faster." She's already moving, grabbing lime and salt with hands that are too steady for how much you've all been drinking. "You know I won't complain either way."
You pour her a shot, liquid gold catching the dim light in the room. You feel the weight of every inebriated gaze on youâDraco, Blaise, Enzo, Mattheo, Theoâall of them watching, same way they always do when you and Pansy put on a show.
You blink and sheâs back in front of you, lime and salt in hand. You feel bold, drunk on the moment as you hook your fingers under the hem of your shirt, leaning into her kiss only to break it as you pull the fabric over your head. The boys shift around youâmore whistlesâand Pansy's hands find your face, greedy and gentle all at once, barely giving you a moment to toss the shirt aside before she nudges you onto your back.
"You're so fucking hot," she purrs, slinking between you and the boys who are seated around the table, grinning. "Tilt your head, that's itâhereâ"
She nestles the cool shot glass between your tits while sprinkling the salt on your neckâthen, the lime slice is between your teeth before you can even register it, and now you're staring straight at Blaiseâhis dark eyes roving over you like a feast, lips parted just enough that you can imagine the feel of them pressed against your own.
Your thighs tense, heat pooling low in your stomach.
"The boys wanted a show," Pansy whispers as she pulls off her own shirt. "They'll get one."
You hum in agreement and she works like she's done this a hundred timesâ shot glass disappearing between her lips, tossing the tequila back before she sets it asideâ warm tongue dragging along the line of salt on your skin, moving up to suck juice from the lime between your lips. She meets your eyes for what feels like a split second before the lime is yanked free and her mouth is on yours, lips tasting like tequila and salt and something wildâ
You close your eyes against the flood of sensationâthe alcohol, the heat, the spinning of the roomâand kiss her back with equal fervour. Her lips crush yours, sloppy and wild, a thousand impulses spinning through your mind and inevitably, you're too weak to fight them, tugging her closer as a result.
Pansy huffs, fingers curling into your hair as she crawls on top of youâstraddling your hips on top of the table as one hand slips down to your chest. The boys are muttering things that you can't hear as the kiss is frantic now, teeth grazing, tongues tangled, the taste of lime and tequila lingering in each exhale.
"Gods, Pansy," you gasp into her mouth, hands sliding down her waist, digging into the fabric of her skirt. "You're insatiable."
She pulls back just enough to smirk, breathless, her dark eyes glinting. "I could say the same about you, babe."
You feel the tension in her greedy fingers as they curl against your scalp, her weight pressing you down into the table, and suddenlyâall the teasing, all the playing at flirting feels too far awayâyou need her closer, need to take control back, need to feel her beneath you instead of towering over youâ
"Pansâ" your hands find her hips, gripping tight as you push against her, trying to flip her onto her backâbut in your haste, you misjudge the edge of the table and before you can stop her she's tumbling forward, off the side, straight into Draco's lap. "Ohâshitâ"
Everyone gasps, the room pausing for a moment and you're vaguely aware of Blaise's hands clutching your waist, pulling you steady into his lap as you teeter off the table too, the tequila making your head spin. Pansy is sprawled over Draco on the floor, skirt hitched high enough to give the rest of you a perfect view of her assâto which everyone in the room is admiring. Shamelessly.
It's a spectacleâand the boys have always loved a fucking spectacle.
"Merlin's sakeâ" Draco grunts as Pansy slumps over him, straddling his waist. You catch the way his hands grip her thighs, fingers flexing like they don't quite know what to do with themselves. "Always the bloody dramatics with you two.â
"I'm not even sorry." Pansy grins, unrepentant as ever as she leans into Draco's neck, teasing like nothing's even happened, like she's perfectly content to remain there, straddling his lap. "You make a good seat."
Draco scoffs, and Theo snickers from across the table.
"You're a menace." The words from Draco's lips sound a lot like praise, and something about the way his eyes flutter shut when Pansy's tongue finds the sensitive skin at his throat makes your mouth go dry. "You're alright, though?"
"Fine," she murmurs, though her tone suggests she's thinking of anything but her well-being. "Totally fine." Her fingers brush over his chest, tracing the buttons of his shirt. "Are...are you fine?"
"I'mâ" his voice catches when her fingers undo the first button. "I'm fine."
"You are," she agrees, voice a little hoarse, as she undoes the second, then the third. "Very, very fine."
Draco's face flushes, and there's a sheepish edge to his smile as his handsâalmost without thoughtâbegin to slide higher, fingers trailing under the hem of her skirt, pulling it just a little further up her hips. Her eyes flutter closed for just a second as he settles over the curve of her ass, and there's a spark, a shiver of something between themâ
Your gaze flicks to Blaise, feeling his presence at your backâsolid, grounding, the warmth of his chest pressed against you as you lean into him. You don't have to see him to know he's watching, though you find the confirmation anyways, his dark eyes tracing every movement, every shift between the two heated Slytherins on the floor.
When you glance back, you see the boys are all watching, tooâTheo, Enzo, Mattheoâall glued to the sight, silent in their anticipation.
Pansy grinds down, and Draco's head tips back, eyes closed, hands clinging to her hips, her ass, anywhere he can findâ
"They don't waste any time, do they?" Blaise murmurs, words a tickle at your pulse, the sound of his voice pulling you back into your own body, your own skin.
You shiver as his fingers trail lightly up your ribs, teasing the edge of your black lace braâyou tilt your head and you catch Theo's gaze sliding over you, flicking back and forth between Pansy's legs and the way Blaise's hands have begun their slow exploration along your sides. You grin as you meet Enzo's eyes next, his lip pulled between his teeth, fingers tracing the rim of his cupâ
"You could take notes, Zabini," you murmur, the words catching in your throat as his lips graze your shoulderâso close, too close.
"Me? Take notes?" He chuckles, pressing a kiss to the spot just below your ear. "I've already got it down to a science, baby.â
"Yeah?" You hum, lost in the feel of his mouth on your skin, the way his fingers are edging dangerously close to your breasts. You can feel Mattheo's gaze, burning into you from across the table, but you don't dare look, you'd crack if you did. "You sure about that?"
"Quiz me if you'd like." As if to prove his point, he pushes past the fabric of your bra, long fingers finding a nipple, and your hips twitch of their own accord, a gasp leaving your lips. "I'll pass any test you give me."
"Cocky." There's a slight edge to your voice as you roll your hips, meeting his heat with your ownâjust to distract him, of course. "You're gonna' make the others jealous."
"They'll have their fun," his finger toys with the clasp of your bra, now. You feel him undo it. "I want you first."
"Oh," you gasp at the sensation of cool air against bare skin as he yanks it off your arms, exposing your tits to everyone at the table. "Cocky and greedy."
"You'd expect nothing less, baby." He practically growls.
You choke on a moan. "Blaise-"
"That's my name," he's groping, his fingers pinching your nipples just hard enough to make you squeak. "I know you're real familiar with it."
Pansy's moans, soft and breathy, fill the space as Draco works her out of her skirt, mouth moving between her thighs. You clenchâseeing themâher fingers in his hair, her gasps growing louder and more franticâyour pulse quickensâ
"Jealous?" Blaise's taunts, having caught you staring.
You shake your head, butâMerlin, how could you not be? You'd give just about anything to relieve the heat between your thighs. To feel the heat of all the eyes watching you right now against your skin. Mattheo, Theo, Enzoâ
"Not jealous." Even you can hear how breathless you sound. "Just impatient."
"Patience is a virtue," Blaise says, all mock-virtuousness, squeezing your tits again, as if to punish you for being impatient. "One I'm happy to rewardâ"
Mattheo is the first to snap, shoving the half-empty bottle of alcohol aside and standing up, chair scraping across the floor. Theo considers doing the same, you can tell, eyes still glued to your half-naked body as he drains his cup in one gulp. Your eyes flick to Enzo, who's merely staring, his lip still being bitten to death between his teeth.
Merlin help you.
Mattheo strolls around the tableâeyes roaming as he moves, stopping just behind where you sit on Blaise's lap, breath warm on the back of your neck as he murmurs in your earâ
"I've been patient." You think it's to Blaise. "Where's my reward."
Blaise snorts, and then Theo stands up.
"We've been patient." He's looking at Blaise, lips just starting to grin. "Real, real patient."
Enzo laughs as he rises, tooâall three of them forming a loose semi-circle around you and Blaise. You can almost taste the testosteroneâhot and eager and hungryâas their eyes rake over you.
Blaise tugs you closer, his hands sliding down to your hips. "I'm feeling outnumbered."
"You're outnumbered," Theo agrees, smirk growing as his fingers wrap around your wrist, tugging you off Blaise's lap and to your feet. "You're also outvoted. You think we're going to just sit around and watch?"
"Not a chance in hell," Mattheo growls as he moves behind you, calloused hand running up your thigh.
Blaise grunts from where he's still seated, watching you with molten eyes, "you lot are animals, you know that?"
You almost laugh at that, considering he had your bra off in minutes.
"We're justâeager." Theo whispers, leaning in just enough to breathe against your neck, kissing a path up your jaw while Mattheo's hands work at undoing your skirt. You're so turned on you're not sure how you're not dripping down your thighs. "I wanted to be inside you three fucking hours ago."
You whimper at his words, the thick air of the room suddenly too much as Mattheo's hands push your skirt down your legs.
"Three hours is generous." Enzo's moving now, but he isn't looking at youâhis eyes are locked on Pansy as Draco slams into herâthe two of them locked in a trance. "My head's been filled with filth since this afternoon."
"Filth?" Blaise cocks an eyebrow. "Is that what you're calling it now?"
"Filth," Mattheo husks, and his hand comes up to wrap around your throatâlips pressed to your ear. "All I've been able to think about for the past week."
Your hips twitch at the pressure against your throatâand you moan louder than Pansy. "Godsâif one of you doesn't fuck me in the next minuteâ"
"Told you," Blaise chuckles, watching Mattheo's hand around your throat like a hawk. "Animal."
"Then what?" Mattheo ignores himâfingers pressing against your pulse just a little harder as he pulls you flush against him, teeth finding your ear, and you feel Theo's fingers trail down your front, teasing your slit. "What're you gonna do?"
"Fuck," you mutter, breathless, hips jerking toward the touch. "I'll dieâ"
"Oh, that's not good." Enzo's looking now, circling around to stand on your free side, his gaze traveling from your face, down your body, to where Theo's fingers are centimetres from pushing into your soaked cunt. "Is it our responsibility to prevent that?"
"Probably. It's only the right thing to do." Mattheo's cooes against your neck. "Can't have you dying on us, now can we?"
"Mm. Not the only," Theo murmurs, pressing his lips to yours as he pushes a finger inside you. "I can think of a dozen things to do right now."
"A dozen?" Blaise scoffs. You're starting to hate the sound of his teasing fucking tone. "Only a dozen?"
You can't even replyâany words you possess are swallowed by another moan as a second, then a third, of Theo's fingers push deep into you. Even his fingers are long, you think. You forgot just how bigâ
"Merlin, Theoâfuckâ"
"That's the idea," he grins against your lipsâyou moan again when his fingers curl deep.
"You like that?" Mattheos hands are all over youâyour tits, your ass, the press of his chest against your bare backâand you think that you need to see his face, need to see his eyes. "You need more?"
"Yes." You're not sure if you're speaking to Mattheo, or Theo, or Enzo or Blaise, or all of them. "Yes, pleaseâpleaseâ"
"Oh good," Blaise muses. "She's polite."
"Of course she is," Theo groans as your cunt clenches around his digitsâyour slick sounds filling the space between you, mingling with the sound of skin smacking from a few feet away. "So good for us."
"Mm," Mattheo adds, teeth scraping over your shoulder, squeezing your ass to make you gasp. "Very."
"A real angel," Enzo purrs, still circling like a fucking shark, eyes flitting over to Pansy and Draco again as her moans grow louder, more insistent. "Especially when she's begging."
It's all too muchâTheo's fingers pumping deep, his thumb swirling your clit, the sounds of Draco and Pansy and the feel of hands and lips and intoxicated eyes everywhereâ
Your head falls back against Mattheoâs shoulder. "Oh, pleaseâfuckâpleaseâ"
"What're you begging for, Bellissima?" Theo murmurs, drawing your eyes back to his. "Wanna use your words?"
You gasp as his fingers move faster, deeper, as if he's trying to pull the words out of your throat. "Needâ"
Blaise snickers. "Yes?"
"Need to cumâ" you cry out, hysterical as Mattheo pinches your nipples, groans against your neck. "Need to beâfuckedâ"
"And I'm the greedy one." That's Blaise again, insufferable as ever.
"We like greedy," Theo grins against your mouth, fingers crooking, and your knees buckle. "Right, boys?"
"We do," Mattheo growls.
"We like it a lot," Enzo agrees, his eyes finally meeting yours. "We love it."
"Then what're you waiting for," you gasp, unable to take much more of the heat building, twisting, every point of contact sending a new wave of need through your body. "Give it to meâ"
"Give you what?" It's Blaise againâGod, he's driving you fucking insane tonight. "You gotta be more specific, babygirl."
"Giveâohhâ" your orgasm is right there. Right. Fucking. There. "Give me your fucking dick, Zabiniâfuckâyou called firstâ"
"Oh I did, didn't I?" Blaise still hasn't moved from his seat, but you can see the way his trousers are straining. "Guess it's my lucky day."
Theo lets loose a groan, and you can feel his hips jerking in rhythm with his fingers. "Thank Merlin for small favours."
"Lucky for all of us, really." The corner of Blaise's mouth twitches, almost with the suggestion of a smile. "Don't you think, Enzo?"
Before you can even comprehend Enzo's response, Theo curls his fingers just right, thumb rubbing your clit just right, Mattheo groping your chest and kissing your neck just fucking rightâand then you're thereâclimax charging you, release spilling all over Theo's fingersâ
"Oh, fuckâyesyesyesâ"
You cry out and shudder forward, only being held up by Theo and Mattheos hands, and you're barely back on earth before you feel Blaise's fingers under your thighsâurging you back and laying you out across the table as if you're a fucking feast for himâ
"Patience," Blaise grins down at you, hands finding your thighs, squeezing hard enough to drag you back to reality and realize he's got his trousers undone. "Is really such a virtue."
"Right," you mumble, still breathless as you look up at him. "Too bad I'm fresh out."
Blaise chuckles at that. "I can tell."
Fuck thisâ
"Blaiseâif you don't fuck me right nowâ" you push up from the table, urging him back into the chair he was sitting in. "I will let everyone else fuck me first and make goddamn sure you watch."
There's a flicker of surprise in Blaise's eyes as he slumps back in the chairâMattheo snorts behind you and for a second you wonder if you may have just gone too farâ
"Not a chance," he smiles, his words coming out in a growl that's all heat and lust and something just a little dangerous. "We'll have none of that."
And then, he's on his feet again. But this time, when he touches you, itâs firm and fast and not at all gentle. He directs you around the table before bending you over it, and you hear someoneâTheo, you think?âgroan like they're in pain, the sound swallowed by a desperate moan that you know for certain is Pansy's.
Your eyes flutter when you hear itâyou just don't know where to lookâ
"No, look up. Up." Blaise's hand is in your hair, forcing you to look up from the table, and you realize where the sound came from. "I want you to watch."
Your head's spinning in a way you're sure is not entirely from the alcohol, and it only intensifies when your eyes focus on the scene just across the roomâDraco and Pansy sprawled on the couch, now, Pansy riding him while stroking Enzo's insistent dick, his glossed eyes glued to yours, watching, just watchingâ
Blaise's hand is still in your hair. "That's it. Watch."
Enzo smiles at you, cheeky and fucking taunting before Pansy tightens her grip while jerking him off and his head tips backâ
"Gonna' be good for me," Blaise murmurs against your backâhis tip pressing against your dripping entrance. "Gonna' take it all for me?"
"Yes," you gasp, catching a glimpse of Mattheo and Theo just off to the side of you, sharing a smoke. "Fuck yesâ"
"That's it, baby. Just relax," he cooes, and then he's pushing into you. "Relax and enjoy itâ"
There's a sting as he stretches you, and keeps stretching you until he's bottoming out far fucking deeper than you'd rememberedâthere's a moan from you that gets tangled between your teeth, a gasp from infront you, a moan from someone else, andâgods, if Blaise doesn't start movingâ
"Blaiseâoh, fuckâ"
Blaise gives a low moan as your walls flutter around him, a swear under his breath that's punctuated with a hard squeeze of your hip. "GoodâgodâMerlinâ"
He pulls out just enough to make you cry out, shamelessâand it melds with Pansy's from across the room.
"Shh," Mattheo steps infront of you, blocking your view of Pansy and Draco and Enzo. "Let Blaise feel youâ"
âand suddenly, Mattheo's hand is on your jaw, forcing your head back, coaxing your eyes to his. His other hand disappears, down past his belt, and you moan againâwet walls squeezing Blaise as he slowly starts to rock into you.
"I wanna' fuck your throat," Mattheo murmurs, so close you can feel his breath on your lips. "Badly."
"So needy," your words are a breathless moan, but Mattheo doesn't seem to mindâhe just grins as he unbuttons his trousers. "Can't even watch for five minutes withoutâ"
"I know, I can't," he interrupts, and his hand's back at your jaw, gripping hard. "You've got me too fucking hard."
You're about to reply with another smartass comment, but Theo saddles up next to his fellow Slytherin and before you can blink his hand is on the back of your head, tangling in your hair, angling your lips toward Mattheo's now-exposed cockâ
"Don't worry about the smart mouth," Theo leans down close to you, every intention of cutting off your reply. "We have other uses for it."
You'd probably roll your eyes at the phrase if it wasn't for Mattheo's dick pushing past your teeth and hitting the back of your throat so quick you gagâ eyes squeezed shut as Blaise bottoms out, again and again.
"That's one of them." he adds with a smirk, watching you choke on his best friends dick.
You can't even think. Every thought that enters your head is immediately replaced with another moan, another sensation, another need, anotherâ
"Draco! Fuck!" You hear Pansy cry out from the couch.
"Keep going, Pans," Enzo grunts, his voice sounding choked. "Just like that."
"She taking you good, Blaise?" The question comes out in a moan of his ownâyou think it's Dracoâand you wonder idly who's doing what over there now. "Tight as I remember?"
âTight and wet andâfuckâ" Blaise's voice has taken on a new level of strangled, desperate, need that's almost too raw to hear it, andâ "she'sâgood. She's good."
"That's it," Draco grunts again, like he's pleased to hear it. "She's anâoh, yes, Pansy, fuckâ"
The noise from the couch is too muchâyou're not able to think past the fullnessâthe desperate, overwhelming heat that's consumed you, and that's when you feel a pair of lips at your earâ
"Does it feel good?" Theo's words are barely louder than a whisper, your gagging sounds almost drowning them out. He grabs your hand, slowly bringing it to his crotch. "Having us like this?"
Your fingers are clumsy, shaky as they wrap around him and try to push his trousers downâit's hard to see past the water in your eyes but once you do you're rewarded with a gasp and a low swear under his breath that sounds so damn good you want to hear it a million times more.
"Mmmfff." You moan around Mattheo as Blaise's fingers find your clit, coaxing you towards a high you're not sure you can handleâ
"That's it," Theo whispers, moving your hand just the way he likes it. His fingers are tangled with yours while his free hand finds your hair again, shoving you closer to Mattheo. "Fuck. That's it."
Everything is spinning and whirling in the best way, the best possible way, and you know you're there, so close, but it's so hard to think, so hard to do anythingâwhenâ
"You gonna' cum for us, baby?" Another pair of lips at your ear, not Theo's voice, but Blaise'sâragged with his deep thrusts. "Gonna' cum for us good and hard?"
Your response, which most likely would have been something along the lines of: "yes" or "please" or "gods yes fucking please," is completely smothered by Mattheoâhis hand at the back of your head alongside Theo's, fingers tangled in your hair, cockhead slamming the back of your throat over and over and overâ
"Then do it," Blaise knows your answer anyways. His fingers rub quicker, his hips piston faster. "Now."
And it's in this moment where you lose yourself completelyâthe world narrows down to your body, every sensation flooding through you, and the fucking soundsâPansy's moans, Theo's groans, Blaise's pants, Mattheo's swearing, Draco's whimpers and Enzo's fucking gruntingâwhere you can't do a goddamn thing to stop it, not that you even wanted to. You do what Blaise told you, cumming so hard you see stars behind your eyes, and for one blissful, everlasting secondâyou feel nothing but pure unadulterated pleasure, until it all comes rushing back with force.
You think you hear Theo say "good girl" as your body tensesâshaking, trembling, clenching around Blaise so hard his pace falters and his hips slow and his thrusts turn erraticâand then you feel itâthe result of his pent up passion as he slows to to an absolute standstillâspilling his cum deep into your cunt while he shudders against you, gasping out a curse that might have been your name.
"Oh, fuck," he groans, slowlyâcarefullyâand you feel him pull out of you just as Mattheo moans, hands tightening in your hair, spilling his own release down your throat. "Oh, sweet Merlin."
It takes a moment for reality to filter back in, and you try to catch your breath in a way that's probably not very dignified. You're not quite sure what to do with yourselfâand quite frankly, you're not given the chance to figure it out as Mattheo pulls out too and Theo slips up behind youâ
"Come here, Bella," he murmurs, his lips at your ear againâhe sounds like he's trying to catch his breath, too. Through the fog you remember that at one point you were jerking him offâand you feel the confirmation of his need still hard against your ass as he pulls you up against him. "There we go. Easy now."
You try to speakâyou're not sure what you would even sayâbut your voice is as shaky as the rest of you, and all that comes out is a soft moan.
"She'sâ" Blaise's still trying to steady his breath as he slumps into his prior chair, trousers still half undone. "âshe's on mars."
"I've a feeling we all are," Theo mutters, holding you against him. His fingers skim down your stomach, almost like he's mapping out the aftershocks. "Some more than others."
You can almost feel the way his eyes flick across the room with thatânoting the way Draco's splayed out on the couch next to Pansy who's now riding Enzo and jerking a still half-hard Mattheoâ
"Oh, relax," Draco scoffs, eyes shut and head tipped toward the ceiling. "I'll rejoin the land of the living in a moment."
"Sure, Draco," Mattheo huffs, and you can practically hear the roll of his eyes from here. "We'll be here when you do."
"Mmâfuck, Pansyâ"
Enzo's moan cuts through their bantering and it's at that moment where Theo finally decides he's waited long enoughâhe grabs your wrist and pulls you away from the table, directing you to the couch where he slumps down and drags you into his lap, your thighs on either side of hisâthrobbing, leaking cock pressing against your cum soaked cunt.
You moan, and Pansy moans beside you.
"I think," Theo murmurs into your neck, his words as thick and as needy as his hardness, "I could get used to this."
"S'that right?" You try to keep your words cool, to be as unaffected as you'd like, butâthere's no hiding the way your breath hitches, the way you move your hips just the slightest in his lap. "I can't say the same about your size."
"Take me at your own pace." He husks, a smirk you're sure is attached to the words. "I'm halfway there already from that handjob."
You'd laugh at that if you weren't still so breathless and shaky from before, so instead the laugh comes out as a needy moan as you slide forward, shifting in his lap until you feel his tip brush up against your already sensitive clitâ
"Gods," you breathe out the word, bracing your hands on his shoulders. "Such a gentleman."
"Always," he replies, completely sincere just before his hands grab your hips and in one quick motionâhe's guiding you down onto him. "Always for you."
You'd replyâyou'd probably even say something that might be sweet, if you could, if the rest of the world didn't fade into a sort of pleasurable blankness as you sink downâdown until the moan that leaves you is so unbridled that it should have been embarrassing if the whole fucking lot of you weren't so far passed embarrassmentâbecause just the head of him is so thick and you're suddenly thankful Blaise stretched you out so deliciously because otherwise you think it'd be too much, too quick andâfuck.
You're still sensitive, and you know he can tellâ
"Oh, she's tight." Theo's voice is low in your ear, his lips tracing your jawline. "Too much?"
"Never," you gasp out, offering some weak shake of your head. "Never too much."
He grins against your pulse, teeth scraping across your skinâ
"Good."
He punctuates the word by sinking you down a bit more, the stretch of his shaft drawing out a moan from deep in your chestâ
"And when it is?"
âhe pauses, tightening his grip on your hips to pull you up slightly before sliding you back downâ
"Tell me."
You're only half able to form the thought at this pointâthe other half of you is so preoccupied with the feeling of his hands holding you, his lips against your skin, his voice in your earâyou nod, anyway, and there's another moan from somewhere in the roomâEnzo again, and it's more of a whimper than anything else.
"Thatâs it, Pansy, so goodâ"
"Feels good, Enzy?" Her response comes through gasps. "You like it like that?"
Blaise answers for them bothâyou catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye, slumped back in his chair with a new drink in hand. "Keep that up and he'll never leave that couch again."
"He's not the only one." Theo's words vibrate through you, and while you're not sure if it's the meaning behind them or the way they're sent deep into your neck with a hint of teeth, either way you have to swallow a moan before you can respond.
"Is that so?" You reply, doing your goddamn best to keep your voice steady as Theo's hips roll up into you again.
"It is so," he murmurs. "You think you can handle staying on this couch all summer?"
Summer. Hardly a week away. You think of the days and nights you're going to spend in this manor, in this roomâin this room on this fucking couchâ
His hands slip to your ass, guiding you up and down. "You think you could last another hour?"
"Mmm," you manage to get the sound out before he rolls up again, the perfect angle to hit that sensitive spot somewhere deep inside you and that's all you have to say before all other higher level thinking goes out the window. "Oh, Theo, youâre fucking deepâ"
"I know," he replies, his breath harsh against your throat, his words lost between the moans you can't seem to keep from slipping out. "I know, bella, I knowâ"
Cocky bastard.
You lean down, pulling his head against your chest with hands in his hair and he follows. You'd think he'd try to pull back, just to say something witty with a smirk on his faceâbut instead he groans, his tongue flicking over your nipple and that's when you hear Mattheo grunt from somewhere beside youâ
"Fuck me." His voice comes out as a gasp that he's struggling to keep from sounding strangled. Pansy's still lazily stroking him, multitasking while riding Enzo. "I'm so fucking hard again."
If you could manage a proper response, you might have said that was the ideaâyou'd probably have said something very clever about how you wouldn't mind letting him down your throat again.
You can still think, but the thought is a struggle, so all you manage is a breathlessâ
"Mattââ
"Mmm?" Hardly a humâand for some reason it's so much more attractive than it probably should be. "Yes, princess?"
The way you shiver at the pet name is something you're going to have to examine at some pointânot now, though, because if you have to put any more thought into any single thing you're going to explode.
"Youâyouâ"
Theo interrupts before you can finish the sentence. "Fuck her, Riddle."
If Mattheo's surprise at Theo's apparent order is evident, it's masked by the moan he lets out as Pansy does something that must have felt especially good.
"I, fuckâI already fucked her throat, Nott. If you'd finish gatekeeping herâ"
"She's got another hole, Riddle," Theo replies, with that self-assured tone that's too goddamn cocky to be legal and you wonder absently if he knows what it does to you as he gives a sharp, deliberate roll of his hips. "She can handle it, can't you, bella?"
You try to moan out an answerâyou're sure there's a sound thereâanything to let him know that yes, you not only can but that you're not sure there's anything you'd rather doâyet the words die before you can get them out as Mattheo is already movingârough hands finding your ass, spreading your cheeks as he leans down to press a kiss to the dimples on your lower back. The sensation catches you off guard but you don't have time to think about that before you feel something wetâhis saliva, you thinkâslick between your cheeks and then his fingers are there, rubbing and massaging against your tight holeâ
And then, he's pressing a finger into you. "Ohâ"
You're not even sure if your gasp is a reaction to Theo's movement or Mattheo'sâall you know is that for a moment it all just combines into a whirlwind that seems to just drown all the oxygen out of your lungs completelyâ
"I know," Theo's breath is as laboured and rough as yoursâthe rumble of his words vibrating against your chest, your collarbone. "God, I knowâ"
"Jesus," another moan, strangled and needy, and it's not from you or Theo or even Enzoâit's from Mattheo. "Oh, this ass is tightâ"
That's not something you're going to be able to get overâhearing that coming from him. "Oh fuck, Mattâ"
"Mmm?" There's a smile in his voiceâand you'd see it on his face if you were facing him, if all of his focus weren't so decidedly somewhere else. "You want me to fuck this perfect ass, donât you?"
With that he pushes another finger into you while Theo wraps his arms around your waist to hold you steady to his chest. His hips cant up into you, and you swear you're on fireâMattheo chuckles.
The sensation is so much youâre crying out again, his teasing turning infuriating. "You're a goddamnâahâbastardâ"
"Maybe so," he replies, with a smack to one of your asscheeks. "But a bastard that's going toâ"
He stretches you out, pumping and scissoring slow, just as deliberate as everything else he doesâand the moan you let out is enough to drown out whatever witty, dirty words you're sure he was going to follow that withâ
"Fuckâfuck," the word is all you can manage as you brace your hands against Theo's shoulders, nails digging into his skinâ "oh, fuckâ"
Mattheo groans against your back and you swear it's intentional because he has to know what all of this is doing to youâwhat it's doing to Theo by association.
"Fuck, she likes thatâ" Theo's gasp hits you like a punch in the gut. "I should haveâ"
It's like there's a whole sentence, some snarky, perfectly articulate statement he had in mind, but whatever words it was comprised of are lost in the way he shiversâin the way his hips jerk more erratically due to how tight you're squeezing himâdue to the way your walls spasm as Mattheos fingers keep pumping, stretchingâ
"Should have what?" It's a miracle you manage the words, and you're feeling particularly proud about the way it's more of a challenge than a question, even if it's half mumbled.
Whatever it is, he can't say it, and whatever retort you had for that is interrupted by the sound of a gruntâEnzo. His face is screwed up in pleasure, his breath is coming in ragged, uneven pants and there's a look in his eyes that looks distinctly broken.
Mattheo groans and pulls his fingers free. You feel the tip of his dick replacing them. "Canât fucking wait any longer."
Enzo's eyes meet yours, then, and they're absolutely wrecked. "I'm going toâ"
Pansy grins and moans out her reply. "Yeah, you are."
There's little else you can sayânot that you'd have the words even if you weren't as lost as the rest of them. You just have a flash of thought about how you've never seen Enzo look like that before, open and vulnerable and completely at the mercy of whatever bliss he's riding right now, but then there's another feral moan escaping your lipsâ
"Oh, Gods, Mattheo!â"
Theo groans into your neck as Mattheo presses in and it takes merely two seconds before your eyes roll backâthe way he sinks into your ass is a level of fullness you weren't sure you could reach, and even that's a thought that's too complex for you to process as your head drops, forehead pressed to Theo's shoulder.
There's a hiss from his lips, another muttered curse that you half catch as he bites at your collarbone, his hands moving back to squeeze your hipsâ
"Fuck, yes," Mattheo's voice sounds more strained than you've ever heard it. "Jesus Christ, that feels goodâ"
"Don't think the saviour would like you taking his name in vain," Blaise says, from somewhere in the room. "Not in this scenario at least."
No, he wouldn't, you think, but there's no way you've got the wherewithal to speak nowâany focus you had is lost now that you're impaled on not one, but two cocks and it's like your entire nervous system's been turned over to the sensation of being so fucking full, so surroundedâof not being able to do anything except try to remember how to breathe.
It's not working very well.
"Mm," Theo's moans, fucking up into you nice and slow. "I think he'd understand."
"I think that's a rather blasphemous stance to take," Blaise replies. "Then again, given the scenario, perhaps that's not the most shocking revelation I've had of you all today."
"Blaise," Enzo groans, his tone somewhere between pleading and demanding. "Are you really going to try and have a conversation right now?"
"Just making an observation," Blaise says casually, and you swear that part of your brain that still functions can see the smirk plastered on his face in your mind. "Merely commenting about the depravity on display."
"Your commentary is duly noted," Mattheo breathes, his words punctuated by a low moan as he smacks your ass. "And dismissed."
There's a grumble of agreement through the room at that, including one from you, but all your words come out as a gaspâ
Theo loves you like this. You can tell he's fucking savouring it. "That's it, bella. You don't need to do more than that."
Part of you wants to protest the statement, wants to argue that you have it in you to contribute more, but no matter how hard you tryâand you do tryâall that comes out around the moans is an inarticulate mess.
"Yeah, that's it," Mattheo groans, and you'd be embarrassed about how utterly ruined by all of this you are if you could focus on anything other than the two dicks pumping you in rhythm. "Just let me and Nott take care of yourâmmfâtight fuckin' holes."
There's a whine that worms its way out of your chest and through your lips at that, and you don't know what it's begging forâjust that it's begging, and all your mind cares about right now is that Theo and Mattheo understand that.
Theo's response is a moan of his own and a hand finding the back of your neck, his fingers wrapping around your hair. "So fucking wetâtightâ"
"And taking us so goddamn well," Mattheo adds as one of his hands grab your ass again, spreading you open. "Fucking hellâI'm so closeâ"
"So are we," Theo responds for you, and the words are harsh and desperate and make your whole body shudder. "Soâahâso are weâ"
The realization that he can feel how close you are makes you clenchâwalls fluttering around the both of them as they fuck you temperedâitâs only a few more seconds before you're seeing stars so bright you hardly register the sounds of Enzo and Pansy reaching their climaxes next to youâthe feeling of Pansy crashing her lips to yours as she cums and moans into your mouth propelling you further over the edge, into your own ecstasyâ
And if there were a way to describe it, you're sure you'd think of it later, but right now it's all just fire and lightningâpleasure wracking your body until you're certain you're not going to come down for hours. You can't really hear anythingâjust the rushing of your own blood pulsing in your earsâbut as it starts to subside, your vision returns and the sound followsâyour lips still pressed to Pansy's as Theo moans underneath you, spilling his release into your cunt while Mattheo is still thrusting slowâ
"Oh my god," you gasp as you break the kiss, all of you breathing so hard you're sure it's going to take a while for the oxygen levels in the room to return to normal. "Oh my god, oh my godâ"
"Mmm," is about all Theo seems to be capable of currently.
Itâs a rare thing for him to be rendered speechlessâand you'd grin at the knowledge if it weren't for Mattheo still thrusting deep in your assâleaving Theo trapped inside your cunt, his length still twitching and throbbing within your walls.
"Still with us, princess?" Mattheo's chuckle is somewhat strangled, and the hand he's not gripping your ass with finds your hair again, tugging your head back to expose your neck. "You aren't done already, are you?"
If he expectsâor even wantsâan actual answer to that question, he's going to be very disappointed because all you can manage is a strangled half-moan that's a decent representation to how you're feeling right nowâ
"I think she's lost her words," Mattheo murmursâand then it's like he realizes something. "Maybe we should test that."
"Whaâ"
It's not a proper word, but you don't even have the chance to fully get it out before his hand in your hair is pulling your head back even further and you realize that at some point Pansy had gotten off of Enzo and he's now kneeling on the couch in front of you with his cum covered cock aimed directly at your lipsâ
"Clean me off."
It's another demand you'd probably be inclined to respond to with a snarky reply if you were at all confident in your ability to do anything other than open your mouth and let him press the tip to your tongueâ
"Good girl," Enzo says, and the praise is delivered with that voice that sounds like it came from some dark place inside him, the one that's only ever really appeared in the privacy of these walls and with this group of people. "Taste your bestfriend on me, hm? You like that?"
It's a question you'd probably deny a few months ago, but that's not the case anymoreâand you know that the answer would be obvious regardless, given how you've just proven you're more than happy to share them with her. So instead you give an answer that's a better representation of how you feel without having to admit it, and it only comes out as a hum of agreement as you taste her.
"I know you do," Enzo replies, and he's got that same smirk he usually has when he's got the upper hand, the one that usually makes you feel at least mildly put outânow it just makes you shiver. "Little slut."
Theo, who's still trapped underneath you and still half hard inside you, moans at that.
"Mmmm-" yes, you want to say, but you can't and the noise you manage instead, around the taste of your bestfriend on your tongue, comes out more like a whimper that has absolutely no business doing as much to you as it does.
Mattheo growls with a deep thrust into your ass, and the whimper turns into a whine as Pansy moves closer to you.
"You look pretty," she murmurs, her mouth pressed against your hair as Enzo pushes his dick deeper down your throat. "You look so fucking pretty right now."
There's something about that, the way her voice caresses the words, that makes something warm rush through you, wrapping around the bliss and squeezing until you're almost overwhelmed again.
Your eyes water, as you gag. "Mmghâ"
"Mhmm," her lips move down your cheek, next to your mouth where Enzo is still slowly fucking it, and it's like the action is deliberateâa way to show, without saying it outright, just how wrecked you are. "And you say I'm insatiable."
That's fair, because right now you're fairly certain you've never wanted something to continue forever quite as much as you do this, regardless of the fact that you know it's not practical.
"Ah, fuckâ" Mattheo grunts with a messy thrust. âOh, fuckâ"
He's not the most loquacious person in the world but even he is having a hard time getting words outâand you're not much better, with the only sounds you're capable of making completely indecipherable even for you, let alone the rest of the room.
"Fuckâ" with a final curse, he spills his release deep into your ass and Theo groans from under you as you clench as a result. "âyes."
The feeling of him twitching and spilling inside you makes you moan around Enzo, and he groans tooâone hand tangled in your hair and the other tangled in Pansy's to keep her closeâ
"Mm, yes," Enzo moans now, jerking his hips toward your face. "Feels goodâso goodââ
âand close is an apt word because they're all close to you, all surrounding youâeven Blaise and Draco's exhausted presence are felt in the background.
"I'm pretty sure she's gonna be sore for days after this," Pansy says, the words whispered. "I hope you all knowâ"
"I think she'll be thanking us for that," Theo replies before anyone else can. "In a day or two at least."
Pansy giggles, a sound that's soft and familiar and comforting even in this current state of being surrounded and overwhelmed, and her cheek brushes up against yours as the two of you peer up at Enzoâ
"You're probably right." She whispers.
Enzo grunts, pulling his cock from your mouth and offering it to Pansy who greedily takes it in her ownâ
"Selfless generosity," Theo murmurs from directly under your chin having just witnessed that, and his tone suggests he's got his signature smirk in place. "How noble of us."
"Very selfless," Blaise says, from somewhere in the room againâand even as you're lost in pleasure you know that statement borders on sarcastic. "Absolutely nothing in it for any of you."
"Nothing at all," Theo replies, the same amount of sarcasm in his voice as Blaise's. "It's all self-sacrifice."
"Mm," Mattheo murmurs against your shoulder, before he pushes himself off you and finally pulls out. "Not even a shred of personal satisfaction."
You're still collapsed on top of Theo, as boneless as a human being can be, and a quiet whine escapes your lips at the loss before you can stop it.
"See," Theo murmurs, a hand coming up to run through your hair. "We've practically made a martyr of ourselves here. Selflessness at its finest."
"So humble," Blaise says, and you swear you hear the eyeroll that's almost certainly included. "I think this calls for medals and a parade through the streets. A holiday, maybe. Selfless Slytherin Day."
Enzo huffsâyou can tell he's considering telling Blaise to shut up before he ruins his orgasm but as Pansy drags her tongue along the underside of his shaft, he seems to forget about itâ
"Absolutely," Mattheo saysâand if you had the strength to lift your head and look at him there'd likely be a smug smirk on his face. "I'd volunteer to be parade marshall, personally."
Enzo pulls out of Pansy's mouth with a gaspâand it's all but two seconds before he sprays sticky jets of cum all over your face and hers, his head tipping back as he doesâ
"I'm sure you would," Blaise says dryly, his voice coming from closer now than before. "I'm sure you would also volunteer to accept the medal, and then offer a speech about how humble you are."
"Mhm,â Mattheo sounds unbothered. You know he is. "Obviously. Someone's got to make sure the truth is told."
Pansy giggles against your face, then, before her tongue drags across your cheek, collecting some of Enzo's release. "Well, it's no good if you all are going to keep doing a poor job at the selflessness part.â
"I think we're well past the point of pretending we're doing this selflessly," Theo mutters dryly as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "If we were capable of that level of pretending, we'd all be in Ravenclaw."
Your hands find Pansy's hair, holding her close to you as you lick Enzo's cum off her chin and jaw.
"You're welcome to switch houses if you'd like," Blaise responds dryly. "Some of us were sorted to our houses for reasons other than self-satisfactionâ"
"Oh, shove it, Zabini," Enzo says as his breath comes back. "You're acting like a bloody dad."
Blaise opens his mouth, presumably to offer some kind of sharp retort, but before they have a chance, Pansy cuts in. "If you're all quite finished with the pissing contestââ
"We've been done for minutes," Theo replies quickly, hand now stroking through your hair. "Now we're just bickering for the sake of it, as usual."
"Which means we've got at least another half an hour to go," Blaise muttersâbefore apparently giving up all attempt at sounding cool and collected and flopping down on the nearest open section of sofa.
"At least," Mattheo agrees. "Maybe an hour, if we're lucky."
Next to you, Enzo grunts out a laugh as he starts trying to fix himself back to modesty. "Lucky is one word for itâ"
"I think lucky is an excellent term for the current state of things," Theo replies, his voice all smooth and silky and perfectly at fucking ease. "In fact, I'd be hard pressed to think of anything more lucky than getting to experience this."
Everyone is in agreement, at that.
#SLYTHERINSLUT0âS KINKTOBERđť#harry potter#draco malfoy smut#mattheo riddle smut#mattheo riddle#mattheoriddle x reader#mattheoriddle#theodorenott x reader#theodorenottsmut#theodore nott x reader#theodore nott x you#theodore nottsmut#theo nott x reader#theo nott smut#theodore nott smut#theodorenott#dracomalfoy#lorenzoberkshiresmut#lorenzo berkshire smut#lorenzo berkshire#blaisezabinismut#blaise zabini x reader#blaise zabini smut#mattheo riddle x reader#pansy parkinson#pansy parkinson smut#slytherin boys#slytherin boys x reader#slytherinboys#theodore nott
6K notes
¡
View notes
Text
âł THE SOUND OF HEARTBREAK â S.R

to nav đ to s.r mlist
spencer reid x soft!bimbo!reader
in which, for all your love, you just canât compare to the most beautiful girl in the world
wc: 13.5k (woah)
warnings: post maeve arc (so spoilers for 8Ă10 - 8Ă12), heavy angst, but so so much love and fluff before it! im picturing this taking place between s8 and s9 lol. also some of the bau arenât like. super nice in this one soz :/
a/n: donât stress abt the ending too much bc im already planning a part two (tbh a whole saga around these two icl). also yeah if u canât tell, i donât really like maeve im so sorry. i donât think i do her any injustice here but this is like. me fixing stuff. sorta. kinda. not really. mostly just painfully. :,) also omg reblogs?! best part of my day fr
âJust as one day we will be separated by my death or yours. I know this must seem like a heaping up of obscurities to you. I can't say it in a more orderly and comprehensible way. I love you wildly, insanely, infinitely.â -Boris Pasternak, Doctor Zhivago.
The living room is quiet.
Spencerâs apartment is always quiet, peaceful, warm. How could it not be, surrounded by books youâd never heard of, shelves that reach the ceiling and lined edge-to-edge with copies of novels that are older than you, in languages you canât begin to comprehend?
The chess table is still set up, mid-game, from where Spencer had been teaching you how to play the other day. Heâd gotten a call from his boss that he had to come in, and Spencer had stared at the board for no more than a moment before saying you could continue once he was back, then he pressed a kiss to the space between your eyebrowsâyour glabella, as he had once mentionedâbefore rushing out the door.
It still feels strange, being in his apartment without him here. But he had called you from the jet on his way back, and asked if youâd be home when he got back. He sounded so sleepy, so sweet, you couldnât help the murmur of assent from spilling from your lips.
Heâd only given you a key a week ago, and you were beyond shocked when he had pressed it into your hand, the metal digging into your palm. This, between you, was still so new, so young. But heâd assured you that he trusted you, that he always wanted you around, that you having a key to his home wasnât a matter of if, only when, and heâd prefer not to waste unnecessary time.
Itâs late when the door opens.
Spencer is quiet when he enters, expecting to see you either curled up on his couch or lying asleep in his bed, but instead, youâre standing at one of his bookshelves, your hand outstretched to reach at the higher shelves.
Heâs a bit surprised. The top three shelves on that unit are all foreign novels, ones heâs collected from his youth. Latin, German, Russian, Korean, and even a couple of thick Spanish texts that he used mostly to continue learning the language.
Youâre silent, not even turning your head to acknowledge his presence, and Spencer wonders if youâve even heard the door at all.
âAngel?â he prompts, causing your head to whip to the left so quickly heâs momentarily concerned youâve given yourself whiplash. You tear yourself away from the shelf immediately, like the surface itself has burned you, and Spencer pauses. âYou okay? You didnât even hear me come in.â
You just nod, jerkily, tucking your lower lip between your teeth. âI was just looking,â you tilt your head to the shelf and shrug, pulling the sleeves of your sweater over your hands and crossing your arms over your chest. âSorry.â
Spencer shakes his head, hanging up his messenger bag and coat on the hook by the door. âYou donât need to apologize,â he says, coming closer to you. âAre you curious about them? You can borrow a few, if you want.â He sits on the couch carefully, like he knows thereâs something youâre not saying.
You shake your head with a sigh, glancing back over at his stacks of novels. âThatâs alright, Spence.â He pats the cushion next to him and you seat yourself slowly onto the cool leather, crossing your legs under yourself. âI donât know. I donât think Iâd get it anyway.â
Spencer furrows his brows. âIâm sure you would, actually. Thereâs no reason why you couldnât, unless it was a language you donât understand. But even then,â he tilts his head, scooching ever so slightly closer to you. âI can still read them to you.â
You sigh softly. âI know, honey. You know I love it when you read to me,â the corner of your lips twitch up, and it makes a slow grin pull at Spencerâs cheeks. âHow was the case, anyway?â
Spencer shrugs. âFine, as usual. It doesnât matter anymore, anyway.â He rests his arm over the back of the couch, a silent beckon for you to curl into him like usual. âIâm home now. With you,â he presses the softest of kisses to your hairline. âAre you tired?â
You shake your head, âNot really. Iâm sure you are, though. Want me to start the kettle?â Spencer canât help the nodâhe is tired. Exhausted, even. You just smile at him before standing and padding to the kitchen and turning on the stove, setting the metal kettle on the burner.
He hears the cabinets open and the sound of ceramic being placed on granite. Youâre quietly humming to yourself, and Spencer closes his eyes. Itâs nice, so domestic in a way he hadnât expected. You peek your head around the corner for a moment. âLavender or peppermint?â
He smiles, all warm and soft. âLavender, please.â
You nod once, your head hiding behind the wall again before you peek back out. âMaybe take a shower, honey. Itâll help you relax, yâknow,â you grin, teasing at him. âThe teaâll be done when you are.â
Spencerâs eyes crinkle as he chuckles, watching you turn back to the kitchen. He stands with a sigh before heading into his bedroom to grab pyjamas and a towel, then into the bathroom where he leaves the door open, just a crack.
You take the kettle off the burner before it has a chance to whistle, not wanting to disturb this quiet, peaceful comfort that has settled into the cozy warmth of your boyfriendâs apartment. You make his tea exactly how he likes it; black, with no less than four sugars.
You hear the water from the shower shut off just as youâre bringing the mugs to the coffee tableâon coasters, cute little pastel ceramic ones shaped like fruit slices. Youâd bought them at a flea market downtown years ago, and when you saw that he didnât have any, despite all the coffee and tea he drinks, you didnât hesitate to bring them over.
They might look slightly out of place in this warm, cozy place, but, well⌠Maybe you have that in common.
The bedroom door creaks open before you have the chance to spiral too far. Spencer emerges in a loose-fitting MIT tee and sweatpants. He meanders slowly to the couch before flopping down and grabbing his mugâhis usual one, with âthink like a proton, theyâre always positive!â faded on the side. Itâs starting to chip, but he got it for free at a physics convention in Anaheim back when he attended Caltech, and itâs been a memento since.
He smiles as he picks it up off the bright coaster before looking at you. He nods towards the bookshelf you were staring at earlier. âCan you grab that red one for me, angel?â he gestures to a large leather-bound hardcover on the second shelf.
You nod and reach up to grab it. Itâs heavier than youâd expected, but you take it to the couch before curling into Spencerâs side.
This has become routine every night you spend here. You make tea, and Spencer reads to you on the couch until youâre either both passed out or too tired to continue, before heading to bed.
You get comfortable, pulling your knees to your chest as he covers you both with the plush throw blanket he keeps on the back of the couch. Spencer clears his throat before starting to read, flipping to some random page in the middle of the book. You donât question it, just close your eyes and rest your head on his chest.
His voice is low, quiet as he begins to read. Youâve already begun to drift off by the time you start to register the words heâs saying. Theyâre not from anything heâs ever read to you before.
âI felt a mortal pity for the boy I was, and still more pity for the girl you were. My whole being was astonished and asked: If itâs so painful to love and absorb electricity, how much more painful it is to be a woman, to be the electricity, to inspire love. âHere at last Iâve spoken it out. It could make you lose your mind. And the whole of me is in it.ââ
You sit up, peering at the pages that Spencerâs eyes are trained on. You canât hold back the way your breath catches.
âSpence, what is this?â Your brows furrow as you sit up fully, removing yourself from the warmth of his embrace. You wrap the throw blanket around your shoulders tightly.
He glances up from the book. âDoctor Zhivago,â he says simply, as if that explains everything. At your slightly raised brows, he continues. âItâs a Russian romantic novel by poet and composer Boris Pasternak. It was first published in 1957, andââ
âNo, I mean, what is that?â You shake your head, pointing at the page.
Spencerâs brow furrows. âThe language? This is Cyrillic. Itâs the Russian alphabet, andââ
You cut him off again. âI know what Cyrillic is, Spencer.â You canât hide the bite in your voice. âI meant, what- how- why are you reading it in Russian?â
He shrugs, closing the cover softly. âI have both the original Russian and the English translation, but I prefer this version. The translation makes it clunky, it doesnât get the tone quite right.â
You just blink at him. âI didnât know you spoke Russian,â you whisper, curling deeper into the blanket. You hate this, the feeling of inadequacy that comes so frequently from being with a man like Dr. Spencer Reid.
He sets the book down on the coffee table. âI don't, actually. I can read it, though.â He glances sidelong at you. âIs that⌠a bad thing?â
You shake your head, finally looking at him. âNo, of course not, honey. I just,â you sigh. âI donât know. I feel like I canât keep up with you sometimes.â
All the time.
Spencer purses his lips. âWell, I donât need you to. Frankly, I donât really want you to.â
And that gives you pause. âReally?â
He nods, reaching for you, and you allow him to cradle you in his lap again. âReally. This might come as a bit of a surprise, angel,â he grins, âbut I do like you.â
Your face goes warm. You press your cheek into his chest. âI know.â Itâs quiet, a murmur, a whisper.
Spencer presses a feather-light kiss to your head. Itâs late and quiet and calm, and youâre so warm, cuddled into him and under this plush blanket, that it takes no time at all until youâre fast asleep.
The sun wakes you before youâre quite ready, the bright rays shining on your face.
Youâre still curled into Spencerâs chest, his legs stretched out along the length of the couch, whereas you know itâll hurt to stand after having your knees tucked up all night. The blanket is still wrapped around you, the warmth more suffocating than comforting now, but the weight of his arm slung around your waist is a welcome one.
You peer your head up to look at him, to take him in, in this peaceful state of relaxation. You love this part, when you wake before him and he doesnât turn his face away when you admire him.
His face is smushed into the throw pillow, his hair wild and messy, thrown every which way like a halo around his head. Heâs snoring so softly you can barely hear it, but you do, because thereâs nothing about this man you canât notice.
You try to ignore the tug in your chest. It almost hurts. He looks so peaceful and happy and loved, so relaxed in this sleepy state of the early morning. You almost feel guilty for the thoughts that run wild in your head. How is this real? How is he real? How the hell do you fit into this worldâhis worldâfull of chess and tea and comfort and Russian poetry and genius minds?
But then he stirs, and his arm instinctively tightens its hold on your waist, his large hand splaying out over your back. He stretches slightly and, before he even opens his eyes, thereâs a smile on his lips.
âMorning, angel.â
Your heart stutters wildly in your chest. You almost feel like bursting into tears right there, collapsing into his chest and letting him comfort you in that way you know he will. But you swallow it back. Just smile at the dopey look on his face, his eyes still shut.
You press the softest of kisses to his cheek, and maybe itâs your mind, but you swear he looks confused for a moment, his brows pulling together as he inhales, his nose at your neck.
Itâs your mind. It has to be; your feelings of inadequacy are making you paranoid. âHowâd you sleep, baby?â you murmur, your lips brushing his cheek before you pull away.
Then he opens his eyes, his honey-brown irises taking you in so sweetly, scanning over your face as a soft smile overtakes his lips. âBest sleep Iâve gotten in a long while,â he grins, pressing a peck at your lips. âDo you want any coffee?â
You nod, allowing him to crawl out from under you and stand from the couch. He pads into the kitchen, leaving you with your mugs from last night and the red leather hardcover of Doctor Zhivago. You soften immediately. Spencer was reading you poetry. Heâd never done that before, read anything romantic. Usually, he read something you were at least familiar with, the classics, stuff you somewhat remember reading in high school. But this warms your heart so much you swear itâll melt right there in your chest, drip down your ribs like sticky-sweet honey.
You stand, stretching out your legs, and pick up the mugs before bringing them to the kitchen. Spencerâs standing at the counter, his back to you, his hands bracing the edge of the counter. You set the mugs down in the sink and wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek on his back. âYou okay, honey?â
Spencer nods, placing his hands over yours where they lay on his front. âIâm fine, angel. You can leave the mugs, Iâll wash them. Did you want to shower?â
You hum, pulling away from the hug but maintaining your hold on his hand. âSure. Did you wanna join me?â you grin, âyâknow, save water, and all that?â
Spencerâs neck flushes red, and he swallows harshly. âNot right now, sweetheart. But go ahead, take your time.â He gives your palm a squeeze when you pout. âYour coffee will be done by the time youâre back, and I donât have to go in to work. Not unless I get a call.â He smiles when your face brightens. âSo weâll have the day, okay?â
You nod, a grin wide across your lips before youâre bouncing off to his bedroom. He hears the shower turn on a moment later, and he sighs heavily as he turns on the sink to wash the mugs.
Spencer canât stop the quirk of his lips as he stares at your mug for a momentâa cute, bright pink one, tapered at the top like an upside-down strawberry. He takes extra care as he washes it, making sure to get soapy water around all of the molded leaves and seeds.
He exhales as he sets it aside. Runs a damp hand down his face. He needs to collect himself, but god, itâs so hard when he swears sheâs hovering over his shoulder.
Spencerâs reading silently on the couch, sipping at the last bit of coffee in his mug. Youâre on the other end, scrolling absently on your phone as you set your strawberry mug onto an orange slice coaster. You glance over at him, and you soften. âSpence?â
He hums, looking up at you. Youâre lost looking into his eyes. Heâs wearing glasses today, his thick browline ones that frame his face just right, and you wonder why he wears contacts so often. Why he doesnât let himself look like this more frequently. He looks stunning in spectacles. âAngel?â
You blink at his prompting. âI was just wondering,â you shrug, glancing over your shoulder at the chess table behind you. âDid you want to continue?â
Spencer lets a smile slowly overtake his cheeks. He nods, setting down his mug onto a pink grapefruit slice coaster. âIf you want, sure.â At your assent, he stands, holding out a hand.
Your cheeks flush with warmth as he helps you stand from the couch. You follow him to the table before seating yourself in the same seat as a week ago, staring at the pieces in concentration.
He smiles. âDo you remember where we left off? You nod, and he moves his rook up two places.
Your hand hovers over your knight, then your queen, almost shaking with uncertainty. Spencer watches you, his eyes soft but calculating, patiently waiting for your next move. You rest your fingers over a pawn and move it up one space with resignation.
âYou know, angel,â Spencer says softly, all gentle comfort. âItâs not about making the perfect move. Itâs about thinking a few steps ahead, but also,â he moves his rook up and takes the pawn youâd just moved, setting it to the side. âTrusting your instincts. Youâve got this,â he smiles so warmly at you, so reassuring. You still feel the slightest twinge of frustration and embarrassment.
Chess doesnât come naturally to you, but youâre determined to figure it out. For him.
You bite your lip, glancing over the board. Youâre sure his comment about trusting your instincts has something to do with the way youâd hesitated, but youâre still so confused about what to do. You glance up at Spencer again, his eyes fixed on the board, his hands gently tapping at the edge of the table.
âWhat should I do with my queen?â you ask, a little hesitant. âI feel like sheâs⌠I donât know. Not doing much.â God, how do you stop feeling so stupid about this?
Spencer just smiles, that warm, gentle expression that makes you feel like youâre the only one in the room. âThatâs okay, sweetheart. Remember, your queen can move in any direction. Horizontal, vertical, or diagonal, but only as long as nothing is blocking her path. Sheâs powerful. You have to decide how to use her.â
You nod slowly, trying to picture it in your head. âSo⌠I can go anywhere? Like, here?â you ask, pointing to a spot near his king.
âExactly,â he says, his voice steady, his gaze never leaving the board. âBut youâll want to think about what happens after you move her. Like, does it leave you open to being attacked? Does it bring you closer to checkmate?â
You inhale shakily, trying to digest it all as you nod, but itâs a lot to process. You take a deep breath. You can do this. You look down at the board, then back at him, his gaze still so patient. âWhat if I mess up?â you ask softly, unable to hide the shyness in your voice, your tone full of the nervous doubt you try to push down.
Spencer chuckles gently. âYou wonât mess up, angel. Even if you do, itâs just part of learning. Iâm not going anywhere,â he smiles. âYouâre doing great.â
His words warm you more than the mug of coffee youâd just finished, and you feel that familiar flutter in your chest. You allow yourself a small, shy grin before focusing on the board again. You move your queen exactly as he described, cautiously placing her diagonally across the board.
Spencerâs eyes light up a little, and his smile widens. âSee? Thatâs the right move. Youâre getting it. Youâre really good at this,â and oh, how your chest positively aches at the pride in his expression.
Your heart skips a beat at his compliment, like it always does, and you let out a soft giggle. âIâm not that good, Spence,â you reply, trying to play it off.
He shakes his head, and you can see the admiration in his eyes. âYouâre more natural at this than you think, trust me. Just keep practicing.â You sit back, watching him move a piece, and then he looks up at you, tilting his head. âItâs all about finding balanceâtaking risks, but also knowing when to protect what matters. Just like life.â
You blink at him, a little stunned by the way his words feel. Just like life? Maybe thatâs what this whole chess thing is aboutâfinding a way to balance your moves, even when things feel a little uncertain. Even when youâre just learning.
And then Spencer laughs softly, snapping you out of your thoughts. âYou look so lost in thought, angel. Am I being too deep or introspective?â He gently pushes his glasses up his nose from where theyâve begun to slip down the slope of it.
You shake your head quickly, your heart racing as his eyes meet yours. âNo, no! Not at all! Iâm just thinking about how much you know.â You move your knight in an L-shape, like he taught you, and if the twinkle in his eye is any indication, youâve made a good move. âLike, itâs crazy. You make it all sound so easy.â
Spencer just shrugs modestly, then picks up his rook and moves it up. âItâs just about seeing the whole board. Everyone has their own way of learning. Yours just happens to be different.â His eyes soften as he looks at you, and you feel your heart tug. âAnd I think thatâs what makes you special.â
You bite down on your lip, trying to focus on the game again, but his words are ringing in your ears, making everything feel like itâs a little too perfect. The fact that heâs teaching you, patiently guiding you through something new, something you want to learn for him, feels so intimate.
You try to steady your breath as you make your next move, feeling your fingers brush against his as you capture his bishop. Itâs a brief touch, but it makes your heart race. You chance a peek at him, and oh. His smile is so impossibly bright. You clear your throat and continue, tucking his bishop onto the table beside the board.
Youâve got this.
It's mid-afternoon when you pipe up again. âYâknow, the weatherâs really nice today, Spence.â
He looks up from his book, honey-brown eyes tracing your nose from where youâre curled under his arm. âYeah, I saw. Itâs supposed to be pretty temperate until next week; then the rain is supposed to hit.â He lifts his arm from your shoulders and tenderly traces his knuckle down your jaw. âDid you want to go out?â
You shrug lamely, going shy and warm under his gentle gaze. âI donât know, I guess, yeah. Itâs really warm out.â Your eyes lock onto his. âI think we could go to the park or something?â
Spencer smiles, his hand gently gripping your chin as he presses a soft kiss to your lips. âThat sounds great, sweetheart.â He stands, and pulls you up with him. He crouches to help you slip on your running shoes and ties the laces. You canât tear your eyes from his lithe, slender fingers working the laces and, oh. Your heart beats wildly in your chest.
He stands and slings his messenger bag over his shoulder before grabbing his keys with one hand and yours with the other.
His fingers intertwine with yours, and you flush with warmth. He smiles at you as he leads you out of his apartment, locking the door with one hand before you head downstairs.
Itâs warm and breezy, the air a perfect 75° outside, the wind just soft enough to sweep at your hair without messing it up. Spencerâs hand is still tangled with yours, and you canât keep the smile off your face as he goes on some tangent about the differences between mallards and pintail ducks, because youâd just passed a pond and wondered why they looked so different.
You wish you were focusing, but god, youâre lost. So incredibly lost. Staring at his side profile, his brows raising and furrowing, his nose scrunching in that perfect way that makes you just want to bite it. Heâs so animated, so enthusiastic about this, itâs a bit staggering.
You don't know when it happened, but now, looking up at him in this dreamy way, like heâs hardly real, like youâve invented him to cover up the hurt from the meanness of those in your past, youâre sure of it.
Youâre in love.
Somewhere between the way he reads to you and teaches you chess with all the patience in the world, between the way he remembers how you always take your coffee and kisses you first thing in the morning, between his warm linen sheets and the dusty scent of his books, youâve fallen totally, completely in love.
And you donât know why that invokes so much fear within you. Isnât it a good thing, to fall in love with your boyfriend? To love him so wholly, so deeply, you aspire to learn the things he loves? To yearn for sameness, to relate to him, to keep up with his statistical rants about anything from the decline of leather-bound novels to the likelihood of walking past a serial killer without ever knowing it?
And then he looks down at you, notices the wistful, faraway look in your eyes as you just stare at him, and all he can do is laugh. He pulls you ever closer, pushes your hair back, and kisses your temple, and you positively melt. Heâs so gentle with you, it almost hurts.
Then heâs tugging at your hand, and you look away from him for the first time since you arrived at the park. Thereâs a couple of tents set up along the path further ahead, and even though you groan through a laugh, Spencer looks so giddy, so excited, you canât even think about ruining that. So you go along with him, his hand gently tugging at yours, before he stops at one tent towards the end.
Jewellry.
Spencer takes a while looking down at the display, before he picks up a simple gold necklace, a modest, tiny pink gemstone hanging off the chain. Spencer doesnât hesitate before asking how much and pulling a twenty from his wallet.
You canât tear your eyes from him. You feel like you havenât so much as blinked in the last three minutes.
Spencer turns to you, the necklace hanging from his hand like itâs nothing more than a silly little trinket, and maybe it is. Itâs probably some cheap, knockoff thing thatâll tarnish in a week, something that he paid far too much for, and youâre sure he knows that.
But heâs standing in front of you, holding it out with the sweetest, gentlest, most open expression youâve ever seen on him.
And for that? The necklace might as well be twenty-four-carat gold and diamond-encrusted.
You blink at him, your brows furrowing upwards and eyes wide like a doe. âDo you want me to wear it?â you ask, sheepish and small and looking up at him like youâd give him the very earth itself if you could.
Spencer just smiles, all soft and warm and good. âI got it for you.â He shrugs, like this is nothing. Like it's casual and not like heâs holding your heart in his fist, like you trust him enough to not throttle it. âYou can do whatever you want with it, angel.â
And, oh.
This is love. Youâre certain of it. Youâre so lost in the warmth of his eyes, the love pounding against your chest, that you donât even notice the way he goes quiet, rigid, no longer looking at you, but through you. Like he heard something he wasnât supposed to.
âCan you put it on me?â
Your soft voice breaks him from his trance, and immediately, the warmth returns to his gaze, his smile comes back so quickly itâs almost as if it never left. He nods, gently turning you around, and you pull your hair away from your neck.
Spencer is slow, reverent, as he drapes the chain around your neck. Careful as he clasps it. He even bends enough to press a soft, almost intangible kiss to your nape before stepping away.
And when you turn around, dropping your hair? Your palms go to his cheeks, clasping him like something precious between your hands, and you kiss him with all the love in the world.
All the love youâve left unsaid.
Youâre barely back inside his apartment when Spencerâs phone buzzes from its place in his bag.
You havenât stopped toying with your necklace since he put it on you. The charm is almost glued to your fingers now; youâre unable to stop messing with it on your neck. Itâs something so simple, but it feels like something more. Like something meaningful.
Youâve already seated yourself on his couch when he comes and plops beside you, a new, brighter grin on his face. âWhat was that, baby?â you ask softly, watching as he sets his phone face down on the coffee table.
âThat was Garcia,â he smiles. âShe invited us for drinks at Porterâs tonight.â
You blink. âShe invited us, or she invited you?â
Spencer pauses, his hand momentarily ceasing its ministrations on your shoulder. âI mean, she invited me, and the team. But,â he sighs, turning to face you fully. âBut, I think it would be nice. Introducing you to them.â
You inhale softly. âYou sure? You donât think itâs, like,â you glance down at your lap. âToo early?â
He shakes his head, his hand gently hooking under your chin to tilt your face up so he can look at you properly. âAngel, you already have a key to my place. I donât think anything is âtoo earlyâ anymore.â His head tilts. âIf youâre not ready to meet them, you know I wouldnât force you to, right?â At your nod, he continues. âI would like for you to meet them. Really. Theyâre really important to me, and so are you. But if you donât think youâre ready, or if you donât want to, you donât have to come. Or, I can stay home.â
Your eyes go wide, doelike and soft. Where on earth did this perfect man come from?
âLas Vegas,â he murmurs. You blink at him. He simply grins. âAnd Iâm not perfect, sweetheart,â he turns bashful, his thumb gentle as it caresses your jaw.
âYouâre so good,â you whisper, a whine in your voice. âWhy- how are you so good?â You canât help the tears that fill your waterline now, and Spencer immediately cradles you to his chest.
He shushes you softly. âIâm just normal, angel. I promise,â he chuckles. âIâm not doing anything that you donât deserve.â
You sob impossibly harder.
âI would love to meet your friends, honey,â you pull away, your mascara smeared down your cheeks. Spencerâs hand comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb lightly brushing away the black smears from your skin like heâs doing something holy. Like heâs done it before, like heâd do it a thousand more times if you asked.
âYou sure?â he whispers, careful, like if he speaks too loud thisâyouâmight disappear. Like this is all some vivid dream heâs not quite convinced he deserves to wake up into.
You nod, just once. A little wobbly, but firm. âYeah. Yeah, Iâm sure, Spence.â Your fingers tug at the chain around your neck, the clasp digging gently into your skin. It stings, just a little. Just enough to feel real. To remind you, he gave it to you. Just today. That it means something. That Spencer is different.
âTheyâll love you,â he smiles. He sounds so certain it almost breaks you in half. âI know they will.â You want to believe him. You want to let that live in your chest and take root. Because youâre not sure of much, really, but this? What you feel? Itâs real. You know itâs real.
When he presses a kiss to your mascara-stained cheek, you close your eyes. Take it in. Take him in. He pulls away, looking at you warmly, openly, lovingly. âYou can wear whatever you want. You donât have to dress up,â he stands, his hand still warm where itâs clasped in yours. âWeâre just going to a bar, and most of them are going straight from work.â
And maybe thatâs exactly why you do want to dress up. You love Spencer. You want to make a good impression on his friends, his team, the people who keep him safe when heâs across the country chasing killers. Because youâre not just trying to impress them. Youâre trying to seem enough.
In his bedroom, the light hangs low and golden and warm. Your dress hangs off your shoulders, and your hands tremble just slightly as you smooth it down again.
Spencer stands behind you, zipping you up with quiet hands and a look that could positively undo you. His touch settles at your hips, warm and grounding and real.
You study your reflection. âIs this okay, baby?â You catch his eyes in the mirror. Your voice is barely above a whisper, and you hate how small it sounds. How unsure. You canât hide the way it trembles, the nerves that show through.
Spencerâs hands slide to your arms, trailing a path of fire before they cover your wrists, holding them steady. âAngel,â he whispers, turning you around gently. He looks at you like youâre an oasis in the middle of the driest of deserts. âYou look beautiful.â He kisses you softly, tenderly. âI promise, theyâre gonna love you. Please stop worrying.â His lips find that space between your eyebrows again, your glabella.
You know it means it. And thatâs the worst part.
Youâre still not used to someone holding you so closely, so gently, without an ounce of malice, of annoyance, of condescension.
You exhale shakily. You move your hands to the lapels of his blazer. Then to the knot of his tie. Then, finally resting them on his cheeks. Your eyes dart around his face, studying him like you havenât already memorized the slope of his nose, the pink of his lips, the honey-brown warmth of his eyes.
Just in case. Thereâs a sinking in your gut you canât explain. Let me remember you, it says, just in case.
âThank you, honey.â You kiss him again, and when one of his hands finds the back of your head, you let him.
But then you sigh, pulling away. âIf you ruin my hair, Dr. Reid, so help me,â you giggle, pressing a final kiss to his chin.
He chuckles softly. âI wouldnât dream of it, sweetheart,â he grins before heading to the living room and pulling his messenger bag over his shoulder.
You grab your purse and glance one last time at your reflection. Not to fix anything, no. Just to see yourself. To pretend you might resemble someone worth loving in a room full of people who love him.
When you step into the living room, Spencerâs already waiting by the door, his hands wringing at the strap of his bag, his smile still impossibly wide.
He links your fingers with his again like itâs second nature. Like this is just what you do. Like you belong with him.
You pretendâfor just a momentâthat you do.
You know youâre nervous when you hardly remember the metro ride. Conversations blurred around you until they were nothing but mist in the background. Just the steady warmth of Spencerâs hand in yours, his thumb moving in slow, absent circles on your skin, like he was tracing something only he could see. You remember the vibration under your feet and the way he held you when you stumbled as the train stopped.
By the time you step off the train and into the buzz of the city night, the air is cool, crisp. Thereâs a dewy scent of rain on the horizon.
You donât even remember the walk to the bar until Porterâs flashes in bright red neon.
Your pulse is back in your throat, and suddenly it all feels too fast. Too real.
The gentle tug on your hand has your head snapping to your left. Spencerâs brows are furrowed, his lips pressed together. âJust take a breath, angel.â His voice is soft, warm. His thumb runs tenderly across your hand again. âItâll be fine. Like I said, theyâll love you. I promise,â and oh. Oh, he looks so earnest. So sure. You canât help the nod, the shaky exhale, the way your shoulders straighten out.
You blink. Look over at him again, a small smile quirking at your painted lips. âOkay, baby. Iâm ready.â
He grins like sunshine.
Porterâs is busy; not packed, but there are enough patrons to have the bartenders ignoring attempts at conversation.
Spencer grins widely as a group of six, all settled around a circular booth, waves him over. His hand stays locked with yours until you get closerâthen, he places it on the small of your back.
Their smiles start to⌠well. They falter, a bit, when they notice it. His hand, warm and steady on your back. You expected to surprise them, sure, but⌠You figured that for FBI profilers, theyâd be a little better at hiding their shock.
And that means theyâre not hiding it. Theyâre not trying to. If you can see their confusion, their surprise, theirâis it discomfort?âthen itâs intentional.
And thatâs what stings the most. That this sudden tension, the glances, the raised brows, all point to you not fitting in.
Theyâre not impressed.
Spencer hardly notices it, though. You think it must be because heâs been so excited, but⌠really, how doesnât he notice it? Itâs like all the oxygen in the room has been sucked out, leaving six pairs of eyes staring at you like youâre other, like you donât belong.
The blonde with wide eyes smiles at you, but itâs the kind that feels practiced, calculating. Youâve seen it before, more times than you can even remember.
The man next to herâbroad, confident, handsomeâraises a brow, his glass of whiskey stopping by his lip. He tilts his head when his eyes lower, meeting Spencerâs hand on your back.
Then the third woman, dark hair, a sharp gaze, pursed lips. God, she looks like Spencer when heâs trying to solve a crossword. You hate it, being studied like a puzzle yet to be solved.
And then Spencer says their names, and suddenly, for a moment, it clicks. âThis is JJ, Morgan, Blake, Hotch, Rossi, and Garica.â Names youâve only ever heard in fond little stories, in memories over takeout containers and sleepy mornings in bed.
You take a breath, willing yourself to breathe again. Your eyes land steadily on GarciaâPenelope. Sheâs already standing to hug you, her arms outstretched and a grin on her face. Spencer had described her as glitter and joy personified, and you canât disagree. You think you love her already. âOh my god, youâre real!â you giggle, âI was so sure Spence made you up!â
Penelope laughs with you, her hug warm and inviting, and you canât help melting into it. She smells nice; like coconut and vanilla and citrus. You squeeze her back before pulling away, and her eyes are crinkled behind her wide pink glasses. âOh, honey, Iâm so real! But who are you, gorgeous? The Good Doctorâs been hiding you away from us!â
You smile shyly up at Spencer, watching as his hand returns to your back. âUh, guys,â he glances down at you, all softness, before looking back at them. âThis is my girlfriend.â
He says your name with reverence, dripping in pure affection, and the mood shifts yet again. Even Garcia freezes from her place next to you.
You wave timidly at them. âHi,â you smile. âSpencerâs told me loads about you guys. He really loves you all, I can tell.â
And⌠thereâs silence. JJ, Morgan, and Blake blink in unison. Like theyâre sizing you up. Surprised in the worst way.
Your fingers reach up to your necklace again, gently pulling at it, tucking the charm between your digits again and again. You smooth your dress, tug it down. Maybe itâs too short? You bite your lip, check your posture, standing up straight. You hold back a sigh. You want to be enough. For them. For him.
JJ smiles a little softer, now. Her eyes more forgiving, just a fraction. âItâs so nice to meet you,â she says. âWhat do you do?â she asks, scooching over on the bench. Spencer slides in first, then pats the space next to him. You squeeze onto the seat, and try to ignore the warm weight of his hand settling on your knee.
âI work in a flower shop,â you say softly. Blakeâs eyes brighten a bit at that, and she unclasps her hands.
âYouâre a florist?â she presses, taking a sip of her margarita.
You shrug. âI guess, thatâs what my nametag says,â you laugh softly, folding your hands in your lap, fingers fidgeting beneath the table. âBut I dunno if Iâm like, a real florist. I just do the arrangements.â
Spencer squeezes your thigh gently. You do your best to ignore it.
Blakeâs eyes dull again, just slightly. âSo, how did you two meet?â
You feel underwater. Your hearing is muffled, you can barely hear the sweet story Spencerâs retelling, of when he walked into your flower shop and you giggled and handed him the storeâs card with your number scribbled on the back.
You canât tear your eyes away from the surface of the table. You try to control your breathing. Keep the tears at bay.
Youâre being ridiculous. Absurd. Your insecurities are making you paranoid; you know it. This happens all the time.
But then Spencerâs lightly shaking your knee, his head tilted low enough to catch your gaze. His eyes are worried. You grin at him. âSorry, what was that, honey?â
He furrows his brows. âI asked what you wanted to drink, angel.â
Your mouth opens, then closes again. âUm,â you bite your lip, looking around the table at everyoneâs drinks. Your eyes land on Garciaâs. âPenelope?â you prompt, and her head snaps over to you.
âYeah?â She looks happy, a little buzzed.
âWhatâre you drinking?â you ask, nodding at her glass.
She grins widely. âOh, sweetness,â she stands, holding out a hand for you. âOnly the most delicious frozen strawberry daiquiri youâll ever have! Come on,â she wiggles her fingers at you. âIâm due for a refill anyway, letâs go!â
You blink at her before taking her hand; itâs soft, and she closes it around yours in a way that feels so warm, so comforting. You barely get off the bench before sheâs practically dragging you towards the bar.
She orders two frozen strawberry daiquiris, giving the bartender a flirty wink and an âextra pink, thanks, babe!â, before turning to you. âOh my god, I need to know,â she says, gripping your shoulders like a lifeline. âHow long have you and Einstein been together?â
You blink. âUm,â you furrow your brows. âLike, two-ish months, I think?â
Her face blanches, and suddenly, everything feels too fast, too sudden, like itâs the wrong answer, even though itâs not. You swallow your paranoia. âSpencer could probably tell you, like, the actual day, if you ask him. Heâs really good with that stuff,â you add on, your voice low, a shy, proud little smile curling at your lips. He really is good with that stuff. Remembering the important things. Even something as simple as your favourite takeout place or the way you take your tea.
She pouts at you, her eyes softening, like sheâs trying to make sense of what sheâs hearing. Itâs almost like sheâs worried for you, like she feels sorry for you, but you canât quite figure out why. âOh, honey,â she sighs, collecting you into a hug youâre too confused to return. âIâm so sorry.â Her arms are too tight, too warm around you. You just stand there, stiff and unsure why everything feels so off.
Your brows furrow. âWhat do you mean, sorry?â you frown, your stomach doing a nervous little flip. âEverythingâs been great. Spencerâs, like, sunshine in human form,â you try to laugh, but it comes out quiet, timid.
She sighs heavily, like sheâs carrying a too-heavy weight on her shoulders, and then looks at you like sheâs afraid to ask. âBut⌠you donât think this is, like, really soon?â She furrows her brows softly. âHe doesnât think so?â
You shake your head, confusion knitting your brows. You pull away from her grasp gently, suddenly feeling exposed in a way you didnât before. âPenelope, what do you mean? Why would it be too soon?â You cross your arms over your chest, vulnerability eating at you. âLike⌠like me meeting you guys? âCause I was worried about that, âcause it felt like, really early. But Spence said it was okay, âcause⌠like, I already have a key to his place, and Iâm there, like, all the time, soââ
Penelopeâs gasp is so sharp, so dramatic, that she covers her mouth with both hands in complete shock. âOh. My. God!â Her eyes are nearly as wide as the frames of her glasses. âNo- You- What?! You have a key? To his apartment?â
You nod slowly, and for some reason, you canât shake the feeling that youâre saying the wrong thing. âYeah? He gave it to me, like, a week or so ago,â you add, hoping it doesnât sound as bad as youâre starting to feel it is.
And Penelope? Oh. She shifts like ice in the Arctic. Cold and imposing. You donât think she even catches it, but sheâs looking at you like youâre the villain in a story you didnât even know existed. âThatâs⌠so soon, sweetness.â Her eyes soften only slightly, and thereâs a sympathetic lilt to her voice that feels less inviting and more pitiful. âWhat about Maeve?â
And you pause. Blink at her a couple of times, unsure if youâre dreaming, the weight of her words pressing on your chest. She stares at you, awaiting an answer. One you donât have. âI-â you hesitate, like the words are too heavy to lift from your throat. âWhoâs Maeve?â
Penelope frowns, her nose going red as though she canât bear to see you confused. âOh, honey,â she sighs, pulling you into her arms again, like sheâs trying to shield you from the pain of her words. âMaeve was,â she starts, then pauses. âI feel like Reid- Spencer, should be the one to tell you.â She shakes her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. She pulls away from the hug, her hands still lingering on your arms.
You keep a trembling hand on her wrist. âClearly, he never told me anything. Whoâs Maeve?â you ask again, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. âIs he-... Is he seeing someone else?â
You donât want to be the fool again. Not again, not with Spencer. You swore he was different.
Penelope shakes her head, her arms smoothing over your shoulders in a calming motion. It doesnât work. âNo, no. Not at all, honey,â she whispers softly. Sheâs so⌠soft with you now. Her hands caress your shoulders like a mother comforting a child, explaining something you can hardly understand. âMaeve was Spencerâs girlfriend. They dated for, like, almost a year,â Penelope adds quietly, like sheâs treading carefully around a wound thatâs still raw.
That gives you pause. A year? Thatâs⌠serious. You feel the weight of its importance, like youâre not measuring up somehow. But Spencerâs not required to tell you about all of his past relationships, right? You know you haven't told him about yours, either.
But then Penelope sighs. âShe died four months ago.â And the world goes still. You freeze, like the airâs been sucked right oout of your lungs. âShe was kidnapped by her stalker, and she got shot. Right,â she pauses, swallowing hard. Her voice cracks as she continues, like sheâs holding back her own pain. âRight in front of Spencer.â
And itâs there. A slow death, you can feel it creeping up on you. Your heart starts to melt against your ribs like thick, sticky honey. It burns you from the inside out, like acid; hot and relentless. âSo,â your voice trembles, barely above a whisper. âSo⌠Iâm what?â You look into Penelopeâs eyes, searing desperately for something to hold on to, but all you see is a deep, profound sadness. âIâm, like, a rebound?â
You wait. Penelope is silent. Her lips part, like thereâs something she wants to say, to comfort you, to tell you no, he really loves you, but⌠She doesnât. And when you see the minuscule shake of her head, you break.
You shatter like glass, like crystal. Like youâre fragmented in tiny shards scattered across the sticky bar floor, and suddenly, Porterâs is too bright. Too loud. Too much.
The sob escapes you before you can stop it, crawling up your throat and across your tongue like bile. You cover your mouth with your hand, tears freely spilling down your cheeks relentlessly.
Penelopeâs lip wobbles as she watches you push past her and run down the back hall, before hearing the slam of the ladiesâ room door.
She stands there, still and frozen.
What did she just do�
Her gaze slowly moves to the table. Nobody has turned around, nobody has noticed a thing. Spencerâs laughing at something JJ says, and the guilt gnaws at Penelope like a plague.
You stumble into the bathroom like a storm, leaning your back against the door like you can hardly hold yourself up on your own, your legs shaky and trembling like a fawn taking her first steps.
The bathroom lights are harsh, fluorescent, and unforgiving. You catch sight of yourself in the mirror and recoil like youâve seen a ghost. Your mascara is smeared down your cheeks, bleeding down to your jaw, inked like grief itself has manifested onto your skin.
Your lipgloss is mostly goneâjust a faint shimmer clinging to the dip of your cupidâs bow, like itâs trying to hold on for you.
You canât help the way you begin to sway, dizzy as your knees nearly buckle in your heels. You grip the sink like it might hold you upright, like youâre not actively falling apart. But the second you meet your own eyes again, something inside you cracks.
You canât look at yourself.
You canât look at herâthe girl stupid enough to think she was someoneâs forever, not just a placeholder for a ghost.
You stumble into a stall and lock the door behind you, the click too loud in this stifling silence. You sit down hard on the toilet lid, burying your face in your hands as the sobs come back with a vengeance.
You feel like a fool. Youâd really thought Spencer was different.
You wish he was here.
You wish he wasnât.
Penelope shudders a breath, wobbling back to the table with two frozen strawberry daiquiris in hand. Her smile is long gone, her face pale and blotchy and tear-stained. Her eyes are red behind her glasses.
She sets the glasses down on the table like she doesnât know what else to do with her hands.
JJâs brows knit together. âGarcia?â She leans forward from her seat. âAre you okay?â
But Spencerâs looking over his shoulder, eyes darting around for you. Heâs already standing when he notes your absence, like a string inside him has been pulled too tight, too restrictive, too wrong. âGarcia?â he asks, his voice shaky and low. âWhere is she? What happened?â
Penelopeâs lip wobbles. She wrings her fingers together, avoiding his eyes. âI didnât mean to,â she whispers. âI swear, I didnât mean toâI just, I thought she knew, I thought you told her, and IâSpencer, Iâm so sorryââ
Spencerâs heart drops to his gut. His mouth goes dry. âTold her what?â Penelope doesnât answer. He takes a step closer, his throat going tight, his voice sharper now. âPenelope, what did you say?â
Her silence says everything. Her guilt fills the blanks. She shakes her head weakly at him, her hands coming up, her mouth opening and closing like she doesnât know what to say. She sniffles.
Spencerâs eyes go wide. âPenelope,â he breathes out, horrified. His irises dart around her face. âWhat did you say to her?â
Penelopeâs mouth opens, closes, opens again. No words come out. Her face crumbles as she looks at the man in front of her. Her own words play back in her head, your reaction playing like a film sheet behind her eyes. She collapses next to Morgan on the bench, tucking herself into the booth. âBathroom,â she mutters softly, like a confession. Like it hurts.
Her glasses come off in one swift, clumsy motion as she covers her face with both hands. Sheâs wiping her tears, covering her guilt, trying to hide from the shame of what sheâs done.
Spencerâs gone before anyone can even fully comprehend whatâs just happened.
He doesnât walk, he runs, tearing through the bar like itâs life or death, like he might already be too late. His heartâs in his throat, hammering loud against his ribs, and he doesnât care who sees, doesnât care how crazy he must look.
He just needs to find you. Needs to explain, to defend, to apologize.
Maeveâs ghost hovers over his shoulder like a curse.
Thereâs an incessant banging at the door to the bathroom.
You think it must be himâwho else would knock on the door to a public restroom?
You do all you can to ignore it; you cover your ears, tucking your face as far into your lap as you can. Try to block it out. Block him out.
But then the door opens, and frazzled footsteps rush into the bathroom until they stop in front of the locked door of your stall. You can see his brown oxfords standing in front of the door. âAngel,â he whispers, slightly out of breath. âPlease open the door⌠please?â
You inhale shakily, holding your hands tighter over your ears. You donât want to hear him, his excuses, his lies.
âGo away,â you murmur, tears coating your voice, your throat clenching tight. âI donât want to see you.â
Spencer sighs, crouching in front of the door. âSweetheart, let me in, please. I donât know what Garcia told you,â he knows itâs a lie. âBut you have to believe me. I want you. Only you. I swear it.â
You shake your head. âI donât want to hear more lies, Spencer.â You swallow a sob. âI know about Maeve.â
Spencerâs heart stops in his chest. âIt- Itâs not what you think,â he tries, his voice thick with tears he feebly attempts to hold back. But then you sniffle harshly, from under the door he sees you stand, planting your heels on the tile. He stays crouching, swiping at his red-rimmed eyes.
You open the door just a crack, eyes catching sight of his lowered form. âWhy didnât you tell me?â Your voice is quiet, pained, tight. Spencer raises his head, meets your eyes. You look ruined. Makeup smeared, eyes red and puffy, lips bitten red and swollen.
He hates that heâs made you look like this. He hates that he still thinks you look gorgeous. Like a tragedy, beautiful and broken and raw.
âI,â he hesitates, eyes never leaving yours. He swallows. âIâm sorry,â he sighs simply.
Your face crumples again, and Spencerâs brows knit tight. His eyes stay locked on the way you tuck your lip between your teeth to hold in a sob, like heâs never seen anything more beautiful than the way you fall apart. âYou shouldâve told me,â you whimper, sniffling. âItâs not fair, Spence.â
He flinches at the crack in your voice. He bows his head. âI know,â he murmurs. âI know I shouldâve, Iâm so sorry, angel.â He canât help the way he leans forward, just enough to rest his forehead against the softness of your tummy.
Your hand cards through his hair like you donât hate him, like you never could, and it breaks you even more. This was a betrayal. You canât forget that, even if the softness of his curls feels like home between your fingers. âWas I just a rebound for you?â
Your question is broken, tearful, and your chest stutters with a breath. Spencerâs head lifts slowly from your middle. He swallows. âNo,â he breathes out, the word like acid on his tongue. His eyes are slow to meet your gaze. âNo, angel. Never.â
Your eyes close, a shaky exhale exiting your nose as you purse your lips. âThen why didnât you tell me?â You remove your hand from his hair, crossing your arms over your chest.
Youâre closing off. Spencer stands from his crouch, his left knee clicking as it extends. He wrings his hands to prevent himself from reaching out for you. âI shouldâve.â
You just shake your head, lifting your chin to eye him steadily. âI asked why, Spencer. Why didnât you tell me about her if I wasnât a rebound, a replacement?â
He swallows, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. âI donât know. I think I was stillâŚâ he shrugs meekly. âHurting, I guess.â
Your arms fall to your sides. âI couldâve helped you.â
Spencer lowers his head, shaking it roughly. âNo, you couldnât.â His eyes squeeze shut. He swears thereâs a cold spot on the centre of his back, like someoneâs staring into him, through him. He tries desperately to ignore her presence. âI never really dealt with it, I just wanted to move on. And,â he raises his head again, his eyes pained as he looks at you. âI did. I started to. With you.â
He reaches out his arm, his shaky hand settling softly on your elbow. You sigh, setting your gaze to the floor, but you donât pull away from him. Spencer thinks itâs a small win. He tests the waters by taking a small step closer, invading your space, and his heart thrums in his chest when you let him.
You canât hold it back. You want to hate him. You want to hurt him, like heâs hurt you. You thought youâd finally found it, your forever, the man who would treat you like youâre something worthy of love, of respect, of kindness. Who doesnât criticize your curiosity, but who lets it thrive, who answers your questions softly, with reverence in his voice, with love in the way he holds you.
You thought he was different. You really did. But you think itâs fitting, really. To still love him, even now, even after heâs shattered your heart in your chest, even after heâs killed you from the inside out.
You collapse into his chest, and Spencer doesnât hesitate before wrapping his arms around you, holding you tightly, like heâs holding your very form together. Like if he so much as loosens his grip, youâll break apart into tiny pieces on this dirty bathroom floor.
His lips go to your hair, his hand cradling the back of your head. He can feel the way the sobs wrack through your body, the way they shake against him, your form trembling as you fist the fabric of his cardigan, needing something to keep you grounded in realityâto keep you out of your head.
âI thought you were different,â you sob, broken and pained and whimpering into his shoulder. Spencer freezes. âI thought you wouldnât hurt me. Not like them, not like before.â
He opens his mouth, but he canât find the words. How does he respond to that? To your wailing of grief, of betrayal? Of admitting youâd believed in magic just to find out it was all sleight of hand? How does he acknowledge being the source of your pain, of hurting you so wholly that your knees buckle under the weight of it?
He doesnât know. So he just holds you impossibly tighter, rocking your trembling form in his arms as he tries to find some way to fix this mess heâs caused.
Youâre silent for too long. No longer sobbing, just quiet sniffling as you bury your head in Spencerâs chest, no doubt staining his cardigan with your makeup. He doesnât care.
You pull back slightly, hands still fisted in the fabric. âI want to go home.â Your voice is quiet, raspy, like your throat itself is protesting you talking to him.
Spencer nods, petting your hair down softly. âOkay,â he whispers back. His gaze catches yours before you lower your eyes to his chest again, your hand instinctively going to wipe at the smudge of mascara. Your brow furrows, and your eyes fill with tears again as your thumb rubs at the stain, just to smear it around. Spencer gently wraps his hand around your wrist, and your eyes snap up to meet his. âItâs okay,â he nods softly. âPlease donât worry about it, angel.â
You sniffle again before pulling away, wrapping your arms around yourself. âI want to go home, Spence,â you murmur again. He nods, holding a hand out for you.
You don't take it, don't even look at it, averting your gaze to the floor again.
Spencer sighs, blinking away tears before heâs opening the door to the bathroom, and following you out.
He doesnât touch you, even though his hand is hovering over your back, your head down as you stand by the front door. Spencer swallows roughly, grabbing his bag off the bench of the booth, avoiding the eyes of his team, who watch him silently.
Hotchâs eyes stay steady on the black stain on the front of Spencerâs cardigan, Garciaâs still got her hands on her face, and JJ is looking at you; small and feeble and shy, and still shaking with tears as you wait for Spencer. He holds the door open for you, whispers something to you as you both exit, and JJ heaves a sigh, taking a gulp of her drink. She and Blake share a look.
The back of the cab is quiet. Uncomfortable, stifling, suffocating silence. Youâre seated on opposite ends of the backseat, Spencerâs eyes on you, your gaze out the window.
When the driver pulls up to Spencerâs apartment block, your brows furrow, your eyes going to Spencer, whoâs already climbing out the door and opening yours. âI said home, Spencer,â you frown, ignoring his hand. âI donât want to be here. I want to go home.â
Spencer flinches. âPlease, angel. Just for tonight? So we can talk?â
You heave a sigh, glaring at him as you slap away his hand, stepping out of the yellow car and walking past him and into the building.
Spencer exhales, his hands wringing tightly on the strap of his messenger bag before following you up the stairs. Youâve already unlocked the door with your key and slumped onto his couch, sniffling as you lean down to take off your heels.
He doesnât bother removing his bag from his shoulder, just closes and locks the door before rounding the couch and sitting on the coffee table, gently taking your foot and tucking it into his lap. His fingers undo the strap around your ankle, his hands slow as they pull off the offending shoe. He does the same for the other foot, then stands, picking up your heels as he heads back to the entrance to place them down beside his beat-up old converse.
Spencer hangs up his messenger bag, toes off his oxfords, and looks over at you.
Youâre curled up on the couch, tucked into the corner, arms around your knees. Your gaze is fixed on one of his bookshelves, brows furrowed, lips pressed tightly together. Like youâre trying to understand something, trying to solve a puzzle he canât see.
Spencer slowly makes his way over, sits cautiously beside you, his eyes following yours to the shelf. He doesnât know if the book youâre staring at is the one his eyes are drawn to immediately, but he tears his gaze away like itâs burned him.
The Narrative of John Smith sits like a ghost on his shelf, its very presence mocking what Spencerâs tried so hard to build with you.
âI donât know how to get over this,â you mutter softly.
Spencer looks up at you to find your eyes already on him. You shake your head gently, like the small motion of it is just too much. âI donât know how to move on, now.â
He swallows, tucking his feet up under his legs. âI know.â His hands wring in his lap. âI donât either. I just know that I want you.â
You scoff, avert your eyes. âIf you did, you wouldâve told me about her. Now youâve just made me feel like an idiot,â you sigh. âAgain.â
His lips turn, the corners of his mouth pulled into a pout. âAgain?â
You sniffle again, shrugging. âI told you. I thought you were different. I thought,â you sigh, raising your head to stare at the ceiling. âI donât know.â
Spencer tilts his head. âYou say that a lot,â he notes. ââI donât knowâ. Like youâre afraid to say what youâre thinking. Like youâre expecting to be wrong, or dismissed. Or left,â he catches your eyes when your head snaps back to his. âAnd I hate that. I hate that someone taught you to apologize for existing, for being curious, for not knowing. And IâŚâ he sighs, blinking at you, his expression soft and gentle and guilt-ridden. âI hate that I did that, too. To you.â
You swallow a sob, your eyes going wide.
Spencer scooches a little bit closer to you, just enough that your knees knock against his. âI shouldâve told you aboutâŚâ He tries to say her name. His tongue freezes, paralyzed.
âAbout Maeve,â you whisper. Spencer tries to hide his flinch, like hearing you say her name is wrong. Like the mixing of these two aspects of his life shouldnât be happening.
He nods jerkily. âAbout Maeve,â he tries to ignore the way his voice catches on the word. âIâm sorry that I didnât.â
You nod, tucking your lip between your teeth. âI know you are,â you glance sidelong at him. âI know.â
Spencer exhales shakily. âAnd Iâm sorry Garcia told you.â
âIâm not.â Your voice is shockingly steady as you say it. You shrug when he looks at you. âIf she didnât, I donât know how long it wouldâve been before you did. Honestly, Spencer,â you turn to face him. âWould you have ever even told me?â
He wants to nod, to tell you he wouldâve, but he swears he can see her brown hair in the corner of the room, stalking, watching, waiting. His mouth opens, but no words come out.
You wait. And then sigh heavily. âYouâre not okay,â you murmur. âI canât help you, you were right.â
And then you stand from the couch, head into his bedroom, and close the door.
Spencer hears rummaging, the sound of his drawers being opened and closed, then his shower starts, and he buries his face in his hands. Rubs his palms aggressively over his cheeks, pushing his hair away from his forehead.
He stands, peeling the cardigan off. He holds it out, his eyes locked on the black stain thatâs, ironically enough, just over his heart. He exhales softly before putting it into the dirty laundry hamper in his bedroom. The bathroom door is closed, the sound of the shower muffled behind it.
He sighs. Drags his feet into the kitchen to start the kettle. His hands move on autopilot: setting the kettle onto the stove, the soft clanging of your mug and his being pulled out of the cupboard, just like always. He freezes when his fingers close around the handle of your pink strawberry mug. It looks like something Garcia wouldâve picked out. Too bright, too bubbly, too you. His heart skips a beat.
You were right. God, you were right. He wouldnât have said anything; not now, maybe not ever. He wouldâve stayed silent, keeping you blissfully unaware. You wouldâve never found out about Maeve had Garcia not told you anything. The guilt eats at him, gnawing on his chest like a disease, spreading through his ribs like rot.
His hands tremble as he sets it down on the counter beside his. The ceramic clinks too loudly in the silence. He rocks his head back and forth, like he can shake the memories out.
When he opens his eyes, he swears sheâs there. Just there, at the edge of his vision, he catches a glimpse of her sweater. He pours the water from the kettle into your mug. Itâs all he can do to stop himself from shouting at a ghost.
She haunts these wallsâones sheâs never once stepped into. It drives him mad.
Spencerâs sitting on the couch with his hands in his lap and his head bowed when you re-enter the room.
He looks up as the couch dips beneath your weight. You settle in the opposite corner, as far as you can be while still sharing the same space. Spencer clears his throat, rubs his palms nervously over the tops of his thighs. âI made you tea,â he whispers.
You blink. Your strawberry mug sits neatly on an orange slice coaster. He reaches for his, and you see the grapefruit one under it. Your throat goes tight again.
You donât want to cry again. You refuse to.
You sigh. âI didnât really want any tea.â Your lips press together as you curl further into your corner. âBut thanks anyway.â
Spencer flinches. Itâs barely noticeable, just a twitch. But of course you catch it. Thereâs nothing about this man you donât notice.
Or so you thought.
Because now heâs staring at you.
Or, not quite; heâs staring through you.
You swallow hard. How many times has this happened before without you noticing? Without knowing he was haunted? Broken? Grieving someone you never knew existed. Mourning the woman you replaced.
You avert your gaze again. You canât keep looking at your boyfriend while he stares through you, at the woman he lost. âSpencer,â you say, quiet yet sharp. It snaps him out of his trance.
His eyes dart to the side of your face. His brows pull together, unsure, almost pleading. He swallows roughly. âIâm sorry,â he whispers, setting his mug down. âYou donât have to drink it if you donât want to,â he chews on his lip, shrugging. âI just⌠I thought you might want it. LikeâŚâ he trails off.
You know what he was going to say, anyway. Like every other night. Like routine. But if he thinks youâre about to cuddle up to him while he reads to you, heâs sorely mistaken.
But then you look at him. Just once. And he looks so broken, you canât bring yourself to say it.
So you stand, slowly, achingly, like just leaving him there is enough to hurt. âIâm tired,â you mutter softly. Spencerâs eyes track your movement. He untucks a leg, like heâs about to follow you like some lost, desperate puppy. You hold up a hand. âIâd like to be alone for a bit. You brought me here,â you canât help the narrowing of your eyes. âThe least you could do is let me have that.â
Spencer gulps, sinks back into the couch with a jerky nod. âOf course,â he whispers. He doesnât look away, not even when his bedroom door clicks shut behind you.
He turns back around, squeezing his eyes shut. He scrubs at his cheeks, as if trying to wipe the grief and guilt from his skin itself.
Thereâs rustling behind the door. Spencer pictures you crawling into his bed. He wonders if youâre cuddling his pillow, like you always do when he leaves for work in the morning.
Then he figures youâve probably thrown it off the bed. The thought tugs harshly at his chest.
He sighs, pulling the throw blanket off the back of the couch and wraps it around his shoulders. He sits in silence, his mind running too loud, too fast, for even him to keep up.
Thereâs a chill to his left. He doesnât open his eyes. Doesnât want to face the visible manifestation of his guilt, his grief.
Spencer doesnât know how long heâs been sitting there. The tea cools in both mugs; the steam rising and fading, like breathing out a ghost. His apartment is too quiet. Too silent to have you just in the next room. Too quiet for a mind like his. It feels wrong. Suffocating. Smothering. His lungs ache like heâs drowning in it.
Itâs been hours. Two cups of lavender tea, three hours lost in casefiles and novels and poetry, and none of it has helped him sleep. It hurts even more when he realizes itâs because youâre not there beside him.
Spencer stands with a quiet groan, dragging himself to his bookshelf. He stares at it, needing something else. Anything to get him to sleep, anything to quiet his thoughts, even if just for a moment.
He doesnât mean for his eyes to go to it. Doesnât even realize his handâs already reaching, already pulling it off the shelf. His mind doesnât catch up to reality until Spencerâs already sitting on the couch with The Narrative of John Smith open on his lap. Maeveâs handwriting stares back at him from the first page.
âLove is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves aloneâwe find it with another.â
The tears come before he even realizes heâs crying.
Spencerâs vision comes back slowly, like waking from a dream, walking out of a fog, seeing past the haze. He blinks, looking down at the book in his hands. He sets it down on the coffee tableâcareful, like it burns to so much as hold it.
He gulps. Two books sit side-by-side. Two mugs, four coasters.
He sighs, lying back on the couch. He listens, but the bedroom stays silent.
You wake early. So early that not even the sun is up, the birds arenât even singing, and the stars are still twinkling in the darkness. You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling in silence. Itâs so quiet here, the only sound is the crickets chirping softly outside the window.
You sit up, heaving your legs over the side of his bed with a heavy sigh. This room⌠youâll miss it. Itâs warm, comfortable. Smells like old books and clean linen and him.
Spencer.
Just the thought of him has you holding back tears again.
You shake your head, trying to push away your impending grief, and stand slowly. You open the drawer heâs dedicated to you, your hands trembling as you dress yourself. You avoid your reflection as you take the rest of your clothing out of the drawer and shove it into your bag. You grab your toothbrush and your makeup bag.
And you take one mismatched set of socks from his drawer.
Youâre slow, quiet, as you creak open the bedroom door, your bag slung over your shoulder. You peek over to the couch. Spencerâs stretched out, long limbs draping over the armrest. His brow is pinched, mouth slightly agape, but heâs asleep.
You exhale a sigh of relief. Your eyes catch sight of the coastersâyour coasters. Bright, vibrant, fruit slice circles of ceramic. They still look out of place. Still donât belong here.
You canât bring yourself to take them with you. They brighten up this warm, cozy space, this place that they just donât fit in. Youâve related to them since you brought them over.
Oh well.
Spencer can decide what to do with them. You try to ignore the stinging in your chest when you imagine him throwing them out.
With a reluctant turn, you silently slip on your shoes, tug on your jacket, and sling your purse over your shoulder beside your bag.
You donât leave a note. You wouldnât know what to say.
You exhale as you crack the front door open quietly, allowing yourself just one last glance around the apartment.
Youâll miss it.
You close the door gently behind you, careful not to let it click. Your hands shake as you lock it, fingers trembling as you remove the key from your keyring. You slide it under the door. It catches on the floorboard for a second, then disappears into his apartment. Like it never belonged to you in the first place.
Your fingers go to the tiny pink gemstone on your neck. You tug at it gently. Rest your fingertips over the chain in something not unlike reverence, before lowering your hand.
You straighten your shoulders. You donât look back.
Spencer wakes sluggishly. Like his bodyâs not quite his, his limbs tired and heavy. When he finally manages to sit up, he blinks the sleep out of his eyes. The door to his bedroom is open; he can see his bed made neatly. Too neatly.
He glances to the kitchen, expecting to see you standing at the counter, humming, pouring coffee into your favourite mug and smiling over at him, like you always do, every morning. But itâs empty.
Spencerâs brow furrows, knitting together tightly. He calls your name, soft, then louder. His voice shakes.
He rises slowly, like lost in a dream, his gaze drifting to the door.
Your shoes are gone, leaving his beat-up old converse and scuffed oxfords alone by the door. Your jacketâs not hung up beside his on the hooks. Your purse is missing from where you always hung it in front of his messenger bag.
Spencer rounds the couch, his hands trembling, panic rearing its ugly head, fear clawing at his chest. âAngel?â he tries again, his voice softer now. âSweetheart, please⌠please answer me,â he whimpers, his throat going tight.
His gaze drifts down to the floor, like heâs hoping, just for a moment, that heâs wrong. That his peripheral was lying to him.
It shines, like some cruel joke, where it rests on the hardwood, the first rays of dawn catching it.
The spare key. The one he gave you. The one he thought meant home.
It gleams from the floor, tossed carelessly, just in front of the front door, like youâd locked it and slid it under the threshold when youâd left.
Left.
He doesnât even know when you left. Doesnât know if it was hours ago or mere minutes, but the air still feels thick with your absence.
Spencer stumbles, almost collapsing to the floor beside that key. The key to his home. To his heart. The key youâd left behind.
He staggers back to the couch, eyes hollow, locking onto the coffee table. Your coasters. And your mug. Just⌠sitting there.
Youâd left them.
He swallows his sobs, choking on the grief thatâs clawing its way up his throat. They look so bright. Too bright. Out of place here, in the dim silence of his apartment. You were, too. You brought a brightness to this warm, cozy place. One he didnât know he needed until youâd taken it away. Like the sun setting, sinking slowly beneath the horizon, leaving nothing but a cold darkness in its wake. An emptiness he canât escape.
Spencer reaches for the book left beside them. Flips it open to page 639 like muscle memory.
The Cyrillic stares back at him. He can hardly make it out through the tears clouding his vision. His voice cracks as he forces the quote outâthe one he had meant to read to you just last nightâhis memory carrying him.
âI can't say it in a more orderly and comprehensible way. I love you wildly, insanely, infinitely.â
He breaks down into a lump of broken sobs on his couch, clutching the red leather-bound novel to his chest like itâs the only thing holding him together.
This is it. Doctor Zhivago, bright fruit slice coasters, and a strawberry mug. Itâs all he has left of you, when he never thought heâd have to face the reality of life without you again.
Your absence chokes him like a vice.
The air turns frigid; Spencer feels like heâs wrapped in a sudden chill, like the warmth that was in his chest is being stolen from his soul itself.
He wonât open his eyesârefuses to. He wonât face this ghost that haunts him, keeps him broken, that pushed you away. He canât look at her brown hair and warm sweater and blood on her cheek.
He just hugs the novel closer to his chest and mourns once more, wailing his grief into the air like pain personified is being ripped from his chest, leaving him hollow, empty, alone.
#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid#criminal minds#criminal minds fanfiction#spencer reid angst#criminal minds angst#reid â§Ë*°ŕż#mine â§Ë*°ŕż
2K notes
¡
View notes