#tips to reduce swelling

[iloveacaibowls111]

𝜗𝜚 ‧₊˚ ⊹

18+ MDNI, smut

dilf!toji wants a kid pt. 2

you don’t move.

can’t, really.

not with the way your breath is still caught somewhere in your chest, skin hot where toji just kissed you, where his palms were wrapped around you like he owned every inch. and god, you don’t even need to look down to know your robe is a mess - half-slipped off your shoulder, loosely tied at your waist, the heat of his body still lingering like static.

from the kitchen, you hear cereal being poured with the chaos only a toddler can summon. clinks. sloshes. maybe a plastic spoon hitting the ground.

toji’s already out the door, heavy-footed and shirtless, muttering something like “gimme a sec, bud” while grabbing the milk from the fridge.

it gives you just enough time to almost pull yourself together.

almost.

because two minutes later, he’s back - and he means business.

he doesn’t say a word. just closes the bedroom door behind him with a soft click, strides over to you like a man possessed, and then he’s on you again.

“been thinkin’ about this all morning,” he rasps, one knee pressing between your thighs as he walks you backward toward the bed. “you on the rug like that, bein’ all sweet with him…”

his hands are already undoing your robe, slipping it off your arms, letting it pool onto the floor like it never mattered. you’re left bare in front of him, flushed and aching, and the way he looks at you - almost feral - makes your knees almost give out.

toji catches you with a low grunt, arms solid as steel around your waist.

“i mean it,” he mutters, dragging his lips along your collarbone. “you’re killin’ me.”

he lifts you again, like you weigh nothing and this time lays you out across the bed. slow, almost careful. but there’s nothing gentle about the way he settles between your legs, dragging his mouth down your sternum, over the swell of your chest.

you let out a shaky breath, thighs twitching as his hand trails up to your breast, palm warm and broad and desperate.

“toji-” you gasp when he flicks your nipple with his tongue, followed by a greedy suck that sends sparks down your spine.

his voice is wrecked when he pulls back, thumb dragging over the damp mark he left behind. “should’ve locked the damn door.”

you let out a shaky laugh, hand curling in his hair. “you’re the one who left it open.”

“yeah, and i’m about to do a whole lot more if you keep lookin’ like that.” his mouth returns to your skin, kissing a path down your belly - slow, aching, possessive.

and then you feel it: his fingers brushing between your legs, groaning when he feels how wet you already are.

“…fuck,” he mutters, burying his face in the crook of your thigh for a moment like he’s overwhelmed. “you’re so perfect, doll.”

his fingers slip in with ease, thick and precise, curling at just the right spot as he watches your mouth fall open and listens to your soft whimpers. he keeps you on the edge - pushing, pulling, teasing. his name falls from your lips over and over, half-pleas, half-prayers.

just when as you feel that familiar coil in your stomach about to come undone around his hand.

just when you’re gasping, about to come undone around his hand, he pulls away.

“not yet, baby,” he says, voice tight with restraint. “wanna feel you around me when you cum.”

he strips out of his sweatpants fast, like they offended him, and you get your first look at how hard he’s been this whole time - cock flushed, leaking, twitching at the tip as he lines himself up with a low groan.

“i should take my time,” he murmurs, rubbing the head of his length against your soaked folds. “but I need you too much, doll.”

when he finally pushes his cock in - thick and deep - the stretch burning in the best way. the pure size never fails to reduce you to a moaning mess. 

you grab at his back, nails digging in as he bottoms out, voice catching on a soft, “toji-“

“shh,” he says, his forehead pressed to yours. “i got you.”

and then he starts moving - slow at first, rolling his hips deep until your eyes flutter shut, then faster, harder, chasing the way your breath stutters every time he hits just right.

when you felt his tip hit that one spot. the one that makes everything in your mind go blank. you let out a sweetened whimper as he says “ahh, there it is.”

you’re a mess under him. head thrown back. hair fanned across the pillow. his name tumbling from your lips like it’s the only thing you know.

“feel that?” he pants, hand pressing down on her stomach where there is a slight outline of his cock.”you take me so damn good. you really must want to be a mommy again.”

every thrust is rougher, needier, but still full of something tender - like he’s trying to give you something, not just take.

“gonna give you another baby,” he says lowly, voice breaking against your ear. “you want that, don’t you?”

you can’t even answer. you were too fucked out at this point.

you could just manage to nod, gasping, legs wrapping tight around him like instinct.

and that’s it for him. he groans your name - growls it, really - and leans down to kiss you hard, hips jerking as he spills his cum inside you with a low, broken sound.

he keeps moving even after, slower now, riding it out, brushing kisses across your cheeks and jaw while your bodies tremble together.

finally, he stills - sweaty, panting, arms caging you in like he never wants to let you go.

“you good?” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek.

you smile dazedly, still catching your breath. “…next time, we’re going to need more time.”

right on cue-

“mom! dad! the cereal’s too soggy now!”

toji groans against your chest. “i swear this kid is pickier than gordon ramsay.”

“i know,” you say, grinning. “but right now, you’re on milk duty.”

A/N: Sorry guys this is kinda cheeks because this is really rushed

part one here

[dmitriene]

reader pulling ghost’s zipper down with her teeth 🤭

cw: barely there mention of sweat, just filth.

you're a dangerous one, simon ghost riley had always said, when his captain and sergeants were too curious to not ask who's a pretty bird in his phone gallery, in the messages, on the wallpapers of his home screen, the lines at your eyes crease in a grin that matches the razory sharp glint your gaze mirrors, the one that thrills even through the screen, the days that passed since the picture was taken, and they know for sure, that there's not a single lie on his tongue, that you're the one.

you get him stripped bare to every bone, raw and tender in all his willingness to open up for you, show the scarred tissue of him, stained fingers, sensitive heartstrings, when you get on with teasing him, fingers tracing all sharp, yet at the same time full edges of his body, honed by years, by work, by labor, to then being reduced down to nothing but loose power, bitten down attempts at taking a steady breath, chapped lips glistening with the saliva traced there with his own tongue, coating reddened flesh wet.

simon's control gives out like a bowed string stretched too tight, when his eyes, hooded low, take in your form kneeling on at his feet, chin lifted high to look at each flicker and twist of his face from beneath your sooty lashes, his own, pale and almost translucent beneath the light, flutter on top his glazing eyes, jaw clenching, almost tickling, and you still hadn't touched him yet, but it's soon to be changed, as you lean in, smiling beneath your nose when his exhale comes wrecked, stuttered.

every corded muscle in the firm wall of his abdomen ripples beneath the slow, meticulous drag of your palm, down to the waistband of his cargos, the comfortable looseness of the fabric unable to hide the heavy, restless outline of his aching cock, and it's makes you lick down your intuitively pursing lips, his throat already rumbling around a spilling groan, but your fingers are slow when they get his belt out precisely, making sure it's out of every loop, before your mouth opens wide.

cold metal of the zipper between your clenched teeth's, you drag your face down and press your nose close, ears picking on the sharp, strained moan that rips the air between you apart, you smell his arousal, the musk, the tang of sweat, and continue until the zipper teeth part, there's a spill of hairs that rows down his navel, sinking beneath the rubber of his boxers, gathering at the root of his flushed, rigid cock, as you hook a finger in and drag the unnecessary underwear out of your way, damp from precum that spills pearly from his slit, now face forward with you.

palm squeezing the crown of his cock, tacky with drizzling, slicking precum that coats down your rubbing, nimble fingers, wrapped around the girth, index and thumb rolling over the veiny bulging flesh, stroking over the sensitive tip, making simon's hips roll, buckle forward and chase the quiver of his bending legs, as you press in his soppy slit, remove your finger to watch the stretch of glittering strings, too much, too teasing, so when your mouth parts to take him on your warm tongue, the gummy insides of your cheeks hollowing, blood roars in his ears and drips with your name on his slacked lips.

you're soaking wet through your own panties, lips puffy, no mistake all glistening and sopping with all the slick that oozes out and pools to seep in the now sticky fabric, uncomfortably so, making your legs rub together to try and elevate the ache that seems to permeate wholly from the swelling nub of your clit and in every alight nerve you have, simon's cock twitching inside the tightness of your drooling mouth, and he won't be able to stay composed enough to not drag you off his cock and scoop you up his arms with ferine urgency.

grinding down towards the floor, the toe of his boot, greased from all the dirt he never really scrubbed off, and it's does something to him, plays with his already twisted mind wrongly, as your tongue lavishes upon the underside of his pulsing cock, lips puckered and glistening of him, throat quivering out a hum, taking him in in and in, bulbous tip brushing against your palate, and there's lighting in his gut and up his spine, wide, long fingered hand clasping down at your scalp, tugging, his name a muffled chirp that escapes your full mouth.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[saturnsorbits]

Skintight

Fandom: My Hero Academia, Warnings: Suggestive, Word Count: 2.1k.

Summary: Sero's got an embarrassing problem.

A/N: This is a new flavour of Sero for me, but I love this one just as much.

'You can't laugh...' Sero's voice is thick in the back of his throat forcing him to attempt to cough out it's awkwardness.

It doesn't work.

There's still the tell tale pinkness of a deep blush around his cheek bones, one that streaks down his neck and vanishes beneath the high, black neck of his suit.

Holding open your front door, you raise your eyebrows already on the cusp of giggles. He's leaning on your door frame, his arm pinned above his head, elbow pressed into the wood in a way that was almost charming. 'Okay...'

'Can – Actually...' He leans back, glancing down the corridor. 'Can I come in?'

'Of course.' Stepping aside, you watch as he slips into your apartment keeping his back almost flush with the door. You watch as he goes, side-stepping his way into your living room before turning quick on the balls of his feet to face you – the same sheepish smile etched into his features. Pausing, you tilt your head. 'Are you okay?'

'Y – yeah, uh...' He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he fidgets.

You raise your eyebrows, tipping forward slightly on your tip-toes.

'I – ha... See it's funny really because -.'

'Hanta, spit it out.'

He sighs. 'I'm stuck in my suit.'

You can't help it, a chuckle bubbles up your throat and spills helplessly over your lips.

Rocking his head back on his shoulders, Hanta groans. 'I said not to laugh...'

Sucking in air through your teeth, you struggle with party balloon lungs until the wheezing subsides and you can stand a little straighter again. 'Yeah, yep, sorry...' A stray gasp leaks from your lips, forcing you to bite down on the seam to silence it. 'Go on.'

'It gets worse.' He sighs. Squeezing shut his eyes, he licks over his lips before admitting. 'I'm naked in here.'

'I'm sorry, what?' You cough, disguising the tension in your lungs. It's hard not to look then, to really look, given the new information you've just been presented with.

Black spandex, strengthened with some obnoxiously named polymer stretches over the expanse of his shoulders. He's wide there, wider than you'd expect given his slight frame, but there's no denying the muscle that lingers under the material. The black extends, covers the swells of his pecs and then tapers, cutting into odd triangles that frame the ripples of his stomach. He's not as well muscled here as he is in his shoulders. Instead of the rough blocks of abdominal muscles, his are streamlined, forming two long, thick stripes of muscle that are almost totally visible through the pale of his suit.

Letting your eyes sink lower still, your gaze lingers on the thin strips of malleable metal that serves to strengthen his suit, but also inadvertently seems to perfectly highlight the deep creases that mark out his torso. You swallow. Hidden under a black square of material, barely contained by what you have to assume is at least two layers of material is a thick bulge. The swell is obvious, casting darkened shadows onto the twitching muscles of his thighs.

'Naked, me, under here...' Gesturing his crotch, he widens his eyes.

'The fucking zip snapped and I can't ask anyone to fucking help peel me out because whoever does it is going to get an eyeful of, well... Me.'

Blinking repeatedly, you swallow the saliva collecting in your mouth and snap your eyes back up to his. His jaw is tight, his stare worried and wild as he looks at you for an answer to a question you're not sure he's got the balls to ask.

Although, new information could prove you wrong.

It's in that instant that the silliness of the situation hits you right back over the head again. You manage to hold your laughter for a solid three seconds before it's tumbling out of you again. This time, it catches you off guard, rolling through you and almost reducing you to a crouch as Sero winces in front of you. 'Why couldn't you get one of the boys to help? Surely they've seen everything before...'

'And have Denks take the piss forever? No thanks.'

'Oh...' You fold your arms across your chest. 'And you think I won't take the piss? Is that it?'

'No.' He answers too quickly, but manages to trap the rest of his half-baked confession behind his teeth before it drops into the palm of your hands. The truth is, he doesn't think he'd mind you taking the piss – he doesn't think he'd mind you doing anything to him, in all honesty. Maybe that's why instead of slinking back to the agency and hoping that Hatsume was in her workshop, he'd found himself here, almost twenty minutes out of his way. He shrugs. 'But, maybe you'll be nicer about it?'

Locking eyes with him for a moment, you pause to watch him sweat before rubbing your hands together. 'C'mon then...' You smirk. 'Let's see how big that dick is.'

'Can you not?' Sero snaps, shivering when your palm meets the muscle of his shoulder. You slide your touch across him, moving in one solid stroke from his deltoid to the thick muscle of his back. The touch, as innocent as it is, makes his stomach tighten, molten lava churning as he submits to your teasing. A soft giggle slips your lips, sliding into his ear like sweet sherbet, making him half regret his decision to ask you, but then, your fingers are playing at the dips just above his collarbone and stealing coherency from him once more.

The suit is cooler than you'd expected. You can feel it, the tips of your fingers growing colder as you search across his chest, fingertips pressing against him in a search that quickly becomes fruitless.

Scratching, you use your nails to rake down his chest and attempt to ignore the way you can feel him respond. His whole body bristles, muscles tightening as a ripple uses his spine like a fire pole. You lick over your lips and hope he can't hear the shake in your voice. 'Where the fuck is the zip on this thing?'

Stretching back his shoulders, Sero swallows. 'It's, uh, around the back...' Gathering the loose hair

Immediately, you lift your hands as if burnt. Now, your groping feels gratuitous – sexual in a way that it wasn't meant to be. Not really. When you step behind him, twisting your hip to avoid bumping it against his, you don't let your fingers wonder.

It's not hard to find it, not now you're laser focused. There's a small bump. The slightest overlap between the two sides of his suit as it wraps around the base of his neck. A few hours ago there had been a zip, the thin strip of metal poking, just, from the material, but now, there's nothing there: Just the slight bump.

Laying one hand flat against the muscle of his back, you use your index finger to skate up the zip – parting the fabric as you go. At the top, you hook your finger under the suit and begin to work at opening it.

Each touch sends a series of short static shocks up through his body, forcing him to tense the plain of his stomach to keep him from folding over. He can feel it, the delicate slip of your fingers as you manage to shift the zip from the top of his spine to near between his shoulders. Inhaling, he starts to wonder if this was a bad idea after all.

'You want me to just keep going, yeah?' You move slowly now. It's almost obscene. A private strip show. One you're participating in, that wouldn't even be happening without you. The thought has you fighting your own composure, forcing you to lock your knees to keep them from shaking.

'Ye – yeah.' He forces a laugh into his voice, but it catches behind his Adam's apple and slips out of his mouth a rasp. 'It stops like, like,' he coughs. 'Like just above my ass.' The bridge of his nose crinkles, a cringe folding his features as he stops talking.

'Okay.' Your fingers feel like they're burning as your decent reveals more and more skin. The smooth plain of his back is revealed, the muscle underneath rippling as it's loosed from it's material confines.

It's intimate in a way you'd never expected as with the slick of his suit, so too are hidden secrets revealed. There's a mole just under the curve of his right shoulder blade. A scar that runs parallel to his spine, the skin still pink and fresh. The edges of black ink that wraps around the edge of his left hip.

When the zip finally draws to a stop, you can see the cleft of his ass. If you were to slip your hands inside, splaying your fingers across the warm breath of his lower back you'd be able to sink your thumbs into his back dimples. You imagine he'd sigh. Let his head roll back on his shoulders as you press close to him. Maybe you'd let your hands slink further, following along the grooves of his hips; lines that would lead to lower and lower, until...

'All done?' His voice is wound tight when he speaks, locked somewhere in the basin of his throat and released as if thrown out on a breath.

Your reluctant to step back, to recede from the heat of his body, but you manage it. 'Yep.' You pat his back, feeling the muscle relax under your touch. 'All done.'

He turns, already wriggling his shoulders free from the material of his suit. 'Thanks, thought I was going to be trapped forever in this thing. It's so...' Slipping his fingers under the latex clinging to his left shoulder, he stretches it from his skin. 'Difficult to fucking get out of.'

You chuckle and watch him struggle. He twists around himself, peeling the second skin of his suit away only for it to snap back and illicit a hiss from between his teeth. 'C'mere, before you do yourself some serious harm.'

Sero shivers as your hands skate underneath the suit and peel him from it. He'd close his eyes to hide from the intimacy of your slow undressing of him, but all that would do is conjure images of what he wishes would come afterwards. Images of him repaying the favour, slipping you from your oversized hoodie and sinking to his knees then repaying you again in a wholly different way. He can already imagine how easy it would be to have you, and yet... 'Thanks,' he mumbles.

'No worries.' You giggle, catching his eye before you step back: his shoulders and arms freed. 'Tell you what though...' Your eyebrow arcs, a coy smile playing at the edge of your lip. 'That really doesn't hide anything, does it?'

Eyes widening, he swallows hard. The knowledge of your staring, dare he even dream admiring, sends a shock wave of tension directly south. He cock kicks, his ass clenching as if to try and disguise the too obvious bulge against the front of his costume. In an instant, his hands sink, the top-half of his suit bunched in his fist as he plays the move for comfort and hopes you don't notice a thing. 'I...'

'I'm just joking around, Han.' You chuckle around the lump in your throat. There's a notable pulse in your stomach, one that sinks by the second and has your thoughts turning savoury.

'I'll...' Sero hedges. There's an energy in his muscles, one that makes him want to bounce on the balls of his feet and do something silly.

'Do you want a t-shirt?'

The more he looks at you, the more kissable you look. You always look kissable, but right now, with the sun coming in from your living room window and that small curious smile itching at your lip... You look phenomenal. He shakes his head. 'I'll just swing home. I'll be too high and too quick for anyone to notice that I'm semi-shirtless... My place isn't far.'

'Oh, okay.' You try not to let your disappointment show, but there's a notch that forms between his eyebrows that makes you wonder just how successful you'd been at disguising it. Slinking to the door, Sero has one foot over the threshold before he turns.

Fuck it. He thinks.

'Can I tell you something?'

Your eyes shine, head tilting. 'Of course, anything.'

'I really, like, really wanna take you out to dinner.'

Your lips break into a smile, forcing apples into your cheeks as a chuckle slips through your teeth. 'Yeah?'

'Yeah.' His smile matches yours, reaching his eyes and making him glow. 'Next week? That new place down town?'

You nod, chewing at your lip as you try not to feel like an excited school girl. 'It's a date.'

Sero's heart stutters, thudding in his chest. 'It's a date.'

-> Masterlist

[aomiiine]

JUST WANNA KISS

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ─── 𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍!𝐌𝐄𝐍 w fem!reader where you ask for a kiss mid fucking. warning(s) -> fluff(?? it’s just a tiny bit sweet lol) + nsfw. mdni. sanzu x reader. ran x reader. + hanma x reader. not all of them agree to kiss you. they’re mean. tiny bit of guilt tripping(sanzu). a lil hint of pussy drunkness(sanzu). blowjob(ran). implied brat taming(ran). hints of choking(ran). a tad bit of deep throating(ran). spit(ran). overstimulation(hanma). slight degradation(hanma). spanking(hanma). hints of dacryphilia(hanma). format -> headcanons/scenarios wc. 2.2k

author’s comment. re-entering my tokyorev era cs bonten arc is getting animated soon + ik hanma isnt in bonten but hes my fav

SANZU — fuckin’ hell, you greedy girl

Sanzu had your legs pressed up against your chest, thighs squishing your tits and your cunt on display, currently pounded by Sanzu and his ruthless hips. You were a sobbing mess, mumbling almost nonsense with how fast and harsh his thrusts were, his pretty cock pulsing deep inside you, hitting the most sensitive parts in your depths.

Even with your hazy gaze, you had a somewhat clear vision of your boyfriend’s face, the scars on both corners of his lips smeared with your cum from earlier when he was buried between your legs, drinking from your cunt like it was a fountain. His glossed lips reflected the little moonlight that illuminated your room, making them seem so enticing to you despite your fucked out state. Biting your tongue, you mustered the little energy you had to speak between your heavy breaths.

“I wan’ a kiss, baby—please, f-fuck” you muttered with your shaky voice, small squeals leaving your lips from the way his hips slammed into you, feeling your insides churn and tighten around him. He hissed in response, too dazed in the feeling of your wet pussy sucking him in, ignoring you.

“O-oh, shit, you’re so fucking tight, so fuckin’ mine,” was all you heard in return to your plea, your hips wiggling as if wanting to catch his attention. But you knew damn well how your boyfriend was when he’s like this—with you. He gets too high, too pussy drunk. It gets almost impossible to pry his attention from that delicious cunt of yours.

“Sanzu, listen to me, please,” you called out again, the words slipping from your tongue whinier than intended. But it was enough to snatch his attention again, even if for a split moment.

Your fluttering eyes met his turquoise ones, batting your lashes and squinting to hold back the moans that wanted to escape, the feeling of his hips slowing down sparking a hint of frustration in you.

“What is it, princess? Need me to go harder?” Sanzu heaved as if he was waiting for this moment, as if he was ready for to fulfil that request at a moments notice. The crease between his brows deepened, grinding into you deeper and staying there for a while with his fingers almost clawing into the supple flesh of your thighs. His eyes couldn’t help but dart frantically between your face and the squelching mess where your skin met.

“I-I want a kiss,” he heard you whimper, your voice at a volume he knew he wouldn’t be able to hear if he kept on pounding into you like he was earlier. Sanzu’s scarred lips curled to a smirk at your weak voice, the expression on your face along with your pants assuring him he’s succeeded in reducing you to a moaning bitch in heat.

It took him a moment to process your request, still occupied in the swell of pride he felt from the look you had on you, satisfied with how your body reacted to him. With a smug hum he leaned down to you, pushing your legs up further to your chest, his lips capturing yours just when you were about to whine. In a split second, he had his tongue forcing its way past your lips, swiping against your tongue and biting onto the tip of it teasingly before pulling away. The mischievous glint that appeared in his eyes gave you a gist of his next move, knowing he’d be focused on shoving his tongue down your throat now that he had a taste of you.

“Aren’t you being greedy here, hm? I’m already fucking you stupid and you have the nerve to ask for more,” Sanzu drawled cruelly, pulling his drenched cock out of your cunt teasingly slow until his tip was on the brink of leaving your slit. He knew just the way to stimulate you more than you already were, though he wondered if your fucked out mind had the capacity to notice the games he played on your exhausted mind.

RAN — havin’ my cock’s a privilege

It was somewhere past midnight and Ran had you knelt between his legs, mouth swallowing his cock like you hadn’t had a taste of him for years. Deep groans rumbled from his chest, head laid back against the backrest of the couch of your home while he had his fingers gripping a fistful of your hair, controlling how deep, how fast, your throat went down on him. And you were more than willing to satisfy him—until you weren’t.

Ran knew how much of a brat you were despite your seemingly obedient exterior, and it was exactly what got him going. He gained the utter most satisfaction in taming you, his own little brat to whore out. But today wasn’t the day he had the patience to deal with your attitude.

“Fuuuck, your throat so tight for me, baby. Trained it so good, didn’t I?” He groaned loudly, fingers tangled in your hair to push your head down on his cock, managing his strength to let you pull out for a bit to suckle his tip. He was tired, and it showed. Usually he’d be more teasing, more attentive to you and your pretty face. But now all he did was praise your skills in sucking him off.

Your eyes were wet with tears that trickled down your face due to how deep you took him, though that didn’t stop you from gazing up at him, waiting for the moment he looks down at you. His fingers tugged on your head further, earning a sharp gag from your bruised throat that only contracted around his fat cock even further.

You should have felt grateful, you knew. He was tired, plus it was 2 in the morning, who were you to expect the same treatment from him all the damn time. But fuck, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss the way he’d tease and egg you on, his undivided attention. It wouldn’t hurt to be a bit of needy, right?

With a wet pop, your lips parted from his tip, a string of saliva connecting you two until it broke. Ran’s previously closed eyes opened to glance down at you, a vein on his neck bulging from silent frustration.

“I don’t wanna ask you why you stopped, princess but ‘m gonna need you to keep going,” he grunted, his hips shifting forward a bit and his head laying back against the sofa’s headrest. You could see the subtle bobs of his adam’s apple from your perspective between his legs, the way he was so relaxed at the moment leaving you feeling unreasonably annoyed.

“I want a kiss, Ran,” he heard your slightly hoarse voice utter. He exhaled a deep sigh from your request, his fingers laced in your locks gathering them in a weak fistful. He didn’t move from his position for a moment.

“Do you need it bad?” Ran asked, almost rhetorically. He knows your answer, just needed some motivation from you to actually do it. He wouldn’t do shit if it didn’t do him any good—and your pleasure was something he needed to keep an eye on, no matter how fuckin’ exhausted he was.

“mhm,” the soft hum left your throat with a small nod, glassy eyes looking up at him almost expectantly.

“Of course, baby. Gonna give you all the kisses ya need,”

You watch him push his back off the backrest of the sofa, leaning down to you with his slender fingers tugging on your strands to pull your head back. Your lashes fluttered in anticipation of the kiss you so bravely demanded from your boyfriend.

The second his lips captured yours in a passionate kiss, his tongue slid past the seams to swirl his tongue with yours deliciously. Warmth crept up to your cheeks, feeling a sense of relief in your chest from his compliance with your demand for a kiss. The moment felt tender to you, the hints of whiskey and cigarettes on your tastebuds a familiar occurrence.

Your lashes flickered open when he broke the kiss, your eyes half-lidded in a haze from the fiery kiss still. But the moment was quickly escalated with his free hand moving around your neck, his grip tightening suddenly.

“R-Ran—,” you squeaked, your words choked in your throat from his grasp.

“Sshh.. I gave you what you asked for, now you have to return the favour,” he hushed, his voice smooth yet deep, his intense purple orbs boring into the mess of your face, watching your features contort to a slightly fearful look mingled with lust that couldn’t be hidden behind your eyes.

Before you could utter a word, his thumb moved to your chin, forcing you to open your mouth wide. Everything happened so fast. You heard an audible pft and felt a warm pool of saliva on your tongue.

“Don’t look at me like that.. I’m helping you,” he drawled, the corner of Ran’s lips curled to a smirk, watching your lips slowly close as you processed the fact that he spat in your mouth. With a rough yank, he pulled your head back close to his crotch, your nose inches away from his erect cock looming over your face.

“Now finish what you started like a good bitch.”

HANMA — lets see if crying’s gonna get you anywhere, dollface

You were sure that the floor below you could hear your moans, though you doubted they’d dare complain about it. Not when it was Hanma that had you screaming and moaning into your pillow with his hands keeping a firm hold on your hips so you don’t ruin the perfect angle he was fucking you in from behind.

“Hanma, I can’t no more—can’t cum anymore,” you cried out, hair thrown over your shoulders and sprawled onto the damp pillow you clenched close to you. You would have felt the ick at the thought of having your face covered in your slobber and tears in any other situation but not now. You couldn’t help it—he had you calling out to him every thrust he made, not giving you a chance to close your mouth and stop yourself from biting onto the soft fabric.

“Liar. You said that 3 minutes ago and squirted on my dick right after like a fucking slut, dollface,” he scoffed between his own ragged breaths, fingers digging onto your skin enough to mark you with red.

Hanma wasn’t lying of course. He pummelled his hips deep into you harder just to taste another wet orgasm from you, the clenches on your warm cunt around his girth was enough to make him shudder. And now, he wanted another taste, not caring if this was your fifth time cumming for him, he was determined to take it.

You whimpered at his refusal to give you a break, burying your face into the pillow again while his hips made repeated contact with the flesh of your ass, the leftovers of your previously shared orgasm dripping onto the sheets. The lewd sounds your wet pussy made he slid in and out of yours depths filled your ears, making you lightheaded and weak. Even though he’s been fucking you the past hour, you couldn’t get used to how his hard cock stretched you out, allowing you to feel so full yet aching still. The restless thrusts behind you had you drooling and moaning more than you could, leaving your mouth feeling damp yet lonely. He hasn’t kissed me in a while, you noted.

“H-Hanma, kiss me,” you breathed out, turning your head to look over at him through your glassy doe eyes, damp lashes fluttering at him almost pleadingly. Your cheek squished onto the pillow, glossy lips pouting. Hanma felt a certain pang of arousal seeing you like that, your skin folding at the sides of your waist from how much he was fucking you into the bed and your head turning back to peek at him—all that just to demand a kiss from him.

“Where’d you get the nerve to demand something from me, baby? It’s—fuuck-so fuckin’ hot,” he grunted in response, hissing through a cruel laugh from how you were fucking him back so eagerly, your velvety walls spasming around him. “Pretty little thing can finally use her words, huh?” was all you heard him say in that smooth yet mocking tone of his before feeling a sharp slap land on the flesh of your right ass cheek, his fingers digging into the stinging skin roughly before pulling you back onto his cock.

“Fine then. I’ll—nngh, only kiss you when you cum,” Hanma groaned through gritted teeth, his grip on your hip tightening along with the palm he had on your ass cheek. He wasn’t moving his hips anymore, instead, he started helping your body fuck him with little to no regard for your limbs.

“You’ll get your sloppy kiss once I’m done fucking you,” he promised, coos filled with mock-sympathy leaving his lips between his relentless thrusts, growls of impatience leaving his throat and harsh impact making contact with your skin making you sob. As if you couldn’t get any louder, the onslaught mixture of pleasure and pain he inflicted on you elicited a series of filthy moans that would no doubt fill your home.

“Let’s see if crying’s gonna get ya anywhere, dollface,” he scoffed, clearly pleased at your tears and whimpers all the while he dragged your hips on and off his dick like a ragdoll, intent on chasing your orgasm along with his own.

[miupow]

★ ── LE SEXE, JE VEUX DIRE !

what happens when you give the hyung line an aphrodisiac 。 。 。?

꒰୨୧ ꒱ pairing。stray kids hyung line x fem!reader genre。 pure smut , pwp warnings。 aphrodisiacs , sex while intoxicated , breeding kink , primal play , vaginal fingering , oral (m. rec) , deepthroat , unprotected sex , creampies , masturbation (m. rec) , phone sex , diy porn , sex while filming

a/n ⸝⸝ requested skz version of my txt drabble! i’m lowkey not a big fan of this… but here it is anyway lol. [ 0. 7k words ] ⸝⸝ [ m. list ]

𝔅ANGCHAN

chris is completely sure the aphrodisiac candies you purchased wouldn't do a thing, just a silly marketing gimmick printed all over the foil packaging he turned over in his hands. but you had gotten them as a surprise, and the last thing he wants to do is hurt your feelings– so he casts aside his doubts and eats his share with a smile, ready to put on his best show of pretending to be affected. he wouldn't even be really acting, since you can get him going no matter what... yet to his complete shock reduced to a mess within minutes, panting and squirming above you, his hips canting up to press the swell of his clothed cock against the curve of your ass. his control slips when you grind back against him, pussy drunk and unable to think of anything other than fuck, claim, breed as he flips you over and mounts you like an animal. he’s definitely having you get more of these.

𝔐INHO

minho’s immediate response to you showing him the chocolates was to scold you for wasting money on worthless placebos. there was no way you believed that they would actually do anything, right? but he eats them with you anyway, because you’re very persuasive when you’re pouting. he’ll tell you they did nothing for him at all, as he’s knuckle deep in your pussy, your hot little mouth swallowing his cock to the hilt. he didn’t feel a thing, as he’s lining up his weeping tip to your entrance. he’s completely unaffected, watching with dark hazy eyes as his thick cum leaks out of your hole. those stupid chocolates had nothing to do with how he fucked you until the sun came up. and you let him believe it, because it gives you an excuse to try it again.

𝓒HANGBIN

changbin always finds some way to derail your plans… you had hidden some aphrodisiac chocolates your had bought in hopes of surprising him with them later, but you were never the best at hiding things— your boyfriend finds them within the first day. mistaking them for regular candy, he eats them without a thought; and hours later he calls you desperately from the studio, hiding in the bathroom with his pants around his knees as he fists his aching cock. the lewd wet sounds echo against the tile and harmonize with his pretty low moans, all filtering directly into the phone’s speaker and making your pussy throb. “i need you so bad,” he whimpers, his hand speeding up, “need your pussy so bad…” detailing in a needy groan every nasty little thing he planned to do to you once he got home, the growl in his voice enough to make your legs shake. you hated to ruin the mood, but you just had to know; “binnie, did you eat those chocolates in the pantry?” “um… maybe?”

𝓗YUNJIN

the candies were his idea, actually— he figured they were a perfect addition to the films he liked to make. you couldn’t even call them sex tapes, with how careful and artistic hyunjin was in filming them… but he loved to film often, and was always coming up with new ways to keep things new and exciting. sharing candies between kisses on camera, hands wandering as you lay tangled together on the hotel bed. the both of you growing hotter and needier as time went on, gentle caresses turning into rough manhandling, tugging at each other’s clothes til you were both bare in eachother’s arms. hyunjin looks straight into the camera with a smirk as he flips you over onto your hands and knees, your face buried in the pillow to muffle your scream when he slides his thick long cock into your wet pussy with one firm thrust. he reaches over to pick the camera up off of it’s tripod, angles it down so it gets a clear view of your asscheeks bouncing against his abs from the force of his thrusts, his big hand pressing down on your arched back as his cock splits your creamy cunt open. neither of you last as long as usual, deeply affected by the aphrodisiac and desperate for release— he makes sure to get the best possible angle of him pulling out and cumming on your ass, pearly white ropes of cum decorating your flushed skin like a painting. you’re his favorite work of art, and he just can’t get enough of showing it off.

[tired-teacher-blog]

Whenever he's craving a kiss from you, Izuku would do anything in his power to have his wish fulfilled without wording the request itself, never daring to hold eye contact either, and simply averting his gaze while struggling to get his point across because he'll die of embarrassment otherwise.

Last week for instance, you had decided to curl up on the sofa with a cup of cocoa and a movie to watch, saving a spot for your boyfriend who -for a while- was nowhere to be seen.

You could still sense his presence in the hallway though, shuffling around nervously and mumbling under his breath about something that you could not unravel, until finally appearing, hobbling his way to you and plopping down with an exaggerated 'humph' that announced his plea for your attention.

_ "What is it honey? Did something happen? Was there a problem at work today?" you paused the movie and shifted your weight a bit so you could face him instead, searching his eyes for an answer that came soon after.

_ "What! No no there were no problems I promise, everything is fine!" an awkward chuckle rocked his chest as he scratched the back of his head nervously.

It's astounding really, that this beast of a man, the number one hero who's bigger than most guys his age, and who strikes fear in the hearts of everyone that dares oppose him, can be reduced to a bashful mess in front of you.

_ "Then what is it? Tell me." and you couldn't help the curl of your lips as you took in the blush reaching the tip of his ear.

His only response was a frustrated huff and a cute little pout while he fidgeted anxiously in his seat.

You watched in amusement as he took your hand in his and fiddled with your fingers, your smile growing wider when he suddenly leaned his face into your warm palm, rubbing his cheek against it like a little puppy before gently pressing the delicate tips of your fingers on his parted lips.

Cute..

Your heart swelled with adoration for the man in front of you as he strove to wordlessly justify his behavior, and as much as you wished to feign nonchalance for a tiny bit longer, your eagerness for closeness matched his own.

_ "Izuku, look at me." you softly requested and he instantly obliged, bright eyes focused on yours as you slowly leaned in to capture his lips..

That's your man, too needy to sit still when you're around, and too shy to express his desires verbally, fortunately though, he doesn't really have to, since you always get him.

[pooksamiras]

- amira. 5/25. 4:50 PM.

Simon’s breath came in ragged bursts as he knelt between her thighs, fingers pressed into the plush carpet to steady himself. the afternoon sunlight slanted through the blinds, striping her body in gold and shadow as she leaned back on the edge of the bed—eyes heavy-lidded, lips curved in that wicked, patient smile he both loved and dreaded.

he’d been on the brink more times than he could count, her teasing touch and whispered commands drives him up the wall. each time he’d beg for release—voice thick, eyes pleading—she’d pulled away at the last second, letting him taste promise without granting it. now… now he’s spent on need.

her fingers dance along the length of his shaft, slow feathered strokes that made his cock twitch in desperate gratitude. every inch of him throbbed, veins pulsing with pent-up fire. Simon hissed as her thumb skipped over the crown, drawing a shaky moan that echos off the walls.

“not yet,” she purrs, the words a soft lash. she leans forward, capturing his mouth in a deep, shuddering kiss—tongues tangling—before she pulls back, leaving him gasping, hollow-eyed with want.

he swallows hard, gripping the carpet tight, his knuckles whiten. her lips form a challenge. he’s on his knees; she’s in full control—and he loves it.

“please,” he rasped, voice low and broken. “I need you.”

she reaches up, tracing a sultry line from his chin down to his chest, fingertips brushing over the rigid swell beneath his shirt. Simon bucks against her touch, cock hardening with every breath. she smiles, only the barest hint of indulgence in her gaze.

“show me you deserve it,” she whispers.

her hand flashed down, encircling his cock with a firm, guiding grip. she began to pump—slow, deliberate—letting him build until he’s quivering. Simon’s back arched; a soft groan rumbling in his chest. he closes his eyes, head lolling back, utterly at her mercy.

then she stalls—pulling away so abruptly he cursed, hissing as the delicious tension snaps taut. he opens his eyes to see her watching him with that predatory glint. he lunges forward, desperate to reclaim even a fraction of the pleasure she’d taken away, but she presses a palm to his chest, halting him.

“not yet,” she repeats, voice velvet-soft.

he swallows the groan threatening to escape, heart pounding. her fingers were back, gliding over him in slow circles, each pass a fresh ignition. Simon’s hands tangle in her hair, pulling her down into a bruising kiss as he tries to steady himself.

for long, torturous minutes she worked him — teasing glides over his tip, firm strokes along his shaft, the flat of her palm brushing below his balls. he shook, voice cracking as he begs again, but she only rewards him with a sharp edge of her nail that made him see stars.

at last—he’s trembling so hard he could barely hear his heartbeat—she gives him exactly what he’s earned. her hand wraps him fully, pumping with rhythm and skill that drove him wild. she leans in, warm breath tickling his ear.

“cum for me,” she coos.

Simon’s head drops back, mouth falling open in a raw, silent plea. beneath her touch, the pressure built to a fever pitch. his hips buck involuntarily, pulling her hand against him, needing more. she matches his thrusts, guiding him with a steady hand, with a shuddering cry he tips over the edge.

he came with a guttural groan, hot spurts coating her fingers, dripping down his shaft. his body seized, chest heaving as wave after wave of pleasure rips through him—long, intense, cleansing. he clung to her hand as if it’s a lifeline, eyes squeezed shut, mind reduced to brilliant white light.

when he stilled, trembling and drenched, she brushed her thumb tenderly over his slick skin, capturing his release.

[tacobacoyeet]

la sombra | patrick zweig x reader

warnings: SMUT 18+, divorced!reader, retired!patrick, alcohol, crying, cursing, everyone say thank you to @artdcnaldson for sending the picture that inspired this whole fic

The island was the last dot on the map. A speck of green surrounded by turquoise, barely big enough to house the string of low bungalows and the stubborn curve of jungle that clung to the cliffs. It didn’t boast resorts or spas or curated experiences. It wasn’t tagged on Instagram. That’s what you liked about it.

You arrived with a round-trip ticket, a weathered suitcase with only enough clothing for a week, and a silence that pressed against your ribs like a bruise. The divorce had been finalized two weeks ago. Twelve years of love—if you could even call it that by the end—reduced to paperwork and the sour memory of his voice echoing through empty rooms. He’d said things. You had too. But his words stuck longer.

"You always need so much."

"You're exhausting to love."

"Maybe you're just better alone."

Maybe you were. You hadn’t decided yet. But the city was too loud, too filled with people who looked at you with pity or, worse, relief. So you booked the first place that didn’t have a concierge or Wi-Fi. The island had no formal name. Locals called it La Sombra—the shadow. Something about the cliffs.

When the ferry pulled away and left you standing on the dock, you realized it was quiet in a way you hadn’t felt in years. The kind of quiet that made your heartbeat feel too loud.

You walked up the dirt path toward your bungalow with the sun already warming your shoulders, the humidity curling your hair at the edges. The woman who ran the rentals handed you a key on a string and said, simply, "You’ll get used to the birds."

Inside, the bungalow smelled like lemon oil and salt. The bed was wide and draped with mosquito netting. The floor creaked when you walked barefoot across it, and dust danced in the streaks of sunlight coming through the slatted blinds. You moved slowly, deliberately, letting the hush settle around you.

You unpacked your suitcase in silence, folded your clothes into neat piles, lined up your books along the bedside table like talismans. A small framed photo—your mother, before she got sick—went beside the lamp. A bottle of lavender oil from your last birthday. The things that still made you feel like yourself.

It was hotter than you expected. The kind of sticky, thick heat that pressed into your skin and clung to the back of your neck. You stripped off your travel clothes and pulled on a linen tank top, bare feet padding across the wood as you tried to force the windows open. Most of them cooperated, swinging outward with a creak. But the bedroom window—the one that faced the sea—was jammed.

You tried once, twice. Pressed your palms against the frame and gave it all your weight. Nothing. The latch refused to budge. Swearing under your breath, you grabbed your key and stepped outside, circling the bungalow to try from the other side.

The light out here was harsher, all white glare and golden sand. You shaded your eyes with one hand, squinting up at the wooden shutter. It sat half-cocked, paint peeling at the corners. You reached up, fingers brushing the edge—

“Don’t force it. You’ll crack the frame.”

The voice was low, smooth and sun-drowsed, like it hadn’t been used much lately. You turned sharply.

He stood just off the path, leaning lazily against the split rail fence that framed the neighboring bungalow’s edge. Shirtless. A threadbare white towel wrapped around his hips, clinging low. His skin was bronzed, freckled. Salt crusted the tips of his hair. There was a half-buttoned linen shirt slipping off his left shoulder, like it had given up. His eyes—dark, tired, and steady—were fixed on you.

He nodded once toward the window. "It sticks when the heat rolls in. Swells the wood. Gotta pop it from the side, not the middle."

You blinked at him. Sweat prickled the back of your knees.

“I—thank you. I just got here. Didn’t realize it was so stubborn.”

“Most things here are.”

He pushed off the fence and moved closer, stepping barefoot across the grass, slow and unhurried like he belonged to the island as much as the sea did. He didn’t ask permission, just reached up and tapped the frame twice with the flat of his palm, then lifted the window open with ease.

The silence stretched.

You were still staring.

He looked like someone you'd seen before—on a screen, maybe. A memory knocking faintly. But the heat muddled everything, and all you could think to say was, “Thanks.”

His mouth curved. Not a smile. Not yet. But something close. "Welcome to La Sombra."

Then he turned and walked away, back toward his bungalow, towel shifting at his hips, shoulders golden in the sunlight. He didn’t look back.

You stood there a moment longer, hand still on the window frame, heart suddenly loud again in your chest.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t do anything inappropriate. But something about him still left your skin feeling too tight. There was a gravity to the way he moved—something sun-warmed and heavy, like heat mirage off asphalt. You stared after him until he disappeared behind the corner of his bungalow, and only then remembered to breathe.

Your hand slid off the frame.

Inside, the air felt different. Still hot. Still thick. But changed.

You sat on the edge of the bed, pressed your fingers into your temples. Maybe it was the sun. Maybe it was the exhaustion. But your body buzzed in a way it hadn’t in a long time. Not since before the silence. Not since before you stopped feeling like someone who could still be wanted.

You pulled your hair back and tried to shake it off.

He was just a man. Just a stranger. You were here to be alone. To heal. To not need anyone.

Still, your eyes drifted back to the window he’d fixed.

The breeze moved through it now.

Soft. Salted. Like something had opened in you too.

---

That evening, the heat still hadn’t broken.

You slipped into a sundress and sandals, hair twisted off your neck, skin still tacky from the shower. The island’s one bar—if you could call it that—was a lean-to with string lights, driftwood stools, and a cooler full of beer that looked older than your divorce papers. You didn’t go expecting anything. You just wanted to be somewhere that wasn't silent.

And then you saw him.

Patrick. At the far end of the bar, laughing low with the bartender and an older man who looked like he’d been born with salt in his blood. Patrick's curls were damp again, clinging to his temples. This time he wore real clothes—if a thin, half-buttoned shirt and board shorts could be considered that. But even then, he looked like something carved out of the sun.

You hovered by the edge of the counter. Ordered something with rum and lime and too much ice. Watched him out of the corner of your eye while pretending not to.

It was the way he moved—loose, unbothered. Like he had nothing to prove and no one left to impress. When he glanced your way, it wasn’t shy. It wasn’t flirtatious either. Just curious.

A beat passed. Then he lifted his glass slightly in greeting.

You raised yours back.

And when he crossed the space between you, leaned one forearm against the bar and said, "So. You stuck with the window, huh?"

You laughed. It surprised you.

"Thought about throwing a rock through it instead."

"Would’ve been a hell of a first impression."

You smiled into your glass. "You mean that wasn’t?"

He smirked. "Jury’s still out."

Then came the drinks. More than a few. You both acknowledged it—openly, lazily, with grins that bordered on goofy. "We’re definitely drunk, right?" you asked, somewhere between your third and fourth round.

Patrick raised his glass like a toast. "Spectacularly."

You giggled into your straw. "Just checking."

"No false pretenses here," he said. "I am deeply sunburnt, pleasantly buzzed, and absolutely not responsible for anything stupid I say in the next hour."

"Good," you said, tapping your glass to his. "Me neither."

The bartender slid another drink your way with a look that said pace yourself, but neither of you listened.

"So," you said, words slurring just a little at the edges. "Patrick. What’s your deal? You live here?"

He exhaled a laugh. "'Deal' is generous. I’ve been here about five years. Came for a week. Never left."

You raised a brow. "That’s... commitment."

"Or cowardice. Depends who you ask."

You tilted your head. "Why’d you stay?"

He hesitated. His gaze flicked toward the surf, the moonlight turning the water silver. Then he downed the rest of his drink in one go and set the glass down a little harder than necessary.

"Tried the whole being-somebody thing," he said. "Didn’t work out."

You waited.

He didn’t look at you as he said, "Played tennis. Professionally. Burned out fast. Lost more matches than I won. Spent more time in hotel rooms than actual homes. Woke up one day and realized I didn’t like who I was around anyone anymore. So I left."

You blinked slowly. The name Patrick Zweig landed differently now. It clicked in a faraway, wine-soft part of your brain.

"That’s why you looked familiar."

"Yeah," he said. "Don’t tell anyone."

You grinned. "There’s no one to tell."

He smiled back, lopsided and tired and stupidly charming. "Then I guess I’m safe with you."

"For now." You started with another round of rum and lime, then switched to something local the bartender recommended with a wink and a warning. The kind of drink that tasted like fire and citrus and made your limbs feel like silk.

He asked what brought you here, and you surprised yourself by answering. You kept it vague at first—"needed space"—but he didn’t press. He just nodded like he knew what that meant. Like he’d needed it once too.

“What about you?” you asked, fingers tracing the condensation on your glass.

Patrick shrugged. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

It should’ve been evasive. It wasn’t. It felt true in a way that made your throat tighten. You both lapsed into silence for a moment, watching a moth bat its wings against the warm light over the bar.

“So what’s the story with this place?” you asked. “Why does everyone talk about it like it’s some secret?”

He smiled—really smiled, finally—and looked out at the dark horizon. “Because it is. It doesn’t want to be found. Just lets you in if you need it bad enough.”

You looked at him. “And you needed it bad enough?”

He looked back. “Didn’t know it until I got here.”

Another drink. Laughter a little louder now. You told him about the worst date you’d ever been on. He told you about the first time he tried surfing and cracked a board in half. You teased each other over music taste. He guessed—correctly—that you cried during The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. You accused him of pretending not to like romantic comedies.

“I don’t pretend,” he said, hand over his heart, drunk and mock-serious. “I just have a brand to protect.”

“Oh yeah?” you teased. “And what brand is that?”

“Lonely island hermit who knows how to fix windows.”

You snorted into your drink. “Sexy.”

“I try.”

The conversation turned softer then. The kind of softness that comes with alcohol and salt air and the slow settling of trust. You told him about how your ex used to interrupt you mid-sentence. How you forgot what your own voice sounded like when it wasn’t measured or polite. He didn’t offer advice. He just listened, head tilted slightly, fingers absently turning his empty glass.

Eventually, your knees brushed. Then your hands. Then his thigh pressed lightly against yours and neither of you moved.

He looked at you like he was trying not to ask anything.

And you looked back like you already knew the answer.

The kiss was quiet. Almost shy. Rum-sweet. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything but still makes a promise.

And when he said, “Let’s get out of here,” you didn’t hesitate.

The walk back to your bungalow was clumsy and giggly and full of soft, stumbling touches—his hand on your lower back, your fingers brushing his wrist. At the door, he stopped.

"You sure?"

You didn’t say anything.

You just pulled him inside.

The door closed behind you with a quiet click, and then his mouth was back on yours, urgent and open, laughing between kisses. You stumbled into each other, giggling as your shoulders hit the wall. Then his hands were on your hips—your waist—your back—anywhere he could touch. One of you tripped on the woven rug near the entryway and suddenly you were both collapsing sideways onto the couch, tangled in limbs and laughter.

"Shit—are you okay?" he asked, breathless against your neck, laughter still shaking his chest.

"Totally," you said, pulling him down to you, lips finding his again.

Your hands found the hem of his shirt. It was damp with sweat and ocean and clung to his skin like it didn’t want to be removed. But you made quick work of it anyway, yanking it up over his head, tossing it somewhere you didn’t look. His fingers tugged at the straps of your dress in return, clumsy in their coordination but relentless in their goal.

You kissed and fumbled your way across the room, pausing only to shed another layer—your dress halfway down your body, his shorts undone, the two of you drunk and glowing and practically naked before you reached the bedroom door.

Once inside, he backed you toward the bed, mouths still fused, fingers trailing everywhere. When you sat, he knelt in front of you, hands pushing your thighs apart gently, reverently.

“Let me taste you,” he murmured.

You shivered. Nodded.

He tugged your underwear down slowly, eyes never leaving yours. And then his mouth was there—hot and insistent. His tongue dragged through you, slow and heavy, and you moaned before you could stop yourself. His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer, anchoring you as he kissed and sucked and circled until your spine arched and your fingers dug into the sheets.

Then came his fingers.

He slipped one inside, then another, curling expertly, rhythm syncing with his mouth until your breath hitched hard.

You gasped. "Wait—"

He stopped instantly, pulling back, breathing heavy. "Too much?"

You shook your head, grabbing his wrist. “No, just—just wait. Condom. I want you inside me.”

His eyes darkened. “Yeah. Okay.”

He stood, kissed you hard, then reached for his wallet. The wrapper tore, fast and familiar, and then he was kneeling on the bed, rolling it on, his chest rising and falling like he couldn’t quite keep up.

You reached for him as he settled between your legs, body warm and heavy and ready.

And when he pushed in, you both exhaled—like you’d been holding your breath since the moment you met.

Your head tipped back, a shaky laugh slipping out as you clutched at his shoulders. "Holy shit."

He was shaking with the effort to stay still, forehead pressed to your collarbone. "Yeah," he muttered. "Yeah, that’s... fuck."

He rocked into you slowly at first, both of you finding your rhythm in fits and starts, laughing through the awkward friction of drunken limbs and too much heat. The fan spun uselessly overhead, and every surface of your skin felt damp, your bodies sliding together with a kind of slick, delirious friction.

You grabbed at his back, your nails raking lightly down his spine as he found the angle that made you gasp. His mouth dropped open, then found yours again—sloppy, panting, desperate. He kissed like he didn’t know where else to put all that want.

The headboard thunked softly against the wall. The sheets twisted beneath you. One of his hands cupped your jaw, the other anchored you by the hip, keeping you close as his thrusts got rougher, deeper. Still laughing, still panting, still soaked in the scent of alcohol and salt and too many unspoken things far too soon.

"You feel so fucking good," he whispered, teeth grazing your throat.

You were trembling, clinging to him, words slurring with breath. "You’re gonna make me—" another laugh, "—fuck, yes—don’t stop."

He didn’t. Not until you were crying out, back arched, toes curling against the tangled sheets. And even then, he didn’t stop until he followed, hips stuttering, gasping your name into the damp skin of your shoulder.

He collapsed beside you, one arm draped across your belly, the two of you laughing again, softer now. Slower. The room spun a little. The air was thick. Your whole body felt like it had melted into the mattress.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

You turned your head toward him, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moved for a while.

There was no posturing. No awkwardness. Just skin and sweat and laughter, echoing faintly under the low hum of the ceiling fan.

Outside, the waves kept rolling. Inside, the two of you finally quieted.

You weren’t sure when you drifted off, only that his hand was still resting on your hip, warm and lax, and your cheek was pillowed against his shoulder. The fan above spun in lazy circles, stirring air that barely cooled your skin. The salt dried sticky on your chest. Your legs were tangled together beneath the sheet.

When the morning came, it didn’t arrive gently.

Sunlight poured in through the open windows in a blinding blaze, casting gold over the floorboards and onto the rumpled bed. It was hot—hotter than yesterday somehow—humid in a way that made the sheets cling to your back and your mouth feel dry. Your body ached in all the ways that reminded you of the night before: the way he moved, the way you laughed, the way it felt to be touched like you mattered.

You rolled over with a soft groan, eyes squinting against the light, reaching instinctively for the warm weight beside you—

But it wasn’t there.

The space was empty. Just tangled sheets and the faint scent of salt and sweat. You blinked. Sat up slowly. Heart clenching.

Gone?

The giddiness of the night before dropped, hollow and fast. Maybe he hadn’t meant to stay. Maybe it had only been a story for the bar. Maybe you were a chapter he didn’t even finish.

You wrapped a sheet around yourself and padded barefoot into the main room, stomach tight.

But then—

On the small kitchen table sat a bowl of fresh mango, pineapple, and guava, their colors bright and glistening. A few wildflowers—hastily arranged, some wilted at the edges—sat in a cracked mason jar beside it. And there, folded neatly between the two, was a slip of paper in smudged, crooked handwriting:

hangover cure. also: last night was... really something. you know where to find me. if you want to. but i really want you to. — P

You stared.

Then you smiled. Slow. Warm. Relieved in a way that loosened something tight in your chest.

Still, the guilt crept up too. You were freshly divorced. This was supposed to be a solo escape. You were only here for a week.

But for now, for today, he wanted to see you again. And that felt like enough.

You made coffee. Ate a little fruit. Sat on the steps outside the bungalow with your legs tucked under you, watching a lizard blink slowly on the porch rail. The island moved around you at its own rhythm—kids yelling somewhere near the shore, the buzz of a boat engine far out in the bay, wind whispering through banana leaves.

He wasn’t in sight.

You didn’t expect him to be. And yet, every time you glanced up, your eyes instinctively sought the path that led to his side of the beach.

By noon, you had showered. Worn a different dress. Tried to read one of the books you’d brought but barely made it through a page.

The guilt sat with you like a second shadow. You shouldn’t have let it happen. Shouldn’t have wanted it to happen. Shouldn’t be this affected by someone you barely knew.

But then you'd remember the way he touched you like he knew exactly how to ask permission with his hands. The way he made you laugh into his mouth. The note. The fruit. The wildflowers.

By late afternoon, you walked into the village just to move your legs. You bought more sunscreen. A cold bottle of water. Sat on a bench and listened to old men argue over chess in a language you barely understood.

You didn’t see him.

But when you returned to your bungalow just before sunset, there was a second note tucked under another bundle of flowers on your porch. One line. Written hastily, like he wasn’t sure he should leave it.

low tide. sundown. bonfire by the rocks. if you come, bring that smile.

Your heart thudded.

You set the note down, fingers trembling slightly.

You were going to go.

---

The sun dipped low, spilling honey across the sand and turning the water to fire. You stood at the edge of the bungalow, bare feet brushing the steps, watching the sky shift through every warm color you could name. In your chest, your heartbeat kept an uneven rhythm.

You told yourself not to overthink it. Just a fire. Just a night. Just a man.

But nothing about Patrick had felt like just anything.

By the time you made your way down the narrow path toward the rocky outcrop, the light had thinned to deep lavender. The breeze had cooled, carrying salt and smoke and something sweeter beneath it—something floral and faintly burnt.

The bonfire glowed ahead of you like a beacon. Flames licking at driftwood, snapping softly. And there he was.

Patrick.

He was crouched low, feeding another branch into the fire. His curls were messy, but somehow sat in a way that was nothing short of perfect. A linen shirt rolled to the elbows. His skin caught the light, all bronze and gold and flicker.

He looked up before you could say anything.

And smiled.

Not smirking. Not teasing.

Just smiled. Soft. Quiet. Lit from the inside.

"Hey," he said, rising to his feet. He dusted his hands on his shorts and stepped closer, stopping just a few feet away. "Wasn’t sure you’d come."

You shrugged, trying for casual, but your voice caught. "Wasn’t sure I should."

He nodded. Didn’t push. Just gestured to the fire. “You hungry?”

You noticed then—two skewers stuck into the sand, each holding something charred and a little misshapen. Mango slices. Maybe fish. He scratched the back of his neck. “Island cooking. Not exactly gourmet.”

You laughed. “Looks perfect.”

You sat together in the sand, not quite touching. The fire between you, crackling and dancing. His knee brushed yours when he shifted. Your elbow nearly grazed his when you reached for your drink. You didn’t say much at first. Just listened to the surf and watched the moon rise slow and round behind the trees.

Eventually, he spoke. “I thought about waking you up this morning. Saying something. But…”

“But?”

He looked over at you, firelight flickering in his eyes. “Didn’t want to risk ruining it."

You swallowed. “I thought you left."

“I almost did,” he admitted. “Old habit. But then I made it to the porch and didn’t want to be the guy who fucks and disappears. So. Fruit and flowers. Figured it was worth the risk.”

Your smile curved slowly. “It was.”

He turned more fully toward you then. Close. Closer. Close enough to see the sweat still clinging to his neck, the gold in his lashes, the way his mouth parted when he looked at yours.

And when he kissed you again, it was different.

Slower. Calmer. Still hot, still deep, still curling heat low in your belly—but steadier now. Like he wasn’t rushing this time. Like you weren’t either.

You kissed for a while—long, melting, slow. Lips brushing, tongues tangling softly. His hand slid to your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. He kissed you like he wanted to learn you by heart. And you let him, sighing into his mouth, anchoring yourself to his bare shoulder.

But something caught in your throat. A breath you couldn’t quite finish. The weight of the week—the weight of your year—rising like a tide in your chest.

You broke the kiss gently, but with urgency. Your hand pressing flat to his chest, pushing back just enough to part.

He blinked at you, surprised but not upset. “Too much?”

You shook your head, stepping away, arms folded over your middle like you were trying to hold something inside. “No. That’s the thing. It’s not.”

The fire crackled behind you, shadows shifting across the sand. Your voice faltered in your throat. “I just got divorced. Two weeks ago. Not even enough time to change my name back or clear my head. And now here you are.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just listened.

“I came here to disappear,” you continued, voice cracking. “Not to feel again. Not like this. And it’s terrifying how easily you made me want to.”

You looked down, your arms tightening. “I’m leaving next week. I don’t want to pretend this is more than it is. I don’t want to pretend I could be enough for someone again, let alone someone like you.”

He stepped forward carefully, until he was close enough that you could feel the warmth of his chest. “You know what’s funny?” he said softly.

“What?”

“I said those same words when I got here. ‘Just for a week.’ I meant it. But the island had other plans.” He smiled, but there was no humor in it—just something deeply lived-in. “I wasn’t trying to be found either.”

You looked up at him then, and the sadness in your chest stretched wide.

“I’m not asking you to stay,” he said gently. “I’m not even asking you to want me. I just…” His hand ran through his hair. “I’d like to be whatever this is. For as long as we have.”

“But what if I want more?” you whispered. “What if I get used to this? To you?”

He stepped closer still, until your foreheads nearly touched.

“Then we’ll deal with it,” he said. “I won’t make you feel foolish for feeling something. I won’t disappear on you. Let’s just let this week be what it is. No pretending. No rules. Just... real.”

The quiet between you was thick. Not tense—full.

You breathed. In. Out. A little steadier now.

And then, softly, you nodded.

He reached for you again, this time slower, his fingers brushing yours as though he didn’t want to startle you. When you leaned into him, the kiss that followed wasn’t eager—it was aching. Gentle. Deep.

But even as you kissed him again, your chest hurt in a way it hadn’t before.

Because now you knew it wouldn’t be enough.

---

The next few days moved strangely. Time loosened around you, less like something passing and more like something folding in. Each morning you woke tangled in sun-drenched sheets and the warm imprint of his body beside yours. Sometimes he was still there, pressed close, one leg thrown over yours like he couldn’t help it. Sometimes he was already up, leaving behind fresh fruit and flowers on the porch—always with a note, always with a promise.

You fell into a rhythm. Morning swims in the crystalline shallows. Long walks through the thick green of the jungle where he knew every bend, every birdcall. Lazy lunches that turned into sticky afternoon naps. Your bodies learned each other’s shapes as easily as they learned the creak of the bungalow floorboards, the scrape of coconut husk chairs on wood.

Evenings came soft and golden. He cooked for you—badly, but with intention. You’d sit on the porch drinking rum from chipped mugs, the salt on your skin clinging sweet. You talked. About books. About silence. About how tennis ruined him and how being wanted had never felt quite like this before.

You laughed a lot. Sometimes until you cried.

But the ache never left. It curled around the edges of your heart like smoke. Because every time you let yourself lean in—into his mouth, his hands, his voice—you felt the clock ticking.

Only a few days left. Then a few less.

You tried not to say it aloud, but it lived between you anyway. In the way his eyes lingered when you thought he wasn’t looking. In the way your hands tightened when he pulled you close. In the way you both hesitated before sleep each night, as if afraid the next breath might be goodbye.

You were falling.

And for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like crashing.

It felt like mourning something beautiful before it was even gone.

---

The day before you were supposed to leave was almost unnervingly normal.

You made coffee. Ate fruit on the porch. Swam until your fingertips pruned and your legs ached in that good, useful way. He met you after lunch, pressed a kiss to your shoulder like he had been doing it for his entire life, and made some joke about you burning in places only he could see.

You let it all happen. You let it feel ordinary. It was easier that way.

You didn’t talk about tomorrow. He didn’t ask. You didn’t offer.

That evening, the sky was painted in molten amber, the kind that made everything feel holy. You were sitting on a blanket on the beach, passing a bottle of rum between you, when Patrick turned his head toward the horizon, eyes gleaming.

“Wanna go skinny dipping?”

You blinked at him.

He grinned. “One last first. Come on. Water’s warm. No one’s around. It’s basically a crime not to.”

You laughed, something breathless in your throat. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet…” he waggled his brows, already standing, already peeling his shirt off.

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was thudding. He looked golden in the fading light, the curve of his spine catching shadows as he waded into the surf.

“Don’t leave me out here alone,” he called, voice half-laugh, half-dare.

So you stripped, giggling, stumbling a little over the hem of your dress, your skin already tingling with anticipation. The air was warm, the sea warmer. It cradled you as you stepped in, arms crossing instinctively before you gave up and just dove under.

When you surfaced, he was there. Close. Salt clung to his lashes. His smile had softened.

You tread water in silence for a beat. The stars above you multiplied with every passing second. The moon spilled a path across the surface. It should have felt free. Liberating. Like a movie.

But something pressed at your chest.

He must’ve felt it, too. Because he swam closer, letting his hand brush your waist under the water.

“Hey,” he said, quiet now. “Still with me?”

You nodded, but it was trembling.

“I don’t want to leave,” you whispered.

His breath hitched. That close, you felt it more than heard it.

“I don’t want you to,” he said.

You turned your face up to the stars, blinking hard. “I’m scared if I stay, I’ll build a whole life around something that can’t last. That I’ll forget why I came here in the first place. That I’ll forget who I am without all this.”

Patrick’s hand came to rest gently over your heart, fingers spread like he could hold it still.

“You didn’t forget,” he said. “You found something. That’s different.”

You met his eyes. Salt and moonlight and ache.

“I don’t want to break your heart,” you murmured.

He gave you a sad smile. “You already have. But I think you were always supposed to.”

You floated there, water licking at your shoulders, his hand on your chest, your breath shared in the dark.

When you stumbled back to the bungalow, clothes barely thrown back on, your hand stayed in his the whole time—tight, silent, like letting go might break the spell.

Inside, it was dark and humid and quiet, but none of it mattered. The door clicked shut. You turned. And then you were on him—kissing him like you had all the time in the world and none at all. His hands found your waist, your jaw, the back of your neck. You walked him backward into the bedroom, mouths locked, breath heavy, wet clothes clinging to your skin.

He pulled your soaked dress over your head. You tugged at the waistband of his shorts. You were still damp from the ocean, skin salt-sticky and warm. He cupped your face like you might vanish.

You kissed again, slower this time. His lips dragged over yours with something deeper than lust—like longing, like mourning, like gratitude for the fact that you were still here. You whimpered into his mouth as his hands slid down your sides, gripping your thighs, lifting you up.

He laid you down on the bed like you were breakable, but then his mouth was on you, not soft anymore—needy, greedy, wet. He kissed down your neck, your chest, your stomach. When he reached the soft inside of your thigh, he looked up at you, breath hot, hands anchoring you in place.

And then he was there.

His tongue parted you and you gasped, back arching, hands flying to his hair. He moaned against you, eating like he was starving. Broad strokes at first, then tighter, faster. You were already so close—your body strung tight, heart already aching. But you held on. Fought the wave. Not yet. Not yet.

“Patrick,” you gasped, one hand fisting in the sheet. “Please.”

He pulled off with a breathless sound, lips slick. “Please what?”

“Come here,” you whispered. “I need you.”

He crawled up, kissing you deep, and you could taste yourself on his tongue. Your hand slid down, wrapping around him, stroking him slowly.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he groaned.

You smiled sadly. “Then we'll die together.”

And then you were sliding down, taking him in your mouth with no hesitation. Your lips wrapped around him slowly, deliberately, savoring the taste and weight of him. His cock pulsed against your tongue, hot and thick, and you flattened your tongue along the underside, drawing a moan from deep in his chest. One of his hands slid into your hair, not to guide but just to anchor himself, fingers curling loosely as if even that was too much. You bobbed your head in a steady rhythm, hollowing your cheeks and watching his reactions—how his thighs tensed, how his breath stuttered, how his abs clenched each time your tongue flicked over the sensitive tip. You let spit drip down your chin, let your jaw ache, let the moment drag—messy, loving, desperate. Like if you kissed him here long enough, maybe he wouldn’t leave your body ever again. He bucked beneath you, head tipping back, a broken sound falling from his lips. You sucked him slow at first, then deeper, wetter, letting the edge come close before backing off again.

When he pulled you off with trembling hands, he flipped you gently onto your back. A condom appeared like magic from the nightstand, and then he was pushing inside you, inch by inch, stretching you until your breath hitched.

You both groaned—one part pain, two parts relief.

He fucked you like he didn’t know how to say goodbye. Each thrust was deliberate—deep, slow, lingering—like he was carving the memory of your body into his. His chest was pressed to yours, sweat slicking you together, every inch of him taut with restraint. His hands gripped your thighs, your hips, your face, moving between reverence and need. He whispered into your neck, voice cracked and soft, confessions unraveling like thread—"you're everything," "I’ll never forget this," "please don’t forget me."

You cried. Quietly. Without warning. And he kissed the tears from your cheeks, whispering your name over and over.

Your bodies moved together like prayer—sacred and desperate. You clung to him, your nails digging into his back as he rocked into you, slow and deep, forehead resting against yours. Your breaths synced, your moans layered, and with each roll of his hips, the pain of parting simmered beneath the pleasure. You kissed between gasps, hands wandering frantically over each other’s skin like you could memorize every detail in a single night. His body trembled against yours, and when your release came, it was with a sob that pulled from somewhere ancient inside you, the feeling tearing through you like a heartbreak you had felt before, but never so viscerally. And when he followed, he buried his face in your neck and said nothing.

You stayed like that.

Breathless. Tangled. Drenched in heat and sweat and silence.

The last night. The last time.

And it would never, ever be enough.

---

You woke to the scent of him first—salt, sweat, and something warm beneath the morning sun. His arm was heavy over your waist, one leg thrown over yours, chest pressed to your back, steady in sleep. The room was glowing with golden light, the heat already beginning to settle thick in the air.

For a moment, you stayed still. Let your eyes trace the tangled sheets, the trail of clothes on the floor, the soft rise and fall of his breath behind you.

He hadn’t left.

You blinked, and something stung at the corners of your eyes. Not because you were sad. Not yet. But because something about the quiet—about being held like this—felt so good, it ached.

You shifted slightly, and he stirred, breath puffing against your shoulder.

“Hey,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“Hi,” you whispered, not daring to move too far. “You stayed.”

His arm tightened slightly around your waist. “Wasn’t going to miss the last morning.”

You let out a soft breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “God, Patrick…”

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

He kissed your shoulder, your neck, your jaw. Slow, lingering touches like he was still memorizing the shape of you. When you rolled over to face him, his eyes were open, soft and serious.

“I don’t want you to go,” he said.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just brushed your fingers through the mess of his curls, watched the way his lashes fluttered.

“I don’t want to either,” you finally said. “But I have to.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “Why?”

“Because… that’s not real life out there. This is a vacation. A dream. I have to go back and figure out who I am again. Who I want to be.”

Patrick nodded slowly. “Then let me be part of that. Let me be real, too.”

You swallowed hard, blinking at the ceiling, the light brushing gold across your cheek.

“You’d leave the island?”

He was quiet for a long moment.

“I came here to disappear,” he said finally. “And for a while, I needed that. I didn’t want to be seen. Didn’t want to fail in front of anyone else. But you…”

He turned onto his side, propping his head in his hand as he looked down at you, his expression so open it hurt.

“You make me want to try again. Not tennis. Not the tour. Just… people. Life. You make me want to be known again.”

Your lips parted, but you didn’t know what to say. So you reached for his wrist, holding it gently, grounding yourself in the shape of him.

“What if this only works here?” you whispered. “What if the island was the only place it made sense?”

Patrick smiled, soft and sad. “Then we tried. And I’d still be glad we did. I don’t want to wonder what could’ve happened if I’d asked.”

The ache in your chest spread like warmth. Fear and hope tangled tight.

“We go slow,” you said.

He nodded. “As slow as you want.”

You hesitated a second longer, then leaned up to kiss him. Not with fire. Not with hunger.

But with something stronger.

---

The plane was quiet.

Not silent—not with the hum of the engines or the occasional clink of a coffee cart—but quiet in that way only morning flights can be. Soft light filtered through the oval windows, casting everything in a pale gold.

You were in the window seat. Patrick beside you, his leg pressed to yours, his hand resting palm-up on the armrest.

You laced your fingers through his.

Outside, the island was already disappearing beneath the clouds. Just a blur of green and shoreline swallowed by distance. You watched it until you couldn’t see it anymore.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Eventually, Patrick leaned in, voice low. “Do you think they’ll miss us?”

You smiled, eyes still on the fading horizon. “The fruit stand lady might. You tipped too much.”

He grinned, squeezing your hand. “You think she knew?”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze. “That I was running away? Or that you’d been hiding for years?”

His smile faded just slightly. “Both.”

You didn’t answer. Just looked down at your joined hands.

It hit you then, all at once. You weren’t going back to your old life. Not really. You were starting something entirely new. And so was he.

Two shadows, left behind on a porch in La Sombra.

Two people, chasing light.

“Let’s figure it out,” you whispered.

Patrick nodded. “Yeah.”

You rested your head on his shoulder. He kissed your hair. The clouds shifted, and below, the ocean stretched out forever.

And somewhere beyond it, a beginning.

-----

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[woodywood101blog]

Rusty thought it was an incredibly generous allowance being offered by Defence to join the Preparing Regimental Excellence for Geo-strategic Objectives (PREGO) Program. "$100,000 for the first phase, then an extra $125k for every subsequent phase you sign up for? Hell yeah!"

Rusty was like any other officer in the Army - tired, overworked, underpaid and sick of command. So when the PREGO Program came up, he was hoping it would allow him to be posted to a separate area of Defence. Of course, if he read the fine print, he'd realise that there is no change to duties during and following participation in the PREGO Program.

Regardless, Rusty signed up and agreed to be part of a specific element of the program, called PREGO-Max. He didn't really get what that was about, but all Rusty needed to do was "stay the course, embrace the program and listen to your body".

He was a little bit confused by the last tip, but it all clicked when he went to his first networking session 3 months into the program, where he met Ryan, one of the longer-serving members of the PREGO Program. He had a slightly bloated belly that almost looked perfectly round like a -

"Let me guess, you signed up for either the money or for steroids?" Ryan asked, lightly caressing his belly.

"Oh, well, out of those options, I joined for the money?"

"Ha, well! $100k a year is roughly how much it's costing me to look after each of my children. They eat like horses, and they're all under 5."

"Sorry, what?"

"Clearly you didn't read the details, just like me. It's kinda in the name... PREGO... sounds like..."

"Oh shit!"

"Bingo! You're up the duff, mate. And sounds like you joined the new stream of the research, called PREGO-Max. I've been asked if I want to join, and I've said hell no. So, good luck..."

Rusty turned away, feeling a deeply sick feeling in his stomach. "Listen to your body" kept ringing in his head.

***

And Rusty well and truly listened to his body. The PREGO-Max program is specifically looking at how elastic the male body could become, allowing more men to become pregnant either more frequently or with multiples, and then safely and healthily return to their pre-pregnancy physiques sooner than those in the PREGO Program. In other words, it's the PREGO Program on much stronger hormones.

Rusty was mortified by how rapidly his body was transforming. He lost a lot of his muscle mass, which clearly converted to energy for the huge baby growing inside him. One of Rusty's fellow officers jokingly poked him in the chest one time, which triggered a wave of pleasure across his body. It was the first sign that he was growing fully-functioning breasts to feed plenty of milk to his child.

After finally reaching the end stage of his first pregnancy, Rusty was keen to move to Part 1B of the first phase - transition back to pre-maternal physique. He worked out incredibly hard at the base gym, and made the most of the incredible hormones provided by the Max program. Sure enough, after 3 months of work - made easier by the fact he was off-duty on parental leave for that time - he looked almost exactly how he did before he signed on. For the researchers, they were amazed by how malleable Rusty's body was.

The only part that appeared to not budge in changing back was Rusty's chest, which made some sense as he was still producing milk for the baby. He was a bit peeved that he couldn't reduce the swelling, but he hoped it might change once all the hormones are completely out of him. Otherwise, he noticed that he wasn't quite able to fit into his pre-pregnancy pants due to his hips and butt blowing up, so he had to go a size or two up.

After a couple of months away from the Max program, it became clear that Rusty was struggling to afford to look after the child. Ryan was right when he said that the kids coming out from this program are ravenous, and that's just with Rusty trying to feed formula to his child to make up for his weaning breast milk supply.

So, after some careful thought, Rusty decided to sign up for the PREGO-Max Program one more time. The researchers were ecstatic, and made some minor tweaks to Rusty's program to see if he could handle the most extreme option available.

"Listen to your body" was ringing in Rusty's head.

***

Rusty slowly waddled into the photography studio. All he was told by the Max Program researchers was to arrive for some photos, notwithstanding this was not his regular weekly progression photos at the research lab. One of the researchers explained that they wanted to celebrate Rusty being the first male in the program to carrying quadruplets safely. Rusty bristled at the thought of this gargantuan excuse of a belly being worthy of celebration, but he put on a brave face and took part in the photoshoot.

Rusty became a star of the PREGO Program very quickly due to his unique situation. The researchers would beg Rusty often to present at networking sessions, but Rusty continually refused the offer. He would arrive at the sessions, say hi and vent to Ryan, then leave the session.

At the next networking session, Rusty came early to grab a seat near the back of the mess so that he could make his quick exit as usual. Ryan quickly sat next to him, holding his newborn baby.

"So, do you know what today's speaker topic is?" Ryan asked.

"I have no clue at all... all I know is that I want it to be a quick speech so I can get out of here. I can feel these babies sitting at my ass."

"Well, you're the one who decided to -"

"I didn't fucking sign up to carry four!"

At that moment, a researcher got up on stage and began a presentation on developments with multiple pregnancies across the PREGO and PREGO-Max Programs. Most people dozed off, including Rusty. However, Ryan very quickly nudged Rusty awake when they showed off Rusty's photoshoot to the crowd, acknowledging his achievement.

"Those motherfuckers." Rusty muttered under his breath. One of the kids kicked him directly on his prostate, causing his penis to accidentally cum. "I am actually done after this."

"Yeah yeah, you say that, then next year you're going to see the money dry up and come back for more... You know, 'listening to your body' and all that?" Ryan said as the presentation ended.

Rusty grunted as he slowly got up from his seat and waddled out of the venue, trying to avoid engaging with anyone, particularly the fucking researchers of the PREGO Program.

[honeytonedhottie]

refresh, reboot shower routine⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🧖🏽‍♀️🧁

WHATS A REFRESH REBOOT SHOWER? ;

a refresh reboot shower are the kind of showers that u take that act like a reset button. i personally love them especially when i feel like i have so much energy pent up and i can channel it into doing something positive for myself.

ROMANTICIZE ;

something important to remember while taking a refresh reboot shower is to be PRESENT. thats what makes these showers different. instead of doing ur normal shower routine, or ur everything shower routine, this is the REFRESH REBOOT shower routine.

take time to feel the water on your skin. make sure its to the exact temperature that you like. smell the products that ur putting on ur body and bask in how yummy they smell. feel the soapy foam beneath ur fingers, wash every inch of urself HAVE FUN.

GUA SHA IN THE SHOWER ;

sculpt that beautiful face. gua sha is good for so many reasons. its good to reduce puffiness and swelling and its amazing for ur lymph nodes. do a full gua sha routine and watch how amazing u feel.

EXFOLIATION ;

exfoliation feels like (at least for me) like im shedding an old skin and revealing a new one so its a MUST for a refresh and reboot shower. so before the shower do some dry brushing for the softest skin then go in with a body scrub.

i rly recommend the tree hut scrubs or you can make your own with this simple body scrub recipe. so first off decide if ur doing a salt or a sugar scrub and i'll briefly explain the difference here.

sugar scrub ; deposits minerals into the skin, gentle exfoliation, hydrates the skin, helps draw water into the skin, less abrasive, smoothens and brightens the skin.

salt scrub ; eliminates toxins, gives a rosy glow, anti aging abilities, provides minerals vitamins and nutrients, tones and restores the skin.

to make a sugar scrub simply (1/2 cup of coconut oil + 1/2 cup of granulated sugar + 15-20 drops of essential oil of choice)...💬🎀

hot tip ; if u want to make it more scented you can even use a couple drops of a body wash along with the essential oil

to make a salt scrub simply (1 cup of sea salt + 1/4 cup of a carrier oil + 10-20 drops of essential oil of choice)...💬🎀

CHANGE UP THE SCENT ;

if u have a signature scent that you do a lot of the time, try and go for a different scent. im a hygiene junkie so i like to have a variety of different soaps to use, even though i almost always stick with the basics (smelling like a yummy cupcake) unless i want something different. changing up the scent can be refreshing so if you feel like it'll be refreshing for you, try and go for a different scent for a couple of days.

DOUBLE CLEANSE ;

if double cleansing isnt something that u do on a day to day basis then its perfect to do in ur refresh and reboot shower. wash ur body first with a bar soap (preferably something unscented or organic)

doctor bronners soaps work good too if u dont have a bar soap that u like. after using the bar soap go in with a liquid soap (ofc following the scent guide in the previous section) that way you can feel even more squeaky clean and refreshed.

[tojisun]

i need more dadbod!simon

!! smut - minors dni; female reader

thinking about the way simon takes you on your knees, your hands bound on your back, your wrists held by his hand. it makes you drool, the way his strength overpowers you; the way you are suspended for him to use.

the swell of his gut sits on your pretty ass as he humps his cock in your pussy, the stretch of it so big it makes your body lock, preparing for the crescendo of your orgasm.

simon fucks you through it—slipping his cock out slowly, torturously, before pressing in deliciousy, hitting that one spot so intimately deep, you begin whimpering, all delirious from the myriad of pleasure sparking all over you. you don’t know if you want to run away from the way his cock kisses somewhere sensitive, or if you want to push back and meet his thrusts.

he grunts in his pleasure, his other hand mapping out the plane of your spine, massaging your taut muscles as though he isn’t fucking you so well. as though you haven’t been reduced to babbling mewls.

“please,” you hiccup and something in simon shifts because he’s pulling out and pulling away and no, no, wantyouwantyou-

“shh,” simon murmurs, cupping your cheek to wipe away your tears. you didn’t even realize that he’s twisted you to face him; that, even with your body turned into putty, simon was able to lift all that you are with such gentleness.

his bulk shadows you and you peer up at him with a pout, sniffling, feeling yourself run on overdrive. your appetite continues to expand, curling with a yawning desire.

“si-”

“i’ve got you, baby,” he whispers, smiling down on you in the way that makes his eyes crinkle, the lines running on the edges of his face creasing beautifully.

“okay,” you reply, giving him a wobbly smile back. “love you.”

somehow, that makes him smile even more tenderly.

“yeah,” he says, sounding so choked up himself. “love you too, baby.”

you lift your hand up to trace at the scars on his arms, swiping them up along his shoulders, before teasing the ones by his jaw. he’s so pretty. so beautiful.

simon chuckles, murmurs how ticklish it feels, and you giggle an apology before hooking your arms to his back. he shuffles, adjusting himself before you, and you wrap your legs around his waist, your muscles meeting the pudge of his sides.

it makes you squirm. it makes your heart clench with something more than desire.

retirement has never looked more beautiful on him.

simon lines his cock before your pussy again, the tip sliding along your folds in a teasing kiss.

“look at me,” he coos and you blink up at him, going warm at the realization that you’ve just been staring at his cock.

simon shakes his head with a fond laugh, his other hand falling to press on your pelvis. he still looks so serene, so besotted, even when he begins to press in.

you fist at the sheets, back arching off the bed only for simon to push you down carefully. fuck. s’too much.

“si- ah!- s’good.”

he hums, still sliding in. still not in.

he’s so big. so filling. he probably doesn’t even need to know how to fuck to make you feel good at this point.

simon giggles, the sound piercing through your haze.

oh. you said that out loud. whoops.

“so precious f’r me, love,” he grunts, and you mewl, head thrown back when you feel his pelvis finally hit yours.

god. all of it, all of him, is in.

you hiccup a moan, your toes curling from where they’re pressed on his back as simon folds himself towards you, his belly soft as it meet yours, your tits smooshed just below his.

“good?” simon asks, breathless himself.

“always,” you coo, pussy fluttering when simon’s cheeks blush.

he nuzzles his nose along your jaw and you angle your head to give him more room. simon still doesn’t move, doesn’t hump your cunt or thrust wildly.

and yet.

your pleasure continues to peak, building into the beginnings of your orgasm.

fuck. next time, you promise to yourself as you blink up at the ceiling, your mouth parted for gasped out moans, i’ll ask if i can cockwarm him next time.

this is me actually. also me. another me. and this ones me fr. god i need him!!

[bb-eilish]

step brother sam monroe who set up a camera in your room to film you touching yourself for blackmail.

-a predatory smile would break over his face as he takes back the camera the next morning. Just as he thought, his innocent little step sister caught fucking herself with a rather small dildo

-so here you were, forced to take his cock over and over even if it was splitting you open, which it was

-he even managed to manhandle you into mating press, his sweaty hands gripping the back of your knees and almost smushing them into your face

-it’s a very exposing position, he has the perfect view of your pussy struggling to fit him, even when your wetness is smeared along the insides of your thighs and pooling onto the sheets below you

-“poor baby, used to taking something so small, never been stretched properly hm?”

-your only response is a particularly loud whine at the feeling of his tip kissing your cervix incessantly

-“i know, you’re lucky I care so much about you. Gotta train this pretty pussy to take it” he’d grunt into the warm, sex-scented air of your room

-when he finally managed to scramble your brain with his cock, a new feeling swelled in him. He felt as though he owned the world, especially when you couldn’t even answer him anymore, reduced to a debauched version of yourself he only dreamed of

-the euphoric feeling in him started to multiply so he leaned down, large hand enveloping your neck right under your chin to push your head back. He didn’t even have to push hard to pin you there and it sent a shiver of delight down his spine

-his lips brushed over your ear the same time his other hand trailed down to harshly rub over your swollen, abused clit

-loud cries and pleads left your lips as he whispered harshly into your ear

-“too pretty takin’ my cock, gotta cum inside you now”

-pushing against him was useless, especially when your orgasm was less creeping up on you and more barreling towards you

-so as your gummy walls squeeze around him, fluttering, he groans and presses himself as deep as he can go

-“knew you’d take it the first second i saw you, knew you’d look so pretty under me” he’d ramble, his nails digging into your skin as he finally filled you up

-he admired the dumb look on your face, a smirk gracing his lips as he pressed his fingers into your cheeks to guide your head to the side

-“say hi to the camera, pretty girl”

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 ℭ𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔬𝔱 ℜ𝔢𝔞𝔠𝔥

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Your husband has been deeply troubled as of late. In an attempt to guide him from his distress, he brings a concern of his to light that only serves to tip you into your own fears.

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Nonsexual nudity, AFAB implied w/ usage of "breasts," the title "wife" is used. Angst and some fluff. Small hints of morally gray reader. She's simply in love with her demented husband.

𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰: 5.6k words. Just something short and sweet; I had to write a comfort fic for our favorite, pretty war criminal after the season finale. But I may have just made it worse actually. Not proofread.

It is all teetering into chaos. Suspended along the edge of a great precipice. The depths of which you cannot spy the bottom of. The worry, the agitation looms heavily over the castle. Over the entirety of King's Landing. Buzzing and constant like the bothersome scattering of flies. And where there are flies, death is near. You see the dread in their eyes. The fearful whispers that are passed between the bowed heads of the servants as they work; the horrified, faithless gossip casted about by the socialites and bureaucrats as they traversed the halls in secretive conversations that are much louder than they believe. 

The tensions have only been mounted with the news that the Blacks have come into the resources of new dragonriders, the scales are looking as though they are tipping in their favor. It has all strained and on edge. With the order of the city's gates having been closed by Aemond's decree, the smallfolk have been up in arms against the order. Cries of outrage chanting and rising up from the masses in pleas against their Prince Regent. Protests that warn of starvation, proclaiming that he is cruel and uncaring. Not even the assured decimation of Sharp's Point by the scorching breath of Vhagar's fire has done anything to calm the storm brewing. 

The tides are still swelling. Churning and tossing to soon lift from above and collapse down upon all of your heads. The toll of it weighs heavy on all of you like the promise of damnation. Hope is dimming. The support it once offered giving underneath itself, curling in on its own body like a beheaded serpent. But it is the man who bears it all who is in the throes of violently crumbling underneath the burden of this war. 

You see it tearing at him. Pushing down on the once prideful set of his shoulders, pressing down upon the crown of his head so that it no longer sits perfectly high in unwavering confidence. The light of the zealous fire that once blazed within his eye has dimmed. Starved and suffocated; reduced to smoldering flickers light that mean to lash out in his near crazed attempts at preserving what little footing his still has in this war. 

It is almost as though he is dying right before your eyes. The final wild struggle of an animal caught between a set of fangs, claws and teeth lashing in the hopes to wound its bigger opponent. You have never seen him in such a state. The vulnerability that bleeds through the thin cracks in his armor worry you; unlike any sort of raw emotion that he has ever displayed before. It is fear. And it is almost unsettling to see on the face of your fearless husband. 

He is breaking directly before you, and now the only optimism you have of keeping him whole comes from the pressure of your own hands. 

His own mother has turned him away. You see it in the way she stares at him. Observing him as though he is a stranger, a monster wearing the flesh of her child - as though her name is not marked on this war just the same. It makes your skin prickle. Body flushing from heat and contempt as she silently disowns the very man who raises her banner, and fights in the name of his house. No one else will offer him solace as he labors underneath the crushing weight of the kingdom. Not his mother, not his sister, not the advisors in the king's counsel. It pains you to see him breaking. To see him scrambling to orient himself and find a way to victory with hardly an ally to assist him. 

So utterly lost. 

That is how you find when you slip into his apartments in the night. The candleflames flicker about the dim space in drops of amber, serving as your only guide to traverse the room in search of him. His bed and his writing desk are vacant of his presence. The latter cluttered and askew with parchment and documents, quills, vials of ink, and seal stamps strewn about its face. But it is the empty goblet of wine is what concerns you the most. He does partake in spirits quite casually, at supper and often when he evaluates the latest strategies before turning in for bed. You have yet to ever see him lose himself to the influence of the drink. Only indulging as a means to relax himself; a subtle rosy hue to dust his cheeks, but not enough to become untoward or dull-witted by its effects. 

But the circumstances now are so much different. You can only hope that he has not turned to it in the attempt to drink himself into a stupor or allowed himself to become sloppy from the sway of the spirit. 

"Aemond?" It is both a question and a call as your vision darts about the space, flickering back over to his bed to see if you might spot the impression of a body tucked underneath the drape of its blankets but they are flat and perfectly lain along the mattress. "My love, are you here?" 

It remains deathly silent. The only bit of noise belonging to the low whisper of the flames softly darting about their wicks in the draft that drags along the room; the delicate billow of the breeze drifting through the columns of the open windows, gliding into to the room from the guide of the wind that calls outside. Most of it sneaking in through the open threshold that conducts to the balcony. 

A low breath puffs from your chest. Hardly a sigh, but it dares you to feel relief as you step towards the entry way to near the stone platform the projects from the side of the castle. You notice the stars first. The bright, cosmic glimmer of them as they hang from their place within the silky black cradle of the darkened heavens. The faint lights of the city below nearly blending with the night sky, though the oily sheen of the lantern fires can hardly compete with the star dust above. 

In your observations, it does not take you long to spy the form of the prince, standing along the banister as he stares down at the city, bare hands gripping onto the rough barrier. You can see how tightly he clutches onto it from the tension in his fingers, stretched and taut along it so tightly that you fear the stone may crumble and break beneath his palms. Relief floods you at the sight of him, though it is quickly dulled and banished by the worry that replaces it. Snuffed by the rigid way he holds himself, as though he is only moments from snapping and giving in on the pressures of his own mind and collapsing upon the stone floor beneath his feet. 

He becomes hard on himself in times like these. No matter how indifferent he tries to project himself, the opinions and thoughts of others often swarm over him like a cloud of angered hornets, and it can be a trouble for him to shake. It is never easy to guide him out of his thoughts. You know that he is aware of your presence, but he has been caught too tightly within the chaos trapped within his mind to respond. The deluge of emotions that he often refuses to outwardly show too great. And knowing him, he has willingly turned himself in to the anger and the bitter spite that wars within him, finding solace in its familiarity. He is too stubborn for his own good, but that will never be enough to keep you from trying draw him out of it. 

Your feet seem to cross the stretch of the floor that separates you, silently carrying you to him with the soft patter of their soles along the chilled stone. He does not give you any indication that he is aware of your approach. Not the tilt of his head or a single murmured word in greeting, but he does not startle when your hands lift to sweep up his back. The leather of his doublet is tepid with the slight cold in the air and the warmth radiating from his body, smooth and buttery underneath your palms as they sweep around his torso to press him against you in an embrace. You let your cheek to rest along the flat of his shoulder, the silky strands of his hair tickling your skin; your lungs pulling in the subtle spice and musk of his scent. 

"You should come to your bed; it is getting late." You suggest, allowing your fingertips to toy with the metal clasps on the front of his garment, tracing the engravings in their shape. You nearly expect to get no response from him. For him to continue to wallow and torture himself alone in his silence. But then you feel it almost more than you hear it, thrumming along your hands from the depths of his chest as his voice rises out in a hum. The only verification that he has acknowledged your words. 

It is better than silence. A response from Aemond is better than naught in these circumstances. It gives you some hope that you may be able to usher him from the fog of his oppressions. 

"Come," you urge softly. "You have fretted yourself enough." 

"Have I?" It comes from him in that serene tone of his but the bite at the edge of it is more than apparent. You know that it is not aimed at you. Not directly, at least. In his mind, and on the battlefield, he has been backed into a corner, and like an animal it causes him to lash out and bare his teeth, even at things that are familiar. "That seems to be everyone's judgement as of late. I suppose I should listen then, hmm? Roll over and brandish my belly for Rhaenyra's dragonriders to feast upon. Would that satisfy you then?" 

"It would not, and you know that." Your voice comes out much firmer than intended, though you do not feel guilt over it. For someone so logical, Aemond is often swept over by his emotions and the voice of reason is easily drowned out. "Look at me, please." 

He makes no attempt shift from his stance, continuing to stare out along the horizon. Watching the city in its slumber, and you have to wonder if he is imagining it in a state of ruin. Preparing for the worst already. Bracing for the destruction that has yet to come. Picturing the roofs and spires lit aflame in a blaze so great that it would turn the night into day, smoke twisting up to the heavens to brush against the stars. 

You loosen your grip around him, giving yourself enough separation just to stand along his shoulder so that you are able to look upon his face. He refuses to meet you vision with his own. The pale glint of his eye now dark underneath the cover of the night as he peers ahead. But already you are able to spot so many different emotions reflecting within it. A confused storm: anger, bewilderment, sorrow, loss. You know that he must feel as though he is drowning. Caught and strung along by his responsibilities. Pulled between the pressures of his duties and the rejection casted by his mother. So many conflicting obligations with no way to properly juggle them. You know that you have no true way of guiding him through the blood and fire of this war. Of the strategies that it requires. But you can hope to be some kind of support. A beacon breaking through the thick wall of an oncoming tempest. 

You lift a hand up to his face, sweeping your fingers past the shape of his jaw to cradle his cheek, feeling the texture of the scar underneath your palm. You are gentle in your direction when you guide him to look at you, and despite his earlier remark, he allows you shift his head to you willingly. Leaning into the weight of your hand as his eye darts to meet yours. The confusion and torment burn inside the pale hue of it, glinting far brighter than the traces of light reflecting along the angles carved into his jeweled eye.  

You are nearly surprised that he has not removed the sapphire yet. You know that it often ails him. When the precious stone absorbs the chill around it, or the dull edges catch along the sensitive flesh of its cradle. Rattling about his socket and causing the tender tissue within to ache and swell with irritation. Another punishment for himself it seems. Intent to burry down inside his own suffering. 

"You must stop this insistence on driving yourself towards your own destruction. You will find no answers by forcing yourself awake at night, ruminating over the criticisms of your mother. Of the council."

Something venomous passes through his expression, but it is quickly traded out by what looks to be exhaustion and a diluted sense of irritation. A subtle furrow pinched between his brows; lips lightly pursed.  "What would you have me to? Laze about all day on my bed. Stuffing my gullet with wine as my brother would while our enemies close in around us?" 

"No." You reply promptly, allowing your hand to drop from its place, running your thumb along his cheek in a final caress as it falls to your side. You do not miss the way that his head nearly bends to follow its wake. "I would have you rest. An eased mind is a sharp one. " 

"Rest." He echos in a murmur, allowing the word to roll off his tongue as though it is a foreign one. "Rest is not something that I am afforded. Each moment of "rest" is another second allotted for our enemies to draw closer."  

You understand his reasoning. His anxieties are not unfounded. But that does not make them any less frustrating. His intellect, the determination that fuels him and wit of his tongue have always been some of his most endearing qualities to you. It drew you towards him like a siren song. But all of those traits are currently making you feel as though you could bludgeon your head against a thick wall. You fear that he will collapse underneath their breadth.

"They will draw near regardless of your slumber or not. " That stubborn expression on his face remains undeterred. Still fully unconvinced it seems. Or perhaps he seems to be resisting against your wishes because he is merely in search of some sort of victory, no matter how measly in spirit it is. And as much as you would like to indulge your husband in his efforts in feeling vindicated, this is not a battle you can allow him to win. Not for his sake. "If you will not do it for yourself then do it for me. Comfort your wife. That is too apart of your duties is it not?" 

You notice his nostrils flare, his chest rising suddenly as he draws in a deep breath. Likely to ground his own irritation. His eye shimmers lowly in the dim cast of the candlelight projecting from the confines of his room, spilling out past the threshold to dance along the dark blue of the sapphire. Like sunlight scattered about the shifting face of an ocean. He is angry. That much is and has been apparent. Left astray to dangle and thrash along the fraying support of a rope. You only wished that he would allow you to catch him instead of treating you like the ones who have tied him to the line. 

But you notice something waver in him then. The breaking of a dam. The thawing of ice. The vulnerability displayed could destroy you if you allowed it. To cause you to fall apart underneath the sheer sense of raw loss and uncertainty. He is so troubled. So lost. Forced to display a facade of unwavering poise and resolve no matter the dangers that prevail ahead. Constantly trailing after the role that he was not allowed to fulfil despite being better suited and now left to stand alone as the support of his own house falters. Superior enough to be wielded as a trump piece in combat, in council, but not benefitting enough to bear the title of king in the eyes of the advisory and his family. An injustice you can hardly stomach yourself. 

"Come," you urge once again. You voice much lighter than before, softened by the distress in his gaze. There is still a hesitance in him. The reluctance to relinquish what little control he still has over himself, but that control seems to snap when your hand closes over his, fingers threading to join them. It only takes a slight tug for him to follow. The fight in him absolving to trail after you, allowing you to guide him back into his chambers and away from the open, chilled air of the night. 

The atmosphere within the safety of the apartment walls is much warmer. Almost balmy along you skin, perfumed with the scent of wax and ink. Another reminder of the documents and worries that he tirelessly toils over. The bloodshed and the possibility of dragonfire. But you push it all to the recesses of your mind. Burying it all deep in favor of escorting him to the side of his bed. It is only then that you allow your hand to remove from his, and you mourn the loss of his warmth against your palm. 

"Remove your clothes," you order gently. You notice just the faintest hint of amusement nudging at the corner of his mouth. The possibility of a smile, though it does not fully come. You can still see the traces of his mirth. Of lust as well. Even while he does not properly convey it, you allow your delight to grace upon your expression. Your lips lifting upward as you shake your head to admonish him delicately. "Not tonight." 

He makes no complaints as he begins to unfix the clasps of his doublet. Unhooking the fine metal rungs with lithe fingers to shed the garments, uncaring as it lands along the floor. He is just as nonchalant about the rest. Shedding and discarding his undershirt and his breeches just as quickly after tugging of his boots. Baring his nude form to you. It is a state that you have seen him many times before, but still, you are unable to keep yourself from tracing the agile shape of his body. Admiring the swell of strength in his arms, the defined cut of muscle along his torso, the flaccid condition of his cock hanging between his thighs. 

The spike of heat that rushes throughout your being is tempting, but currently unwelcome. On any other night you would have basked in it. Pursued after the warmth and hedonism, but this is not one of those nights. When you manage to will yourself to meet his eye, you are forced to notice the smirk that lifts at the curled edges of his mouth. Satisfied and preening underneath your salacious attentions. 

"Not tonight, ābrazȳrys?" His inquiry is teasing and arrogant. And finally, for the first time since you have sought him out you see the man that lies beyond the pain and distress. The man that strides about the kingdom with his head lifted high. A head deserving the weight of a crown. 

"Not tonight, my love. " You answer, both a playful jab and a truth as you pluck at the neckline of your shift to allow it to join his clothes along the chilled stone beneath your feet. He only offers a velveteen hum in response as his eye sweeps over you. Just as gluttonous as yours had been as you move to climb astride the bedding, making sure to toss the blankets aside before shuffling to rest the flat of your back along the cushion of his pillows and the embellished headboard behind them. You sit, unfaltering underneath his focus. If anything, the crude nature of his observations only emboldens you. Even past the reasonings of lust. He views you as though you were crafted just for him. Sewn together by the gods and animated by stardust and earth to be worshipped and praised by his sight and hand. 

You like to believe that he was born for the same purpose. A god amongst men built by fire, wind and blood. Designed to be revered by your voice and mouth. He is beautiful beyond compare. Fierce in his loyalty and cunning. Unrelenting in his determination and ferocity. Like a deity of war. 

He does not wait for a cue as he follows after you, climbing along the bed and into your waiting arms to lie himself within the cradle of your hips, draping the length of his body along yours as he settles his head against the cushion of your stomach. He allows himself to go pliant against you. Indulging in your warmth just as you do with him. The heat radiating from him making you turn lax. The both of you melding to each other. You observe him at his place tucked into you. Admiring the pale fan of his lashes resting against the sharp contour of his cheekbones, the proud rise of his nose. He is gorgeous like this. As though he had been sculpted from a fine marble. The statue of a great god - a king - come to life. 

You glide you fingers through the silken, silvered strands of his hair. Combing your nails along his scalp and you are all but rewarded by the way that he seems to melt even more, the tension leaving his body. Going slack and supple; his nose daring to nuzzle along at your breasts as he attempts to burrow himself closer like he wants to bathe in your warmth. That stubborn furrow is still hitched between his brows. Immediately letting you know that his troubles have yet to be fully evicted from him. His mind is no doubt just as frenzied as before even though his body relents to the comfort of his bed and the weight of you. 

"You truly do stress yourself too much," you murmur. Your fingertips skirt downward, tracing along the nape of his neck, sweeping your thumbs along the sensitive skin at the edge of his scalp. A shudder trembles softly down his spine. "It does not suit such a pretty face." 

His lips twitches again, though that furrow comes back with a vengeance. His brows cinching close in the guise of annoyance, and if it were not the fleeting appearance of that brief smile then you would have truly believed him to be angry. "I have no ear for listening to your jests, lady wife. " 

"Not a jest," you promise playfully. "I wouldn't dare. " 

Another low, rumbling hum rises up from his chest in the semblance of a response. His chin tilts back just the slightest, baring his throat to you. Offering it to you as you move your hands downward to cradle the sides of his face, fingertips gliding along the edge of his jaw. The contented noise he makes nearly reminds you of the purrs that leave Vhagar as she lounges along the forest floor. The pleased growl of a dragon. A tranquil silence drifts along the room, as though it is brought in by the tepid breeze that glides in through the threshold of the balcony. It is calm. Peaceful for once. It feels as though it has been years since an hour without fear or dread has haunted you. And finally, it is simply you and your husband. Free to relax and just simply exist. To lounge within the warmth of each other as though you were lying under the sun. Untouched by war and bloodshed. 

You continue to massage your fingers along the shape of his skull, combing them through his hair and lightly scratching your nails along the sensitive skin almost absentmindedly as you allow your own head to rest against the board of the bed. The lull of sleep is already calling. Inviting and comforting in its beckon as the influence of it threatens to take ahold of you, but a part of you resists. Insistent on enjoying the dulcet pleasure of this moment. Intent to stretch it out for as long as possible before it slips away from you and the both of you must return to your duties. To the horrors of the world. It is here that you are safe. He is safe. 

"We should make contingencies in the event of my death." 

The quiet sound of his voice, the words abruptly registering in your mind feel as though they gut you once they are fully understood. Just the prospect of it has your heart skipping, fluttering wildly within your chest and your hands are forced to pause; smooth tresses caught between your fingers. Your eyes snap open as you head bows to look down upon him from his place against your torso. He is already watching you, the sapphire gleaming sharply in the firelight but the pale hue of his eye is soft despite the sobriety of his words. You see clearly without asking that this is not some sort of twisted attempt at morbid, tactless humor. He is well and truly serious. A dull wave of nausea wells up in the pit of your stomach as you watch him. 

"What has brought this about?" You ask sharply. There is a raised edge in your tone. Defensive and unsettled, but your vulnerability is also apparent. Easily heard with the way that your breath snags in your throat. 

"It is only an honest concern. " He answers, but it is clipped. A bear explanation and it gives way that he is dodging the question. Offering scrap to appease you. "One that I should have prepared for long ago, when this war was little more than a whisper on a gossips lip." 

"I won't hear of it." 

"You are my wife," he insists. But with each utterance it only drives a slash of phantom pains into the depth of your heart. You swear that you can hardly manage to pull in a single lungful of air. "That does not shield you but make you a target. And we cannot expect to win this battle with Vhagar alone. If I were to be slain, they may very well come for you. A trophy of this conflict-"  

"Aemond, that is enough." It comes out as a warning. Or perhaps a plea. It is so difficult to know. It is impossible to tell when you feel as though you are breaking in half even while he rests safely inside your embrace, confronting you with the single thing that you have always feared. The single terror that gnaws and bites and lashes at your heart and spirit every time that he sits astride Vhagar and lifts into the air for battle. The horror that he may never come back. It had eaten at you when he had snuck off to Rook's Rest without your knowledge, only to return hours later smelling pungent of dragonfire and the acrid sting of smoke. 

His lip's part, a rebuttal no doubt on the tip of his tongue, but it is quickly snuffed out by the desperate plea of your voice. A final beg of mercy.  

"You are my love, Aemond. Without you I cannot live." You nearly hate the sound of the raw emotion that pitches from your chest, but you are unable to control it. The intensity of it far too great. Welling up within you until it seems as though you may drown in your own trepidations. That your lungs will be squeezed in its grip until you suffocate on your own anguish. Your fingers thread around his hair, seeking out the warmth that lies underneath as though your mind requires confirmation that he is still here with you. Safe in your bed. "You are not allowed to die. Promise me, Aemond. Promise that you will return to me."

His eye skirts along your face, as though committing your features to memory. You can tell exactly where his vision lands from the weight of the concentration in his gaze as he studies the structure of your lips, the sweep of your cheekbones, the shade of your eyes. It is awful how much it feels as he is staring at you as though it will be his last. 

"Please," you whisper once more. 

A plethora of emotions flicker along his countenance. Time seems to be frozen when he lifts himself from your grasp. Your hands leave him reluctantly, clutching onto the sheets alongside you to stave off the urge to reach for him. But you are stopped when he rises to nudge his head to your own to meet your eyes. It gives you no other options but to meet his eye. To face the intensity and adoration that burns within it. The flecks of violet and azure seeming to blaze with his fervency. 

"I promise, ñuha dōna ābrazȳrys, I will return to you. Be it a thousand years in this life or the next, no man nor god will keep us apart." 

A sob could have torn itself from your throat had you not a better grip on yourself. Though you do not have enough control to manage in articulating a response. You can only nod, lifting your hands once again to grip at the junction of his neck and shoulders. Needing to feel the warmth of his flesh underneath your palms. His lips are soft as they press against yours. Simultaneously gentle and hungry as they coax yours into a kiss. It is languid. Unhurried but no less passionate. 

It is like a balm on the tearing placed upon your soul. Soothing and mild. You sigh into his mouth, drawing each other's air inside of your lungs in between the starved presses of your mouths. Holding scraps of the other within the pocket of your chests. But just as quickly as it had begun, he pulls away from you. Though he hardly gives you time to voice your complaints or to mourn as he guides you both to settle along the bedding. Mapping out your face with the fleeting brush of his lips, scattering them along your face until you both lay side by side to gaze upon each other. 

You cannot bear to look away from him now. The mere idea of it sounds akin to death. You are not sure how long you remain in that state. Simply beholding each other. Counting the breaths that he takes, how they puff across your face in warm brushes along your nose and cheeks. The candlelight has lightened his hair with glows of burning amber, as though molten gold has been spilled upon the pale strands; highlighting the contours of his body. Like a deity of light. Of fire.  

There is a peace in his expression now. And you are not certain if that concerns or alleviates you. The corners of his mouth have perked into a content smile, his eye unblinking in his admiration as though he is at peace. Sweeping over the shape of your breasts and rise of your hips down to the length of your legs. But it is untouched by lust. It is simply observing. Peaceful in his exploration of a body that he has touched many times already. As much as you would like to remain that way, fixed beneath the worship of his stare, you are unable to keep yourself from nudging yourself closer. Too weak to hold yourself back from returning him back into your arms where he is safe. Untouched by the war he wages. Protected from the consequence of dragonfire and sword. 

You rest you nose along the crown of his head, drawing in the scent of spice and wind that clings to his hair in the hopes of calming yourself. Of ripping yourself from the influence of your own worries and escaping the control of sleep that threatens to possess your body despite your terror. You want to focus only on the weight of him. The heat of his skin. The steady rise and fall of his breath. The press of his face tucked beneath your chin. 

"Sleep, ābrazȳrys." His voice thrums against your chest. It seems that even when he is not watching you, you are unable to escape his perceptiveness. That you cannot hide from the from him. He knows you too well; he feels the tension in your muscles, in your silence. Still, despite the urge to fight his tender order and to resist the weight of sleep, it is growing difficult. The urge to slumber is heavy on your eyelids, nudging them to close. And the comfort of his scent in your lungs only goads you closer. "I will be here when you wake." 

It sounds like another promise. And the assurance rings heavy in your ears, giving your mind the permission that it seems to have needed in order to welcome the blanket of rest. But all the while, as you descend into your slumber, you can only give yourself the solace that he is still here. As of now he is safe. Guarded from blood and death under the shield of the night. Drawn into an embrace while you both sleep as pair of lovers. 

[dandelionsresilience]

Good News - July 15-21

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1. Thai tiger numbers swell as prey populations stabilize in western forests

“The tiger population density in a series of protected areas in western Thailand has more than doubled over the past two decades, according to new survey data. […] The most recent year of surveys, which concluded in November 2023, photographed 94 individual tigers, up from 75 individuals in the previous year, and from fewer than 40 in 2007. […] A total of 291 individual tigers older than 1 year were recorded, as well as 67 cubs younger than 1 year.”

2. Work starts to rewild former cattle farm

“Ecologists have started work to turn a former livestock farm into a nature reserve [… which] will become a "mosaic of habitats" for insects, birds and mammals. [… R]ewilding farmland could benefit food security locally by encouraging pollinators, improving soil health and soaking up flood water. [… “N]ature restoration doesn't preclude food production. We want to address [food security] by using nature-based solutions."”

3. Harnessing ‘invisible forests in plain view’ to reforest the world

“[… T]he degraded land contained numerous such stumps with intact root systems capable of regenerating themselves, plus millions of tree seeds hidden in the soil, which farmers could simply encourage to grow and reforest the landscape[….] Today, the technique of letting trees resprout and protecting their growth from livestock and wildlife [… has] massive potential to help tackle biodiversity loss and food insecurity through resilient agroforestry systems. [… The UN’s] reported solution includes investing in land restoration, “nature-positive” food production, and rewilding, which could return between $7 and $30 for every dollar spent.”

4. California bars school districts from outing LGBTQ+ kids to their parents

“Gov. Gavin Newsom signed the SAFETY Act today – a bill that prohibits the forced outing of transgender and gay students, making California the first state to explicitly prohibit school districts from doing so. […] Matt Adams, a head of department at a West London state school, told PinkNews at the time: “Teachers and schools do not have all the information about every child’s home environment and instead of supporting a pupil to be themselves in school, we could be putting them at risk of harm.””

5. 85% of new electricity built in 2023 came from renewables

“Electricity supplied by renewables, like hydropower, solar, and wind, has increased gradually over the past few decades — but rapidly in recent years. [… C]lean energy now makes up around 43 percent of global electricity capacity. In terms of generation — the actual power produced by energy sources — renewables were responsible for 30 percent of electricity production last year. […] Along with the rise of renewable sources has come a slowdown in construction of non-renewable power plants as well as a move to decommission more fossil fuel facilities.”

6. Deadly cobra bites to "drastically reduce" as scientists discover new antivenom

“After successful human trials, the snake venom antidote could be rolled out relatively quickly to become a "cheap, safe and effective drug for treating cobra bites" and saving lives around the globe, say scientists. Scientists have found that a commonly used blood thinner known as heparin can be repurposed as an inexpensive antidote for cobra venom. […] Using CRISPR gene-editing technology […] they successfully repurposed heparin, proving that the common blood thinner can stop the necrosis caused by cobra bites.”

7. FruitFlow: a new citizen science initiative unlocks orchard secrets

“"FruitWatch" has significantly refined phenological models by integrating extensive citizen-sourced data, which spans a wider geographical area than traditional methods. These enhanced models offer growers precise, location-specific predictions, essential for optimizing agricultural planning and interventions. […] By improving the accuracy of phenological models, farmers can better align their operations with natural biological cycles, enhancing both yield and quality.”

8. July 4th Means Freedom for Humpback Whale Near Valdez, Alaska

“The NOAA Fisheries Alaska Marine Mammal Stranding Hotline received numerous reports late afternoon on July 3. A young humpback whale was entangled in the middle of the Port of Valdez[….] “The success of this mission was due to the support of the community, as they were the foundation of the effort,” said Moran. [… Members of the community] were able to fill the critical role of acting as first responders to a marine mammal emergency. “Calling in these reports is extremely valuable as it allows us to respond when safe and appropriate, and also helps us gain information on various threats affecting the animals,” said Lyman.”

9. Elephants Receive First of Its Kind Vaccine

“Elephant endotheliotropic herpesvirus is the leading cause of death for Asian elephants (Elephas maximus) born in facilities in North America and also causes calf deaths in the wild in Asia. A 40-year-old female received the new mRNA vaccine, which is expected to help the animal boost immunity[….]”

10. Conservation partners and Indigenous communities working together to restore forests in Guatemala

“The K’iche have successfully managed their natural resources for centuries using their traditional governing body and ancestral knowledge. As a result, Totonicapán is home to Guatemala’s largest remaining stand of conifer forest. […] EcoLogic has spearheaded a large-scale forest restoration project at Totonicapán, where 13 greenhouses now hold about 16,000 plants apiece, including native cypresses, pines, firs, and alders. […] The process begins each November when community members gather seeds. These seeds then go into planters that include upcycled coconut fibers and mycorrhizal fungi, which help kickstart fertilization. When the plantings reach about 12 inches, they’re ready for distribution.”

July 8-14 news here | (all credit for images and written material can be found at the source linked; I don’t claim credit for anything but curating.)

[cy-cyborg]

Tips for Writing and Drawing Amputees: Bandaged Stumps

When writing and drawing amputee characters, unless your character only just lost their limb, they don't need to wear a bandage over their stumps.

to be clear, eda's depiction in the show was fine, since she'd only just lost her arm and went (presumably) without any medical attention, but because the show didn't have much time to show her afterwards, I've noticed a tendency of the fandom to draw her wearing the bandage permanently, so that's why I'm picking on her for my example lol.

It's a bit of a trope at this point, and I think it comes from one of a few different places:

Amputees do wear bandages on their stumps, but usually only for the first 6-12 weeks post-amputation, sometimes longer if the amputation was a result of a burn. It's possible people saw this though and assumed it was permanent.

Most amputees wear a sock made of either cotton or silicone under their prosthetics to provide them with some extra padding. These socks, called liners, often stick out from the top of the prosthetic socket and could possibly be mistaken for a bandage from a distance.

Some amputees will wear compression garments for a few months to a few years after their amputations which could also be mistaken for a bandage from a distance. These garments are designed to stop swelling and reduce phantom pain, but they aren't bandages.

Stumps get cold easier because their circulation typically isn't as good as the rest of the body, so some amputees will wear socks over them even if they aren't wearing a prosthetic to keep warm, which again could be mistaken for a bandage from a distance.

This one is funny, but in my experience unfortunately, it's the most common: people think the end of an amputee's stump is just a perpetual open wound that never heals. Meaning to avoid "gore" it needs to be covered. I've met fully grown adults who believed this until I showed up to work/uni without my prosthetics or socks on.

People are uncomfortable with seeing an uncovered stump and so put bandages over it to avoid confronting their biases.

Some combination of these points.

But yeah, unless your amputee has only just lost their limb in the last few weeks, they don't need a bandage.

The ironic thing too, is that for most amputees, bandaging a stump is nearly impossible. I've been in and out of hospital since I was 1 year old and only ever met 3 nurses and no doctors/surgeons who could successfully bandage my stump in a way that the bandage would even stay on. This is because stumps are usually tapered in shape (meaning they are wider at the top, closer to the body, and thinner at the bottom), so gravity will pull the bandage off 9 times out of 10.

On a final note: it's ok to show your amputee's stump, it's not gore, there's no blood, it just looks like a regular limb that just stops early. In fact, if you are writing/creating anything for kids or that is likely to be seen by kids, I encourage you to show your amputee's stumps at least once. I used to work on a disability awareness program for kids, and I lost count of the amount of times kids were terrified of me, because they all expected my leg to be bloody and gory. For a lot of kids, I was their first real-life exposure to an amputee, meaning they'd never even heard of people like me, or they had seen an amputee on TV, but because the show went out of its way to avoid showing the person's stump, they assumed it must have been because there was "something scary at the end" that they weren't supposed to see (kids are surprisingly perceptive, they will pick up on stuff like that without you realising). And scared kids aren't good at articulating why they're scared, and would often say really mean or hurtful things to me. I knew not to take it personally and learned how to handle those situations, but not everyone is used to dealing with kids. For a new amputee (or anyone who's less confident in their disability), the kinds of things those kids would say could be absolutely confidence destroying. I never blame the kids, it's not their fault, but the whole situation could have been avoided if they had seen people like us before they had the chance to hear the wrong info. Good representation like this can be the difference between a kid crying, making throw-up sounds and calling an amputee "disgusting monsters" (all things I've had kids do/say) and them just being like "oh ok, cool."

[notlongtolove]

empty my soul

they say the seven deadly sins are seven ways of mortal death, seven paths to eternal damnation, each a step away from redemption. but spencer knows that he would follow any path if it led him to you.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: fluff?

content: implied intimacy, religious mentions, you're intoxicating and spencer contemplates the pull of his desire and devotion toward you through the seven deadly sins

word count: 1.8k

note: ngl i wrote half of this on the plane and almost forgot ab it. i feel like this concept would have been better utilised if i could write smut but i dont think i am all that good at writing smut

a line: He’ll take the sins, the ungodly weight of them, without question, without hesitation. To keep you. Always you.

I would live in your love as the sea-grasses live in the sea, Borne up by each wave as it passes, drawn down by each wave that recedes; I would empty my soul of the dreams that have gathered in me, I would beat with your heart as it beats, I would follow your soul as it leads. - sara teasdale

Spencer Reid has never been religious. He doesn’t believe in a higher being, doesn’t think the universe bends to the will of anything greater than chance. He’s a man defined by facts, by logic, by what can be measured and proven. Still, with the nature of his job and the evils he’s seen, Spencer Reid tries to be a good person. He believes he is one, for the most part.

In the office, he pours the last of the coffee into Derek's mug first, even though he needs the caffeine just as badly. On the subway, he stands without hesitation to offer his seat to a pregnant lady juggling an oversized tote despite the exhaustion of his day. Climbing the stairs, he stops to smile at the old man on the landing who’s always surrounded by his cats—even if he’s never gotten a smile back.

He tells himself these things matter. That they tip the scale in his favor.

Because the seven deadly sins—those cardinal vices—are a map of human weakness.

It’s a moral compass he has never adhered to himself—Yet tonight, standing at his front door, key in hand, he wonders if he’s unwittingly broken them all.

The hallway is dim, but he can see the soft flicker of his bedside lamp through the cracked bedroom door. He opens it quietly, and there you are. He steps inside, careful not to disturb you. You’re sleeping, peaceful. You're in his shirt, curled up on his bed. Absolute perfection.

Spencer doesn’t believe in angels, but if they walked among mortals, he thinks you’d be the closest thing to one. 

It’s the sin of self-admiration, the opposite of humility. Pride. He knows it well. C.S. Lewis wrote that pride is the root of all sin, the ego in direct defiance of God. Spencer has always thought himself better than that. He doesn’t believe in claiming you, in reducing you to an extension of himself. But when the team goes out and you’re there, turning heads, earning glances that linger too long, he tells himself it’s admiration, not possession, that makes his chest swell. To think you’re his? The pride seeps in, unbidden.

He crosses the room slowly. Standing at the edge of the bed, he watches you. Right now, he’s certain of one thing—he’s not sure he’s capable of redemption. Not tonight. You need your rest, and he knows he should let you sleep. He knows it as surely as he knows the formulas that balance delicate equations, the weight of the gun on his hip.

But he doesn’t want to. It’s greed, plain and simple. Henry Edward Manning called avarice a mire that pulls a man deeper into the world, making it his god. Spencer’s greed is less tangible than wealth or power, but it consumes him all the same. It's not enough to watch you sleep, though the sight should be enough. It’s a sight he’s memorized, filed away for lonely nights away from you. But tonight, it just isn’t enough. 

Spencer kneels beside the bed, though not in prayer—No deity would grant absolution for the choices he’s about to make. It’s a desperate worship, a wordless plea. He presses a kiss to your shoulder. Light, reverent. Another one to your temple. Then to the corner of your mouth. And another. And another. He wants more. Needs more. Gluttony, he thinks. A thousand wouldn’t sate him. Even a million might not be enough.

Your lashes flutter, and for a moment, guilt flickers in his chest. You’ve had a long day, too. He should pull away, let you sleep. But your lips part in a quiet murmur of his name, and suddenly, the rest of the world is a distant, muted thing.

“Spencer,” you whisper, your voice soft and trusting, not even fully awake.

“Hey, honey,” he replies, just as softly, brushing his fingers gently through your hair.

“When’d you get back?”

“Just now,” he murmurs, his hand caressing the curve of your hair. “Go back to sleep, baby.”

“C’mere,” you say, your hand reaching out, fingers curling weakly at the fabric of his shirt, a silent plea. 

Usually, he’d shower first. Wash off the day—the grime, the weight of it all—but tonight has been long and harrowing, and you’re right here, pulling him closer. So instead, with careful, practiced movements, he undresses quietly, slipping into a fresh pair of clothes, careful not to disturb you.

By the time he slides under the covers, you’re already half-lost to sleep again. But your body shifts instinctively, finding his, limbs tangling in his as though your subconscious can’t bear to be apart. It’s muscle memory now, the way you fit against him. Your body stays nestled against his, and Spencer simply holds you. 

He remembers the first nights you stayed over, how you tossed and turned and barely managed a few restless hours of sleep. You’d told him about your insomnia, how it often robbed you of rest. And yet, months later, you sleep peacefully beside him, body curled into his sheets like you’ve always belonged here. Something stirs within his chest, spreading warmth through his ribs—a realization that you feel safe with him. Safe enough to rest, to let go, to sleep soundly in a world that’s often unforgiving. 

Sometimes, if he wasn’t so hopelessly in love with you, Spencer thinks he might envy you. For so long before he met you, he’d wondered what he was doing all this for. His intellect, his job—it always felt like a machine churning without any real purpose. But with you, lying here in his arms, he knows. 

It’s for the way you can sleep soundly, untouched by the ugliness of the world. For the way you can keep enough of your light to bring into places he thought would always remain dark. Bertrand Russell said that envy was one of the most potent causes of unhappiness. But when it comes to you, Spencer finds it doesn’t matter. Yes, he envies your innocence, your unbroken joy, the way you make him smile even after the hardest days. But it’s a quiet kind of envy, the kind that makes his purpose clear. Because he’s made it his job—his life’s work—to protect people like you. To keep you safe from the things he can’t unsee, from the shadows that haunt his own nights.

It awakens something deep and instinctual in him, something unyielding. A primal need to protect you, to keep you sheltered from every storm. Spencer has never been quick to anger, never one to let wrath consume him. The Catholic Church teaches that anger, when it evolves into a deliberate, lethal intent, becomes gravely sinful—a mortal sin.

Spencer has spent years dissecting the complexity of human nature, he’s seen enough of humanity’s darkness to understand the weight of wrath and how sharp it cuts. He’s always believed he was different, too rational, too objective to ever give in to that kind of furious violence. 

But then, you came along.

And now he knows, if it ever came to that—if the world dared to reach for you, to try and take you from him—he would not hesitate. Every choice, every principle, every shred of his reasoned sanity would be sacrificed without question. If and when it ever came to you, he’d burn the entire world down if it meant keeping you safe, to protect the very heart of you. 

He presses a kiss to your head in an effort to ground himself. His kisses are deeper now, still tender but lingering longer. His lips trail lower, brushing over your temple, the slope of your shoulder. You shift slightly in your sleep, a soft murmur escaping your lips, but you don’t wake. Spencer breathes you in. The scent of you—cinnamon and sandalwood—faint traces of the perfume he’d picked out for you two months ago. 

In the stillness of the room, a soft glow catches his attention. His phone lights up on the nightstand, screen down, casting a faint halo on the wood. A message, maybe two—something that could wait. Especially when you’re here. 

Sloth is a sin of omission. Spencer understands its meaning, shirking responsibilities, choosing complacency over action. Ignoring his buzzing phone, his waiting work. All reminders of what he should be doing, of what he could be, if he let himself. He decides that he’ll shoulder it all again tomorrow. Tonight, the choice is clear. Tonight, he chooses you. 

But then the buzz sharpens into a ring, cutting through the stillness. He watches you stir, your brow furrowing as the sound pulls you from sleep. With a sigh, Spencer picks up the phone, already regretting the intrusion.

“Yeah?” he says softly, careful not to wake you fully.

Morgan’s voice crackles on the other end, urgent but not life-threatening—a file, a lead, something work-related that Spencer should care about but can’t bring himself to fully process. He glances at you, watching as you sit up, rubbing sleep from your eyes.

“Sorry,” he mouths, guilt flickering across his face. But you only move closer, leaning into him, a silent reassurance that you’re not all that annoyed by the disruption. 

As Morgan keeps talking, your lips find the edge of Spencer’s jaw, pressing soft, deliberate kisses against his skin. The first kiss is soft, exploratory. The second lingers, deliberate. He swallows hard, his free hand instinctively moving to your waist, fingers splayed against your hip as if to anchor himself. 

Ah, the final sin.

Lust.

Defined as an intense longing, a surrender to physical desire. Even the earliest of men had been warned of its impurity, it's the act that binds one as “a slave of the devil”. But in this moment, Spencer can’t think of anything holier than the way your lips trail from his jaw to his neck, slow and deliberate.

He clears his throat, trying to focus on Morgan’s words, but his resolve is crumbling. The effort feels futile as your kisses deepen, trailing a slow, intoxicating path around his neck. Each one pulls him further from the conversation on the phone, as if to remind him where his attention truly belongs. 

“Uh, Morgan,” he interrupts, his voice strained. “Can we talk about this in the morning?”

There’s a pause, a low chuckle from the other end. “Yeah, man. Go get some sleep.”

“Thanks,” Spencer mutters, ending the call.

Before he can set the phone down, your hand finds his, taking it and placing it face down on the nightstand. The motion is deliberate, final. Then you’re pulling him back to you, your lips claiming his, his hands wandering with lazy, unhurried intent. There’s no hurry, no rush—just the quiet of this moment.

You’re intoxicating, the thought of resisting the pull you have on him, inconceivable.

They say the seven deadly sins are the seven ways of mortal death, seven paths to eternal damnation, each a step away from redemption. But Spencer knows that he would blindly and gladly follow any path if it led him to you.

If surrendering to sin means getting to hold you like this—then so be it. He’d forgo every cup of caffeine, every fleeting subway seat, every awkward, unreciprocated greeting, if it meant tipping the scales just enough to keep these moments. He’ll take the sins, the ungodly weight of them, without question, without hesitation. To keep you. Always you.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

ᯓ★ song recs if you feel like it: work song by hozier meet me in amsterdam by rini