꒰ 𝖻𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗂 ⸝⸝ ♡ྀི ꒱

˚9𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

[naejinsu]

WHY HAVE ONE WHEN YOU CAN HAVE TWO? ⋮ ⌗ ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

𓏵 ⌞ 得能 勇志 x f!reader x 오시온, suggestive, 10 slides ⌝ ∘∘∘ 3some, sexual jokes, death jokes, petnames (mommy, good boy), just everyone being FREAKS!! 

𓏵 texts with your two boyfriends; yushi and sion *ੈ✩‧₊˚ 

ナナ’s ⦂ for all my yusion truthers 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️and even tho it’s the last day, happy pride month!! 🩷

more under the cut ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

[hyuukas]

riding bf!kyrell’s abs

a/n: umm… kyrell valentine choi… what the hell is this. warnings: ab riding duh, afab!reader, grinding, breast play, praising, pet names, cum play?), panties kink?). lmk if there’s more!!

bf!kyrell wearing that one necklace only, grabbing your hips and guiding you to grind on his abs

he would have that cute little smile on his face, pushing the sweaty hair back out of your face and telling you how good you’re being for him. “that’s right, baby, you look so pretty grinding down on me like that”. “that’s my good girl”

flexes his abs and adored to hear you whine. would like it if you supported yourself on his chest (oh if you “accidentally” rub against his nipples) but would also loves if you leaned over to him and grabbed onto his biceps, burying your nails in them. extra points if the angle allows him to suck on your tits

would 100% want you to wear one of those cute cotton panties to see how wet you can get them. after a while he flips you over so you’re laying on your back and then, it’s his turn to grind on you

wants to see in he can stain your panties with his precum (or if he slides his cock under the panties until he cums, like that one twitter video) 😵‍💫😵‍💫

[tinkertea]

Appreciate It

synopsis: wumuti makes you show your appreciation for their heels.

pairing: dom! wumuti (all pronouns) x f!reader

category: smut, no plot

warnings: humiliation kink, praise, excessive use of nicknames (love, darling, good girl, angel, baby), slight degradation (reader is called pathetic and dumb), light nipple play, bodily fluids, m! masturbation, cum eating

word count: 1.9k

note: got violently horny about wumuti in heels. wrote this with my clit. bone apple teeth. cross-posted on AO3

DISCLAIMER: this work is strictly 18+, mdni. dividers are by @/fic-dumpster and @/cursed-carmine. pictures aren't mine, all rights to @/xlov_official.

the following content is not meant to reflect the idol mentioned in any form.

Got feedback or a request? 💌

it wasn’t your fault you weren't listening to wumuti – not really.

at the end of the day you were weak for your partner. it wasn’t your fault that they looked ethereal, as if they were not even from this plane. it wasn’t your fault they were so hot it made your lip bleed from how hard you were biting it as you were watching them. it wasn’t your fault that you were dripping, your thighs uncomfortably clenching as you tried to focus on what he was saying.

wumuti seemed oblivious to your predicament as he was talking about the event; all wide smile and bright shiny eyes. you wished you could focus on the words leaving his lips but the connection between your ears and your brain seemed severed. you saw her lips move but really your focus was elsewhere. lower. way lower. it wasn't the mini skirt that had captivated you. no, it were these fucking boots.

black leather. high heeled. going up to his knees. fuck. you swallowed hard as your eyes snapped back up to muti’s face as he was saying your name. "are you okay, darling?" the genuine concern in his voice made you sick to the stomach. you felt like a pervert.

"y-yeah, yes of course. why wouldn't i be?"

she quirked an eyebrow at you, putting her arms on each of your shoulders. caging you. trapping you. "mh, well for one thing you've been quiet for like 10 minutes," her face came closer to yours, the tip of your noses almost touching as a wicked grin spread on his face, "and secondly, you really think i didn't notice your squirming? i'm not blind."

you could feel your face burning. you really thought you had been more subtle. their breath hit your face as they spoke again, "so tell me love, what's got you all worked up, hm?"

you swallowed thickly, ears burning. your eyes met his for a moment before you quickly looked to the side and mumbled, "your boots."

"i'm sorry, love, i couldn't hear you. what was that?," the teasing lilt in his voice gave him away. he had heard you loud and clear. he just relished in your suffering it seemed.

you took a deep breath, meeting her eyes. "i said these fucking high heeled boots."

a teasing smirk you knew all too well took place on their lips as they clicked their tongue.

"that's not how good girls should speak, is it?"

it was at that moment your brain seemed to completely shut off. your heart was beating rapidly in your chest, your skin felt hot and the stickiness between your thighs was unbearable. your tongue was like lead in your mouth, a dead weight, completely and utterly useless.

you shook your head 'no'.

wumuti cooed, "noo, that's right, darling. and you are a good girl, right?"

your head moved on its own, up and down, 'yes'.

"so what should i be doing with my good darling girl, hm?," his voice was but a whisper before his lips found yours. they were soft and warm against yours, his tongue finding its way into your mouth. he tasted faintly of strawberries, his perfume was enveloping you. you couldn't suppress your whimpers as his warm hands found your waist. holding. caressing. exploring.

your brain couldn't process anything, synapsis firing. while wumuti had been standing in front of you just a moment ago, you were now leaning back on the hotel bed with him all over you. somewhere between feeling his lips on yours, tasting him, soaking in his warmth, you lost your shirt and pants.

their hands found your breasts, your nipples pressed against the soft material of your bra. nimble fingers got rid of it, exposing your flesh to the cool air. he was pinching and rolling your sensitive nipples while placing open-mouthed kisses against the delicate skin of your neck, your collarbones, the swell of your breasts.

his hot tongue teased your nipples before fully sucking them into his mouth. her hands glided further down, down, down until they were finally spreading your thighs. you were almost shaking as you felt her nails against the soft skin of the inside of your thighs. a low chuckle escaped her as she released your nipple and her eyes found yours. she was still wearing the contact lenses from the event, her eyes colored red and blue as she assessed your face: cheeks flushed, your pupils blown wide, swollen lips shiny with your mixed spit. you were beautiful.

carefully, slowly, as if to torture you, she slid her hand into your panties. a gasp escaped you as her fingers pressed against your clit. her eyes widened slightly, her mouth formed an o-shape. "my, my, you're really needy, angel." your eyes fell shut as their fingers drew small circles. there was barely any pressure and yet the moan that escaped you was borderline whorish. before the feeling inside you could build, the stroke of muti's fingers was gone. your eyes flew open just as wumuti straightened up before taking a step away from you. a devilish grin graced their angelic face as they sucked the tip of their middle finger, the one that was just touching you mere seconds ago.

"i don't know, angel," they sighed dramatically while sitting down on a chair, "i'm feeling awfully tired after today. maybe you could do a bit of the work?" they almost snickered at the sight in front of them: your chest was heaving and shining with spit, small love bites blooming here and there, legs spread wide which gave them an excellent view of the wet spot between your legs. your quiet voice was shaking as you pushed yourself up and made your way over to them, "yes, yes, wanna be good for you, muti." you dropped to your knees in front of them, eager hands started to play with the belt of their skirt when all of a sudden – "ah, ah, ah," he tsked, "not what i meant, love." confusion was written across your face. he leaned back a bit, pushing their foot between your spread legs. their half-lidded gaze met yours when they said, "ride it."

"w-what?," your ears were ringing, heat blazing in your cheeks. "you heard me," his smile was expectant, "ride. my. boot."

you breathed heavily. once. twice. wumuti quirked an eyebrow. "come on, i don't have all night." they gently pressed the tip of their heel against your core. "o-oh." your eyes fluttered shut, hips rolling on their own accord. the touch of the shoe was delicious against your aching core. the wet cotton was sticking to your folds and you could feel the coolness of the leather seeping through. you cradled muti's calf for better leverage. what started as careful, slight touches of your core and her boot soon became full on grinds. the hotel room carpet grated against your knees but you simply couldn't care, too lost in the pleasure of doing something unimaginable.

"god, you look so pathetic."

wumuti's voice was soft, despite the harsh words. from her, it sounded more like a compliment. you couldn't keep quiet, the moans that you had tried hard to suppress spilled freely from your lips. you were starting to become more and more frantic. your head was resting on top of his knees as your hips seemed to work tirelessly. grind, grind, grind.

your poor pussy was weeping, beginning to soak the shoe. but none of it mattered, instead your eyes were trained on wumuti. wumuti who had started to pull out her cock, long fingers carefully wrapped around it. precum was leaking down the pink mushroom tip. your mouth was beginning to water. her elegant hand started carefully pumping; once, twice.

"want you, please," you whined. wumuti laughed softly and continued touching herself. "you're busy, baby. remember?," she cruelly pressed her foot against your core. the intense pressure made you groan. "mmhph, please, please," you weren't sure what exactly you were begging for, your brain was melting at the continued stimulation of your clit. back and forth, back and forth. muti laughed again when she suddenly squeezed her cock just right, causing their eyes to roll back, "a-aah, fuck. you're begging s-so pretty. is my baby turning dumb?"

you nodded your head stupidly. eyes trained on his hand. god, how you wished you could have a taste, feel him in your throat. you were mesmerized, hypnotized. you didn't even notice that your tongue was lolling out, drool dripping on the top of muti's boots. you felt close, ready to combust, liquid fire pumping through your veins. dumb whimpers left your lips on their own. you couldn't control your body.

"please, please, please. wanna cum mh-muti, please, aah."

his chest was flushed, a thin sweat spread across their skin as she rhythmically pumped her hand.

"yeah? you wanna cum? wanna make a mess all over my fucking shoe?," her words were cruel, her voice soft and airy, "god, my stupid little angel, riding me so well. go on, love. cum for me."

they angled their foot so it balanced on the heel, the tip of their shoe pressing oh so deliciously into your cunt as you shook. you grind shamefully, once, twice. your fingers clawed at the leather of the boot before your eyes rolled to the back of your head, a loud moan escaping you as you clenched around nothing, cumming pathetically on wumuti. "thank you, thank you," you sobbed.

your eyes opened as you were catching your breath. unceremoniously you slipped off the shoe. your legs were aching yet you were determined to have a taste of wumuti. as you were rising to your knees, your hand wrapped around wumuti's when she sucked her teeth. "my shoe is dirty now," she lifted her foot, your wetness having left the leather all shiny, "be good. clean it, my love."

your eyebrows knit together in confusion. instead you took your hand off wumuti's, wanting to swipe your juices off when he spoke again, "not what i meant, my darling girl. clean it with your tongue."

your cheeks were ablaze yet in your haze there was only one thing on your mind: to please. you swallowed thickly before sitting on the back of your legs, your hands supported wumuti's leg which was still outstretched. she looked gorgeous. his hand was continuously pumping her cock, her cheeks pink. their lips were spit-covered, eyes glossy.

your eyes found theirs. you kept your gaze steady as you opened your mouth and carefully licked the boot with the tip of your tongue. muti was breathing heavily, his chest heaving. a deep groan escaped him, "good girl. keep going."

the next lick was broad. the taste was indescribable. the tanginess of your juices mixed with the unfamiliar taste of the leather. you kept going, not once daring to look away from wumuti. his rhythm was becoming erratic, praise and groans tumbled from his lips.

"god, you're so good for me, aren't you? so obedient. look at you, f-fuck ah, you're my good girl. s-so fucking good." a high-pitched whimper left his lips, his hand squeezed hard before white ropes shot out. the cum landed on his stomach, white pearls partially covering his crop top. wordlessly you abandoned the clean shoe, the leather was now shining from your spit instead of your cum, and started to lick wumuti clean. he threw his head back in exhaustion, a soft laugh escaped them as his fingers pet your head.

"you’re always so eager to please, darling."

[meowonis]

zᶻ ૮˶- ﻌ -˶ა⌒)ᦱ

[cruzmieel]

ﾟ ִ ࣪ ♫ ode to love (:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅[̲̅:🦷:]̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅)

࣪ ˳ 𓈒ּ֯݁♡ּ♡♡ ִ ipod ࣪ ִ ˚ ✿

⠀ life is better but we're getting sweeter

[syluses]

𝄞 bloodhound

𓍯𓂃 hybrid sylus x female reader

(10k wc) ✦ summary: demanding, old, hostile— just a few of the warnings the man at the local shelter gave you before opening its cage. but it doesn’t matter. so long as he can protect you, all else can be forgiven. yet he’s more wolf than dog. more… man than wolf.

✦ content hybrid! sylus, nsfw/smut, hints of violence (not between mc/sylus), tension, kind of enemies to lovers-? he warms up to mc, knotting & adjusting to it, feral behavior, cunnilingus, slight somnophilia (not detailed), hinted age gap (all parties are 18+), possessive behavior, size difference,

✦ sidenote as by popular demand we have the latest installment of the lads hybrid collection 🙂‍↕️ i apologize in advance bc even as a wolf-man creature i made sylus older, because yall already know i love me a good ol’ fashioned dilf. dont ask me what bro is in dog years just know he’s scruffy! anyways do enjoy this lil thing while u wait for the caleb fic which i am busting my ass for :] 💕 ALSO sorry. he’s not feline this time… >_< this is def not my fav piece but i hope some of the girlies will like this one :] i did work hard on it it’s quite long. i gave it plot but tbh the smut is straight up filthy 😖 ig all we have left to do is hybrid rafayel! but that boy’s gonna have to wait lol :,) i do hav an idea for him tho ;D

With every step, it feels as if the walls of your apartment are closing in on you.

By your feet, at the front door you hardly have the coordination to close- blundering with the lock- lay a bouquet. Scattered. Flowers strew themselves across your hall as you kick the clasped bunch with the tip of your heel and glide from room to room, warily ducking into each one with your hand braced in front of your body, ready to beat and thrash and fight for your life.

In your other hand- a note. Crumpled, now. Shaking between your fingers.

You don’t think he’s gotten inside again- it seems the new home security measures you installed have thrown a wrench in his plans- for the moment, at least (although your spare key is still missing)- but you’re not wholly convinced you’re safe, either.

And to be clear, it’s better to be that than sorry: You’ll check each and every cranny of your little flat if it means reclaiming your peace of mind.

Your life is a different story though, as of late; threatened yet not something quite as simple to take back. Living with bated breath is no way to exist- neither with the perpetual looks thrown over your shoulder on the short trek back from the bus, the seemingly harmless creaks at night hurling you whole feet from your bed.

Because of that fear, you can hardly even bear to look down at the tiny paper in your hand to read it.

I loved that outfit on you yesterday babe. Can you blame me for taking a little from your wardrobe? ♡

Strangely, though, your drawer is just as you left it when you slide it from its framework almost fast enough to pop its screws, fearing the worst.

Clothes- your tee shirts, blouses for work and lacy bras, pencil skirts- fling across your bed, yet nothing is… amiss.

That outfit from yesterday.

With a gasp, you twist around to look at your hamper, and-

Sure enough, the lid is open.

✦

“-get a few new ones a week. Gets hard to keep up with ‘em all. All the personalities and quirks- a lot of them won’t even eat their kibble unless you look the other way.”

The cold brick walls and all the sounds bouncing off them (grunts, woofs, and nails against tile) become humdrum as the worker, waving a hand as he talks- rants, really- leads you through the pound.

The fluorescence lighting the place flares, whirs overhead. Everything about the setting is harsh. Obviously, you’re in no danger- but as you trail alongside him, you feel a sense of foreboding in your gut all the same. Like you’re walking into a dungeon.

The colorless walls swallowing up most of your vision make that silly threat seem an ounce realer.

You swallow, head on a swivel- yet not for fear, but sympathy as you pass an assortment of fenced-off pets. Some track you with a snarl. Some with eyes that plead. Still, they all share the undeniable tinge of distrust.

What an awful place, you think to yourself.

…But coming here had a purpose.

Your heels clip against the scratched floor and echo in rounds, a certain emptiness existing around you that seems misaligned with all the noise and sights.

Dogs in their cages— some upfront, teething at the metal, others: cowed to their corners, lying on thin blankets not quite as worse for wear.

To sum it up- creatures sapped of will. Defeated in life.

A distinct sorrow weighs in your chest, even as the employee happily drones on, a half-eaten tuna sandwich in one hand (the other: gesturing emphatically), hardly paying you any attention. To be fair, you’re giving him very little as well.

“-I mean, some don’t even eat at all. Picky things.”

Picky? You question quietly. Or without hunger? Their appetite for cheap, bagged kibble robbed right along with their appetite for life.

Your nails dent into your palm as you clench it.

It’s hard to get a word in edgewise as the man chatters away, but you manage to pile down your need to be polite for long enough to get in a:

Hey, excuse me, I asked what kind of dog you’d recommend for prot—

Clack, clack… Clack.

You come to a pause, dead-center in the walkway. The dull rhythm of his shoes remains where yours doesn’t.

“Heh. We got one a couple of months back who thinks this place is his own damn gourmet restaur-“

When he notices you’re not arm-to-arm, he, too, stops.

“Ma’am?” He turns.

“That one,” you breathe, just vaguely registering as the worker sidles up to you and glances at the cage you approach. The glint in your eye wins his interest.

For once since you entered the building, he shuts his mouth.

When he looks at ‘that one’ in question— a silver shock of fur, immersed in a shadow against the far wall— his eyes almost bulge from his skull.

A sharp laugh.

“Ah, little lady. Don’t wanna bite off more than you can chew, now. See-“

As he falls back into drivel (albeit, you lend an ear, curious now), you eye the pooch.

He looks a little wilder than the rest, a little more weathered, tucked to the corner of his cage but not quite ‘cowering’- no, he’s a touch too big and threatening for it to seem that way. More like… brooding.

…Yet you wonder all the same if that’s what he feels, too. Scared like most if not all of the others.

Your chest stirs again with that wisp of sadness.

If you could, you’d clip their collars to a leash and walk them all home, cramming them into your apartment with no thought and all heart. For reasons- countless reasons (having to do with your tiny home and even tinier wallet)- that’s not possible.

In a place as cold and unfortunate as this, he’d have every reason to be frightened, you think, but when your eyes soften with pity at him, his own narrow.

Thoughtfully, you blink.

As the worker rattles off his minor crimes around the playpen- and the hole he eats through their budget, what with his size- you can’t help but marvel at him.

Concerningly massive. With thick, silvery fur matted in certain areas, patchy with scars in others, and eyes that glow an unnatural shade of red- you can wholeheartedly say you’ve never seen the breed before. Less dog-like and more wolfish.

It warrants a raise of the brow, just what he’s doing here. Did he have an owner before? Was he abandoned by them? Or… was he just pulled from the street?

And if so, how many elephant-sized tranquilizer darts did it take to haul him here?

“So,” he says, stuffing his hand in his pockets, “Honestly, Ma’am, he’s probably not what you’re lookin’ for.” Giving your clacking heels and airy sundress a once-over, he sighs.

“We do have a Samoyed though- he was brought in just yesterday. Super playful. Great personality. Domesticated. He definitely won’t be here for long. Uh… this one here, though,” he snickers. “He’s unpredictable at the best of times. Growls when ya feed him- then growls some more ‘cause he’s still hungry... tsk,” he glances down at his hand, then. Evidently, there’s no mark there, but you think he’s imagining one that could’ve been.

“He’s on the older side, too. Can’t teach him any new tricks. And… big, as you can see. With his temperament, he’d probably tear a hole in your apartment. You, uh, you got an apartment, you said-?”

Right now, you should be thankful for all his advice- at the very least, relieved his chatter has become more meaningful, relaying all the pooch’s unruly habits. Yet you tune it all out, slightly cocking your head at the beast dog- a movement that, if you’re not imagining things, his scruffy one mirrors.

“He’s…”

“Yep. Like I said-“

“Perfect,” you breathe, falling to a crouch.

The man beside you coughs on his own spit. “What-? Uh, little lady, I seriously don’t think— hey, watch the hands! Don’t stick ‘em through!”

“-How much?”

You manage to pry your gaze from the ominous thing tucked a number of feet into his prison, cloaked and out of the light, to look up at the man. For all of the warnings and, really, defamation made against the animal— to his defense, he doesn’t lunge. Bark. Claw at the bars or slip his snout through to bite the harmless hand you extend in the space there.

No. With a lift of his whiskers, he watches.

Tuna-sandwich blinks. Eyes widening to twice their original size before he scrubs the lower half of his face.

Eventually, he shrugs. Takes a moment to process it.

As he does, you await the price with a hand already dipping inside your purse. I mean, you hope not to spend a small fortune during this outing- but it’s also an investment worth your while. There’s no saying when your stalker will show his face again. If tomorrow he’ll be waiting under your bed or in your closet for your return- hell, right now, the hackles on your neck are raised as if he could be lurking still.

A word relieves you of worries for naught.

“Nothing.”

…Wait- No, that can’t be right. Nothing? The- your future good boy is worth nothing?

“E-Excuse me?”

He sighs, exasperated. “You’d be doing us a favor,” is all he gives as an explanation. “You can have him for free.”

Dumbfounded, snapping your head back to the cage, you’re met with two crimson eyes that look almost hellish as they catch in the shifting fluorescence- and a pass of surprise on its face that appears almost… human.

“But, are you-“

“Haaaaah. Maybe it’s for the better. You’re like his savior, you know,” he comments, sparing a rather indifferent glance to the animal, “he oughta be thankful for you coming in here.”

And there, fucking again- like a blade wedged between your ribs and twisting—

“Too much longer and we would’a had to put him down.”

A squeeze of your heart.

Jaw fluttering shut, that morsel of information wipes the entirety of your hesitance out. Belatedly, you nod, perching your bag above your hip once more, a sense of determination smoothing out your features.

“When can we get him out of this cage?”

You ask without looking his way.

The sound of keys jingling on a ring has the silver-furred creature perking his left ear ever so slightly- a movement you track with curiosity as the beast’s chest swells in. It’s like he understands. Maybe he does. Maybe he’s seen countless people just like you filter in and out, pass him by, and ultimately land on a different pet to jailbreak take home.

“I can get you sorted right now,” he quips, helpful, “Just… You might wanna back up.”

Weirdly enough- and despite knowing you really should be cautious with a veritable beast from the local shelter, scarred to no end and skulking- all the tiptoeing around him is endearing in its own right.

He’s a good boy, you’re sure of it. Misunderstood, probably, like the rest of the poor, trembling things here— just in need of a nice, loving home and maybe a scritch or two behind the ear. And you’re positive, if nothing else, he’ll do plenty a good job at keeping your stalker at bay.

It takes a handful of minutes to loop the rope (not leash: rope) around his neck- yet the worker treats it as a pleasant surprise, muttering something about how he’s just a whit more cooperative today.

“Thank you,” you chime a bit breathlessly. Sure, your main goal in coming here was to find a suitable guard dog, but you can’t deny the excitement that flutters within as the gate closes to a now-empty cage, your new pet springing free.

Anticipation thrums in your chest as you eagerly accept the rope from him- “careful,” a snigger- and—

The ground beneath you all but gives way.

“Oh, sir- one more thing! What’s his name!”

He stops for a moment to turn halfway over his shoulder. Long, overgrown nails skittering across the floor as the leash tugs harshly and you’re rapidly propelled out the front door, into sunlight.

However, you do catch him shrugging.

“No clue.”

✦

A number of days pass. Those days drag by with an eagerness to get to know each other that seems only one-sided- and a caution on his end that borders uncanniness.

You buy him a fluffy dog bed (the biggest you could find; he’s bigger still). Quality food, not the rubbish they fed him at the pound. And you give him your patience; small, gentle smiles that you’re not entirely sure an animal can understand— but when you offer out your hand for him to smell, a sign that you mean no harm, he growls and retreats to his corner. He chooses one part of your tiny apartment to hunker down in and outright glares when you get too close.

This is your house.

This… was your house. Maybe you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. As a week moves on, you concede to your bedroom or the sofa and watch him with resignation as he watches you back- and contemplate if you made the right choice.

Does he seriously hate you that bad? How can you make him understand that you don’t harbor any bad intentions for him-? I mean, aren’t animals supposed to have that preternatural kind of instinct anyway? to spot malice?

What is he spotting in you?

Curled up on the couch, you hang your hand off the arm and release the new brush you’d bought days ago. It’s seeming more and more like a useless purchase, yet after countless attempts to bathe and brush him- all for naught- it’s only now starting to settle.

Work was long. That one coworker was grating on your nerves more than usual and you could’ve sworn you heard a second pair of footfalls trailing yours after the bus back- but you can only look over your shoulder so many times without attracting the attention of people who start to wonder if you’re batshit crazy.

But you're not crazy. That- That psychopath is, and his countless notes and uninvited visits to your apartment while you’re gone are all proofs of that.

But that’s changed, now. If your dog hates you, he’ll hate an intruder even more.

You sigh, holding your head in your hands as you lean forward. Like a flower wilted, folded in on itself, too heavy with its withering to support its own weight. You rub your temples when you grudgingly glance up to the wolf-sized beast sulking in the corner.

He stares, of course; buttery light twinkling in imposing, ruby eyes in a way that almost makes him seem tame. Mellow.

Not quite.

Still, you can’t bring yourself to dislike him, or regret taking him off the pound’s hands— for all his stubbornness, the hostility he barely conceals, you know all too well that fear manifests itself in strange ways. Like when you almost snarled at your deskmate today for leaning over your shoulder again to review your work- the proximity too startling to handle. You’re irate. On alert. Scared. And it’s making you do unreasonable things as a way to calcify your soft skin into a protective shell. You start to think that you must be hard: the climate calls for it.

The mutt that broods behind your armchair is the picture of ominous- big and bad and threatening long before his lip even curls in warning. Everything about him screams see, look at my scars- my sharp teeth and nails. Don’t touch me. Don’t hurt me.

Your heart stirs.

Tiredly, you offer a small smile. “You are perfect, you know,” folding your leg over the other as you pat the open space of the couch beside you. It can fit four to six people if they cram together, but you know he’d take up the three cushions beside you if he sprawled out entirely.

He regards you with a microscopic flick of his ears. “Even if you don’t like me, that doesn’t change what I think about you. If you just let me give you a bath… I’ll let you sit on the couch, deal? I’m sure it’ll be comfier than what you got now,” you offer, gesturing harmlessly to the dog bed that lays unused by the table— for this reason or that, perhaps just as a way to show you he’s completely rejecting you, he’s avoided it.

Yes, he’s just a tatterdamelion, forgotten animal, operating out of instinct and whatever feels right.

Yes, you still had to mask your hurt over it.

You sigh. “I mean, I haven’t even thought of a name for you yet. And I’m sorry, I just…” Trailing off, you give your head a small shake and stand to your feet. In your mind, with no small amount of discontent, you realize you’ve reached a watershed here— one that separates your old, normal life from a sense of great uncertainty that rests on the horizon.

And you’re terribly concerned. And tired. But God forbid you start venting to a dog about it.

“Nevermind. Goodnight, boy,” you wave your doubts off dismissively, deliberately leaving the lamplight on lest he get scared in the dark. Sometimes, you think you see eyes staring back in it, too, so you put no judgement on him.

Pattering with heavy, sock-clad feet down the hall, “Sleep tight. Just tell me if you hear anything at the door-“

A labored sigh.

Nails clacking behind you— and for one awful second you fear the worst: You’ve turned your back to a beast.

Your breath hitches with the realization, yet as you swiftly spin around- half prepared to bolt or at the very least shield your head with your vulnerable, just as fleshy arms- you’re mistaken.

There, he stands, as a massive silhouette against the living room light angling into the narrow, dim hall. He’s like a bull in a china shop- monstrous, sharp claws etching lines into the lacquer of the maple wood floor, his tail sending fur gusting behind him as it falls. You become clear of two things, then:

One) you must sweep, and soon. And two)

He’s tilting his head- in an uncannily shrewd way- towards the ajar bathroom door beside you, and as he noses it open and stares at you, it’s with expectance.

Oh, and then three—

When you don’t respond right away, he steps around you and impatiently nudges you in- headstrong as ever- through the bathroom door with a throaty huff.

✦

He smells of strawberry shortcake. Vastly sweeter than what he really is, you think with a wry but endeared smile, when you extend a slow, ever-cautious hand to pet.

To your surprise, he lets you.

Call it a truce between you both. A comfier place for him to crash at for a little more peace of mind on your end.

With all the dirt and dried muck lathered out from his coat (it took an hour or so, and patience- as he flung water and stubbornly tried to readjust in the small tub- lots of it), you’re given the chance to finally see the beauty of his breed.

Chalky white fur, soft as the cashmere sweater stowed in your closet on standby for the chilly autumn weeks ahead. His hair is long, perhaps overdue for a trim- not that you’re deluded enough to believe he’d allow a groomer anywhere near him- and easily covers most of the scarring underneath.

Convincing him it was safe to let you clip his nails was an even harder task than getting him in the bath- but he… cooperated. In a looser sense of the word.

None of your limbs are missing. That’s a small miracle in itself. You’re thankful for the little breakthroughs with your new pet, even if it feels like you’re walking uphill all the while.

He hops up on the sofa beside you. True to your word, you allow it, the springs dipping beneath you both as he settles.

If the couch fell through the floor and onto the one below in a mist of crumbled drywall, you’d have no right to be surprised. None at all.

Trying not to show a fraction of your joy as he sets his head on your lap lest that deter him, you bite back a grin and rest a hand on his back. You avoid needless contact with his head- you get the feeling that’s a iffier place for him. You’d respect it, of course. Your show of patience has been nothing less than outstanding in the past week. Now that you’re finally making headway with him (and yes— his letting you bathe and sit with him is headway), you’re encouraged.

Besides…

Unpredictable. The forbidding advice of the shelter employee rings in your head.

Ahem.

It’s late.

Tomorrow, you’ve another long day of work and second-guessing your surroundings and the people in them. Whether or not you’ll be attacked in your own home by your persistent ex-boyfriend who couldn’t stop meddling with your life even if it meant saving his own.

The doubt, momentarily, is pushed to the back burner.

You smooth your hands through his velvety fur. A strange layer of peace drapes itself over you, warming your chest like a fleece as his back rises and falls, your quiet breaths punctuating his own heaving ones.

“You’re a good boy, you know,” you murmur contentedly as you lay your head back and drift off. A crimson set of eyes regards you carefully, peering up through fine, snowy lashes.

From the barrel of his chest, he lets out a deep rumble like he understands. You know he doesn’t.

Half awake, you weave your fingers along him, “You are. You are a good boy,” as if it’s come as an epiphany to you- made realer as it’s spoken.

Before you let sleep take you entirely, you murmur with a ghost of a grin, teasing despite knowing it’s ridiculous because your words aren’t coherent to him- just a swooning, soft sound to bitten ears—

“Hey… I could tell you didn’t really like Cookie, or Sweetie, or Dragonfruit, but… what about…”

A moment passes. Barely, you register his snout lifting from your thigh.

“Sylus.”

Before dozing off, you’re fairly certain- for his sake- you’d left the lamp on that night.

…But when you wake the next morning to your alarm blaring in the room over, all that lights the living space is the sun streaming through the blinds.

✦

You blink and autumn is in full throttle.

You blink and you’re trading your thin sleep shorts out for pajama pants and slippers- layering your work blouses with wooly cardigans.

Days leap over one another like cards of a rolodex— yours, on your cubicle desk: filled with doodles of the unruly pooch waiting at home for you. Idling over him is all that you can do to ease your mind as anxiety gnaws through.

You worry for him when he’s home alone. Not because you heed the warnings you were once given- ‘he’ll tear a hole in your walls’- but because you care for him, and with that brings the inexplicable want to see him as soon as possible.

Of course, he can’t speak, but he shows in his own way that he misses you too when you’re gone.

Once your shift ends, you do as you did the day before. You quickly take the jacket off your wheely chair and gather your things, waving to the select few coworkers who don’t make you want to rip your hair from the root.

Perhaps if you’re quick enough, you’ll even make it off the bus, to your complex, before the sun sets. You appreciate fall for its colors. Not for the darkness it brings far too early to be comfortable with.

Every alley appears with teeth, in those eerily quiet moments when you make the short trek back home. Cars purr beside you on the congested roads, and despite cursing traffic on the ride to your stop, you’re grateful for it now.

At least more people are out; potential buffers to stave off your crazy ex from putting his hands on you…

Potential witnesses if he does.

Damnit. Damnit damnit damnit. Every evening you can’t help but wish you could just- take Sylus with you to work. But for so many reasons that’s just not possible.

Stuffing your hands in your pockets, you breathe out a fine mist and pick up the pace.

You can’t escape dusk from falling- but you can take advantage of the early moments of it right before night comes swinging.

You nervously glance up to the sky, a fiery swatch of orange sat under starry blue, and tell yourself it’s fine.

…It’s fine- and yet you swear on all things holy you can hear boots pacing behind yours—

A gasp. You turn around and get ready to rip your pepper pray from the scabbard that is your pocket- for naught. Emptiness greets you. Sneering and quiet. In the distance, deeper into the city, a car honks. Where you are now though, you’re more or less alone.

You wet your lip where it’s dented from biting. You turn around, and press back on.

It’s okay. You’re almost home. Just a bit further. Within ten minutes you’ll be crooning to your ‘puppy’ and itching behind his ear while he rigidly thumps his tail, closing his eyes indifferently as if he wasn’t hurrying to the door as soon as he heard the lock.

Yes, that’s right. In ten minutes- on the dot (you know because you’re toying with your watch to calm yourself)- you’ll be slipping off your jacket and refilling his water bowl, tossing him scraps as you prepare a nice steak dinner in celebration of your weekend commencing. The fancy wine you’ll pair with it is to help wash it all down and pretend you’re financially better off than you are. Not to help your nerves.

…Even Sylus, the creature who doesn’t understand you even if sometimes it seems he unexplainably does, would be hard-pressed to believe such a feeble lie.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Your heels. A dull, monotonous rhythm against pavement, one you relish now because it fills the crisp, silent air.

Then-

Tap tap tap.

Your heels- “Hey baby, wait up- where ya going?”- with the sound of another and the bone-chilling revelation that every suspicion you had was grounded—

You don’t even turn around. You don’t reason with, stick up the bird to, or even hastily shout a fuck off, creep, over your shoulder because you’re not sure you have the luxury to.

By the sounds of it, he’s already close.

“Oh no you don’t. Come on, baby, just let me fuckin’ talk to you!”

-Closer and gaining still.

Fear rattles through you. It goes from zero to one hundred in a breath- yet how to breathe becomes a distant memory as your lungs still. The pulse in your throat drums, and suddenly your cardigan isn’t enough to save you from the ice eating you from the inside out- a cold sweat already forming at your nape.

You’re in such a panic you even forget about the spray in your pocket- the assortment of makeshift blades (keys, pens that grow knives when you click them) tucked in your purse. You have a small arsenal in there. Yet your mind spins.

“Stop-! I haven’t even been able to visit you lately because of that fucking asshole- since when you’d get a new boyfriend, baby? Do you really not care about me anymore? I just wanna talk!”

No. No no no- and new boyfriend? What-? All thought is dashed from your brain, his hollers becoming static. No, just ignore him, it doesn’t matter what nonsense he spouts to try and get you back- you won’t so much as glance behind you. After all he’s done to hurt and twist and outright disgrace you and your home, you don’t think he deserves it.

You break into a sprint. The concrete path pushes beneath you. You feel like you’re running in a dream, you’re so terrified- but you do run. You run like hell. You run like a girl.

You fiddle for the key in your purse, shaking as the door opens and you slam it behind you. His hand almost gets stuck in it, the knob jiggling loudly just a millisecond after you lock it.

As the reality of what could’ve been settles, you’re horrified. Cold in the face.

Sylus is there, leaping over to reach you. You wonder if the fury you catch in his wide ruby eyes is your imagination or reality; if he has the inexplicable knowing- based on your frazzled state or the noise- that something is terribly wrong.

“Sylus-“

You breathe with relief, but you don’t linger. You skitter past to the kitchen for a weapon- a real, proper one. A snarl rips from his throat as you leave him behind you, shouts sounding in the hallway behind your door. He barks at it. Ferocious and lupine. Surely not the make of a dog, of a pet meant for four walls and a roof— no, it’s a separate beast entirely.

Hostile, unpredictable, growly- dangerous. Oh, you’ve no choice but to hope all the labels on his package are true. That he’ll rip your ex-boyfriend a new one if he finds a way in.

Hyperventilating, limbs like jelly, you stagger over. In the short span of time it takes you to turn out the kitchen and down the corridor, you contemplate either opening the door and saying go boy, go— or simply staying back to ‘defend.’

You turn the corner and blanche.

Someone’s in your house- not the creeping, painfully familiar face, however, no- and he’s naked.

And then, everything you’d been working so hard to build with your froward pet over the months, the foundation of trust and patience, the hard-earned truce made between you both… As red eyes flash at you in warning, a hand taking the shaking knife from your own before he opens the door— it all shifts.

The bottom falls through.

The man opens the door, and perhaps you should be thankful that he takes the squabble outside because you’re sure that the blood spraying from your ex-boyfriend’s nose as it breaks would be impossible to scrub from your walls.

✦

“Relax,” he grouses with a tsk, “I’m not gonna bite.”

With split knuckles, a long leg crossed over the other where he sits on your couch, canines just a little too sharp as they catch in the lamplight- that’s hard to believe.

The blade he’d taken from your hands lies on the cushion beside him, and while you don’t make a grab for it, you think he sees the way you eye it- and the knife block in the kitchen- as you clench your fist to keep yourself from fainting while you gawk.

“Y-You’re not my dog.”

One of his brows lifts with amusement- or challenge, perhaps- as you deny the truth laid out before you. It’s impossible. Of course it’s impossible. He-

That can’t be Sylus.

For a moment you believe he’ll agree. Nod his head and say, no, I’m not your dog- I’m a person; because that’s certainly how he looks. But he doesn’t.

“I simply changed forms,” he explains. “Not who I am to you.”

With nothing else to say- no real rebuttal- you can only flounder. “N-No. You’re not Sylus.”

That pulls a soft huff from him, “Oh, kitten,” he grins a tenuous grin, “I’m wounded. And here I thought your kindness had no takebacks. You gave me that name, didn’t you? Sylus.” He sighs, a heavy, affected sound- like this is no more than a theater play to him as he adjusts on your sofa.

“I guess I’ll just have to settle for something else, then… Is Dragonfruit still up for grabs?”

D-Dragonfruit? How does he…

The way he looks at you then, with a lift of his chin as he angles his brow in provocation, a smirk only touching half his mouth- makes you freeze. The little hairs on your nape rise.

…Yet he’s just as scarred as your pet, with the silver hair and the gemstone eyes— massive, over six foot tall and muscular- and the air about him is… familiar. Too much to be comfortable with.

“Y-You’re not-“

Before you can splutter out another denial, he sighs and drops the bravado. He spares the weapon beside him a dismissive glance, stretching one arm across the back of the couch.

“Look, if you don’t believe me, that’s your choice. I won’t try to convince you,” he states, “I’ll just let my actions speak for themselves in the course of the next few days.”

…What? The next few days? Does he plan to stay? What- no. No no no! This mysterious, albeit helpful stranger (helpful in the way that he shook your persistent ex from your doorstep- through violent means, of course) can’t seriously think you’ll just let him crash at your place after feeding you such a ridiculous lie. He’s not your dog. He’s- he’s not some werewolf that can shapeshift on a whim- those only exist in fairytales and teenage romance novels.

Not in your tiny apartment.

“N-No. You- you’re crazy. You have to leave. You have to! I’ll- I’ll call the cops!”

Not-Sylus seems unfazed. Perhaps even a little offended at your bluffing: the vehemence is there. But the certainty is not.

Sure, the department wasn’t having your stalker drama- but an intrusion you’re actually witnessing like this can’t be easily ignored. If your crappy ex ends up snitching (you doubt it, what with his involvement)- all the more evidence, right?

He all but rolls his eyes, saying like it’s obvious, perhaps even with a mite of amusement, “I’m on your side, kitten. Don’t get all…” he looks you up and down, and you hate the flutter of your heart that’s more than just fearful— it’s self-conscious. “Hissy now.”

You punch out a scoff of disbelief. “You’re some stranger in my house! Look- I appreciate what you did, okay? I really do,” you start. You have to pause in between to take a breath because God knows you mean the words you say- you’re just inwardly afraid that the fix was only quick, not permanent, and with the sudden disappearance of your dog? Good luck protecting yourself now. Fuck, you don’t even know where he went- maybe he booked it out through the door when you were too distracted by the chaos to notice.

But then… why the hell would he leave? He- He’s never done that until now!

You rub your face and stare at him. The fear lends itself to a distant echo the more you realize you’re no longer in immediate danger. The guy is an unwelcome (and flashy, literally) intruder, yes, one your pooch would waste no time in maiming, but he’s not an active threat... You just have to figure out how to get him to leave.

“But my dog is a dog. Not a human. Not… you.” That you even have to say it out loud is ridiculous.

Even if, the longer you stare, the more you begin to believe it.

The scarred skin, the unmistakable, red eyes, and the somewhat bitten ears- his body weathered from what you suspect to be years of tussling in underground fights (evidently: winning them, not without the cost though)…

And that arrogant little air he carries with him, the one that first endeared you so.

Sylus, it all says.

But no. No- this is insane. Months of being stalked and living like a bug under a microscope have made you worse for wear. Impaired your judgment.

He draws you back to the present with his rumbling voice. “Your dog is more than just some animal,” he huffs. “Don’t tell me after all you’ve experienced with the stalker that you’re… frightened of this side of me? Really? Of all things?” His chuckle is as rich as it is short as he shakes his head.

Frightened? No… that becomes a more distant word. You’re more so stunned than anything else right now as the pieces start to fall in alignment with each other.

“Well, how about this,” he offers at your silence, waving his hand. “Let the week pass. By the end of it, you can decide for yourself if I’m real or truly just a figment of your imagination, sweetheart… You…” he lowers his gaze, then. Uncertain, almost.

“You can even decide if you want me to stay.”

He rubs nothing between his fingers, glancing up again with a pointed brow. “Deal?”

And if you say no? If, on the off chance you’re wrong and you kick him right back to the curb- to a sorry life of abandonment and bloody illegal brawls and God knows what else?

Your mouth wavers. “I- I don’t believe it.”

You do believe it. But it’s crazy.

He almost snorts. “You’d better start. But with that pest taken care of now… I think you’ll catch on quite fast,” he grins. “I’m here for you, kitten. Isn’t that what you wanted me for? Protection? Don’t tell me once I serve my use you’ll throw me out?” He laughs. But then he sighs right after, pursing his lips and looking down to his lap where he makes no effort to adjust the thin blanket that covers his nakedness as it nearly slips.

Headstrong. Cocksure. Bored with his surroundings in a way only mature folk really tend to be. The sage advice of that employee flashes in your mind— ‘he’s on the older side, so naturally he’s a bit grumpy, snippy’; really, you shouldn’t gasp at his temperament but with your current situation it’s a little hard not to when he clips out-

“So? Do we have a deal or not?”

And, well, what’s the harm in giving him your couch for one night?

Or several.

✦

A wintry chill pricks up your neck. Along your arms. Down your limbs where they bundle beneath the covers- to the tips of your toes as you respond with a shiver.

It rattles you in tandem with pleasure.

Upon waking, a few things blitz through your mind too fast to catch. For one, you’ve woken before your alarm- meaning you’ll be miserable in the minutes or hours of consciousness before it actually does go off. Secondly, the bed feels heavier.

…As do your bones.

Third— Sylus is not on the couch like he’s been for the past few months. He’s with you, in the comfort of your own bed, and as the wooly blanket slips down your upper half- leaving you to the cold air- it reveals to you a head between your thighs.

Pried open. One held up for a soft kiss while the other is pinned down— both wet. Sticky with- with you.

You gasp. “Sylus-“

You’ve no time to even rub the sleep from your eyes, big weathered hands anchoring you in place, because he lifts his head from his plate for a millisecond when you try to stop him and does something he hasn’t for months.

He snarls.

“Quiet. I’m eating.”

Protective. Territorial. That isn’t your pussy he eats from, lapping fervently at it as if it wasn’t just a number of hours ago you were hand-feeding him steak cubes from the cutting tray— no, it’s his.

He blocks your hand from interfering when it slips beneath the cover. So when that doesn’t work, you attempt to clamp your legs shut (quavering, you realize, on either side of his lupine face). All your efforts- bogged by sleep and the simple fact that he was leagues stronger- are for naught.

‘Good try’, his eyes seem to tease, though, glittering devilishly at you as his tongue flicks your clit. And then, when you hesitantly lie back and rest a hand in his hair- ‘that’s it, kitten.’

“Good girl,” he practically purrs.

He’s got a big appetite. You’ve known that.

Not as much as you do right now.

“Sylus, wait wait wait,” you moan. Life has thrown so much your way, especially in the past year or so, but you never went belly-up for it. You fought and resisted and squared up.

But right now, half of you almost wants to take him lying down- let him take his fill of you and then pin you down to take some more. Let him have his way with you, whatever that may entail.

But you- You have work tomorrow, and- and responsibilities—

“Hush,” he goes, voice muffled, having some preternatural ability to tell just what you’re thinking. He drifts a hand up your belly to splay over the valley of your breast. Your heart thumps beneath his callous palm like a metronome. Like a ticking clock, counting down the seconds or hours before you need to get up and get ready. Start a day in which you leave home, leave Sylus, and spend the rest of it longing to get back.

“Just take the day off.”

Grudgingly, you lie your head back. It’s… not a great idea, but as your rationale clouds, it seems like your best one.

“O-Okay.”

As a hot, long tongue stripes up your pussy and then his other hand, the one he used to comfort you in his own weird way, slinks downward again- the ceiling becomes too boring to bear.

So you glance down.

He’s handsome as all get out. Really, a couple months ago when he first appeared to you as a human, that was all you could think as days passed and you became grossly aware that you were sharing a confined space with a man. That you had been all along— and your prancing around the apartment half-naked was just one of the countless spectacles he’d seen.

He never pounced, though. Never lunged. Never bit you like a dog or hurt you like a man, even when every bit of his crude exterior screamed hazardous. He was a good boy. And you don’t care what form he takes; he took you as you are, didn’t he? When you were scared of your own shadow and a little snippy because of it. He let you hold the leash to his heart and snarled at anything that came too close- protected you against your piece of crap ex without prompting. Turned your fear into a mellow thing.

Warmth prods at your heart. Loosens your legs up where they clench around his head.

That day at the pound turns in your memory like a spindle.

You could’ve lost him. He- He could’ve been gone forever hadn’t you showed.

…But you did show. For the shitty time you’d been having, Sylus was your one silver lining. You were there for each other as a shoulder to lean on and a hand to hold.

Your fingers tug gently on his scalp. Fruity shampoo breathes out from the blanket when you flip it over his head to allow him better access. Nerves eat you from the inside out. You’ve seen the looks, the hungering glances and felt the fingertips that linger in seemingly innocent touches:

Finally experiencing the culmination of his quiet longing is a whole different game, though.

Slurps ring out from your thighs. Your sighing, candied words- spoken in that ridiculous tone reserved only for him- make his ears perk atop his head.

“Good boy,” you breathe. “Y-You’re perfect.”

He rewards your obedience with a finger, thick and delightful. You gasp and arch your back into his hands- or, his one hand- a throaty moan rippling from his open mouth. The several little muscles in his face go lax when you coyly guide him deeper into your cunt and he melts.

“You taste delicious,” he whispers. “Sweet girl. I can-“ a deep, shivering inhale. Not from you- from him. “I can smell how much you want it…. You’re soaked.”

You mewl his name and almost reach full relaxation ‘til you glance back down and, with the covers off, spot where his other hand disappears. He’s naked- not in the boxer briefs and sweatpants you’d bid him goodnight in- and holds his fat, upright cock in his hand.

And his hand is big. Can dwarf every part of you with its hold.

His cock is somehow bigger.

Your heart leaps from your chest as he eyes you. He’s daunting. Every bit intimidating and then some- especially as you realize he won’t be just content with kitten licking your pussy, delicious as it is, and ending the intimate moment right afterward.

Dogs will always take the bowl if you slide them one: and then look to you later for seconds.

Point is- he’s insatiable.

You shiver as raunchy images flash in your brain— rough fingers pinning back your thighs as he rams inside you, setting a relentless pace as he bites and sucks and claims.

In your imagination, he doesn’t pull out when he comes.

…What really takes your breath is the engorged knot at the base of him, though, flushed an impatient red. Fattening by the second.

Cum- not pre- dribbles from the tip. For how long he’s been at this, you don’t know.

“Sylus-!” You mean to shriek it, but you can only manage a whispering scream. “Wait, wait, wait! what do you have in your hand-!“

A grin plays at his lips. Crooked, recalcitrant.

Challenging.

He’s hardly lucid, what with the delicious heat emanating from the slick lips he stuffs a second finger in, to acknowledge your question, so it’s surprising when he pulls back a centimeter to make an answer. Lust grips him tight— the need to fuck and take and mount— but that concerned, cute little bump in your brow is one he wants to smooth.

It’s the least he can do.

“Take a guess,” he sussurates, licking slowly up your inner thigh. Torturing you. “It’ll be in yours soon though, kitten, so get ready.”

Your eyes bulge from your skull.

His response: a low chuckle paired with a moan.

From that point on, even as he suckles expertly at your puffy clit, working you to a sniveling mess as you scream on his fingers, you’re focused entirely on what he’s doing below the blanket. He palms at himself- it’s all he can do to relieve the ache as he wrestles with his fraying self-control- massaging his balls and knot as they throb.

When he withdraws his digits from you, eyes drooping at the cream coating his knuckles before fluttering back at the taste of it— you lie back down and gulp.

Taking work off today is a good idea. You can already think of a few excuses. Not being able to walk properly is one of them. Being unable to get out of bed… Feeling so sore and feverish after he’s fucked you into pyrexia that you can’t even move an inch without being reminded of it.

He straightens. The cover slips off him entirely and he’s tall. Hulking. Painting you in his shadow- but the moonlight brings out the sheer hunger on his face, and you alight with warmth all over again.

You hope he’s primed you. You pray he’s done good to prepare you for what’s to come. Because oh, it’s coming. You know that.

“Now,” he heaves, dragging your legs either side of him as he kneels. You can tell he’s not well off, trying to muster a cocksure grin but failing as he perspires at the temple. “To the good part.”

You frown at that, almost- a pang of hurt weaving through the haze of desire and the smell of your musk on his fingers as he licks them clean again, ever thorough. He notes the flicker of your brow with a thoughtful pause and then a sigh, shaking his head as he grabs your jaw and angles his front down.

He chuckles, and you experience a singular flash of softness when he goes, “Oh, so sensitive… Don’t pout. I thoroughly enjoyed the opening too, kitten.”

You’re shaking. Insides molten with the pure want for him to just- to just do something already. There’s no opportunity to come down from your high because you feel his cock bob against your tummy as he sets himself up, and you burn anew.

Oh, you love him. You really do. He’s endearing in all the places he shouldn’t be. He’s charming and strong and willing to fight for you. So you don’t care if he’s a little old and slow on the uptake when it comes to new tricks- territorial and intimidating. He’s yours.

Eyes half open, you lift your hands to trail from his pecs to his firm, scarred belly. With a hiss, he trembles. Catches your wrists and tuts at you a second later, saying, “It’s better to keep those at your side. Once you get me going, I won’t be easy to stop.”

And you’d be half tempted to tease him some more, you know, but fuck if he isn’t massive. And fuck if you aren’t a little scared for it.

So you clutch the sheets as he drives himself inside with a grunt, and settle below him. You trust he’ll take care of you.

The entrance is, at first, surprisingly smooth, what with the natural lube you’ve provided for him. You let him lift your ass and bend you into a bow-shaped thing so he can hit deeper- and that’s when there’s some turbulence.

Your fingers curl into the cotton fabric. You brace and wait for the sting to subside. When you realize your eyes are clamped shut, though, you open them to see his expression and pall at the sight of him.

He’s gorgeous. Even when he looks like he’s ready to sneeze- brow scrunched and jaw slack as he dragoons himself inside, tormentingly slow- he’s nothing less than charming through your lens. But you’re thankful for the time he gives you to adjust because you need it.

Frankly, if he intends to put his knot inside— and he fucking won’t, there’s just no way— the walls of your pussy need the patience on his end.

For several seconds, Sylus does not breathe. You’re sizzling hot; when he eventually bottoms out, he can’t tell where he starts and you end- all he knows is that it’s gooey and warm and so fucking tight his balls throb. He deliquesces between your thighs. You welcome him, your body like a landing pad.

He supposes, right then, you’ve always been very hospitable.

Sylus curses. “Ngh, you’re tight... Loosen up,” he presses his forehead to yours and hisses out through his teeth. His eyes glitter like rhodolite in the dark. Reverent hands run down your side and clasp your hip. With your slick still coating his lips- tangy sweet, you find, as he presses them to yours- you realize he’s worshipful. The moonlight pouring in the blinds makes his silhouette glow a true blue.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, swiping over your bottom lip with his tongue. “Sweet, and soft. And a very good girl. I’ve got your back. You know that, don’t you?” Then, he draws his hips back and—

Your little bed judders. But the squeak that sounds out is yours as he ruts back inside and your labia brushes with his knot.

He won’t put it inside. He won’t. You’re sure of it. Mutts only do that when they’re mating. Mutts only do that. Sylus is- is so much more than that, and….

“Mmm,” an uncontrollable moan escapes you as he begins to move, like really move, and your eyes roll.

With some difficulty, he continues. “You’re naive. Plucking something like me from its cage. But I admire your bravery, kitten, so— f- uck— let me just show you, hm? How far my loyalty goes?”

Void of words, you nod.

The reindeer-patterned bedsheets aren’t enough. Your hands leave them in favor of Sylus, grasping around his back so tight your fingertips can make out the raised scars there. Planes of muscle flexing with divots with every thrust forward.

Offhandedly, he hits that sweet spot inside you. Your nails dig in by accident, and you say his name, stringing out the syllables in a delightful, dizzying mewl.

The floodgates- they burst open. Something in him gives.

He rams forward, abandoning his restraint altogether as his furry, salt-and-peppered tail whacks the mattress beneath you. That fat swell below his cock teases at your sweltering hole with every pump inside, and Sylus burrows his nose into your sweaty neck to whimper.

You’ve never heard such a noise escape him before. Huffs, grumbles, long, exaggerated sighs he makes whenever he finds a nice spot to lay down (usually on you), as if he pays the rent around here— but never that.

He whines, words strained, “Think you can take my knot? Hah… Nod your head for me, kitten- because I don’t think that I can stop it. I can’t wait any longer. I need you to…” he shudders, “take it.”

One moment you’re nervously glancing down to monitor him- and the next he’s nudging your head back with his nose before crashing his lips to yours. Your eyes widen when he flips you over, presses his chest to your back, and thrusts inside with vigor.

With the new angle, you stretch around him with a mewl, but every bone in your body locks when his hips slam flush to your ass and—

His knot pops inside with a gasp.

Throwing your hands to the strong ones he latches around your midriff, you wail. He clings to you like a limpet, his thighs trembling behind yours as he moans endlessly in your ear. Pointed teeth graze at the nape of your neck. He doesn’t bite- but amidst the warp of pain and a pleasure so intense it gives you vertigo, you distantly realize that he probably wants to.

He holds himself off. Breath hitching as his pelvis claps into you. Euphoria rolls across him, shocks him like a static bolt, every fiber of his being awash with it as his jaw falls open and he succumbs to you.

When he comes, it’s so hard his ears ring.

The walls of your pussy become less hospitable, then, clenching around him so tight as you both cum that for a moment, he can’t even say a word to ease you. He aches inside you- you can feel it. The girth of him twitching as your heat swallows him up with a spasm. His knot takes all thought from your brain. Stuffed inside your poor hole, tumid and veiny.

You feel him coalesce with you, too. Eagerly rutting his seed inside (ensuring it sticks, you realize when he drops a finger to your folds, checking for leakage), releasing rope after rope of hot cum as you go limp and take it.

You offer up a choked mewl when he kisses at your spine, brushing your hair aside just to access your neck where he licks and sucks. You trust Sylus not to get carried away with a bite if he did, to lose out to what he’s been taught.

Evidently, he doesn’t trust himself.

Your fingers dig into his thick, scarred forearm and he sighs behind you- a long, feeble sound. He’s barely able to keep himself draped over you- let alone support your own position beneath him, what with the soup you’ve made of his brain- but he manages.

Silence sprawls out as you attempt to steady your breaths. All that comes in between it is the occasional, wet squelch and the gusting inhales he takes at the column of your neck.

“It… hurts. So good…” he hisses after several beats. Only marginally brought back to reality, you flutter your eyes open and offer a yip back. “You’re doing so well, though… Just-“ He twitches inside you, then, throbbing like a second pulse point, his cock undulating in your walls, greedily taking up all the space.

“Fuck. Stay still, sweet girl,” he grunts, harebrained. His eyes crinkle and close. “I want it all inside. Don’t wanna see so much as a drop escape that perfect, tight pussy. Hah- you hear me?”

“Y-Yes,” you quiver back. Speaking is too difficult, you realize a second later, shoving your open mouth into the pillow as you pant for air.

Yet, you can’t help but ask with a slur, “Sylus- when- when will it be over?”

He moans, right in your ear. Goosebumps run up your naked body- all that clothes you.

“It’s too big,” you cry.

“No,” he quips. “It’s just right.”

As if on cue, your cunt gives another squeeze around him, milking him for all he’s worth. In response, he bows his forehead into the crook your shoulder and jaw make to bury a whine, and your mind spins when you register his balls, hanging fat against your ass, lurching. And oh, you’re spilling, you can feel it, beginning to ooze profusely from your puffy lips even as he keeps it plugged; really, even if Sylus wanted to separate from you (he doesn’t), he couldn’t.

There’s nothing in him that wants the distance. The idea of self-autonomy. The idea of independence. No- he’s all yours.

“We’ll wait it out,” he breathes. Coasting a hand along your belly in an effort to placate you. He knows it can’t be easy for you. But the world— that stupid, irksome ex-boyfriend of yours— needs to understand where your heart belongs. There’s no better way to show that than to demonstrate it first with the body.

And you—

(Bitten by his branding kiss, supple skin covered with the divots of his teeth, your belly full of his veritable seed-)

Well. Nobody should look at you, he decides in his spirit right then, and come to any other conclusion but the one that you’re his.

Unmistakably, irrevocably, his.

“It’ll subside soon enough,” he soothes with a peck to your throat, a surprisingly chaste move. He loops his arms around your waist again and carefully- mindful not to exacerbate the heady ache- maneuvers on his side, pulling your back to his front. He whispers at your ear, “So long as you don’t move or stir me up, we’ll be fine.”

Yet, a set of canines brush at your jugular, and again- there’s that inkling, this time in better clarity, that passes your conscience. You know he wants to bite. To mark. To claim. You know it and have the vague idea of all it entails, yet he… won’t.

With a frown, cursing as you turn ever so slightly and his fat knot shifts inside you, you hazily meet his eyes.

His are practically glowing, laying heavy on you. Charting across your face the moment they make contact, observing every brief flicker of your expression to try and assign a feeling— happiness, he hopes, contentedness— to it. His lashes totter and you burn with shame when a lewd suck rings between your legs, his cock wet all the way down to the slight plush of his abdomen.

You don’t mean to pout, “why won’t you-“

“Not yet, Kitten,” he scolds. Trying to swallow down a pit of self-consciousness in your throat, you murmur, “What, do you not want me?” Sylus huffs as if offended. His eyes drag from your lips to your searching eyes.

“Really, kitten? …What, should I give you an equally stupid answer?”

Oh, you’d tug his tail if you had the luxury of moving right now-

“Of course I want you. Can’t you tell?” He sighs, then, burrowing his nose into your neck almost to hide. His ears droop along his head, donning a relaxed look.

“So. Did you like it..?”

“Y-Yeah…” you murmur, carefully looping a hand back to stroke behind his fuzzy ears. “But, I just… I thought you’d really do it, I thought you’d really tie us together-“

He chuckles richly. “We’re already tied together, kitten,” peppering another kiss below your jaw, licking appreciatively at the sweat that clings to soft skin. “I’ve belonged to you for some time now, haven’t I?”

Your heart skips a beat when you realize he’s right.

“I- I guess so. Yeah.”

“So no more whining,” he lifts his chin to sample your lips, this time- his knot still throbbing white-hot and insistently inside you (albeit the ache is lessening)- eyes lidded as he conveys his affections.

“I’ll do it when we’re both ready. When…” He pauses to swallow.

In that short frame of time before he next speaks, you’re drawn to all his scarring. The faded ligature marks around his neck, the seemingly permanent gnashes along his body (which was a touch too lean before you familiarized him with good food). The nip taken from one of the ears sat atop his silvery, mussed locks. In that moment, you don’t see the misshapen, loveless thing he was beaten into— but rather the softness he worked to regain for you.

“When I know it’s manageable.”

If he feels unsure of himself- whether he can remain… civil, for lack of a better word, amidst the fervent haze that a mark would bring about— then you suppose you could wait for a bit longer.

“Okay,” you murmur with a faint, understanding smile, caressing one half of his face dotingly. You tilt your head slightly to plant a firm, benevolent kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“But you’ll always be a good boy to me, okay? I trust you. I told you before- you’re perfect-“ Rather roughly, he noses your head back into the pillow, readjusting his iron hold around you as he grumbles into your hair.

“…Hush. Now close your eyes and go back to bed. I’ll tell you when it’s ready to pull out.”

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

[luvsion]

saw this picture on twitter of a buff dude with a bunch of hello kitty stickers on his arm and chest and it made me think of sion…

like sitting with him or on his lap, him holding you while you put your cute stickers on him as if to decorate him

idk where i’m going with this but i thought it was cute lol

anon you can’t just go around and say things like this to me bc i will start acting crazy

see now, i never really thought about decorating sion’s biceps or anything without stickers and stuff, but now i desperately need it.

he would have you on his lap, hands resting on your waist caressing your skin, as you place every sticker or whatever you have meticulously all over his cheeks, tip of his nose, collarbones, biceps etc etc… and while you are hyper focused on placing every little thing on him he would just stare at your face, studying your expression and your features. he would find the way you concentrate on this adorable, and wouldn’t be able to help himself but pull you into a soft kiss, distracting you from you very hard work. and when he pulls away he would see your ‘annoyed’ expression which would just make his cheeky ass grin to your face as he would take a sticker from you, and place on the tip of your nose, then pull you back into another kiss 🤩🤩 or whatever i have never decorated my bf with stickers before so i lowk #needthat

[makizdoll]

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[lovecase]

𝒷uying yourself a collar as a joke but boyfie!seung gets super into it 💭 :: light pet play spit play degradation light choking blowjob dom!seung

"are you serious?"

"what?" you ask, giving him the most innocent face you can.

seungmin's got a look on his face. you know that look—it's the one he gives you when he's mentally running through the pros and cons of dating you.

"is that a collar? like, actually?" he squints at you, or rather, the little bell in the center. you flick the metal, making it jingle.

giggling, you roll your eyes. you shift on the mattress below you, trying to gauge his reaction. you... actually can't tell what he's thinking. "well, duh. do you like it? isn't it pretty?"

considering the amount of time you spent picking it out, you'll put him on a sex ban if he doesn't agree. it's pink, decorated with lace, and it even matches the lingerie set you're wearing; it's his favorite.

seungmin clears his throat, pulling his eyes away. it seems like he's trying to look anywhere but at you. "no. yes. yeah—it's cute. or whatever."

you pout, glossy lips jutting out. "oh. so you don't like it?"

his head snaps back towards you, and he looks greatly alarmed. "what? i didn't say that. don't make shit up." you scoot closer to the edge of the bed, watching him swallow from his spot in the doorway.

"okay," you hum, dragging the syllables out. your eyes rake over his figure, stopping at the rather obvious bulge in his pants. "y'know what else is up—"

"shut up," he mutters, narrowing his eyebrows at you. with his arms crossed, seungmin clicks his tongue. "you're always fucking with me, aren't you?" he crosses the short space between you two, and your breath hitches.

standing directly above, he looks down at you, shaking his head. "is everything a joke to you?" he asks, but he's clearly not expecting an answer with the way he grabs your face with his hand, slowly dragging it down to your neck, where his thumb presses down against the base.

a whimper slips past your lips. "seung—"

"that's enough, pup. you're gonna stay quiet now, yeah?" he's quiet for a moment, like he's thinking. then: "open," seungmin tells you, his gaze fixed on your lips. you do as he says, sticking your tongue out slightly.

he spits sharply in your mouth, and on instict, you swallow, a soft moan slipping past your lips. seungmin chuckles, clearly amused. "so... you can be a good girl. you just choose to be a tease instead, huh?"

that must be rhetorical, too, because he's already moving on. your boyfriend just points towards the floor, shaking his head. "get on your knees."

you slid off the bed, knees hitting the carpeted floor with a soft thud. you know what he wants, and you know that he's not interested in waiting. breath hitching, you unbutton his pants, hooking your fingers under the waistband and releasing him from the constraints.

he's heavy and hard, tip leaking. you lick up a bead of precum, before opening your mouth to take as much of him as you can. you gag on his length, tears pricking your eyes, as you hollow your cheeks out to suck.

"fuck—you look so pretty like this. choking on my cock like a dumb puppy," seungmin groans, his hands moving to collect your hair in a makeshift ponytail.

his tip bumps the back of your throat, and you whine, squeezing your eyes shut. "this what you wanted?" he asks, thrusting slightly. you hum in a half-response, and the vibration makes his hips stutter.

yeah. this was exactly what you wanted.

🪽 𝓈tray kids taglist : @beautifulsharkgoatee @susu6944 @emilywjinnie @emotionalstrawberries @babythisisourcinema @maliatate96 @sapphirewaves @iconicallyher @fussel9913 @yawwni @inlovewithstraykids @foppishitudinality @gadriezmannsgirl @straystar-8 @narratedforbutterflies @yawngnab @yawwni @teddybeartaetae @whosmerii

[alinathinkstoomuch]

GAME NIGHT, RUINED

18+ MDNI

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader (was supposed to be nanny!reader but lit rally no mentions of her being a nanny LOL) summary: one question you refuse to answer gives you the best sex of your life. warnings | an: p in v sex, choking, one bite, fingering, oral (f receiving), praise kink?? hotch profiling reader and its so sexy i want to kith him on the mouth, there is aftercare i just didn’t write it, oopsies, established relationship word count: 2.9k

✧ masterlist

In all fairness, you hadn't actually read the rules of the game before suggesting it tonight. But maybe Penelope had – and maybe that's exactly why she'd wrapped it in floral paper with a gingham ribbon, like it was some sweet little gift and not a trap in disguise.

Because now here you were, cheeks warm, pulse ticking too fast, staring down a question that made your soul want to leave your body.

Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad.

You liked being manhandled. Liked a little choking – nothing too wild, just enough to feel it. Worst things have happened. Honestly, it wasn't even that big a deal.

Until you looked up... and saw Aaron’s eyes on you.

You swallowed, looking back down at the card again just as a breathless little laugh slipped out.

Name a turn-on your partner doesn’t know about but should.

“Pretty sure we’ve already had this one,” you said, maybe a little too brightly, as you tucked the card neatly under the deck like it was nothing. “Next!”

You barely brushed the edge of a new card before Aaron’s hand closed over the stack, pulling it right out of reach.

“Oh, are we done playing?” you asked innocently, sitting up a little straighter as your hands slid to your thighs. “Good idea.” You were on your feet now. “Pretty sure there’s a pile of laundry upstairs with my name on it –”

“Sit.”

Your hands hovered for a second before landing on your hips, a half-formed protest catching in your throat, but you obeyed, lowering yourself back down onto the couch, trying to act unbothered. Trying to ignore the way your heart had picked up speed.

“We haven’t been playing this game long enough to get the same card twice,” he said calmly, a small smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Really? Huh. Could’ve sworn we already had that one.”

He arched a brow. “What was it?”

“Aaron come on,” you deflected, waving a hand like it didn’t matter. “It was something silly.”

He didn’t say anything, just flipped the deck over in his hand, eyes scanning the top card.

“Name a turn-on your partner doesn’t know about but should,” he read aloud. “Hm. Definitely don’t recall hearing your answer to this.”

“You don’t?” you said weakly.

“Just because you keep repeating everything I say doesn’t mean you’re going to get out of answering.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

“You begged to play this game,” he continued calmly. “And now you’re skipping cards?” He gave you a dry look. “That hardly seems fair.”

You let out a quiet huff and leaned back into the couch, suddenly very interested in the ceiling. Your heart was beating faster than it should’ve been. Not because you didn’t trust him – you did. Completely. You knew he’d never shame you or make you feel small for wanting something.

But he’d also seen the worst of humanity. He’d spent his career staring into the darkest corners of people’s minds. You weren’t sure how he’d feel knowing his girlfriend got turned on by things like rough hands. The feeling of being pinned down and utterly helpless, even when she wasn’t.

It sounded a lot messier out loud than it did in your head.

“I just…” You hesitated. “It’s not a big deal. It’s probably not even your thing.”

“Well, if you’re unhappy in that department, I’d absolutely like to know what it is.”

“Oh my God – no, no. Not at all. I’m not – unhappy.” Your voice pitched as high as your hands flew up in protest, and now you were spiralling. “I’m very happy. I’m, like, obscenely happy. I think your ability to give me more orgasms in one night than I’ve had in my entire life before meeting you should be studied. Or patented. Or possibly banned in several states –”

He blinked once. Then bit back a smile.

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I do, unfortunately,” you muttered into your palms.

“Then tell me,” he said, voice dipping just a little. “Or am I going to have to profile it out of you?”

You peeked out from between your fingers. “You wouldn’t.”

He gave a mild shrug. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

Your heart thudded.

“You get flustered when you lose control of the conversation. Especially with me. You fidget more. You avoid eye contact like you’re doing right now.”

You shifted almost immediately.

“You like routine and structure. You’re organised to a fault, but the second I step into your space and do something unexpected, you melt.” He tilted his head. “You act like it annoys you, but I’ve watched you for long enough to know it doesn’t. When I back you against the counter. When I pull your hair back mid-sentence just to kiss your neck. When I don’t ask and take instead. You don’t stop me, you lean into it.”

Your mouth went dry.

“You like being told what to do,” he said simply. Like it was a fact. Like it was always obvious. “In little ways. Safe ways. And when you’re overwhelmed, your instinct isn’t to push back, it’s to submit.”

He watched as your throat worked around a hard swallow.

“You like it when I’m in control.”

Your legs pressed together tight. Too late to pretend it hadn’t happened.

He smiled. “You throw around sarcasm, roll yours eyes, push back, pretend to fuss when I get bossy. But the second I tell you what to do – really tell you – you listen.”

You stared at him, cheeks flushed, lips parted.

“And the truth is, you don’t want to say it out loud because you think it’ll sound messed up. But it doesn’t.” He paused for a second. “I understand you and I’m not judging you. I want to give you what you need.”

Another moment of silence passed before he added, “But if you keep pressing your thighs together like that, I’m going to start thinking we’re done playing this game.”

You let a breath out before speaking. “I…I think we’re done playing,” you managed, voice hoarse.

“Yeah? You sure?”

You nodded before your brain could catch up. “Yes.”

“Then get upstairs.”

You rose on shaky legs and turned towards the stairs, amazed you didn’t trip over yourself on the way up. You could hear him following behind unhurried, while your vision nearly swam from what he’d managed to do to you with just words.

Inside the bedroom, you stopped at the foot of the bed, unsure whether to turn around or stay still. But you didn’t have to ask.

“Turn around.”

You obeyed immediately.

He stepped in close, the heat of him pressing into you just as his hand gripped a firm handful of your hair giving it a tug.

“I can feel you shaking,” he murmured, his mouth brushing against your neck. “You’ve been so worked up since downstairs.” His lips trailed along your jaw slowly, down the curve of your neck, before you felt him bite down gently, his tongue smoothing over the sting.

“Clothes off, sweetheart.” He took a step back, giving you space.

You reached for the hem of your shirt and peeled it up over your head, letting it fall to the floor. His eyes tracked every inch of newly exposed skin, like he was cataloguing every place he intended to touch.

You pushed your pants down next, shimmied them over your hips, then stepped out, standing there in just your bra and panties, chest rising and falling.

“All of it.”

Your fingers trembled as you reached behind and undid your bra, letting it slide off your shoulders. Then finally, you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your underwear and slid them down your legs, stepping out of them and standing bare in front of him.

He nodded toward the bed.

You turned and sat on the edge first, heart racing, then eased yourself down, your back meeting the cool sheets as you settled into place beneath his gaze.

It didn’t take long before he was hovering over you, one hand spreading your thighs as he settled between them, the other coming up to rest lightly – so lightly – around your throat.

You whimpered.

“There it is,” he whispered, kissing just beneath your ear. “That little sound you make when you’re starting to let go.”

Then his fingers found your clit, and you arched off the bed with a gasp, eyes fluttering shut as the pressure landed exactly where you needed it

“I can’t possibly imagine why you’d think this isn’t ‘my thing.’” His fingers kept working you. “Feel what you’ve done to me.”

Your hand moved down between you, palming him through his jeans – and Christ, was he hard. Straining against the fabric, so much so that it almost felt painful.

He groaned at the contact, his hips instinctively pressing into your touch.

“See?” he murmured, slipping a finger inside you without warning, drawing a moan from deep in your chest. “This is exactly my thing. And you—” he kissed the corner of your mouth, “you like this is my thing.”

You gasped, your back arching again, but his other hand was already moving, finding your neck again, pressing down just enough to hold you in place.

He leaned in close, brushing his nose along your cheek, his lips barely grazing the shell of your ear as he added a second finger. “You don’t even realize how pretty you are when you’re desperate, do you?” he whispered. “The way you shake. The way you clench around me when I take my time.”

“Aaron…”

He smiled against your skin. “I could keep you like this all night.”

“Please –” was all you managed, the word falling out in a half-broken whimper.

His hand at your throat tightened just enough to make your breath hitch, the same time he curled his fingers inside you. You clenched around him so hard you thought your body might unravel right then and there.

“Fuck – I – I –”

“What is it? Tell me exactly what you need.”

You bucked against him, unable to stop it, hands flying to his forearms – not to push him away, but to hold on. He didn’t move, didn’t ease up either of his hands.

“Or… do you want me to decide for you, hm?”

You couldn’t answer, not in words. Your mind was a haze of heat and ache, your breath catching somewhere between a sob and a moan. Your nails dug into his forearms, desperate for some sort of release.

“Too overwhelmed to answer?”

And then he stilled.

Fingers deep inside you, his body caging yours, hand still resting at your throat but no movement. No friction. No relief. You whined, your hips shifting in an attempt to chase more.

“I’ll decide, then,” he said softly, like he was offering kindness. “You want release? Earn it.”

He withdrew his fingers slowly, achingly slow, and the loss had you nearly sobbing. But before you could even begin to beg, he brought his slick fingers up between you and pressed them to your lips.

“Taste it,” he murmured. “Taste how worked up you are. Taste what you do to me.”

Your lips parted without thought, wrapping around his fingers. You moaned as your tongue slid over them, tasting yourself on his skin. He pressed a little deeper, a little further down your throat, and you hollowed your cheeks, sucking greedily.

“Good girl,” he whispered, voice rough now. “So fucking good for me.”

He began making his way down your body, peppering kisses over your chest, you stomach, your hips. You could feel him everywhere, his breath fanning against your skin, his hands sliding down your thighs, spreading you open again.

He lowered himself between your thighs, and when his mouth finally met you again, it was everything.

His tongue lapped at you, circling your clit before dragging lower to taste all of you. He groaned into you, the sound deep, pushing you that much closer to the edge.

You couldn’t stop yourself from moving – hips bucking, thighs twitching, grinding against his face, desperate for more. But he only gripped your hips harder, strong arms pinning you down like it was nothing. Like your squirming didn’t even faze him. Like it didn’t make a damn bit of difference.

You whimpered, barely coherent and all you could think about was how badly you wanted those bruises. You wanted to see the outline of his fingers tomorrow. You wanted to remember exactly how they got there.

The pressure built low in your stomach, your thighs beginning to tremble, clenching around his face.

“S’okay baby,” he mumbled against you, voice muffled by your skin. “I’ve got you.”

And that was all it took.

Your thighs clamped around his head, your hips jolting up off the bed, and you cried out, high and breathless, one hand flying to your mouth, the other tangled in the sheets. You writhed beneath him, overstimulated and soaked, gasping through the aftershocks. Your whole body was twitching, lips parted, chest heaving.

He finally pulled back, mouth and chin glistening. “You should see yourself. You don’t even know how beautiful you look when you come.”

You were still catching your breath when you heard the sound of his zipper, the clink of his belt hitting the floor. You reached up to brush a strand of hair off your damp forehead, but your hand dropped the second you felt him between your thighs again, tip dragging slowly along your soaked slit.

Your entire body went still, mouth falling open and he hadn’t even pushed inside you yet.

“You okay?” he asked, pausing just long enough to check in.

“Yes,” you breathed, eyes wide. “More than okay. So okay.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “Now you want to talk?”

“I’m just –” you started, breath catching every time the head of his cock slid through your folds. “I’m just saying, I didn’t know it could feel like this, and I – God, Aaron –”

And then he thrusted into you.

One deep stroke that filled you completely, stealing the rest of the sentence right out of your mouth. Your eyes flew open, a strangled gasp caught in your throat as your head tipped back against the pillow, hands flying to his shoulders to hold on.

“Yeah,” he gritted out, his voice hot against your ear. “I thought that might shut you up.”

You could only whimper in response, nails digging into his skin as he stayed there, buried to the hilt, giving you no room to think.

“You feel that?” he murmured, rocking into you once, slow and deep. “You take me so fucking well.”

You nodded, mouth open, breathless. “I wasn’t done talking,” you managed to whisper.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to drag the tip out to your entrance and paused. “Go ahead,” he encouraged. “Try.”

“Fuck y–”

He slammed back in, cutting you off mid-word with a thrust somehow deeper than the last.

“Fuck you?” he echoed smugly. “Yeah. I think I will.”

And he did – hips rocking into yours, each thrust pushing you further into the mattress. Then his hand came up, wrapping around your throat again and you clenched around him, a moan escaping your lips. He let out a low tsk, like he’d caught you misbehaving.

He leaned in closer, his chest pressing against yours, his thrusts slowing. They were deeper now, rougher, grinding into you with so much intensity you weren’t even sure where your body ended and his began.

“This,” he murmured, squeezing just a little tighter, “this is what you were so scared to ask for?”

You opened your mouth to answer, to give him something, anything, but he slammed into you before the words could form, another deep, brutal thrust that knocked the breath out of you.

“I—Aaron, I—” you tried again, voice thin.

Another thrust. Harder.

You gasped, your back arching off the bed. “You’re not even letting me –”

He did it again, cut you off with a stroke that had your vision going white at the edges.

“Fuck—you’re doing this on purpose,” you whimpered, dazed and desperate.

“I sure am.” His hand tightened just a little more at your throat. “You want to know what my turn-on is?” he muttered, not waiting for an answer. “Seeing you fucked senseless.”

Another thrust hit that perfect spot, making your entire body jerk beneath him. You tried to speak, to respond, but he snapped his hips again and you mewled out whatever nonsense your uncooperative tongue could muster.

“You want to come?”

You nodded frantically, words useless now, tears brimming from the sheer overload.

“Good. Then do it.”

He reached down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, setting a pace in perfect sync with his thrusts. Your hips began to stutter as you screwed your eyes shut, the pressure building too fast to stop.

It took mere seconds before your body seized around him.

“Jesus – fuck, that’s it,” he groaned. “You’re so fucking tight when you come –”

His rhythm faltered, stammered and then he was slamming into you one last time, your name falling from his lips as he came.

He loosened his grip on your throat, both hands sliding to your ribcage, gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

Neither of you spoke. Both of you were too focused on catching your breath, sharing the same shallow air like it might not be enough.

Finally, after a minute, he leaned in, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your jaw. “Think we should play card games more often.”

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic

dbf!bodyguard!hotch using food as foreplay coming up next to an alina-blog near you!🌟

dividers by cafekitsune

[ayukas]

HOW TO LOSE YOUR MIND (AND GAIN A PAIR OF FUZZY EARS) IN 3 MONTHS

he’s been your best friend for ten years, your boyfriend for three months, and apparently, your personal teddy bear since forever. haechan doesn’t know whether to run, cry, or cuddle—so naturally, he does what any sane man would do—become the bear of your dreams.

pairing lee haechan x fem!reader genre fluff, comedy, established relationship warnings reddit post format, profanities, jealously (SILLY), spiralling (SILLY), dumb boy in love word count 1.7k notes HELLO i need to stop disappearing on here sm im sorry :( but i wrote this thinking of ubereats hyuck!!! the plot lowk doesnt make any sense BUT i just missed him sm and i missed writing silly stuff on here so yay... i hope u enjoyoyoy and happy monday!

r/AmItheAsshole posted by

u/haemuffin・18 hours. ago

my (25M) girlfriend (25F) forbids me from going into her childhood bedroom and has a sock drawer stuffed full of bear keyrings. some of them even look a little like me. AITA for feeling uncomfortable?

i (25M) have been dating this girl (25F) for like, three months now. we’ve been best friends for years, and i finally confessed to her after she fell asleep on my shoulder during a horror movie and called me her personal teddy bear.

obviously, i thought that was the greenest flag a guy could ever get. she accepted my confession right away, and we kissed in the parking lot next to a build-a-bear, which now feels a little too ironic in hindsight.

anyway. recently she invited me to her parents’ place and told me i could go anywhere but her childhood bedroom. i thought she was joking at first until i simply walked past it and she appeared out of nowhere like a horror movie ghost and pulled me away after giving me the gnarliest glare EVER. i did, however, sneak a peek before she dragged me off and i caught a glimpse of like, a hundred bear plushies just sitting there on her bed.

she also has an entire sock drawer in her apartment stuffed full of bear keyrings. one of them wears a hoodie that looks suspiciously like one of mine. another has beauty marks on its cheek in the exact placement i have mine on. her phone case? bears. her ringtone? bear noises. (???)

i’ve also been told all my life that i look like a bear, so i asked her once—half-jokingly, of course—if she only started talking to me because i looked like a one, and she didn’t deny it. she just giggled and kissed my nose.

TLDR, AITA for feeling a little… i don’t know. concerned for my safety? or identity? or left out that my girlfriend, my best friend of TEN YEARS, didn’t care to tell me about her morbidly insane obsession with bears?

⬆️ 82 ⬇️ 💬 5

haechan didn’t consider himself a paranoid man. if anything, most people described him as laid-back, albeit slightly overly affectionate, and also kind of a menace. he believed in good omens. he even had a crystal phase once—charging his rose quartz on his windowsill routinely, hoping it would make you, his best friend, look at him in a different, more romantic light. safe to say, it worked.

but ever since the two of you started dating, he started noticing... things.

it started when you first invited him over to your apartment. you had always preferred hanging out at his when you were just friends, but now that things were different, you opened your door to him like it was nothing. he tried not to think too hard about the bear-themed bath mat or the oddly specific collection of bear-shaped coasters you owned. he even overlooked the bear stickers you often slapped onto his belongings without asking, claming it gave them character. but it was your sock drawer that tipped him over the edge.

you were in the shower when it happened. he’d just been looking for a pair of fuzzy socks—your fuzzy socks, to be exact—because his feet were cold and your drawer always smelled of baby powder and comfort. what he found instead was an entire drawer, stuffed with tiny, keychain-sized bears. rows and rows of them, in different shades of brown, textures, and expressions. some were handmade—crocheted, clearly by you— others were store-bought, but a disturbing number were… familiar.

one wore a grey hoodie that matched his favourite one. another had tiny stitched moles that matched the placement of the ones on his own face. he lifted it closer, blinking. the stitching on the bear’s right cheek wasn’t a manufacturing detail—it was intentional.

he stood there for a while, just holding it. not even sure how to feel.

when you finally walked out of the bathroom with your hair wrapped in a towel and a toothbrush between your teeth, you saw him standing next to your dresser with a look of existential dread painted across his face.

“you okay?” you asked around the toothbrush.

“yeah,” he said, nodding slowly. “totally fine. just... um, hanging out with my twin, apparently.”

you looked at the bear in his hand and smiled, unbothered. “oh. you found my gomdo lee.”

he blinked. “i’m sorry, you named it?”

you gave a light shrug, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “of course. it’s also based off you, by the way. i started customising him back in college after renjun called you his winnie the pooh bear.”

“that was—okay, that was a joke, a passing comment. but this? you’ve been making bears based on me since before we were even dating? wow... and i thought i was the obsessed one...”

“can’t a girl have hobbies?” you replied sweetly.

but the way your eyes sparkled? haechan wasn’t so sure this was just a hobby.

that night, he couldn’t sleep. he laid stiffly in your bed, staring at the ceiling while you snored softly beside him.

it wasn’t that your bed wasn’t comfortable. it was too comfortable—covered in plush blankets and stuffed animals that made him feel like he’d been swallowed into the softest cult imaginable. you looked peaceful, one arm wrapped tightly around a fluffy beige teddy that looked older than both of you combined. its fur was worn and slightly matted in places, but you held onto it like it was made of gold. it wore a navy cardigan—buttoned and everything—which wouldn’t have been so strange if haechan himself hadn’t worn a nearly identical one just a few weeks ago.

he glanced down at your sleeping form. you nuzzled deeper into the plush bear’s chest, mumbling something incoherent under your breath that sounded dangerously like my bear…

he exhaled slowly and turned onto his side. the ceiling fan spun lazily above him, doing nothing to calm the growing questions in his head.

was he your boyfriend… or your living build-a-bear?

he wasn’t even sure he was mad or uncomfortable. mostly confused. and—if he was being painfully honest—kind of flattered?

which was possibly worse.

he brought it up to mark the next day at their usual brunch spot, halfheartedly picking at his tofu stew while trying to rationalise everything out loud.

“i’m not saying i’m jealous, or anything,” haechan insisted, even though his tone sounded exactly like someone who was jealous. “i’m just… confused. and maybe a little left out. like, this is clearly something she’s obsessed with. i mean—her ringtone is literal bear noises. but she never once told me about it. not when we were friends. not even when we first started dating. i’ve also never had to compete with stuffed animals before. it’s humbling.”

mark, who had been half-listening while texting chenle about wanting to go home, finally looked up. “you’re jealous of teddy bears?”

“i’m not jealous,” haechan repeated. “i’m just confused about all the attention these bears are getting. i’m her boyfriend. i bring her food. i fix her wifi. those bears just lie there like limp little freeloaders!”

mark chewed thoughtfully. “okay, so like… what’s the issue? you think she’s only dating you because you look like a bear?”

“…i don’t know.” haechan slumped back in his chair. “everyone does say i resemble one. i mean i do have a round face and round eyes but i don’t think i’m so bear? but she once said my yawns were ‘cub-like.’ what does that even mean? fuck, this is all your fault.”

mark blinked at him. “you need help.”

“I NEED ANSWERS.”

haechan tried to forget about it. really, he did. he convinced himself it was harmless. you liked cute things. he was cute. case closed.

but then he caught himself googling do women imprint on men who resemble animals? and realised maybe he was truly losing it.

the final straw came when he returned home after dance practice and collapsed onto your shared couch, only to knock over one of the keyring bears you’d lined up neatly against the shelf. it fell to the floor face-up, staring at him with those same round eyes and smug little cardigan.

and suddenly, haechan had a thought so stupid it almost made him laugh.

what if he leaned into it?

what if, instead of questioning everything—he just became the bear for you?

he spent the next hour pacing the apartment and scrolling through bear-themed accessories before finally rage-ordering a headband with ears and a hoodie with paw prints on the sleeves.

if he couldn’t beat the bears… maybe it was time to join them.

on the night of your three-month anniversary, you opened your apartment door, expecting a simple dinner—or at most, one of his overly dramatic love coupons written using jaemin’s glitter pens. instead, you were greeted by a full-grown man standing outside with a slightly awkward grin and a big red ribbon tied around his neck.

he wore a soft brown hoodie, complete with stitched fabric ears poking out from a headband. his cheeks were flushed, both from embarrassment and—if he were honest—hope.

he cleared his throat and held out a single paw-printed card. “hi,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “i’m your true, real bear now.”

you stared at him for a long, stunned second. he shifted on his feet, suddenly regretting the ribbon. and the headband. and quite possibly his entire life.

but then you dropped everything and launched yourself into his arms with so much force he stumbled back into the hallway.

“i love you,” you whispered, breathless, like it was the easiest truth in the world.

he blinked, ears twitching, unsure he heard that right.

“what?”

you looked up at him, eyes glassy. “i said i love you. my real bear.”

and just like that, every second of spiraling and confusion was worth it. he grinned into your hair, holding you tight. “damn. all it took was a pair of fuzzy ears and a ribbon, huh?”

“no.” you giggled, chest blooming with warmth as you cupped his face. “it took you. you’ll always be my one and only lover-bear.”

r/AmItheAsshole posted by

u/haemuffin・7 days. ago

my (25M) girlfriend (25F) forbids me from going into her childhood bedroom and has a sock drawer stuffed full of bear keyrings. some of them even look a little like me. AITA for feeling uncomfortable?

UPDATE, i dressed up as a bear and now we’re inseperable. still not allowed in the childhood bedroom though. apparently there’s a bear with my baby photo sewn into its chest. she said it was a prototype. i am terrified. also flattered. but mostly terrified. wouldn’t trade her for the world though :)

⬆️ 127 ⬇️ 💬 66

perm. taglist — @dreaminabtrj @ddolbyong @f6llsun @kkyeoji @sungbites @nonverdolly @strwberie @blondemrk @chenlezip @markkiatocafe @stqrgr7 @jisungji @taroddori @haeriaes @kukkurookkoo @polarisjisung @dudekiss3r @dejundesign @uncasings @sweetpinkblueberry @spacejip @yushiela @insbread @t-102 @haelvrty @pl4netx1a @haeivie @natakgae @fae-renjun @sunghoonsgfreal @jaemcaffe @xikskrrrs @rubiiisyeon

[7wuliy]

🎀°:.✦  🧁 ུ۪۪۪۪᳝۟

the sweetest in town!

🩷:·.#so_sweet

Cherry on top 무지개색의 설탕 on my sundae You sweeten my vanilla like days

[antont-t]

jaehee who's so big and doesn't realise it !!!!!!!/!/&/&/&&2&2'akakakqoqkanNamm@/@ you tell him it's too much he's too big and he'd be so sweet begging you to do well for him and of course you can't say no cause you're his and he's yours , how could you !!!?? 😵‍💫

oh my sweet anon you get my brain so well & i want you to know i saw this ask the same day you sent it in and this is all i've been able to think about....🫠 god

you're so full of him already and he hasn't even bottomed out yet. telling him how it's too much n all he says is "you're taking it so well though sweetheart." ignoring all your weak protests and slowly sinking into you, stretching you deliciously. you swear you can feel him everywhere, the heat of him seeping into your bones, the thick press of him making your head spin

"fuck," he grits out, his fingers digging into your hipbone. His voice is wrecked, raw with the effort of holding still. "you feel—" he cuts himself off with a groan when you clench around him involuntarily, your body trying to adjust. His lips find the damp skin behind your ear. "look at you. taking me like you were made for me." you whimper, half-delirious, and the sound turns into a broken moan when he shifts, just slightly, and the head of his cock nudges even deeper inside of u. tears spill over, streaking hot down your cheeks. "jaehee," you sob, your voice small, wrecked. "it’s—it’s too much."

"It’s not," he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss on your jaw. his hand slides up your stomach, fingers splaying wide over your ribs as if to feel the way your breath stutters. "you can take it. you always do." He pulls out slowly, dragging every ridge of himself against your walls, and your vision blurs. When he pushes back in, it’s with a snap of his hips that punches the air from your lungs. "See?"

(づ_ど) holy fuck i need him to use me so bad

[loserlvrss]

𝓘𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐌 𝓑𝐎𝐘𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃 ⭑ K. JUNGSU | ˙✧˖°📷 ༘

following ur bf around on tour because xh deserves groupies 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 copyright loservrss 2026

[odeverload]

˚✧₊≀⁎⁺ xdiz + head pushers !₊⁎✧༚

q : - who in xdh would be a head pusher ? - a : - gunil - jiseok - jooyeon -

ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•nsfw under cutʕ•̫͡•ʕ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʔ•̫͡•ʕ

gunil can get uncharacteristically rough during sex ! he just loves you so much and sometimes he gets lost in how pretty you look on your knees, cheeks full of his cock. he loves watching you, never wanting to miss a moment of your beautiful figure knelt down below him. he holds your hair up kindly, but this can backfire sometimes..

"f-fuck- good girl, honey." gunil's heavy palms hold your head steady, pushing the hair out of your face so he can see your cloudy eyes flicker up at him as you take him deep. you're always so good to him, he cant' believe he has an angel like you to come home to every night. the pleasure was overwhelming, and it started to show. he's so thick, impossibly so, you're having a hard time breathing as his hips start to jerk up into you. "feels s'good.. ah shit, baby-fuck!" he never talks much during intimate moments, but when you give him head, he always starts muttering about how perfect your mouth is and how blessed he is to have such a perfect doll in his life.

jiseok swear he’d never. he knows it’ll only make you choke, so he sticks his hands under his back to prevent himself from getting too handsy. but this is jiseok we're talking about, and one thing about him is that he can bend and break a little too quickly. especially when it comes to your warm, soft mouth. he knows hes not supposed to push, he swears, but his climax always gets the best of him.

tears are already forming in the corners of your eyes as you see jiseok tremble above you. poor guy has been nothing but gentle, and professed his love for you profusely a few minutes earlier when you had gotten down on both knees to suck him off after a hard day at the studio. but now, his resolve is crumbling. hips jerking wildly, jiseok finally snaps, hands flying to your scalp and pushing your head down as much as you'd allow. his cum spills into your throat with a loud groan, followed by a blabbering of apologies. "shit shit, i'm real sorry baby.. fuck, your mouth just felt so good i couldn't take it m'so so sorry-ngh, please touch me more pleasepleaseplease-"

jooyeon, poor baby, can’t control himself when he’s in your warm mouth. he’s fisting your hair, squirming in his seat, legs jerking a bit every time his sensitive tip hits the back of your throat. he's so mean with it, pulling you off his dick to give you sloppy kisses full of tongue and spit, right before pushing you back on his cock. fucks your mouth without shame every time, whether its for punishment or a reward. he knows you'll get wet from it either way.

the strength of his grip really wasn't a joke. jooyeon could push and pull your head along his cock as he pleased, with just one hand. he pulls you off, watching you gasp for breathe and cough up a weak complaint. "you know you love it when i'm rough, babydoll. take this dick, i know you can." your words are muffled before you can even get a full sentence out, jooyeon is too bust shoving his cock to the back of your throat to care at all. "what a cute slut, hm? you'd let anyone fuck your mouth like this? or is it just for me? i can't hear you, naughty girl. speak up."

a/n: soul vs posting at a regular rate challenge failed wow #sorry. i'm getting some drafts out soon

[writinggivesmeserotonin]

Sparkly, Pretty, Smart

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

genre: hurt/comfort, fluff

tags: bau!reader, rivals to lovers, insecure!reader, some details about the case, not too graphic with the violence, spencer calls reader 'pretty', reader loves girly stuff like romantasy novels and Sabrina Carpenter (don't @ my gay ass she's cool and sparkly)

summary: After a case hits too close to home, you start spiraling about how maybe you're not that much better than the unsubs you catch. Unbeknownst to you, the one person you've never gotten along with notices things about you no one else ever has.

word count: 7.6K

a/n: AHH THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE UNDER 4K IDK WHAT HAPPENED. I've never written Spencer like this before in a fic. I hope this didn't end up being gore of your comfort character ✊🏽😔

You hated Spencer Reid. You loved insulting him, outsmarting him, reminding him how ancient he is, telling him how stupid his cardigan looked, but you hated him.

You hated his fluffy curls, the particular cadence of his speech, the way he pressed his lips into a smooth line whenever he was pleased, his stupid brown puppy eyes which always hardened when they landed on you, and above all else, you hated how he was always one step ahead of you.

It wasn't that he knew more—everything he knew could be found on the internet—it was that he was always so fucking smug. He knew he was the smartest person in the room, and you hated it.

The first thing he'd done on your joining day was to insult your choice of music, asking why you were listening to music statistically enjoyed by little girls.

You, obviously, didn't take it lightly—after all, he'd insulted Sabrina Carpenter herself—and proceeded to insult him to his face.

It was hard to get along with him when all he was dead-set on doing was insulting your choice in everything—clothes, books, music, even how dusty your shoes were.

Who the fuck even cared about dusty shoes?!

Spencer Reid, apparently, that's who.

It didn't mean you two couldn't work together, it just meant you'd snipe at each other so constantly that no one else could work with the two of you, or even in your general vicinity.

“I just don't understand why these books are so popular when they're just glorified pornography—” Spencer said as the two of you sat down at the table, arguing about booktok.

“And yet I've never heard you complain about actual porn, which exploits real people, as much as you do about smut. It's almost like…you only give a fuck about it because it's popular among women.” You made jazz hands at him, knowing it annoyed him when you invaded his personal space.

He pushed his chair back to escape the scope of your wizard fingers, opening his mouth with a deep frown to protest against the accusations laid against him.

“Besides, incel like yourself could probably benefit from reading a smut book or two—maybe you'd finally figure out what women like.”

Spencer's frown deepened at that, but not with anger.

With confusion.

Remembering the man lives under a analog rock, you smiled to yourself, turning to look at Garcia. You knew he was too proud to ask you what incel meant, and unless he knew what you meant exactly, he couldn't retort to the best of his ability, therefore, you won this round.

“I am not an incel.” Spencer's voice dropped into a whisper as Hotch walked into the room, and you snorted as you picked at a hangnail near your thumb.

“You don't even know what that means, Dr Reid.”

If there's one thing he hated more than losing an argument, it was being told he doesn't know something. Especially if it was you telling him he doesn't know something.

Your pleasant mood at your win, however, was shot in the face once Penelope started listing the case details.

The case involved the murder of multiple women, all attacked in spaces like gas-station bathrooms or changing rooms at the mall, late at night or when there aren't any people around. The kills were spaced out by a few weeks, and the women all had their faces brutally disfigured, yet there were no reports of sexual assault.

It was a strange set of circumstances, but not an emergency, which left you just enough time to swing by your place to gather some of the files for your previous case.

“Can one of you maybe drive me? My car’s in the shop and I really don't wanna pay another—” You clicked on the rideshare app, making a face at the fare, “—hundred dollars? In broad daylight? Are they insane?”

“I could ask you that—putting your car in the shop without a backup mode of communication other than the one you're currently complaining about. Seems insane, considering the median price for rideshare services has increased by sixty percent since 2020.” Spencer’s insufferable voice came from behind you, and you turned around to glare at him. You weren't even talking to him.

“One more statistic and I will reduce your ability to speak by sixty percent—”

“Oh yeah, how's that?” The brunette’s lips quirked into an infuriating smirk, and he leaned towards you, as if he really gave a shit about what you had to say.

“Well first I’d shove my hand into—”

“Alright, kids!” Emily called out, stepping between the two of you.

“Reid, drive her to her place. And while you're at it, figure out how to shut up—” Your mouth split into a beam upon Rossi’s intervention. Finally, someone who also thought Spencer spoke too much.

“Both of you.” Rossi completed, brows raised at the two of you.

“I agree with Dave. Go get the files, agent. Wheels up in three hours.” Hotch said without looking up from his tablet, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Snatching his keys off of him, you practically ran to his car, knowing exactly where he parked it every day, without fail. Getting in, you immediately moved forward the driver's seat—perfect for someone of your stature, but nearly not enough leg room for someone as lanky as Spencer.

Settling into the passenger’s side, you let your lips quirk into a satisfied smile just for a second.

Spencer's face loomed through the window as he bent forward, trying to see whether you'd made any observable changes to the car.

“What, you think I rigged the car to explode the moment to step in?”

“I wouldn't put that level of stupidity beyond you, even though only fifteen percent of suicide bombers are women, but that's not taking into account your—”

“Oh my god just drive!” You groaned, shoving Spencer's shoulder. He let out an offended gasp, his browns deepening into a deeper furrow than before as he adjusted his seat.

“You know I can report you to HR for that? I should actually—”

“Reid, how long do you wanna be stuck in this car with me? Because the longer you spend running that mouth instead of driving, the longer it's gonna take to get to my place. Do you need me to put the address into your GPS? Or do you still use an old-fashioned map?”

“You don't need to do either of those, actually.” Spencer grumbled, pulling the car out of its spot and driving with surprising accuracy to your house. On the ride to your place, you considered asking why he knew where you lived, but then weighed the possibility of him deeming you inferior for not knowing where each of your coworkers live. He'd probably recite the ETA to everyone's house in the BAU just to rub it in.

Your face twisted into a frown at the thought as you got down from the car, barking at him to stay where he was while you fetched the files.

Your room was a bit of a mess, clothes strewn about your bed and the closet floor—a result of constantly loading and unloading a go-bag and never getting around to fixing the mess.

The files were dumped on top of the pile of clothing on your bed—how foolish of you to think that putting clothes on your bed would actually make you fold them—and you quickly snatched them up, making sure none were missing. You switched out your shoes just to be safe, since the ones on your feet felt like they could fall apart at any moment and knowing your luck, it would probably happen while you were chasing the unsub.

Because if the sky was falling and you were in a building, the building would spontaneously combust so the piece of sky could crush you.

At least, that's how it felt when the last blueberry cronut was taken by the guy in front of you at the coffee shop.

Leaning against the wall to put the shoes on, you brushed your palms over your clothing to smooth it out, before turning to face the mirror. The mirror was just short enough that while standing at the door of your closet (which you always did when checking your appearance) it only showed your reflection from the neck down.

It was hard to find a mirror short enough to cut off your face yet long enough to show the rest of your outfit, but six garage sales and three trips to Ikea later, you'd found it. And you were perfectly pleased with it.

As you adjusted the files in your arm, your eyes settled on the mirror again. Only a few steps, and you'd be able to see your face.

‘I could have something on my face. My makeup could need fixing.’ You told yourself, taking a deep breath, shifting your weight from one foot to another. Biting your lower lip, you slowly took one step back, bringing your chin into the reflection.

For a few minutes, you simply stared at the unsightly thing, heartbeat thumping in your ears.

‘Fuck it. Someone will tell me if I have something on my face. Probably Reid.’

You closed your eyes as you took several more steps away from the mirror, until you were far enough away that your reflection wasn't visible anymore.

Shaking off the tension in your shoulders, you stepped back into the living room, only to find Spencer standing there.

“I thought I told you to stay in the car.” You snapped at him, harder than usual, as he poked at your bookshelf. He startled, spinning around to look at you. The disarmed expression on his face—brows up high, eyes wide, mouth slightly open—lasted only a moment before it settled into its usual displeasure, the way it always did around you.

Trying to ignore the thoughts about how a disarmed Spencer could almost be…cute, and how maybe you'd wanna see more of him if he always looked at you like that, you tapped your foot impatiently, waiting for an answer.

“You did. You also left your door unlocked.”

“So you just let yourself in?”

“Yes.” Spencer said, the displeasure turning into smugness. “You are strange.”

You raised a brow as you stormed towards the door, hand absent-mindedly coming up to pick at your chin.

“Is that right, pot?” You said the word like it might've been a slur, grabbing your keys off the hook and opening the door, gesturing for Spencer to get out with a dramatic bow.

He approached the entrance primly, like he truly was a princess and you were the chivalrous guard guiding him out of the dungeon.

“Yes. You have a mirror right below the key hooks but it's covered with a cloth, not to mention you didn't use it before leaving just now which, statistically, is what mirrors close to the door are used for.” The brunette said, hands behind his back as he walked out into the sun.

You paused just as you turned the key in the door, your heartbeat suddenly skyrocketing. You began to clear your throat, before realising what an obvious tell that would be to a profiler and deciding to simply act as if nothing was awry.

Which it wasn't.

“Yes, well, who needs a mirror when geniuses like yourself are around, hm? I'm sure you'll more than enjoy pointing out the slightest flaw in my appearance, won't you?” You asked with a saccharine smile, biting your tongue when you noticed, in hindsight, what a classic deflection it was—divert attention away from yourself to the primary individual scrutinizing you. Spencer's lips turned down into a frown at that, as did his brows, but his eyes weren't narrow with derision like usual when he looked at you.

“Besides, cleaning that mirror is hard. Looks good when guests show up, otherwise I don't really have a use for it other than collecting dust.” You get inside the car, glancing up once to look at Spencer before pulling out your phone and sending a text to Hotch that you two are on your way back.

Spencer stands for just a moment longer, his face still pulled into that frown when he got into the car.

For the rest of the journey, including on the plane, Spencer didn't throw a single barb your way.

It chilled your blood far more than any of the crime scene photos.

The crimes themselves didn't make any sense—the women were killed in female-only zones, but with incredible brutality that indicated extreme rage at the victims, a personal rage, yet there was no connection between any of the women, and no sexual assault.

“Maybe the unsub’s gay and misogynistic.” You wondered out loud, spinning around in the only spinny-chair in the room, which you'd claimed by racing past Spencer and settling yourself into it, knowing he'd be too icked out to sit somewhere your germy self ever sat.

“Could be, but the amount of attention put to destroying the face…could he be trying to take away their identity? Send some kind of message?” JJ said, frowning at the photos of the bodies.

“No, he's leaving their IDs behind.” Spencer murmured, and you sighed as you made another turn in your chair, the springs squeaking softly.

“Maybe we're looking at this all wrong. What if the unsub's a woman?” Emily said from where she'd stationed herself in the chair closest to the coffee machine.

“A woman who kills via bludgeoning? That's exceedingly rare. In fact, only eleven percent of female offenders use blunt force to kill.” You rolled your eyes as Spencer spouted the statistic, cracking your knuckles as you decided to argue against him even though you agreed with what he had to say.

“It would explain how the killings happen in female only areas—bathrooms, changing rooms. And if the killer is having a psychotic break of some kind, then maybe something about these women throws her into such a rage that the adrenaline allows her to exert the kind of force she's normally not capable of.” You smirked at Spencer, brows raised in challenge.

He opened his mouth to argue, one finger pointed at you before he even spoke, and as you struggled to keep your eyes away from the long, elegant finger, Spencer hesitated.

“I…it is possible, yes.”

“Would saying ‘You are right’ cause you to burst into flames, Reid?”

“No, but it might cause my tongue to fall off, and I'm rather fond of it.”

“I bet you are. Too bad it doesn't do anything better than just talk.”

Silence.

Your face grew warm as you realised the words just came out of your mouth, too close to flirtation to be a true personal jab. Your tongue grew heavy in your mouth as you realised that you did, in fact, mean what you said, which only made the embarrassment of having said it that much worse.

Spencer's expression shifted, morphing into surprise the way it had done in your house, his lips moving around air for a few seconds. He stared at you, tilting his head ever so slightly, and you couldn't help but glance down when he swallowed—his throat bobbing under that light stubble he'd begun maintaining after getting out of prison.

Your own lips parted, to do what, you weren't sure. When you'd brought your eyes back up to lock with Spencer's, a shot of warmth hit you, because his expression still hadn't changed, hadn't reverted into that frown, that unhappiness he always bore around you.

And you liked seeing him that way.

“Ahem.” Rossi’s voice (rather rudely) said from behind you, and you nearly jumped out of your skin.

“Anyways, as Reid was just about to admit, Emily and I could be right.” You said, clearing your throat.

“We still don't know the cause. Why would she be so angered by these women?” Morgan said, standing up to look more closely at the pictures of the victim.

“Well they all look nearly identical, and their faces were what the unsub attacked, so they probably reminded her of someone she hates. A mother, a sister, a boss, an ex—someone who she cannot stand. We don't know when she might go for the real target as opposed to a substitute, so we need to find her as soon as possible.” Hotch said, instructing Morgan to call Penelope and give her the parameters—which really weren't a lot. The women had nothing in common besides their physical appearance, but considering where the bodies were found, Rossi thought she might’ve been part of a cleaning crew that rotated multiple places, as and when they were hired.

An entire week of searching later, nothing.

No women who matched the physical description of the victims were missing in the city, and no cleaning crews had been found that were common to all the murder locations.

Your break in the case didn't come until day eight of the case—well, technically it was very early day nine at one in the morning—when you got up from the desk to go and douse your face with some water.

Usually when you entered the bathroom, you kept your eyes to the ground or the sink, avoiding the mirror entirely. Even so, in your periphery, it was hard to ignore the existence of your face.

Only when you glanced up, just enough to see up to your mouth—unshapely and sullen, with cracked lips and a tinted lip balm that settled into the lines of them—criticising everything that was wrong with them, wrong with you, and trying to hold back tears because it would only make your nose red, adding to the red splotches you knew were there even without looking at your full face—a result of not being able to stand yourself long enough to even do your make up—that it hit you.

The tears dried up on their own as you stared at your lips, parted in surprise.

“Guys!” You shouted, scrambling out of the bathroom and into the bullpen, faintly thinking ‘Surprise isn't such a bad look on me.’

“What is it?” Spencer said, looking annoyed, with just a hit of alarm at the urgency in your voice.

“What if the person the unsub's targeting is herself?”

Everyone stared at you, their sleep-deprived minds taking a moment to catch up with what you were saying.

“Explain.” Hotch said, putting down the cup of coffee he'd been clutching the entire day like it was Jack’s birth certificate.

“What if the reason the unsub hates these women so much is because she hates herself? She can't stand her appearance, so when she runs into someone who looks like her, it sends her into a frenzy!” You looked quite frenzied yourself, you were sure, but thinking about how you looked only made a slight pang make itself known near your diaphragm, so you shelved the thought for later.

“So she's dysmorphic?” JJ said, frowning in thought.

“And probably really mentally ill. A person can't live day-to-day carrying something like that. She probably can't even stand her own reflection, has a history of attacking reflective things—ask Penelope to check for vandalism—and she might've even been institutionalised before.” You said, hands wildly flying through the air to emphasize your words.

“This could break the case—good job, agent.” Hotch said to you, before picking up the phone to call Penelope.

You beamed with joy at the thought that for once, you'd made the ultimate deduction, not Spencer.

Noticing his abnormal silence, you turned around, flashing your 1000 watt smile right at him. He was frowning, brows pulled together in thought as he stared at the far wall behind you.

“Contemplating what to do with your life now that I've proved I'm better than you?” You sniped, awaiting his incoming jab eagerly.

Only, it never came.

Spencer's eyes simply refocused, landing on you. He searched your face for something, eyes flying from your eyes to your forehead to your cheeks. You weren't sure what he was looking for, but the action unnerved you.

“What? What is it? Do I have something on my face?” You reached up, picking at the week-old acne scar near your chin just to check if it was bleeding again.

“You were just in the bathroom. Shouldn't you know if there's anything on your face?” Spencer's voice was quiet, quieter than when he’d ever spoken to you.

You stared at him, feeling your brows pull together in astonishment.

“For your information, not all of us are as vain as you, Dr Reid.” You scoffed at him, tucking your hand into your pocket to prevent you from picking further.

Spencer didn't reply to your insult yet again, only staring at you. His brown eyes settled firmly onto your orbs, as if he could see something there. Your eyelids fluttered, in part to break the gaze, and in part because of how dry they were getting.

“That was a…ingenious deduction.” The brunette said finally, before walking away and leaving you standing there, heart beating loudly.

You swallowed nervously, your vision growing a little blurry. Your tongue felt heavy again, and you swiped your palms against your thighs in a bid to get rid of the sweat on them.

That was—he praised you. The man who hated you, had hated you since the day you joined, just gave you a compliment.

It shouldn't have felt as good as it did.

His voice a quiet rasp, his eyes focused on you, only you, but not in derision—it all made your spine feel just a little bit molten.

That was, until you realised where you were, who you were thinking about, that you hated the man, and settled into your chair with a huff, glancing at a distracted Spencer once before resting your head on the table for a little cat nap.

After you had what was essentially a sketch of the unsub herself, it was easy to find her. Sheila Williams had been hospitalized once for trying to claw her own face off, and arrested twice for breaking the glass display of a store and the mirror in a diner’s washroom.

The interrogation was…an ordeal.

Well, for once, Hotch decided to send you and Spencer in to do it, since you were the one who made the connection and Spencer was, well, Spencer.

The only problem was that Sheila kept her eyes firmly shut, refusing to look at either of you.

“Sheila? Can you please look at us?” You made your voice as soft as possible, leaning in slightly to make sure she could hear you.

“Nonono—don’t wanna—no.” Sheila mumbled, voice a nervous whisper. Her brows were furrowed in intense distress, her hands shaky.

“Sheila, I promise nothing bad will happen if you look at us.” Spencer's voice was the softest you'd ever heard it—the only exception being when he was speaking to kids. “We're not here to hurt you. We just want to understand why you did what you did.”

The evidence they found at Sheila’s place—blood-soaked clothes, a pipe wrench with the second victim's DNA on it, the GPS in her car placing her at all the murder locations and the camera footage showing her there—was more than enough to have her declared guilty. What you needed was to understand whether a criminal conviction was the way to go—and so far, all signs were pointing to ‘no’.

The moment Sheila opened her eyes, only with further coaxing from Spencer in that soft, almost purr of a voice, her eyes bypassed both of you and locked in on the mirrored glass behind you. Immediately, it sent her into a frenzy, making her pull violently at her restraints and when those wouldn't give, she started hitting her face against the table. Her hands flew around to throw you off when you tried to stop her, one of her nails catching on the skin of your cheek.

By the time you and Spencer stopped her, she'd broken her nose, and even then she buried her face in Spencer's chest when you two hoisted her up, her body physically trembling from the psychological toll of just…seeing her face. Spencer went with the cops, letting Sheila keep her bloody face buried in his chest, gently patting her back.

Watching them walk out of the interrogation room, you closed your eyes briefly, knowing that when you opened them, the mirrored glass would be there—now in front of you rather than behind you, as you stood right behind Sheila's chair.

Your chest felt like it was caving in, and your vision blurred as you slowly opened your eyes, guiding yourself out of the room. There was a dull sting to your cheek, but you couldn't care much about it. Morgan was standing there, looking at you in concern.

“You okay?”

‘No. I'm worried I'm gonna end up like that unsub and claw my own face off one of these days.’

“Yeah, yeah just—that was a lot.” You sighed, trying to act normal. It wouldn't be too concerning for you to be a little off, though, since you weren't as seasoned as the other team members and naturally hadn't seen such disturbing behaviour before.

You followed Morgan back to the briefing room, swallowing the scream that fought tooth-and-nail to get out when you caught your reflection in the glass door for just a second.

Maybe this was how it had started for the unsub, too. Small. Easy to ignore.

Despite feeling nauseous, you took a sip of the coffee Emily offered you, settling into a chair before your legs could start wobbling.

“I think we have enough evidence to tell the DA to have her institutionalised.” Hotch said. You hummed in agreement, hand coming up to pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Yeah, I mean, she clearly needs help.” JJ said softly. Your fingers found an old scar hidden between the hairs of your left brow. “Everyone gets insecure sometimes but hating yourself so much you can't even stand your own face? That's—I can't even imagine what that might stem from. It's gotta be a hard thing to live with.”

Your short, blunt nails started picking at the scar, searching for its edges, any way you could slide your nail under the edge of it and rip it off your face. Your chest still felt heavy, and your stomach roiled. You weren't sure why—it wasn't even that big of a deal.

“She's with the EMTs. I asked them to let her keep her eyes shut unless medically necessary.” Spencer's voice cut through the chatter of the bullpen, and you flicked your thumb nail against the edge of the scar as you turned to look at him.

His cardigan and tie both had blood smeared on it, and he looked just a little perturbed. His eyes narrowed onto you, judgmental, and you immediately hardened your expression in response.

“Have fun being the unsub's emotional support fed?”

Spencer was comforting Sheila because it was the only way to stabilize her, you knew that, but you two weren't exactly known for being nice to each other—your relationship was built on mutual hatred.

Well, from him, at least. You were just responding in kind. You were pretty sure the only reason Spencer kept cooperating the bare minimum with you was because he was good at his job.

Spencer stayed quiet, his lips parting around words that died in his throat, like the blanket ready to swaddle a miscarried baby.

“Let's all rest up tonight, we'll leave first thing tomorrow morning.” Hotch said, finally giving you the ticket you needed to stand up and sweep past Spencer.

The hotel was only a stone’s throw from the police station, so you decided to walk. The breeze was cutting, stabbing your lungs every time you drew it in. The wind whipped against your face, and the scratch from earlier stung like it was fresh. You wanted to use the time to think, but the sight of all the pigeons proved to be distracting enough to take you out of your head.

The cars of the rest of the team were already parked in front of the hotel by the time you reached it, and you were glad none of them were drifting in the hallways.

In the confines of your room, you threw off your coat, settling into the chair in the corner. On any other night you would've grabbed the fantasy novel you were carrying to read it—the cliffhanger on chapter 19 had you itching all day—but your brain was simply abuzz.

Tears formed in your eyes, but you weren't quite sure why.

Maybe it was because you had to stare at a version of yourself bash her head in.

‘That’s bullshit. I'm not like her. I would never kill someone for looking like me. I'd get help before that.’

…

Would you?

A disdain that had lasted from your teenage years, well into adulthood, strong enough to impact the way you set up your home and everything around you, going so far as to disable the front camera on your phone, yet subtle enough to not be caught in the psych eval every prospective agent went through before joining the academy.

Would you really be able to catch yourself before you spiralled further?

It seemed insane, a simple insecurity leading to killing. Yet it was what you dealt with every day, small things building up until a person simply exploded. You'd seen it all with your own eyes, but it just…didn't feel real.

Not with yourself.

A sharp knock startled the hotel key from your hand and onto the floor, making you realise you hadn't bothered to click it into place and turn the lights on.

Blinking away the remnants of tears from your eyes, you scrambled towards the door, slotting the card into place as all the lights turned on. For a second, you were worried there was something going on with the case, maybe you'd gotten it wrong, maybe the unsub was the complete opposite of your profile—

“I know you're in there.” Spencer's voice came through the wood, muffled, but neither alarmed nor urgent.

“What do you want, Reid?” You were glad your voice didn't crack, too large a giveaway even though the piece of wood blocking your face.

“To talk.”

“About what?”

You hear him sigh in annoyance.

“I've already been through one interrogation today, and so have you. Just let me in.”

You contemplated just leaving him out there. After all, he'd been so suspicious for the past few days—maybe he was finally done. Done with all the fighting and the jabs and insults. What he'd do, exactly, as a result of being done, you weren't sure, but it couldn't be good.

Then again, he probably looked really miserable on the other side of that door and your brain really needed the rush of seeing it after the day you'd had.

“What?” You asked, opening the door with an annoyed huff.

Spencer's head was tilted towards the ground, one hand resting against the door frame, looking defeated. You felt a rush of…something, seeing that.

The moment his head snapped up, you prepared yourself for conflict. He opened his mouth to speak, eyes narrowed and forehead wrinkled, his frizzy curls sticking up every which way, but his expression changed completely in just a second.

His frown fell, his mouth closed, and his eyes widened slightly, flitting all over your face. Your heart jumped into your throat at the sight.

The brunette straightened, striding inside your room on his long legs, right past you.

“Wow, okay, you enter a lady’s room late at night with no explanation or permission? People will talk, y'know.”

He didn't respond. Whatever momentary astonishment had overtaken him had passed, his forehead now more creased than you'd ever seen it. The line of his back held tension, moreso than usual, and he balled his fists up beside thighs.

“Close the door.” He said, eyes trained on the carpeted floor. You didn't particularly care for his attitude.

“Oh, so now you're making demands? I mean really, Reid, the absolute—”

“I'm not fucking around right now. Close the door.” Spencer turned to face you, his eyes almost burning with whatever it was he needed to discuss. The same kind of intensity it held when you two were in the field, when there was no room for banter or fucking around because lives were on the line.

You obeyed him, closing the door with a soft click before leaning against it.

For the first time since you'd met him, Spencer looked genuinely frustrated. He opened and closed his mouth several times, tongue slipping out to wet his lips, his eyes closing in apparent frustration. His balled fists flattened over his face, and when he dragged his skin back, he opened his eyes again, looking at you.

“You know, you've been wrong before, about several things, but I don't think you've ever been this wrong.”

The words felt like a slap. You swallowed around the rock in your throat, because if Spencer had come in here to berate you for your work, you suspected there would be more where that came from.

“Bullshit. I was right about the unsub, I was right about the profile, I was right about the motive—”

“I'm not talking about fucking work right now! Or a petty sociological debate of which we both know the results! Or even your awful taste in songs!” The sheer volume of Spencer's voice stunned you into silence. He didn't yell. He snapped and he insulted and he rolled his eyes but he didn't yell at you. Spencer swallowed, panting slightly. Upon seeing what must've been your bewildered expression, his face softened, and he screwed his eyes shut again.

“Then—then what are you talking about?” Your voice was uncharacteristically quiet. Unsure. You were never unsure with Spencer before that moment.

“You.” His eyes snapped open, unbearably big and sad.

Confusion flooded your mind—you were half-convinced you'd been shot on your way to the hotel and this was just a fever dream.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Yes you do. You're not in denial, I know that.” His tone was so absolute, he had complete belief in whatever he was talking about.

If only he would be so kind as to let you in on the secret.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I told you—you.”

“What about me?” Your volume was rising now, too, your hands waving around in the air to gesture to your entire self. You understood why Spencer kept dragging his hands across his face. The conversation was making you want to pull your hair out.

“Relating to the unsub.”

You had been shot on the way to the hotel. That was simply the only explanation.

You did not spend the entire fucking day masking every emotion, every twitch of the lip, every little glance, just to be found out by the one guy who had no reason to even think about you any more than he had to in a professional capacity, let alone actually pay attention to your existence when it didn't serve or annoy him.

“I don't know what you're implying—”

“Yes you fucking do!” Your denial only egged Spencer on, and he walked closer to you, stopping when he was about three feet away.

“The picking of your scar? The way none of us were even in the same league about the unsub's motive but you figured it out after going to the bathroom, a place with mirrors? The way you keep your eyes away from all reflective surfaces? The fact that the mirror in your house was covered with a sheet—”

“I told you that was because it was hard to clean!” Your voice was reaching a desperate pitch, you could hear it, you wouldn't believe yourself if this were a true interrogation.

“No!” Spencer said, sounding indignant. “You did not tell me, you lied to me. There is a difference.”

“All of that is circumstantial and proves absolutely—”

“You're bleeding right now.”

Whatever your next words were, they promptly died on your tongue. Spencer's words were like a period, the argument a sentence, and you the dumb conjunction trying to keep it going. But there was nothing to continue.

“Sheila scratched your cheek. You were bleeding at the precinct. You probably didn't realise it, but that's why everyone was being so nice.” The indignation had drained out of his voice. He just sounded tired now. Why would he be tired—why did he even care?

“The blood has since dried on your cheek and the cut is untreated, whereas you're the kind of person who slaps a bandaid on cat scratches. The only reason you didn't take care of it is because you didn't know it was there, on the one part of your face you can't see without a mirror.”

Your hand came up to your cheek, feeling around for the tell-tale scab. You opened your mouth to speak, but the words felt like smoke, so you simply looked past Spencer's shoulder.

“It could also be because I just got in—”

“No you didn't. You left the precinct before me, walked here, which, based on your average speed, would only take you ten minutes. It's been an hour and half.”

Your eyes snapped to the clock on the wall, trapped behind metal bars for whatever reason, and you found to your chagrin that Spencer was right.

Now it was your turn to close your eyes. Not in frustration—in defeat.

He'd done it. He'd found the one weakness you had, because that's just how much he hated you.

“I'm not a risk to the team. I'm not gonna have a psychotic break just because I don't like my face.” Admitting it out loud made your lower lip wobble, and tears burned like acid behind your eyes.

“I'm not worried about you being a risk.” Spencer sounded even closer, now, but you couldn't bring yourself to look at him.

“Then why do you even care? What, you just saw an opportunity to humiliate the person you hate and you couldn't help it?” There was silence from the other end, which you took as confirmation.

“I—what?” The sheer affronted nature of the word made your eyes snap open, and you found yourself deeply embarrassed to find your vision blurry with tears, too blurry to parse the expression on the brunette's face.

“You think I hate you? That I wanna humiliate you?” You had never seen Spencer so offended—his mouth was so wide in disbelief you thought for a second his jaw was about to crack.

“...don't you? You're always fighting with me.”

“No! I'm not—we don't fight, we banter! It's different!” Spencer's hands were in his hair again, and you realised he was only about a foot away from you.

“Because you don't hate me?” Your voice sounded incredulous even to your own ears.

“Yes!”

‘Liar.’

“Then why do it? Why counter everything I say, all the time, with no real reason?” You scoffed, voice thick with tears.

“Because I like how you react!” Spencer exclaimed, stepping even closer. “You get mad and then you come up with some insult that's either really smart or funny even if it's in a juvenile way and then you—your brows furrow when you're annoyed, and that scar twists in funny ways, and your lips always form a pout around whatever you say next and your eyelashes practically brush your cheek even when they're narrowed and glaring at me and—”

His hands shot out at you, and before you even had the opportunity to react, they were on your face, gentle and calloused. His hands were large, easily encompassing the entirety of the sides of your face. His eyes were even bigger than before now, his lips turned down in a pout, his brows curved in a way you thought only cartoon puppies were capable of.

“Your face haunts me. It derails my work, my deductions, because I cannot help but goad you just to have an excuse to stare at it fully, to see it move and exist—my reading speed has declined by thirty five percent ever since you've joined the team! You make incredible deductions and get that smug look on your face when you're right, when you turn around and call me an idiot, or when you manage to race past me for the best chair in the room and I pretend I'm angry about it when in truth, at any given point I can steal it from you.”

Spencer's face was closer now, his angular nose brushing against yours. You weren't quite sure what to do with your hands, or with the acidic feeling in your eyes again, or with the desperation with which Spencer was speaking.

“I—it pains me, that what you find detestable is the thing that is ruining my life. That when you look at yourself you don't see the intelligent spark in your eyes or the natural voracity with which you approach everything, but rather something that you cannot stand.” His voice dropped to a whisper, and when your hands found their way onto his wrists, he considered it an invitation to push closer, pressing his forehead against yours.

His face was warm, as was his body, now close enough to radiate heat onto you. His thumb stroked the underside of your eye on your uninjured cheek, his other hand tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

“That can't be true.” You said softly, biting on your lower lip and looking down.

“It is,” Spencer sounded even more desperate than before, squeezing your face slightly, “You just think that because some stupid voice in your brain wants you to.” He sounded like he wanted you to believe it.

You wanted you to believe it.

“Let me fix that cut? Please?” The brunette breathed the words against your mouth, before practically kneeling on the ground so you'd be forced to look down at him.

“...I don't even feel it.”

“That doesn't mean it's not worth fixing, pretty.”

The tears refused to go away, now joined by a stray sniffle. The nickname felt like a shot through your chest, painful and raw.

You let Spencer gently tug you along to sit on the edge of the bed, your eyes firmly stuck on the floor, before he went into the bathroom to fetch the first aid kit.

It was only after you remembered that you'd covered the bathroom mirror with a tshirt that your head snapped up and towards the wooden door, only to see Spencer come out looking slightly forlorn.

Ashamed, you looked away again, focusing on the swirls your shoes made on the carpet.

You couldn't ignore him for long, since soon after the mattress sank beside you under the weight of one lanky agent, two of his fingers pinched your chin, turning you to face him.

“Hey,” He said, voice soft, eyes softer, as he raised the little alcohol soaked cotton ball to your cheek, “having insecurities is normal, pretty.”

“Not to this extent, it isn't.” You blinked rapidly as the cold object touched the dry blood, wiping it off.

“Says who?”

“People.”

“People also say I'm autistic.”

“...well that might be true so I don't think you're really helping the case here.” Your lips twitched into a smile as the familiar rush of fighting—no, bantering—with Spencer curled around your nervous system. You took your eyes off the wall behind him to glance at his face, only to see his cheeks dimpled with a soft smile.

Your heart soared and your own smile widened in response. His face only softened further, if that was even possible.

You hissed as the cotton touched the cut, softly wiping any dirt or dust off of it.

“Is it bad?” You asked apprehensively.

“No, it's just a small scratch. About an inch long, not too deep, easy to slap a bandaid on.” Without waiting for an affirmative from you, Spencer grabbed a bandaid, carefully placing it over the cut.

“I'll look ridiculous, walking around with bandaids on my face over a scratch.”

“I can draw the FBI logo on it if it'll make you feel less ridiculous.”

You snorted, unsure whether the brunette was joking. You didn't really care. He could've said he was going to draw a dick on the bandaid and you would've let him.

His hand cupped your cheek, the tips of his fingers trailing past your ear and into your hair. He didn't do or say anything, simply looked at you with an earnestness no one had ever displayed before.

So you leaned in to press a soft peck to his lips.

Spencer looked stunned—that wide-eyed, off-guard look you'd come to love so much in the two times you'd seen it.

“Your face haunts me too, for the record. And your hair. And your dumb cardigans and ties.”

“I thought you hated my dumb cardigans and ties.” The way Spencer's lips curled around his words made you soft, reaching out to wrap his tie around your fist.

“Yes, well, consider me a fox and your dumb cardigans and ties a nice bunch of grapes.” You tried to sound stand-offish, but the absolute beam taking over your face wouldn't really allow it.

“Am I the crow, then?”

“Duh.”

“I do like things that sparkle.” Spencer leaned in, brushing his nose against yours again.

“Oh yeah?” You taunted, lips twitching into a smirk.

“Yeah. Your smile. Your eyes. Your brain.”

“My brain sparkles?” You laughed.

“You sparkle. I like you.”

You licked your bottom lip once before biting it.

“That's good. Cuz I kinda like you too.”

“Really? I couldn't tell.” You rolled your eyes at the sarcasm, rolling off his tongue even while he was an inch away from you.

“Fuck you.”

“At least take me on a date first, pretty.” Spencer whispered, before leaning in and brushing his lips softly against yours.

You pressed back against them, allowing your mouths to be slotted together as you curled into him as much as you physically could. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into his lap to sit on one of his thighs.

There was nothing hurried about the kiss, which felt like it lasted for hours—by the grace of the tiny breathing breaks you two kept taking—both of you warm and purring into each other.

“Stay?” You asked softly when you two parted. Spencer's fingers came up to tuck your hair away again, and he pressed his forehead to your temple this time, nosing your cheek, holding you close now for no other reason than just because.

“As long as you want me to, pretty.”

[rainingwings]

뚜뚜루뚜 ♫ 뚜뚜루뚜 ♫ 뚜뚜루뚜 ♫ 뚜뚜루뚜 ♪ ༘⋆

💧🪽 we sing for 𝐋❤︎𝐕𝐄 

⚠︎ ₊˚♬ 세상 모든 다정함 넘치도록 담은 이 노래 ၊၊||၊ 

ODE TO LOVE 

02:21 ━━━━●───── 03:50

⇆ㅤ ㅤ◁ㅤ ❚❚ ㅤ▷ ㅤㅤ↻