#✩⋆⁺₊ warnings — mentions of body weight

[nereidprinc3ss]

spring into summer

the highest highs and the lowest lows of your on-again off-again relationship with spencer reid, tracked through the seasons of a year.

18+ (smut, angst, fluff) warnings/tags: (spoiler tags at the bottom of post) reader gets drunk a few times, questionable consent (not between Spencer and reader), much codependence, softdom Spencer/sub reader, oral m receiving, finger sucking lol, deep pen piv/intense sex, mention of marks being left, praise tho dw he is soso nice and loves her, fighting/yelling/sex as reconciliation, general toxicity and lots of it DDDNE!! avoidant!reader, panic attacks, joke abt r being high off cough syrup when she’s sick and Spencer is taking care of her, implied trauma, IM MAKING IT SOUND CRAZY BUT THERE IS A LOT OF STRAIGHT UP FLUFF IN HERE GUYS PLS THEY ARE SO CUTE A BUNCH OF TIMES. wc 23k (!) longest nereid fic ever!also had to squish 167 lines together so the first half is a bit compact I apologize!! a/n: yeaaaah…. Thanks for being patient w me guys :”)) I miss posting sosososo much and I out genuinely probably days into this fic like once I was writing for 15 hrs straight. So. Yeah. I so so hope u enjoy and I love u miss u MWAH

February 17th

You don’t know when you last blinked. 

Flickering blue and white light washes deep into the backs of your eyes as you stare at some old film without watching it. A knight atop his steed warps and stretches gruesomely under your apathetic observation, and whatever noble speech he’s giving turns to monotone slurry before it hits your ears—old-fashioned English smeared in 1960’s transatlantia. A buzzy drone in iambic pentameter. The sluggish pound and gush, pound and gush, of a failing heart. 

Spencer said you’d love this movie.

“You okay?”

The question draws you from your fugue state, and you turn, eyes so dry they sting when you finally blink. He’s comfortable. You’ve been here for hours—enough time for his hair to tousle, enough time he decided to trade his contacts for glasses. When you look at him, there is only static. 

You must be having one of those nights again. Something in your body refuses to succumb to the comfort his presence should offer, regardless of how many hours you’ve spent together. Or days, or months. 

It’s awful because you fought to be here, sitting on his couch, sharing a blanket. You fought every instinct in your body for so long just to get to this point because you wanted it so badly, and now that you have it—now that you’ve had it, this weekend, and last weekend, and every weekend you haven’t been out of town on a case for months—you struggle to let it feel good. 

Spencer is looking at you like he loves you. He doesn’t know how to look at you any other way. 

Sometimes you don’t feel like this. Sometimes it’s easy.

That doesn’t make the guilt in the pit of your stomach any smaller when it’s not. 

The only thing you know is that you’ll want it again. This is what you’ll want tomorrow morning, or in an hour, or the second he’s gone. You’ll want it so badly you’d humiliate yourself for it. And humiliation in front of him is a fate worse than death. So you find ways to want him in the present. 

This is the right thing. 

“I’m fine,” you promise. His brow flickers. The knight’s shining armor makes a glare off the lenses of Spencer’s glasses. 

Before he can say anything, you lean into his side, dropping your head to his shoulder and settling your weight against him. Immediately he’s wrapping an arm around you like you knew he would, because he doesn’t have a choice. Not when it comes to you. You don’t give yourself time to feel bad about that. Instead, you press your lips to the bit of collarbone visible over the neckline of his shirt. A series of kisses litter the warmth of his throat. You take and take like an invasive species. A hand pushes into his hair. 

There’s hesitance in the way he kisses you back as you sling a leg over his lap. So you take more. You kiss him harder. You need his hands on you, you need him to hold you by your thighs or your hips or your waist like he’s not afraid. At least one of you mustn’t be so scared. 

Spencer only requires a few more moments before his will melts, and he grabs you how you knew he would. Like he’s going to make something of you. He’s going to make you his. He’s going to break you and put you back together stronger, and he’s going to tell you what you are. That’s all you need—you just need him to keep trying. This is a promise you need him to keep making. 

“Pause the movie,” you breathe into his waiting mouth. 

He’s warm. He keeps you safe. 

March 9th

The heat in your apartment kicks on with a rumble that seems to shake the whole place. It’s the first noise in minutes. 

Spencer is at your little wooden dining table, hair mussed, pajama pants rumpled, staring into a chipped mug half-full of black coffee. You stand in the kitchen, countertop digging into your hip as you watch him. Outside, the sky is still spilled winter ink. The only light comes from a lamp you’d bought with him months ago at an antique shop. The stove clock flicks from 1:31 to 1:32. 

The ringing silence is killing you. 

“Spencer—”

“I—” he stops and you watch his throat bob. “I don’t understand—”

“I explained it to you—”

“You explained what? That you—you don’t care about me as much as I care about you, and you want to be together, but you don’t want me to think of it as a real relationship, and you’re letting me know out of courtesy? What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Don’t twist my words. I do care about you. A lot. I just—when we started this a few months ago you knew where I was at with commitment, and we agreed we’d be honest and communicate about what we were feeling—and what I’m feeling is that I’m not ready for this to be more than what it is! You knew that was a possibility, I knew that was a possibility. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. It just means I’m not ready for… for labels, or telling the team, or—or putting pressure on ourselves to try and be something we don’t have the time to be right now.”

Spencer looks at you with something close to disdain. It’s sort of like a bullet to a flack-jacket—it won’t kill you, because you’ve made sure to protect yourself. But it hurts. 

“I make the time. That’s what you do when you care about someone. I mean—where am I, when we’re not on a case? I’m here. I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be. Do you think I do that because it’s convenient for me? We have the same 24 hours. We have the same job. It’s not about time. Don’t insult me by saying that’s what this is.”

“I’m not trying to insult you.” The words come out an unsure waver—but it’s not because you don’t believe what you’re saying. 

I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be. 

Why? Why would he do that?

Spencer is not gracious in the face of your silence. Maybe he interprets your inability to put words together—the way you froze as soon as he casually admitted something that feels so oppressive and suffocating—I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be—as your silent way of admitting he’s right, and you don’t care about him. 

But he’s not right. You just can’t breathe. Why does he care about you so much?

Someone would have to be looking very closely at you in order to care that much. To think you’re worth the trouble. But you’ve taken steps, your whole life, to ensure that nobody will ever be able to see you close enough. If they did, they’d notice all the structural flaws. The deep cracks and the sagging floorboards and the mold you’ve been covering in paint. 

You feel your throat closing as he stands. 

Yes. Leave. Get out. Don’t look at me. 

March 13th

“Spencer.”

The name drips from your lips like melted sugar. Like a term of endearment. Just saying it makes you warmer. It’s maple syrup in your veins. You try to tug your dress down your thighs and stumble in place. The bartender holding your phone twists his wrist to speak into the microphone. 

“Hey, man. Your girlfriend is wasted. Cabs aren’t running and you need to come pick her up before she throws up all over my bar or wanders into traffic or some shit.”

“I’m not—I’m not wasted,” you mutter, pushing hair out of your face. Neither of them are listening as the bartender relays your location and assures Spencer that an eye will be kept on you until his arrival. As soon as they’re done, you’re leaning forward over the bar. “Gimme him,” you whisper-shout, making a grabby-hand. 

The bartender passes you your phone with raised eyebrows. “He’ll be here soon.”

“But he��s—he’s not on the phone?” You realize, closing your eyes and frowning as the heartbreak processes. 

“Nah. Drink this and sit tight. And don’t fuckin’ throw up. Please.”

You sigh and sip on a lemon water, smearing lipgloss all over the rim of the glass and wiping a dribble off your chin after you swallow. “Spencer’s my boyfriend,” you tell the man, dreamily. 

“So you’ve told me.” 

“He’s so handsome… and smart… and we’re in the—the FBI. Can you believe that?” You cackle and slap the bar top. Mr. Bartender only hums an uh-huh as he focuses on making someone else a drink. 

When Spencer does finally arrive, you’re elated. Glitter courses through your veins. More than that, you’re��relieved—you catch his eye and light up, and when he makes his way through the throng to you, you’re ready to melt all over him. You haven’t spoken to him in days. 

“You’re here!” You sing, hooking an arm around his back and resting your head on his bicep, looking up at him with big, bleary eyes. Spencer supports you with an arm and doesn’t let go even as he’s fishing out his wallet to settle the bill you racked up. “Wait, Spence—we should have one more drink.”

He’s not looking at you as he speaks. “Absolutely not.” And then, to the bartender, “Thanks, man.”

“Spencer,” you begin again, savoring his name on your tongue and admiring his profile as he walks you out of the bar. “I told everyone I met tonight that you’re my boyfriend.”

“I heard,” he says simply, scanning the street before you cross. Presumably the wind is whipping at your bare legs, but you don’t feel it. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because…” you hum thoughtfully. “Because I like you so much. And I liked thinking about you being my boyfriend.”

He doesn’t respond. Even now, even drunk as you are—a very small part of you knows this is cruel. Just last weekend you’d let him walk out of your apartment precisely because you weren’t willing to label things. 

In the morning, that will still be true. But this is just play-pretend. 

“Also, because—isn’t it—isn’t it crazy, that you’re the nicest, prettiest, smartest, best guy ever, and they believed me? I showed them pictures and told them about your degrees and everything and they still believed me. They believed—they believed when I said you’re my boyfriend. They didn’t even question it at all. Like, what? They thought I was good enough to deserve you.”

The sidelong glance he casts you then is like a grappling hook, and you stumble into his side. His brows are knit over eyes that have gone glassy black in the dark, illuminated only by the shifting reflection of each haloed street lamp you pass. It’s hypnotizing. “You think you’re not good enough for me?” He asks. 

You hiccup and clap a hand to your mouth, stickying your palm with remnant gloss. “Oops. No. I mean, yes.”

He’s on the verge of replying when the smell of something fried and sweet has you perking up like a bloodhound. A blinking neon sign behind him catches your eye. “Oh my god,” you interrupt. “They’re—holy fuck, Spencer. That donut shop across the street—oh my god. We have to go. Please? Pleasepleasepleaseplease?”

One thing about Spencer you know to be true—and, perhaps the characteristic of his that defines your entire relationship: he has a profoundly difficult time telling you no. 

Which is how you end up eating donuts in his bed. The ones you couldn’t finish end up in a paper bag on his bedside table—tomorrow’s hangover remedy—and you end up safely tucked under his comforter, in his shirt, smelling of his bodywash. His touch still burns everywhere, like the paths of his fingertips had etched glowing tributaries into your skin. 

All of this to say, you couldn’t possibly be happier with the way the night unfolded.  

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the complete black of the room after he flips the bathroom light off on his way out, but you manage to track him nonetheless. You relish in the familiar dip of the mattress under his weight, the careful tug of the blanket as he gets in bed with you. As he pulls you into him, without hesitation, it’s like ecstasy. Everything is okay again.

It doesn’t take long for you to get close to sleep—it’s been days since you’ve been able to. Just before you go under, Spencer secures you to him. He presses his lips to your temple. 

“I love you,” you mumble. You want to say it before you can’t. 

He strokes your hip. And then you’re gone. 

March 26th

“Did you mean it?”

You look up from the transcripts you’d been studying—the latest victims both had behavioral issues at school. Spencer is across from you, on the other end of the big glass conference table at the Memphis field office. Binders and notebooks and thick Manila folders form a sort of abstract frame around him as he leans back in his chair, gripping the plastic arms. His eyes are laser-focused on you. How long has he been staring at you, thinking about this?

“Did I mean what?”

“When you said you loved me.”

The door is closed and the blinds are shut. You almost wish this were more public so you could reasonably (and urgently) change the subject. Instead, you laugh awkwardly and cast your gaze sideways as if something in your peripheral vision could save you. “When did I say that?” 

It is very clearly the wrong question to have asked. Spencer blinks and looks down through the table at nothing, brows knitting slightly like he’s accounting for new information and adjusting his frameworks accordingly. You swallow. The trouble is, you remember saying it with perfect clarity. You’d just been hoping he would let you off the hook for it. 

“Okay,” he says, after a few eternal moments with only someone’s ringing landline in the office beyond to bridge the gap of silence. 

“… Okay what?”

He picks up his pencil without making eye contact. Twirls it between nimble fingers. Pulls his chair close to the table like he’s going to settle back into his work. There are times where he is capable of immersing himself in whatever he’s reading completely and immediately, but you know this is not one of those times. The petulant flash of his eyebrows, the chin balanced on his fist to hide his mouth. And that perpetually tapping pencil. For all his genius and every one of his quirks, you know he can’t focus on reading and fiddle at the same time. You’re not a profiler for nothing. 

“Spencer.”

“What?”

The immediacy of it is almost enough to have you wincing. 

“I… I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I asked you a question and you didn’t know what I was talking about, so it’s fine.”

“But you’re obviously upset.”

“I’m not obviously anything. You’re reading into it.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Oh my god. Says you.”

The pencil hits the table—as does the other hand. Spencer sits up straight and looks you right in the eye. Uh oh. 

“You responded to my question with another question to avoid giving me a real answer because you think I won’t like what you have to say. Am I wrong?”

Your face goes hot as your mouth opens and closes uselessly a few times. A moment passes and you hate watching that vindication, that hurt, freezing him over, more solid with each second you don’t speak. Mostly you hate that feeling in your throat—it’s either bile or the truth. You’re not sure which one will come out when you open your mouth. But you have to try. He’s backed you into a corner. You swallow. 

“Yeah. Yeah, actually, you are.”

Spencer blinks. “Oh.”

“Oh,” you huff mockingly, averting your eyes to the paper in front of you and strangling your pen as your cheeks positively burn. 

More buzzing silence. 

“Sorry,” Spencer tries, having softened considerably and now obviously remorseful. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. You don’t have to… say anything before you’re ready. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

Still avoiding his gaze, you hum. It’s a manic, anxious sort of sound. The nail of your thumb wears away between your teeth before you switch to picking at the dead skin on your lip. Your foot bounces as you read the name of the victim over and over again, just to have something to do. Kelly Shelton. Kelly Shelton. 

You don’t realize he’s rolled his chair over to you until there’s a gentle hand around your wrist. 

“Stop,” he murmurs, not letting go even when you look at him indignantly. He produces chapstick from his pocket, because of course he does, and presses it into your palm. His eyes are so big and so brown and so warm, almost calf-like, that it’s very difficult to stay mad. “I’m sorry. That was unfair of me.”

“Yeah. It was.” You drop your eyes to where you’re fiddling with the lip balm. His hand still rests over your wrist. If he won’t let you pick at your lips, you’re at least going to chew on them—especially with the concession you’re about to make. “But… I mean… you held out for a while. I guess I’d probably be curious too.”

“So you do remember saying it.”

You look up at him with eyes that you hope effectively say don’t push your luck. At this, he has the audacity to smile—something smitten and stupid and cute. God, he really is easy on the eyes.

“If you tell anyone, you’re dead,” you warn, but it comes out all wrong when you’re fighting back a twisty grin of your own. “And they’ll never know it was me.”

“Noted.”

“Because I could really get away with it. Like, really. I know exactly how to throw off an investigation.”

“Easy, tiger. Put that on. I’m going to get you some water so maybe you’ll stop dessicating your lips.”

“Why are you so worried about my lips?” You ask his retreating back. 

Spencer barely looks over his shoulder as he clicks his tongue, like you should already know. “Vested interest.”

You slink low into your seat and try not to be flustered. 

April 15th

“That tastes like lawn clippings.”

You laugh at the face Spencer is pulling as he lets your gelato melt on his tongue. “No it does not! It’s so good! You seriously don’t like matcha?”

“Matcha is fine.” He points at your cup with his dinky wooden spoon. “That is grass.”

It’s the first warm night of spring, and you and Spencer weren’t the only ones who had an itch to get out of the house. Bars and restaurants have set up their sidewalk seating. Food trucks seem to dot every corner, and on this street alone there have got to be nearing a hundred people, milling about or seated, all talking and laughing. The two of you are ambling back toward his apartment. Efficiency has not been a priority of the journey. 

“The lady said it’s one of their most popular ice cream flavors. It wouldn’t sell if it actually tasted like grass. You’re just delusional.”

“Not ice cream.”

You frown and suck on the wooden end of your spoon, looking up at him through narrow eyes. His hair is getting long. “What?”

“It’s not ice cream. Gelato and ice cream are fundamentally different.”

“How?” 

“Gelato uses more milk, less cream, and usually doesn’t contain eggs. It’s also meant to be served at a warmer temperature. And they have entirely different regional origins. Thus, not ice cream. If your opinion is going to be wrong, you should at least try to get the facts right.”

Spencer is smiling at his cup when you shove against him. “If mine is so bad, let me try yours.”

“No,” he laughs, eating another pitifully small spoonful. “Because I know if you try mine, you’re going to realize it’s better, and then we’ll have to go back.”

“That is not going to happen. Just let me try! Please? I let you try mine!”

“Forced me to,” he mutters, smile still pulling at the corners of his mouth as he slows to a stop in front of a mostly-budded spindly tree. You stand toe to toe on the sidewalk as he scoops a bite for you and holds out the spoon. As soon as you lean forward to taste it, you realize he was completely right. His is infinitely better than yours. Spencer’s lips twist and his eyes sparkle at this recognition, and you’re pissed it’s so visible on your face. 

“You’re making me go back, aren’t you?”

“… No. Yours isn’t even good.”

“Oh my god,” he laughs. “Come on.”

“Mm… okay.”

You turn around, and immediately freeze. There, at the edge of the crowd of food-truck goers, you see a distinctly colorful and familiar silhouette. Penelope Garcia is facing away from you, but even from the back you’d never mistake her for someone else. Those metallic green platform heels had very nearly crushed your toes in the elevator just this afternoon. 

“We need to go.”

Spencer frowns when you turn right back around and he has to take a few quick steps to catch up when you feel no qualms about leaving him in the dust. “What? What happened?” He asks, craning his head to scan the crowd shrinking behind you. “Is that Penelope?”

“And Kevin,” you agree. 

“Oh. You don’t want to say hi?”

At first you think he’s joking. But when you feel his eyes on the side of your face for a moment too long, you meet his questioning gaze. “No, I don’t wanna say hi.”

A familiar pause. The one that always comes right before he starts a fight with you. “You don’t want them to see us together?”

You sigh. “I—no. You know I don’t want the team to know yet. And if Garcia finds out, it’s gonna be the whole team. They’ll just… they’ll make it weird.”

“I think you’re making it weird right now. We’re allowed to spend time together outside of work. I sincerely doubt that if they had seen us back there Penelope’s first assumption would be that we’re together.”

We’re not, you want to say—but you bite it back. Because, even if not by name, in effect you are. The only reason to remind him of that at this point would be to hurt his feelings. And you’re not cruel. Or at least—you don’t try to be. 

“I just—I’m not ready for that.”

“We wouldn’t have to tell anyone.”

“Can we please just drop it?” 

You didn’t mean to snap. Luckily your brisk pace has taken you far enough away that the ambient sounds of the city will surely muffle your voices before they reach your coworkers. 

Spencer is silent. Your gelato hits the bottom of a nearby trash can. 

Back at his apartment, things remain slightly tense. You don’t like it—his reticence, the physical distance he maintains. 

Spencer’s getting water in the kitchen when you wordlessly excuse yourself to his bedroom. A few minutes later, you emerge, padding quietly across the antique tile, and he turns around—eyes shamelessly scanning you up and down as he notes your lack of shoes. And pants, probably. 

“I thought you were planning on going home for the night.” He sets the glass down on the counter when you don’t stop coming. 

“Don’t feel like driving.” You wrap your arms around his middle and rest your cheek against his chest. “Can I stay?”

He’s quiet a moment. You don’t always reward him with overt, unapologetic affection like this. Especially not after the recurring what are we argument. “You know you can.”

“Thanks.”

After one more moment of hesitation, or reluctance, or something—his arms snake around you. You relax further into him, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m sorry about earlier. With Penelope.”

The thrum of his heart could lull you to sleep. 

“Me, too,” he murmurs—and there is something like grief laced into the words. You pretend not to notice. 

April 29th

“Sorry I’m late. Crash on the beltway,” you breathe as you blow into the roundtable room one morning, tossing your bag on the table and falling into a seat. 

JJ nods, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, yeah. Spence got delayed, too. Maybe it was the same one.”

You clear your throat and focus on flipping open a file. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Spencer is holding back a grin so bright that you can practically hear the crystalline twinkling as it fights to be freed. 

Later, you corner him by the coffee machine. 

“You have to stop doing that,” you mumble. 

He’s leaning against the counter, one hand in his suit pocket—your favorite suit of his—as he watches you smugly from behind his cup. “Doing what?”

The look you give him then could boil water. He maintains his innocence. 

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“Yeah, asshat. Making us late,” you hiss, only after a proprietary scan to make sure nobody’s standing close enough to hear. 

“Friday is statistically the most dangerous day of the week on the beltway in terms of vehicular collisions. But there’s nothing I can do about that. You look nice today, by the way. Had a good morning?”

The audacity on him. Your face burns as you try to think of a retort, but all the signals have been intercepted—playing clips from your rather leisurely morning in a hazy highlight reel that is most certainly not appropriate for the work place. But he doesn’t let you flounder for long. Instead, he’s pushing off the counter and standing too close, just barely resting a hand on the small of your back as he reaches up to grab your mug from a shelf and you try not get dizzy from the proximity. 

“I’ll bring the coffee to you, sweetheart. Go sit down.”

The words, the gesture, are all too subtle for anyone else to notice. They turn you into a puddle of idiot. He’s never called you sweetheart. He’s never condescended to you like that before. You’re pretty sure you’re not supposed to like it so much. 

A few minutes later, the mug hits your desk. With ten words, he’d reduced you down to something shy and nervous, and you look up at him as he slides the coffee toward you like he might do something else crazy and unreasonably attractive. “Thanks,” you murmur, accepting the drink and exerting excessive willpower in order to turn your attention back to the computer screen. 

Rossi calls from the catwalk. “You do deliveries now? Fantastic. I’ll take a cappuccino.”

“Yeah. I’ll get right on that,” Spencer mumbles, and makes a beeline for his desk. You hope his face is red. Serves him right. 

The rest of the day, you’re almost… clingy. At lunch, you silently slide your chair over to his and begin eating without a word. It’s not like you have anything to say, really. You just crave the comfort of his knee against yours. When he fleetingly rests his hand on your thigh under the desk, for the briefest of moments, you’re far too pleased. 

Soon, JJ joins you, and then Penelope. But you don’t mind. Sometimes the nature of your relationship with Spencer and the secrecy of it all is a major source of stress for you—but today, it feels more like an alliance. Something special between the two of you that nobody else gets to share in. 

You keep casting glances at him, just for the pleasure of the view. Hoping he’ll be looking back. The third time you make eye contact, he shakes his head subtly and smiles down at his salad. You bite back a grin of your own, and try to focus on the story Penelope is telling. Sometimes, keeping secrets is fun. 

May 3rd

When Garcia said the case was local, you didn’t think you’d know the final victim. You didn’t think you’d have to watch her die. 

After the EMTs clear you, Spencer takes you to your apartment. You don’t speak a word the entire drive. Not in the parking lot, not in the lobby or the elevator or the hallway. You don’t speak in the bathroom when he quietly asks if you want help getting out of your bloodied clothes. Gently, tactfully, he coaxes a nod from you, and then he’s unbuttoning your shirt. It’s not your blood. 

The shower is started. Do you want me to come with you?

Another shake of your head. He respects your wish for privacy, but leaves the bathroom door cracked. You’d never tell him how much you appreciate that. 

After the shower, after you’re dressed, Spencer brings you tea and sits on the bed with you. At some point he changed from work clothes into pajamas he’d left here, even though he didn’t ask if he could sleep over. You’re grateful. Maybe he noticed that you’d left all the lights off, and he doesn’t try to turn them on. You’re grateful for that, too. 

“We don’t have to talk about it right now. But we can, okay? We can talk about it whenever you’re ready.”

Another morose nod. You stare into the amber depths of your tea. Not now. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. 

“I just wanna go to bed,” you whisper. All the screaming has shredded your throat. The words come out like rice paper. 

Spencer holds you until the room fills with milky grey dawn light. And though neither of you are speaking, he doesn’t fall asleep. You can tell from his breathing that he’s staying awake for you. 

-

You’re supposed to take a week off, at the least. This is not something you want. Being alone for eight hours a day sounds like it’ll be the opposite of helpful—but so what. You can handle it. When Spencer calls to tell you there’s a case—that’s when the panic starts to well. 

You pick at your lip, and then when you remember how he’d scold you for it, switch to pulling a loose thread on your sock, phone poised in your free hand. “I’ll come in.”

“You can’t,” he says, voice tinny through the speaker. “You cannot be in the field right now. You know that.”

You sit up a little straighter, nails biting into the skin of your ankle. “What am I supposed to do—just—just rot here for however fucking long you’re—you guys are gone?”

Spencer sighs. “I don’t know. I don’t want you to be alone. I’m… I’m considering sitting this one out, too.”

Your blood goes cold. “Spencer.”

A beat. “What?”

“You’re not staying behind for me.”

“I’m—”

“No. That’s not—that’s not what this is. That’s not what we do. You’re going to go do your job, and I’m going to stay here.”

“You just said—”

“I don’t care what I said! You’re not putting me ahead of the job! You’re not staying behind to check up on me. I’m an adult.”

“You don’t need to lash out. I’m just worried about you.”

“Worry about doing your fucking job. And don’t call while you’re gone.”

You hang up and throw your phone at the end of the couch. 

-

Spencer gets home at the end of the week to find his apartment broken into. The first clue was that the culprit forgot to lock the door after they used their key. The second and third clues were haphazardly untied and dropped in the middle of the living room. 

He finds you in the dark, curled up on his side of the bed under the blanket. Spencer drops his bag and rounds the bed to you, sitting on the edge and carefully taking your head into his lap, where, as if on cue, you begin to cry. For a long while, he doesn’t say anything—only pushes your hair out of your face with a gentle hand and fruitlessly wipes away tears. You’re not sure you’ve ever cried like this in front of him. 

Eventually, you try to breathe, pushing the heel of your palm into your eye as if you could forcibly hold the tears in. “I c-can’t believe that she’s gone,” you gasp. 

“I know, honey,” Spencer murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”

You sob harder. “It sounds so s-stupid, but I can’t—I don’t underst-stand how she’s dead! I saw her last week!”

“It’s not stupid. Human brains struggle with loss because we constantly function under the assumption that people are still there even when we can’t see them. Your brain is trying to contend with two incompatible realities, and it’s exhausting, and it hurts a lot. I know it does, angel.”

“I just—I saw it happen—I haven’t slept, because—” A cleaving cry pushes through your sentence, cutting you off. The air in the room is vacuous around your grief. 

“I know,” Spencer whispers again. His voice is so tender it bruises more than it breaks. “I know. I wish you hadn’t. I’m sorry.”

The fact that you went days without talking or even exchanging a text goes unmentioned. Your outburst goes unmentioned. Still, Spencer wishes you had told him what was going on sooner. He would’ve come back in a heartbeat. You wish that, too. 

May 20th

Spencer is sick. Over the phone he insists that you don’t come over. So you show up at his door and use your key. What is he going to do? Get up from the sofa and physically remove you? Not likely, in his state. 

As soon as you enter the apartment, you see his head poke up from the couch. Then he groans, hoarse and congested, and drops back down. “I told you to stay away. I’m still contagious.”

“I brought you three kinds of soup,” you say, completely ignoring his bid to send you away as you breeze into the living room and sit on the coffee table across from him, paper bag in tow. “But I think you should start with this one. It’s chicken noodle with garlic, ginger, and turmeric.”

“Anti-inflammatories.”

You give him a dazzling smile. “Exactly. So you’ll get better quicker. I looked it up.” Spencer smiles at this too. Despite the sallow skin and the darker-dark circles, the brilliance of it still has the ability to fluster you—so you move right along. “Um—I also got—I brought honey-herb cough drops, like the ones you keep in your desk. Oh! And this immune-boosting tea. I don’t know if it works, but it sounded good. And… I brought you orange juice for vitamin C—and, okay—you don’t have to try this, but it’s one of those, like, immune-boosting shots? It’s just a tiny little bottle of ginger and turmeric juice, I think. It’ll probably taste bad. But I got one for me, too, so we can take them in solidarity. And maybe then I won’t get sick.”

Spencer just watches you for a moment. You smile awkwardly and pick at a thread on your jeans. “Sorry, I know this is a lot. Sorry if I overdid it. I can go, if you want—I just wanted to make sure you had—”

“Stop. This is amazing. You’re genuinely like an angel. Thank you.” Spencer reaches out and sets a hand on your thigh. The idea that he wants to show you affection but doesn’t want to risk your health is so endearing that you can’t help yourself—you slide to your knees in front of the couch and wrap your arms around him best you can. He chuckles and hooks an arm around your back, rubbing a few short lines over your shirt. 

After a moment you pull back, and press a fleeting kiss to his warm forehead—but you stay kneeling in front of him for a bit longer. Unwisely close, most likely. His eyes are bleary, glazed with illness and watercolor soft on you. 

“What are you gonna tell the team if you get sick?” he murmurs, gaze tracing your face in gentle lines. 

You hum, wrapping your hand around his forearm. “We were doing mouth to mouth resuscitation?”

-

Turns out the immunity shots were a gimmick, because the next week, you’re sick as a dog. The team doesn’t ask any questions—it’s completely reasonable that Spencer could’ve infected you without getting his spit in your mouth. 

“Guess what?” You ask from his couch as soon as he opens the front door, making a beeline for the kitchen to set down his groceries. 

“What?”

“Penelope called me today asking why I wasn’t home. Apparently after work she stopped by to bring me soup. I told her I was at the doctor’s, and she was like, at six PM? And I was like, yeah, she’s a weird naturopathic doctor, and then she started naming all the naturopathic doctors she knows.”

“Technically you are at the doctor’s,” Spencer reminds you as he comes to sit on the coffee table, much like you’d done last week. “You still sound congested. Are you feeling any better?”

You lean into his touch when he checks your temperature with a cool hand to your forehead. “A little, maybe.”

Spencer frowns as he brushes his thumb across your febrile cheek, sporting that little worried line between his brows that you find so cute. “You’re not coughing. Have you been taking that cold medicine?”

“Plenty.”

A slow smile blooms on his face in spite of the concern. “Oh. So you’re high.”

“No!” You giggle, though you’re definitely a little loopy. “And hey—even if I was, that’s medical malpractice on your part. One, you should never share prescriptions, and two, you should never let the patient administer her own doses when she’s really sleepy and out of it.”

Spencer lets you grab his hand, running his thumb over your knuckles. “Can’t leave you alone for even a day,” he scolds through a grin that oozes affection. 

“You know what would make me feel better, Dr. Reid?”

“What?”

“A kiss.”

“Can’t risk it. The virus could have mutated. It might reinfect me.”

“It wouldn’t do that to me,” you promise. Spencer smiles even wider, squeezes your hand tighter. 

“Yeah? Why not?”

“Because we go way back. Like to last week when you got sick.”

“Right. You’re getting cut off the cough syrup, Typhoid Mary.” At that he tries to get up, presumably to go make you dinner—but you refuse to let go of his hand. 

“Hey, wait.”

Spencer, now standing and still holding your hand, looks down at you expectantly. Your head lolls on the pillow as you blink up at him. “Love you.”

He smiles, softer now, and kisses your wrist, right where the feverish blood flows closest to the surface. “I love you.”

After that, it’s hard to feel too bad. 

June 6th

“Can you slow down?” Spencer follows you into the bedroom where you immediately begin yanking open drawers and shoving clothes into your duffel bag. 

“No, because you’re going to try and fix it, and I already told you I don’t want—”

“Jesus Christ—I’m asking you to stop for one fucking second so we can talk about this.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But I do. There are two of us in this relationship, and I want to talk about it.”

“And I just said I don’t.” Half the clothes you’ve accrued here are on his floor because they wouldn’t fit into the bag. Both of you stomp carelessly over them toward the bathroom. You’re grabbing products at blind from the medicine cabinet. 

“You are unbelievable. How many more times are you going to do this? How many times are we going to break up because you—”

You whip around, brandishing a toothbrush. “We’re not breaking up. We’ve never broken up because we have never been together. That’s the fucking problem—you always think everything means more than it does. You’re obsessive and clingy and smothering and so fucking exhausting to be around. If you want to talk about it, there. That’s why this is happening.” You shove past him and he tails you down the hall. 

“You’re pathetic,” he calls. “Truly. This is pathetic.”

“Stop talking to me.”

“You know what your problem is? You know why we keep doing this? You’re a coward.”

“Oh my god. Great, yeah, this again. Let’s have this conversation again, please.”

“If you don’t like it maybe you should fucking listen to me this time!” 

The yell rings. It might be hard for the average person to get him this angry. To you, it comes naturally. It comes like switching the shower water from hot to room temperature, washing cool down your neck and shoulders. 

“Goodbye.” You’re making for the door, and you get so far as to open it—but then, Spencer has his hand in a vice grip around your wrist, and he’s slamming the door shut. You startle, almost jumping back into him and then whirling around. He’s so close you can see the freckle in his iris. “What the fuck is your problem?” you shout—when he goes low, you go lower. “Let go.”

“I am not going to keep doing this with you,” he breathes, and his eyes are so dark, so full of gravity and swirling with anger—that for the first time, you actually sort of believe him. “I will say this one last time.” Your heart is pounding as his tongue darts over his lips. You’re frozen. Battered silence hangs all around, waiting to be broken and put back together for the umpteenth time this week. But he keeps his voice low. “I have been patient with you. You were taught that the people closest to you are going to let you down and hurt you. It is not your fault that those lessons are biologically ingrained into your nervous system. I understand that sometimes it doesn’t feel safe to let someone in, and you’re just doing what you think you have to do. But you are an adult. I’m done letting you use me as a scapegoat for your own attachment issues. I love you, and I care about you, and I’m never going to punish you for caring about me. I’m not going to hurt you for it, ever. But I am not your doormat. So I need you to understand that the smokescreens and the manipulation tactics are not going to work anymore. If you leave, it’s going to be because you are afraid. Not because I’m clingy or obsessive or exhausting to be around. You’re going to take accountability for what this is.”

Your wrist flexes in his hold. The words are like searing fire in your veins, in your whole body—burning you clean from the inside out. This is the worst thing he could have said to you. The worst thing he could’ve done while he made you look into his eyes like this. You’d rather be stabbed. If you could, you’d play dead. But you have a terrible feeling that he’s ready to stand here, watching you, for hours. For as long as it takes you to move again. 

“You need to let go of me,” you whisper. 

And he does. For a moment, you stand there, afraid to move, watching him wearily like he’s going to grab you and drag you deeper into some cave—somewhere he can wrap you in a web and keep you there to poke at forever. But he doesn’t. Not when your fingers twitch at the doorknob. Not when you twist it open. Nobody chases you down the hallway. 

He simply lets you go. 

June 11th

The team doesn’t know about your most recent split with Spencer. They never do. No matter how many times it happens, no matter how many brutal arguments you get into, no matter how many disgusting things are said, no matter how many of his dishes you shatter—always, without fail, the two of you will go to work the next morning, stand peaceably next to each other in the elevator, and your coworkers will remain none the wiser. How could they possibly suspect a breakup when they never knew you were together?

It makes you feel insane. It’s like the relationship is a shared hallucination, and the only person who’d assure you that you you’re not going crazy is the one person you don’t want to talk to. And, of course, it puts you into situations like this. You and Spencer have been tasked with going to the medical examiner. Just the two of you. Aside from the hum of the wheels spinning against the wide road and the purr of the engine, the SUV is silent. 

“Take a left up here,” Spencer eventually says. 

You shoot him an irritated glance from the driver’s seat that he does not reciprocate. “The GPS is on, Reid.”

“Yeah, but you have it on silent. You keep missing turns. It’s rerouted three times.”

You grimace, glancing between the road and the mapping system several times. “Wh—and you didn’t think to tell me?”

Spencer doesn’t respond. It’s probably for the best. 

Fifteen minutes later, car doors are slamming in almost-unison. LA is hot today—white sunlight bleaches the sidewalk and beams off the shiny car in death rays. You flip your sunglasses down over your eyes and breathe in the wind coming off the ocean, ruffling the towering palm trees and your shirt. You don’t wait for Spencer. All you can think about when you look at him is what he’d said to you against his door—how he’d laid out the truth bare and in turn made you feel stripped and humiliated. Little more than a specimen, belly up, for him to sink his scalpel into. 

“Hold on,” he calls from behind. For decency’s sake, you do. After all, he is your co-worker. You don’t take your hand off the knob as you watch him coming up behind you in the door’s paned reflection against a wide, aggressively cerulean sky. He’s got sunglasses on, too—too many layers of glass between your eyes and his. You wait for him to speak. He takes his sweet time. “We need to be functional.”

“We are.”

“We need to be more functional. No more avoiding talking on the job.”

You open the door, baptizing yourself in the freezing rush of lobby AC. “That was a you problem. I would have vastly preferred if you hadn’t spent the first five minutes of the drive not telling me that I was going the wrong way.”

“I know,” Spencer agrees, holding the door open above your head. “Sorry. You’re just… kind of scary, sometimes.”

A probable understatement. The corner of your mouth twitches as you flash your badge to the receptionist, and she picks up the phone to alert the examiner of your arrival. 

June 30th

The elevator door was sliding shut as you and JJ chatted about where the two of you were going for dinner—perhaps that new Mediterranean spot with the nice outdoor seating—and then, there was a hand. The door stopped and slid back open. Spencer clearly wasn’t anticipating that it’d be you and JJ, but only the briefest flash of hesitation is visible before he’s plastering on an awkward smile and stepping in. 

“Oh, Spence! We were just talking about going out to dinner—do you have plans?”

You bite your tongue at JJ’s invitation and stare at the glowing panel of buttons. Spencer falters—you can feel his eyes on you. 

“Uh—tonight’s not a great night for me, actually.”

“Are you sure? You cancelled on me last month. And the three of us haven’t gone out in a long time.”

That’s how you end up at a smooth wooden table in a stucco courtyard under a big blue umbrella, serenaded by the burbling of a central tiled fountain and some bouncy stringed instrument coming through a wall mounted speaker with JJ and Spencer. And then, because of course, JJ gets a call from Will—something about the kids throwing up—apologizes profusely, and then leaves. Leaves the two of you alone. Together. At a restaurant. 

Silence hangs from the umbrella. You get impatient under the pressure of it. “Wow. We’re already having so much fun.”

The sarcasm does not go over Spencer’s head. “In my defense, I tried not to come.”

You sigh, cheek squished against fist and studying the way sunlight bounces off the splashing water as you slurp forlornly from a straw. “Not your fault.”

“Should we go?”

You turn your attention back to him, squinting and nibbling at the end of your straw. “I don’t know. We already ordered.”

“So… you wanna wait?”

A shrug. “It probably won’t be that long.”

And with that, a silent treaty is signed. 

“You know,” you begin, fishing a strawberry from your glass, “JJ was right. I can’t remember the last time the three of us hung out.”

“September 24th.”

You nod. “Wow. So, like… eight months. We kind of suck.”

The reason you’d stopped going out as a group was as much the changing of seasons as it was the shifting in your dynamic with Spencer. Around that time you’d started to see him one on one a lot more. This truth goes clearly acknowledged, but unspoken, as he tracks a drip of condensation down your glass and then regards you with a cool sort of curiosity. 

“Eight months is quite a while, huh?”

You eye him right back and lean down to your straw. “Basically forever.”

Later, easy chit-chat dots the short walk to your vehicle—it’s been hours, and you haven’t run out of things to say. You could keep going, you realize once you’re standing next to your car. A month without his company, and you’re brimming over with stories and anecdotes you’d been saving for him. He’s the first person you think about when you hear a funny joke or learn something new. That doesn’t just go away when if you’re not on good terms. It simmers. Waits for inevitable release. 

The sky is a gorgeous cocktail of pink and purple and yellow. You tilt your head back and close your eyes, just briefly, breathing in, letting the setting sun soak through your skin. 

“Beautiful,” you observe once your eyes flutter open again, tracing the wispy edges of rose-colored clouds. 

“Very.”

You sigh, taking in just a bit more vitamin D—and then you’re looking back at Spencer. He’s already looking at you, gilded in the heavy aureate light. Studying, in that way of his.

“Are we good?” He asks, after a moment. 

You blink. And then you offer him a small smile. “We’re good.”

July 13th

The trouble of being friends with Spencer is this: once you allow yourself a taste, no matter how small, no matter how innocent—you’re overcome with the desire to bite down. You want him between your teeth and on the back of your tongue. Messy, starving, gnashing, you don’t care. You want and want and want. 

Victim number one of your relapse: the coat tree. It clatters to the ground and spills everything everywhere when Spencer stumbles against it, trying to walk backwards into the apartment after you blindly lock the door. Of course, he couldn’t see where he was going—he was too busy tracing the seam of your bottom lip with his tongue. 

“Shit,” he breathes, nearly tripping again as winter coats and scarves, dormant for summer, wrap around his ankles and threaten to pull him down. You giggle breathlessly, slipping off your own shoes as he kicks at the heavy fabrics like they’re going to bite. Then he’s pulling you back into him, deeper into the apartment, tongues clashing. It’s been a long time, and he’s demanding. Not that you mind—not at all. Though, when he pulls you the opposite direction of his bedroom—toward his desk, in fact—you’re certainly confused.

“Bed?” You whisper against his mouth. 

“Can’t. Rebinding books, they’re laid out on the bed while the glue dries.”

Okay. “Couch?”

Reluctantly, Spencer pulls away. You yelp in surprise when he grabs your hair and uses it as a handle to direct your attention toward the sofa. Also covered in books. It’s amazing, actually, the sheer volume of them when they’re not neatly tucked into the shelf. And he’s got them all memorized. You look back at him, a wave of renewed awe washing through your veins. He’s so fucking strange. You missed him awfully. 

Pressing close enough is impossible, then, as you kiss him hard. There is a blatant, unapologetic hunger in his touch which completely ignores the border that the hem of your short dress presents, grabbing the back of your thigh in a bruising grip. Your breath catches against his mouth at the way his fingers dig into you like you’re wet clay and he knows best, he knows how to make you into something better, as the slow ache crawls up the back of your neck and furrows your brow. Spencer’s not afraid to touch you. He knows exactly how to make sure he’s got all your attention.

Nobody else has ever been able to do that. From other hands, when you’re forced to go begging for the cheap version of what you really want, it’s little more than untrained violence. Spencer knows how to make it feel righteous. Nobody is ever him. That hand comes to slide up the front of your thigh, thumb skimming the hem of your underwear while he dives back into your mouth and you let yourself be completely washed out in the riptide of his desperate affections. All that you’d been missing for months—you want it now. You want to show him how much you missed him. 

“Spencer—” you gasp between kisses. He hums against your mouth, and you let your hand slide down his stomach to hook in his belt. “Spence, can I—please, baby—”

“You don’t have to beg me, honey. I’m gonna give you whatever you want.” Lips against your warm cheek, your forehead, as he lilts sweetly, breathily. “Anything.”

So you’re nodding, dizzy in your anticipation and your desire, wordlessly pleading for more of his mouth on yours while you take off a belt you’re intimately familiar with. The clinking metal wakes up a part of you that’s been asleep since the last time you’d had him like this. When you drop to your knees, he seems vaguely surprised, eyes soft and all love on you. 

“Really?” he croons, hand already at your temple, already smoothing baby hairs. Already being the person you want him to be, because he’s been waiting, because it’s natural. Your nod, your eyes, the way your hands find his legs—it’s all enough for him. You get what you want. 

The hardwood presses against your knees, shifting and squeaking beneath you. Spencer takes his time pushing your hair out of your face, gathering it between his fingers and holding it to the crown of your head with an impossible kind of tenderness as you move. He strokes your cheek, brushes his thumb feather-light over the soft line of your lashes, once, twice. The fabric of his trousers bunches in your hands where they rest on his legs—he’s so kind to you that it hurts, it makes you want to cry, it makes you want to stay here forever just so he’ll keep looking at you like that, so you never forget how his pinky feels against the nape of your neck or the heel of his palm feels against your temple as he plays and plays with your hair, as even when you’re the one on your knees, he worships you. Christens you his own little angel, angel, angel—whispered like he really believes it, like you’re a miracle. Spencer loves in a way that feels like soothing, that feels like an apology for all the bad things that have ever happened to you and a nullifying of all the bad things you have ever done. 

Afterward you press your forehead against his thigh, mostly to hide the welling of your eyes when there’s no longer any good excuse—partially as a kind of supplication. Never let me go again. Please. No matter what I say. I’m sorry. 

Spencer fixes himself, crouches to your level, drops your hair just to push it out of your face and make you look at him. Your chest rises and falls rapidly as your glossy eyes dart between his. But you don’t look away. You don’t want to. When a tear rolls down your cheek, he sees it, and there’s nothing you can do. And you realize you’re not sure you’d want to hide it after all. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” he murmurs. “We’re okay. What do you need? What can I give you, sweetheart? Do you want to be done? Want me to move the books so we can sit down?”

“No, no—I don’t wanna be done. I just missed you so much. I was dumb before. I’m sorry.”

He softens impossibly at this, to the point where he’s hazy around the edges, melting into the warm ambient light. “You weren’t. You weren’t dumb. Come here, stand up. You’re never dumb—here, is this okay?” He’s sat you on his desk, shoving things aside to make room—casualties for a later consideration—and he’s already littering kisses over your neck. “I missed you too. I think about you all the time, angel, you don’t need to apologize, just… god, I missed you. Please let me touch you. Please.”

It’s hard to say no to that—what with the begging, and the pull of your lip between his teeth, and the heat of his breath fogging your brain. There’s not a lot of room to work with, but you manage to lean enough of your weight back that he can tug your underwear down your thighs. They end up on the floor, and you feel his hand sliding beneath your dress again, where you’re bare for him, and he doesn’t make you wait. 

“Oh my god, you’re perfect,” he mutters upon discovering just how ready for him you are. You hiss as he slips past the initial resistance. Spencer responds with his lips pressed to your head, but he shows no mercy with the slow rock of his hand, the drag against where you’re softest and where you need him the most, the exact right place to touch you. Your arching, squirming, whimpering, doesn’t deter him in the slightest. When your thighs clamp shut and you shift back, he follows you. When you look up at him, brow furrowed, lips parted—in disbelief but without the words to say it—he’s already looking at you. “I know,” he assures you. “That’s it, huh? Right here?”

Rapidly you nod. His exhale is almost one of relief. “Yeah,” he sighs, knowingly. Melting closer to kiss you again. 

It doesn’t bother him when your nails dig into his flexing forearm as you cum. Judging by the groan, you think he might like it. 

You’re barely recovered by the time he’s lining himself up to you, but you find your bearings quickly. It’s a slow, bated burn, when he finally does it. You’re both silent, tense, hardly breathing in anticipation. What has at times been a slip feels now more like an endless push—it is its own kind of back-arching, toe curling, deep-in-your-spine ecstasy, as he breaks you open slow. Your legs part wider for him, and your hips yearn to push against his.

His words burst forth with the same expelling of pressure, at the same time, as your first sudden cry. “Fuck, angel. Jesus.”

There’s a stinging point of light inside you that he’s pushing against. You close your eyes and watch it flash and spark. “Feels so good,” you promise, nothing more than a whisper. Whatever this is, this pain and pleasure, it’s landed you in some divine plane. You never want it to end. 

“Relax for me, honey. Let go a little.”

“I am, I am,” you defend on a quick exhale, looking down when he stops fighting to get in. “Please—why’d you stop? Please—”

“You’re not ready.”

“Yes, I am, fuck, please, Spencer!”

Something in you is desperate and starving and you need it now—you’ve needed it for a long time—but he doesn’t capitulate. Instead, he kisses you. Softly. Slow and sweet, like you have all the time in the world. You have no choice but to drown in it. It’s a short-circuit in your body when after a minute of this, after he senses the way you’ve dissolved, suddenly his hips are flush with yours. You gasp and a pencil cup clatters to the ground in your search for purchase. You’re little more than a pulsing, glowing star, lightheaded at the depth and the pressure and the way that band of resistance he’d pushed past aches around him in time with the pound of your heart. Spencer is leaning against you, gripping the edge of the desk behind you hard and breathing heavily against your neck. 

Words have every opportunity to pass from your dropped jaw, but you’re actually speechless. Your heartbeat is a white flashing in your eyes. The only verbal expression at your disposal: “Spencer.”

For a moment time suspends like that, and you wonder how the fuck you could ever have made any decision that would take you away from him, away from this. This is so obviously the only right answer. 

Slowly, he draws out, and you stop breathing. Come back. Come back. Your legs spell it out as they wrap around his hips. It’s just as slow on the uptake, and you loose a shuddering, rattling breath. Your body tenses and shifts, trying to pull you up and away from the feeling—but not because it hurts. It’s just so mind-numbingly fucking deep. Everywhere. The base of your spine, the tips of your fingers. Out. While you have a fleeting moment of sentience, you whisper his name a few times in quick succession. This successfully draws his attention and he lifts his head from your shoulder, pupils blown to hell as he’s already dragging back in. A too-honest, too-raw cry pulls from your soul, turns half disbelieving laugh as he presses against your deepest part and black spots dance in your vision. 

His eye darts to the way your knee pulls up, clearly beyond your control—the way your body tries to make sense of him, tries to respond to what he’s doing to you. You watch as it happens—that flash in his eyes. That shift into a kind of determination that always ends with you dead asleep on his pillow, face streaked with dried tears borne of sheer overwhelm. Spencer fits his arm around you and pulls you flush to him, the other hooking under your knee and holding you open. He sets a new pace, and it doesn’t take long to get you gripping at the back of his shirt and tearing up on his shoulder, making due with gasping sips of air and having completely given up on holding in the keens and the pleases and the occasional sob that to the trained ear sounds much like his name. 

You feel it coming—the searing heat, the pound of your heart, the drop of your stomach. It hits as hard as you knew it would. 

Usually he’s a little more talkative—but that comes later. With you pushed over his desk, and his arm around your chest, and his lips pressed to your ear. Blindly you reach back for him—you need him, you need something—and without question he catches your hand, pressing it hard into the dark surface of the wood. His thumb strokes at your hand, his fingers curl with yours, and Spencer continues with those murmurings, like spells—things nobody who knew him would ever imagine him saying. Things that have you making promises, breathing uh-huh’s, telling him you love him. Things that have your vision going black and your throat tightening around choked moans. He’s never had you this vulnerable before. You’re dizzy, drunk on it. This time when the end comes, it’s a heavy crash. It pulls you under. It does whatever the fuck it wants with you and tumbles you in its current forever because he’s not stopping, still slowly closing in on his own peak. There are moments where it goes beyond good. It’s just complete and utter sensation, on all fronts—thoughts come as colors and textures instead of words. You don’t even feel tethered to your body anymore, your grip on reality tenuous at best. 

Eventually all the crashing does end, and you whine brokenly, and he shushes you softly, and finally, finally, stills inside of you. 

Slowly, you come back to yourself. It’s dark outside, now. You can hear weekend traffic on the streets below. His apartment is clean (aside from the shit that got knocked over and the books on the couch) and it’s sticky summer warm, and it smells like home. It’s safe. And everything is okay. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt so okay in your life. 

Spencer adjusts his hold on you when your weight signals that you want to lie flat on the desk, face pressed against your forearm, catching your breath in the wood-lacquer darkness. He follows you down, arms braced on either side of your head. His weight on your back is a comfort, as are his lips at the nape of your neck. 

“Okay?” he murmurs. Two gentle syllables, marked with exertion. You nod against your arm. “Not ready to talk?” Another nod. Another okay. 

For a stretch of time, he’s pressed his face against the back of your shoulder. You’re still seeing dancing colors behind your lids. 

The twinkly laughter comes as a surprise. “I don’t know where to put you, baby. All the places for lying down are covered in antique books.”

There’s not much air in your lungs. You spend it on laughter.

August 3rd

Spencer corners you outside the bathroom. 

“Who was that?” He demands, eyes worrisomely clear on you, voice alarmingly steady. You glance around to see if any of your coworkers can see the way he’s practically got you up against the wall down the dark passageway. The way he’s looking at you. Like he owns you. 

“Who was who?”

“I’m not willing to play stupid with you right now. Answer me.”

It’s easier to hurt your feelings these days. They’re closer to the surface. Sometimes it makes things feel really, really good. Sometimes your eyes sting at the smallest of provocations—things you would’ve brushed off without a second thought a year ago. You meet his eyes and swallow. “You’re being a fucking dick.”

Spencer is unfazed. His response is whip-fast and too loud, even among the chatter and laughter and music and clinking glasses. “Did you sleep with him?”

“What? What is your problem?” you hiss, pushing Spencer just hard enough to get some breathing room. 

“Why won’t you answer the question?”

“God, are you—you know what? No. You are so fucking out of line right now. Fuck off.”

You leave Spencer in the hallway and emerge into the bar. It’s bustling tonight. The whole BAU is here, scattered around, but suddenly, you feel aimless. Your nervous system is rattled after being accosted as soon as you left the bathroom, on what had previously been a good night. So you stand there, looking around and fiddling with your bracelet. 

It’s one Spencer recently gifted to you. A simple, delicate chain, but clearly well-crafted. The clasp is the only real ornamentation—two interlocking circles of equivalent circumference. There is no tail of wider chain loops to create an adjustable size—it is exactly what it is, and it fits you perfectly. To some, it’d be an underwhelming gift. No lavish stones, no poetic engraving, no garish costume-jewelry gold. But it means more to you than you could ever explain to somebody else. More than you’d ever feel comfortable explaining to somebody else. Spencer knows that. Two interlocking circles. 

When he gave it to you, you had a panic attack. Jewelry felt like a big step. But you didn’t do your usual thing where you start a huge fight and then dump him, and he didn’t take offense to your overwhelm. He only comforted you, and when all was said and done, you held out your wrist, and he put the bracelet on for you, and kissed the back of your hand. You haven’t taken it off since. It’s quickly become something of a talisman—you worry at it when you don’t know what to do with your hands. Even now. When you feel like punching him in the face. 

Did you sleep with him? What an asshole. What a fucking asshole. Spencer grovels and simpers and promises he’ll never hurt you, and then he goes and does something like that. The him in question—the one who recognized you when you were ordering a drink, and who held you up for maybe five minutes—is nowhere to be seen. That’s for the best. The recognition was not reciprocal. But rather than humiliate yourself in front of this man who knew your name by admitting you couldn’t place his face, you’d played along. Laughed awkwardly at his jokes like you knew who he was.

You don’t get why Spencer is so angry. He’s not the type to get jealous just because you spoke to another man. Sure, the man was perhaps a little over-familiar with you. He was flirty.

But Spencer is so overreacting. 

Before you can stop yourself, you’re looking back in his direction. 

He’s still in the dimly lit hallway. He’s watching you, hands in suit packets, and for all that you’ve seen his face, all the times you’d swore to commit every bit of it to memory—you can’t read his expression. 

That only pisses you off worse. 

You pointedly turn away, carving a path through the Friday night patrons toward the jukebox. 

The machine takes your quarter, but there’s something of a queue, and you realize you’re in too much of a bad mood to stand around getting jostled by drunk people who are having way more fun than you are. 

That’s how you end up out front, letting the rough stone wall bite into your bare arm and watching the cars go by, surrounded by patrons who’d stepped out for a smoke. 

Maybe you shouldn’t let Spencer ruin your entire night because of some stupid outburst. But you can’t shake it. 

Is that what he thinks of you? That you sleep around? That you cheat? Sure, the two of you haven’t explicitly had the commitment talk. But you thought it was pretty fucking implied. 

The moon is a bright white spotlight overhead. Despite the season, a breeze nips at all your exposed skin, and you cross your arms against the chill. Earlier, in your classy-enough white minidress and blue pumps, you’d felt beautiful. Now you just feel gross. 

Spencer comes out a few minutes later. 

“They’re playing your song.”

You can tell by the way he stops a few feet away that his tail is between his legs. Your head rolls toward him. 

“I can hear.”

It’s true—the buzzy, bouncy twang is distinctive even through a wall, and every drum beat is clear as day. So is the cheer that goes around as a bunch of drunk Generation X-ers and millennials recognize the synth riff. 

Spencer narrows his eyes and searches for the words. “I can’t help but feeling it’s slightly… pointed.”

What? Playing a song called Love Will Tear Us Apart? 

Pointed? 

Surely not. 

You don’t bother using your words—the exaggerated faux-bafflement on your face gets the message across. 

Spencer nods, looking appropriately contrite as he steps closer. You let him. 

“You were right,” he murmurs, speaking just for you now. “I was out of line.”

“Oh, really? Thanks for telling me. I hadn’t noticed.”

He says your name gently. You shut up and cast your glare sideways, watching a crumpled plastic cup make its way down the sidewalk. 

“I’m sorry. I just—I know you’re beautiful. I know people notice you. But we’re not usually in environments where I have to watch it happen. Or… or maybe it just goes over my head. That’s entirely possible. Either way, I’m not used to seeing you get hit on, and I couldn’t tell if you knew the guy, or if… maybe you were just hitting it off, and—I—I panicked, because we’ve never really had that talk before. I know what you are to me. But I’ve never clarified what I am to you. I’m not going to push you on the labels thing. You know I’m not. We should be on the same page about this, though.”

You sigh. Fiddle with your bracelet and watch it glint. “Spencer, I swear that guy—”

“I don’t care about that guy. It wasn’t about him. I’m sorry. I just want you to know that regardless of what we call it, it matters to me that we’re not doing this with anyone else.” His voice takes on that intimate tone—just barely more than a whisper. You look down as he grabs your hand, and drags it back up to his heart. Your breath catches. “You are my person, and I need that to be clear. Is that okay with you?”

His sincerity has stunned you speechless, and the proximity isn’t helping either, so you can only let your fingers catch on his lapel and nod—quick, eager little dips of your head. Yes, yes, you think. I can’t say it like you can. But yes. Please. That’s what I want. 

“Yeah?” he asks quietly, mirroring your nod and fondness twitching at the corners of his mouth. 

What you want to say is, oh, god, I love you. I love you so much it hurts. It burns inside of me, all the time, and I don’t know what to do with it all. I love you I love you I love you. 

Instead, you say, in your smallest voice, “Yeah. Yes.”

The way he slips his hand behind your neck and kisses you against that wall, under the full August moon and between clouds of cigarette smoke, cools your blood. It’s the only thing that works. 

Later in bed, you watch him sleep, that same moonlight casting silver through his hair as you comb your fingers through it, again and again. 

Before he’d fallen asleep, you’d asked him a question that had been on your mind since the bar. 

Spencer?

Hm?

What am I to you?

It’d caught him off guard. He held your hand, pressed the circles of your bracelet just to your racing pulse on the underside of your wrist, and mapped your face with darting eyes, with an intellect that can’t read minds no matter how much he wishes it could. 

Do you actually want me to answer that question?

You’d nodded. 

Is the answer going to freak you out?

At this you’d shaken your head no—which was an assurance made in haste. But you were too curious. You needed to know. 

Spencer weighed something internally for a long moment. 

You’re like… a lens I see the entire world through. I can’t do anything, or make any choice, without thinking about you. I’m always thinking about you. When we’re not together, it feels like I’m waiting for my life to start again. Nothing really counts unless you’re there to experience it with me, you know? I think of you as… I don’t know. Everything. You’re why I know it’s all real. Why it matters. 

It was so much, you had to hide in the curve of his neck. It made you nervous. The bigger it is, the harder it falls. 

But, because it mattered so much to you—because he matters so much—you found the courage to whisper against his neck: Me, too.

It was a really scary thing to admit. Scarier than when you tell him you love him. He kissed you for your bravery. 

Now, he’s asleep. 

You trace the moon-glow line of his cheek. 

Spencer lies sleeping next to you like a Renaissance angel as hot tears burn a scar down the bridge of your nose, and you bargain with god. Let me be good enough for him. Let me be someone else. Anything. I’ll do anything, just—please. Take this feeling away. Make me into a girl who deserves this kind of love. 

God does not answer. 

August 19th

Something is off. 

It started when you and Spencer didn’t take the same car to the airfield. 

Of course, that’s not unheard of—but it is uncommon. If it’s at all possible, he’ll slide in next to you. Today he didn’t even wait—got engrossed in a debate with Emily and followed her right into an almost-full SUV. 

So you stood there, blinked, and climbed into the other car next to Rossi. You didn’t say a word for the whole fifteen minute drive, watching the muddy fields and warehouses roll by beyond the window. 

Spencer isn’t doing anything wrong. 

It’s just that it’s been nearly a week since you’ve spent a night with him. And it’s starting to make you feel restless. There have been crack of dawn doctor’s appointments, and nights where one or both of you are too tired to drive to the other’s place, and preexisting plans with other people. All valid reasons to raincheck. 

But you’re not used to sleeping alone anymore. It’s not what you do. It feels like a really big deal to you that you haven’t had a sleepover for so long, and he hasn’t mentioned it, or given any hint that it’s bothering him the way it’s bothering you. 

God, when was the last time you spent more than two or three nights apart?

The last time you broke up, you realize. 

That is a sobering thought. 

On the jet, it’s not much better. Again, Spencer doesn’t wait for you before boarding. You’re slamming the car door, and he’s already walking up the steps in animated conversation with JJ. 

There is an old, familiar pang in your chest. 

No. No, please—I’m past this. I’m too grown-up for this. 

He loves me. 

But there’s that old paradox, again. If nobody except Spencer knows that you’re dating Spencer—and he’s not acknowledging it—are you really even together?

By the time you get on, he’s at the table. The three seats around him have been filled. You eye each of your coworkers and try not to feel burning rage, because they didn’t do anything wrong. 

Instead, you sit on the far end of the couch, and you pick your nails. 

The whole first day at the precinct is pretty much the same story, though you’re able to engross yourself deeply enough into the job that it doesn’t bother you so much. 

It’s only when the day is over, and you’re showered, and you’re sitting on your perfectly made hotel queen bed, that loneliness turns into gnawing, tearing panic. 

You catch your breath as it hits you—as the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and dread washes out the shell of your body. It’s bad. Worse than you would’ve imagined. 

What is wrong with you?

Why can’t you ever just be alright?

You don’t know if the solution here is to go to Spencer or to remain locked in your room like a psych-patient in a padded cell. 

Panic makes you unreasonable, you think. Pushing off the bed to pace. Moving helps. Moving tells your body that you’re evading the threat, and the panic attack ends sooner. 

Something you’d learned from Spencer, of course. 

Spencer. 

Unreasonable, right. You’re not entirely dependent on him for your mental stability. You have developed implicit expectations, sure—you’re used to being alone with him every night, so you can talk about your days and drink tea and be close. That’s not a bad thing. It’s a routine you’ve developed, and one you’ve come to rely on. Surely it’d be disregulating for anyone if it suddenly changed without warning. It’s not because you’re obsessive, or sick, or overly-needy. And it’s normal for couples to take a few days apart. 

Not obsessive, not sick, not needy. It’s normal. This is normal. 

This becomes your mantra as you pace the patterned carpet, eyes closed, lips moving, like if you stop the panic is going to catch you and swallow you whole. 

For a few minutes, it works. 

Then, for no apparent reason—it stops working. 

And it’s like watching a dam explode from the valley below. 

For a second you don’t know if you should run to the bathroom and throw up or go to Spencer’s door, and then you’re questioning if it’s late enough to go to his room, if maybe someone on the team might be out in the hallway—but your brain is screaming, if you do not go see Spencer, you are going to die. Who gives a fuck about your fucking coworkers. 

You tap lightly at his door. 

He doesn’t answer right away, and the brightly lit hallway seems to stretch on forever. You’re so profoundly anxious that there is a moment of hysterical, perverse humor. Look at you. About to die in a hotel hallway, barefoot and in pajama shorts, if he doesn’t open this fucking door. And of course. Of course he’s not going to open it. This is great stuff. Really, awesome material. Perfect. 

Just as you’re gripping the door frame to stop the building from spinning, just as you’re really, seriously about to pass out—the lock clicks. The door opens. 

Glasses. Sweatshirt. Spencer. 

“Hey! I was just about to—” he stops. Perhaps notices your slumped posture, how you’re white-knuckling the door. Maybe the sheen of sweat on your face. “Hey, okay—come here.”

Spencer wraps an arm around you and helps you in, closing the door and then leading you to his bed. 

“You look like you’re gonna pass out,” he mutters, laying you down carefully—ideally to get the blood flow back to your head. You blink. 

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“I’m fine.”

You say it because you’re embarrassed. Spencer says your name with an edge that wants the truth. 

“It was just a panic attack.”

This doesn’t satisfy him. 

“Do you often pass out from panic attacks?”

“Um… not never.”

Your vision clears. Your ears stop ringing, and you push yourself up to sit against the headboard. Spencer has a bottle of water locked and loaded, holding it out for you as soon as you’re settled. 

The way he’s watching you as you drink, with so much unabashed and scrutinizing concern in that knit brow, is almost too much. You look away and screw the lid back on. 

“What triggered it?” He asks. 

“I don’t know, I was just sitting there—I was literally just sitting there, and suddenly my brain was like, by the way, you have five minutes to live, and—and I don’t know. I tried walking it off and breathing and stuff. I’m sorry I came here. It’s not your problem.”

“You’re not a problem. This isn’t a problem. You should’ve come before it got this bad.”

When he sets his hand on your knee, you close your eyes and try not to let it feel like medicine. 

It’s not his job to fix you. That’s not what he’s for. 

“Yeah,” is all you say. 

A pause. 

“Why didn’t you come sooner?”

It’s clear he’s putting the pieces together. You sigh and fiddle with the bottle cap. Untwist. Twist. Untwist. 

“I… don’t know. I was overthinking.”

“Overthinking what?”

You flash him a look, because he knows he’s pushing you—but he’s unrelenting. 

Spencer’s hair is a corona of unruly curls. He hasn’t shaved in a few days. You don’t want to have this conversation—you want to put your head in his lap and fall asleep to the hotel TV. 

“It’s stupid. It doesn’t make sense. I just—I don’t know, we didn’t talk all day, and—”

You take a quick, shuddering inhale, and close your mouth. Because you realize you’re about to cry. And now you can’t even soften the blow of your insanity—you can’t tell him, I know I’m being crazy, I know nothing is wrong, I know it’s okay for us to not talk for a day or to spend a few nights apart and it doesn’t mean you hate me. 

But you can’t say any of that. It wouldn’t be true, anyways. You don’t know any of those things. 

Spencer is observing you and you can’t tell what he’s thinking. You look down at your folded legs to hide your wobbling chin. 

There’s no hiding the plunk of a fat tear as it hits the mattress, or the subsequent bloom of saltwater grey turning the sheet into a ghostly, sad little garden. You wipe your face with a furious, punishing hand, and speak hoarsely. “Sorry.”

Spencer catches your wrist before you can take out your own eye. “Stop.”

“I’m fine,” you insist, snatching your hand away though you desperately crave the contact. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. I don’t know—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything is fine.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t—you need to stop doing that. Minimizing everything all the time. If everything was fine, you wouldn’t have had a panic attack and you wouldn’t be crying now.”

“Everything is fine,” you assert. Anger—not at him—begins seeping through your tone, burning you at the edges. “Everything is fine, but I’m obviously not, and I’m sick of getting so fucking upset about nothing all the time.”

“Tell me why you’re upset.”

“Because I’m crazy! Because we haven’t been together all week, and you didn’t sit next to me in the car today, or on the jet, and—and ever since I actually stopped holding you at arm’s length, I’m so fucking involved, and I care so much, and I knew this would happen. Before, it wouldn’t have mattered if we didn’t spend the night together for a week, because I wasn’t all in, and I knew if I was always giving you just a little less than you were giving me that the dynamic would be in my favor, and I would never have to feel like I was the unwanted one. But I can’t do that anymore, because—’cause I let myself care all the way, and I was so afraid of this happening, and it’s happening. I don’t have any fucking control over myself anymore. I’m so worried, all the time—it’s like, I have a doomsday clock inside of me, but instead of the end of the world it’s measuring how close you are to breaking up with me at any moment. Which is fucked, I know it’s fucked. I know I can’t read your mind, but I don’t have any perspective anymore. And the worst part is that it’s like a self-fulfilling prophecy. I know the more insane and hyper-vigilant and codependent I get, the likelier you are to actually break up with me. It was never a problem before. It was never this scary because if I was the one who kept breaking up with you it meant I was in control, but I don’t wanna break up with you at all. I’m terrified of it. But it—it’s like my karma, I—”

“Okay. Slow down.” Your head snaps up—wide, teary eyes on Spencer. You almost forgot he was there. “Breathe. Just—take a deep breath.”

Fuck. You drag your hands to your face, fully prepared to curl in on yourself and die rather than face your own humiliation. 

“No, no—look at me. Come on.”

“I’m going insane,” you sniffle as he peels your hands away and forces you to look at him. “I c-can’t say anything that will make me sound less crazy.”

“You’re not crazy. Your nervous system is just shot, and you’re probably exhausted. Did you eat? I didn’t see you have dinner.”

Guilty, you shake your head. You didn’t realize he was paying attention. 

“I’ll call room service,” he decides. 

“I’m really not hungry.”

Spencer ignores this and picks up the phone anyway. You sit back against the headboard and hug your knees to your chest, staring at nothing as he orders something you’ll like. Waiting for the click of the phone back in its cradle. 

When the call is over, there is tremulous silence. A tension you’re not sure how to go about breaking. 

Spencer does it for you—finding your ankle and carefully pulling your leg straight, so he can run the length of it back and forth with his hand. You watch it go, like waves rolling in and falling back on sand. 

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to spend enough time together this week. I missed you, too. I absolutely do not want to break up. Not one part of me wants that.”

“I should be able to know that without you telling me.”

“But you aren’t, yet. You’re going to learn.”

“But—until I do—you’re gonna have to—to reassure me constantly. I’m going to be exhausting and irritating and you’re going to get sick of me.”

He regards you. 

“It makes me really sad that you feel that way. I think you severely underestimate how much I like you.”

“Why, though?” Immediately you’re rolling your eyes and throwing your hands up. “See? Fucking right there. Already. I’m already doing it.”

Spencer is holding back a smile when you look at him. You shrink. 

“No, no—” he laughs, leaning in. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you.”

You end up nearly lying down, with him over you. Breathing in his mint and eucalyptus bedtime smell. The smile fades slowly, as he thumbs over your cheek, your lips. Your lids flutter at the relief of it all. 

“I’m hoping… we’ll never have to do a week like that again. I didn’t like it very much, either.”

You lean into his palm, and don’t speak for a long while. 

“Spencer?”

“Hm?”

“Can—” you swallow involuntarily. You’re scared to ask. But you know what the answer will be. “Can we… I know I’ve messed up a bunch of times, but—can I be your girlfriend? We don’t have to tell anyone, I just… I want to be your real girlfriend.”

The slow blossom of his smile is like a swell in your favorite song as he grins down at you. 

“You’ve been my real girlfriend for a while.”

“I know, but… I want you to tell me that’s what I am. I want to know that when you think of me, you’re thinking about your real-life serious girlfriend.”

He hums. 

“And am I allowed to tell other people that you’re my real-life serious girlfriend?”

You chew your lip. “Some of them.”

“Which ones?”

He’s angling for something, and you know what, but you’re not sure you’re ready for that particular step. 

“I don’t know. We’ll find some.”

“I have a few in mind.”

“We can’t,” you murmur, hugging his arm to your chest. “Not yet. They’ll—it’ll change things. But… but maybe we don’t have to hide it quite as much.”

“Like… no running away when we see someone we know in public?”

You nod. “And I have a rule.”

He strokes your hair. 

“What’s that?”

“You have to always save a seat for me in the cars and on the jet. Always. Capiche?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You tilt your chin up. He kisses you. 

Now that you’ve got him, you’re not going to let go. 

September 1st

“You’re delusional. Truly, you’re acting insane.”

“For wondering why you had to stay three hours late at work to review one interview transcript you could’ve done during lunch?”

Spencer drops his bag onto a chair and rounds the counter, pushing a hand through his hair. You remain leaning against the back of the couch, arms crossed.

“It is not that simple.” He insists. “You’re being paranoid and unreasonable. Again.”

“Or you’re being defensive.”

Spencer’s eyes narrow, like he’s just now seeing you for the first time since he got home. That is to say—his home. 

“Am I being accused of something?”

Words catch in your throat. Normally you’d hurl a ridiculous indictment as a matter of anything being possible—but not this time. It would be abjectly absurd to accuse him of cheating at anything other than cards. 

“No,” you huff after a weighty moment. 

“So what? What’s the point of this? I come home after staying at work three hours late listening to a man recounting in excruciating detail how he killed and ate an entire family because nobody else wanted to do it, and as soon as I walk through my own front door you start a fucking fight with me? Over nothing?”

The sudden slope in volume is startling as it rings off the walls like a gunshot. Rarely does he raise his voice before you have the chance to. 

For the few moments you’re stunned into silence, you take note of a few things you hadn’t before. The pound of his heart in his throat and just beneath his eye. Exhaustion evident in the strain of his voice and the mess of his hair, hanging over his face limp in some places and frazzled in others. The fragile glaze over his eyes, even as they widen and crackle with heat. It takes a lot out of a person to sit and listen to what he listened to for as long as he did. Even Spencer—even a man who can intellectualize and pathologize any human atrocity into microscopic pulses of electricity coursing through grey matter. 

It gets to him like it gets to everyone. You know that. 

Fuck. 

The most embarrassing part is that you started this fight because you missed him, and you still haven’t quite figured out how to not be afraid of that feeling. Sometimes when you miss him it feels like a threat to your autonomy, and by extension, your safety. You sure as hell don’t know how to just admit this to him. 

So instead you pick fights. Not as much, anymore, but sometimes when you’re in need of comfort and just can’t ask for it, you’ll start pushing your luck with inflammatory comments. You’ll trigger a meaningless argument. Spencer will eventually whittle your fighting words down to a simple, familiar truth. He will realize that this is your way of telling him you need something, and then you get the sweet after: where he rewards you for nothing, where he tries to apologize for a conflict you’d created with gentle touches and murmured words of comfort. Sun after a storm. It’s easy to accept affection and tenderness if you’ve intentionally scratched open all your old wounds—if you’ve earned it through trial by blood. 

Tonight, he’s not having it. You sense no reality where this ends with a sweet kiss and whispers so soft you can hardly hear them. 

Which means you need to backtrack. 

So you swallow your pride and your shame and your fear. Choke on it, really. But the words come out all the same. 

“I’m sorry.”

Spencer’s chest is still rising and falling quickly. The purple paisley silk of his tie catches your eye. It’s all astray. You want to fix it. He could breathe better if you took it off. And there’s no way he’s not bothered by his hair falling over his face. 

How can you make this go away?

Could it go in the other direction these quarrels sometimes do? Maybe it could end with you achey and tired in his arms, after he kisses the marks around your wrists, the little purple splotches on your hips and the starburst clusters of broken blood vessels on your thighs. Here, too, he’ll end up being sanguine—there’ll just be more steps in between. 

Just as you’re running scenarios in your mind, calculating outcomes and trying to chart the best plan of action, his tongue darts over his lips. It’s enough to stop you in your tracks. 

Why hasn’t his brow relaxed? Those eyes, still darting over your face with a kind of urgency—is that hunger or dissatisfaction with what he sees?

“You should go.”

A beat. 

This does not process instantaneously. You blink and shake your head as if you could clear it that way. 

“What?”

Spencer’s eyes are a forge on you, but he diverts them to the wall. Sparing you from the edge of a glowing sword. You don’t know how you’d prefer it—cool to the touch and sharp enough to cut, or soft and burning and prolonged. He’s probably decided he’s being civil. Doesn’t realize it lasts so much longer this way. 

“I think you should go home for the weekend.”

“Why?” It bursts from you, trembling and affronted. 

“Because I can’t—” he stops himself. Shutters his eyes and takes a deep breath that doesn’t seem to do much of anything. “I am not in the right headspace for this. I need you out of here.”

“What do you mean, this?”

“You. This thing you always do. I do not have it in me to make you feel better about yourself right now.”

It would’ve been quicker to just kick you in the stomach. 

For a moment you’re too stunned to speak as he blurs through a thick cloud of tears. 

“You are such a fucking asshole.”

The words come out too hurt, too quiet.

Spencer is unfazed—leans in closer as if to make sure you understand. Lowers his voice, and the tremor there is not the kind that comes from hurt feelings. You don’t know what it is. 

“Go. Home.”

It’s the kind of quiet that you’re afraid will culminate in a burst eardrum or something worse. He’s not like that, you know he’s not. Even at his worst. Even when you push him to his absolute wit’s end. But you can already hear it. Feel it. Ghost echos that have been rattling around in your head for years. 

A part of you—a rather large part—wants to cover her ears hard and sink to the ground, or otherwise apologize and beg him to love you again. 

But you are an adult. He’s asked you to leave. 

So you do. With an awful pulling in your gut and a hollowing in your chest like a sinkhole falling into itself. 

The static starts outside his door. The raking breaths. That awful warmth on the back of your neck and the greying of your vision. 

You stumble to the stairs and cover your face, letting the waves of panic wash over your shoulders. 

Was that a breakup? Does he still love you? Did he ever? If love can be so quickly taken away, was it ever really there? See, this is why—this is exactly why you’ve done what you’ve done, why you’ve been the way you have and treated him the way you did for so long. Because of this inevitability. Because of your nature, and what happens when a child tells himself he can enjoy a broken toy just the same as a regular one, until he keeps playing with it, and it keeps breaking worse and worse until it’s completely unusable. 

Something snaps inside of you. Gears grind and groan. The static doesn’t go away, it only gets louder, and it sounds a whole lot like his name over and over again—so you’ll just have to drown it out. 

-

It’s hot in this place, and it’s loud—so loud you can feel the throbbing techno beat in your teeth. The flashing lights wash over you like a tide of blood, rising and falling, filling your lungs. 

Whatever is coursing through your veins is not enough to dull the ache. In the middle of the dance floor, and you’re still thinking of Spencer. Spencer. Spencer. With every beat of your heart. Not enough alcohol. Not enough anything. 

It’s so hot in here—sweat drips down your spine and the room is spinning, but all the writhing, shadowed bodies prop you up as you stumble toward the bar. No chance in hell the bartender would keep serving you in the state you’re in, so you find someone to buy the drinks for you. 

And you fall, fall, fall—chasing some wicked, Cheshire gleam at the bottom of that glass, and the next, and the next. 

That gleam is, of course, an illusion. It will shine so brightly you can taste it. It will convince you to reach just a little further. And it will wink at you from the impossible end of a bottomless pit. 

You don’t care. You tip over the edge and let the darkness swallow you whole.

Nothing but stardust, now. 

You blow across the silent black ether. 

September 5th

You’re practically dripping from Spencer as he locks your door.

“Help me out, a little?” he grunts as you make no effort to support your own body weight. 

“Sorry sorry sorry. I’m up.”

He breathes a laugh and walks you deeper into the apartment. It’s a slow process. 

“If I set you down on the couch… are you going to be able to get back up?”

“I don’t know,” you sing-song, stumbling, giggling, and grabbing onto him tighter. “Let’s find out.”

Your ankles threaten to buckle all the way across the room, but he holds you fast. 

“Easy,” he murmurs as you slip your arms from around his neck and drop heavily to the cushions. You blink at him, exhausted, admiring the view. At some point, you’d managed to pull off his tie and undo the first few buttons on his shirt before he’d caught your hands and given you a warning look. Looking at him now, you have absolutely no regrets.

Spencer kneels in front of you, undoing the delicate ankle strap on your shoe. Your blood is pleasantly warmed as you let your head loll to your shoulder—warmer with every sweet way he handles you. Carefully. Like it’s an honor. 

After he slips the heels off, he presses a kiss to the top of each knee. You lace a hand through his hair. “Excellent view.”

There’s a lazy sort of smirk on his face when he tilts his head back up toward you. 

“I’m sure. Don’t get any ideas.”

You grin. 

“Too late.”

Spencer slides a gratuitous hand up your leg, fingertips just brushing the short hem of your dress, and raises his other. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Easy. Six.”

He snorts, pressing his face against your thigh, and you melt into a puddle of giggles. 

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding! It was three. See—hey, you can make me say my ABC’s backwards, and I’ll walk in a straight line—”

“I’m not sleeping with you.”

Even that sweet, placating kiss to your thigh isn’t enough to temper the immediate and profound disappointment you feel at his proclamation. “What? Why?”

“Oh—why am I not going to sleep with a woman who couldn’t get up the stairs on her own?”

“Nonono, I’m dead sober. Please?”

He pushes off the ground, towering above you once more, and leans down to press a kiss to your lips. “Sorry. You’ll have to go find someone just as drunk as you.”

You linger there, your head tilted up, so he hangs in your silence, suspended less than an inch above you. 

“What?”

It comes out thin, with the crane of your neck. Quiet because your blood is frozen in your veins. 

Spencer pauses only briefly and then drops one more kiss to your mouth. At the contact your eyes flutter, in spite of yourself. 

“Nothing, baby. It was a joke.”

Then he’s up again, moving toward the kitchen. 

“Why would you joke about that?”

Spencer stops at the end of the couch and gives you an odd look. “Did it bother you?”

“Yes. Don’t—you can’t say stuff like that.”

Why are you breathing so quickly?

Now you’ve really got his attention. He turns fully back toward you, slipping his hands into his pockets.

Spencer doesn’t say a word. His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. 

There’s a long stretch of silence. You can hear a faucet dripping and try to match your inhales to each plunk of water. 

“What’s wrong?”

One blink of hesitation and you realize your name is halfway signed on your own death sentence. 

“Nothing.”

“Don’t say nothing, you clearly—”

“Oh my god, I said it’s nothing. Just let it go. Jesus.”

And that final utterance, that subtle roll of your eyes, was practically a flourish of the pen. 

You haven’t gone the offense-as-defense route in a while. 

Immediately, something about Spencer’s demeanor goes cold. 

“Did something happen?”

The question is quiet enough to chill your bones and dry your throat. 

“Nothing. What? Nothing happened. I just don’t think it’s funny to joke about stuff like that.”

Fuck. Fuck. There may as well be a giant blinking sign over your head that says I’m lying. 

You watch it wash over him. 

The worst part is that he doesn’t say anything. He stands there for a moment—and then he turns, walking toward the kitchen again. For a moment, you’re frozen. Then you panic. 

“Spencer,” you call, and it breaks down the middle as you try to get up and sit right back down. He will not want to be followed. You take in a deep, grating breath, digging your nails hard into the sides of your legs and staring at the ground, willing the room to stop spinning. Willing your lungs to fill with air. 

Your entire body waits in suspense, taut like a steel guitar string, for shattering glass, or splintering drywall, or a slamming door, or something. It doesn’t come. He’s still here. You know he hasn’t left. 

But he’s going to. 

This is it. 

The unforgivable thing. 

Maybe five minutes later, you hear movement. When he reenters the living room, you keep your head down, tracking him only with your eyes. A yawning chasm seems to open up between your spot on the couch and where he stands, across the room. 

For a moment, neither of you speak—and then both of you try at once. More silence follows. You cover your face with your hands.

“We weren’t together,” you mumble into the cup of them. 

“What did you say?” 

His tone bites. 

“We weren’t together.”

“In your mind we were never together, so I don’t really know what you mean by that.”

“No, we—we got in a really big fight—”

“When?”

You swallow. Because you work together, you should be familiar with this part of him—this relentless part, this I-will-run-you-into-the-ground part. But you’re not. 

“Spencer…”

Spencer recognizes this type of quiet. This quiet which means things can only be worse than they seem. The punishing anger is quickly slashed and bled until you feel it swirling around at your feet like water waiting to be swallowed down the drain. Displaced by massive grief, so heavy that you hear the break. The word is small. Too small to be a real question—it is a plea for mercy on a dying breath. 

“When?” 

You try to inhale and choke on it. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t think we were together—”

He snaps. “We are always together. You know exactly what we are. Take some fucking responsibility.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper, desolate. “I didn’t.”

A tremulous pause. Your skin is crawling and you can’t get out of it. 

“What does that mean? What do you mean, you didn’t mean to?”

Snippets come from a reel you’ve been working hard to bury. The blisters on your palms burn. There is blood and dirt caked into the half-moons of your nails, too heavy and too fresh. 

A phantom ache has taken up residence in your bones. It throbs. 

You only shake your head.  

Spencer comes to you again. Gets on his knees for the second time this evening, sets his hands over your legs again in some backwards sort of supplication. Some bastardized retelling of a sweeter story from a few minutes ago. Like he’s pleading with you to recant, rewrite—to fix it so he doesn’t have to leave. 

“What do you mean? Just tell me what happened,” he begs. 

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Why?”

The pain in his voice pounds at the base of your skull. 

Words dance on the tip of your tongue. Because there is too much I don’t remember. 

But something deeper in your gut keeps them tethered. Pulls hard. Shame, perhaps. There is no excuse for what you did. There is no explaining it away. No circumstance in which you are innocent. A girl goes dancing. Looking for something. She gets drunk. She chases the thing she’s looking for into dark corners and down alleyways. She needs to know what it is she’s chasing—she needs to hold it by the throat and squeeze, thumb against hammering pulse, until it doesn’t have so much power over her.  

She wakes up in a stranger’s bed. That’s the part of the story that matters. 

“I just can’t.”

The words are too quiet, but he hears. Your lungs burn in the pulsing silence that follows. 

No solution. 

He gives you a few minutes in the dark living room to change your mind, to say the right thing. It doesn’t come. 

So he gets up. 

“Wait, wait wait—” your heart is pounding as you stumble off the couch and follow him, barely avoiding tripping over your own feet. He’s at the door. How did he get there so quickly? You catch the wall just behind him. “Spencer, wait.”

The tear in your voice is desperate enough you flinch. 

But it gets him to turn around. 

He looks exhausted. 

The pallor of his skin—the shadows exaggerating where his cheeks sink in and where the troughs beneath each eye get darker in purple half moons.

You fucked up so badly. 

How much more of you can he handle?

Is this the one thing to push him over the edge, for good? 

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t—I can’t explain it, but it wasn’t right—I didn’t—” heat wells behind your eyes as you flounder and dig your grave helplessly, flexing and clenching your hands. “I’m never, ever gonna do that again. Something was—I wasn’t myself that night, and it’s not going to happen again, I don’t know why I did it. I was stupid, and I love you so much, and—please. Please, don’t go. I really need you not to go.”

Spencer regards you, gaze flickering up and down, swallowing. His eyes are all foggy and waterlogged. It makes you feel sicker.

“I know you’re sorry.”

Your chin wobbles. 

There’s nothing to fight with in his words. There’s nothing to scratch or kick or bite or cling to. 

“You’re gonna leave?”

A beat. 

“Yeah.”

“Are you gonna come back?”

It hangs in the air between you for a very long time. 

September 12th

When you see him at your door a week later, you’re not sure what to say. Spencer has hardly spoken to you at work. It’s not that he’s been cruel, he just… he’s been distant. Understandably so. 

This lack of words, you realize very quickly, is not going to be much of a problem. 

What he wants to do with you does not require a lot of speaking. 

In fact, you start to suspect he doesn’t want to hear you talk at all. It would be hard to form words when he’s kissing you like this.

But you have to try, don’t you?

“Spencer—”

He pulls away, leaves you reeling and head sparkling with fresh oxygen. Disoriented. Desperate to have him in any way you can. A thumb presses against the seam of your lips and you open for him without hesitance. 

He has you against the back of your door, locking it with one hand and pushing down on your tongue with the other thumb. You wish you could do more than let it happen. Do anything but suckle like a lamb. Make him talk to you. Fix it while you can. 

But for the first time in a week he’s close and he’s looking at you like he wants you and you could cry. 

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he whispers, eyes darting rapidly over your face like he’s hungry for the sight of you. “You are going to listen to me. If I ask you a question, you can say yes, or you can say no. If we need to stop, or if something doesn’t feel right, you tell me. Otherwise, you don’t talk. Do you understand me?”

Your delirious nod is not enough for him as he slips his thumb from your mouth and grips your jaw, angling you carefully upward so as to look right at him through shuttered eyes. 

“Do you understand me?” He repeats lowly, and your breath catches. 

“Yes.”

Those eyes slow, taking you in, that gaze dripping from you like honey. Just barely, he strokes the line of your jaw. He ducks to kiss you again and this time it is not so urgent. 

“Do you want this?” Spencer asks just shy of your own mouth, soft without warning. 

The fabric of his coat bunches in your fist. 

Only if you still love me, you want to say. But you know why he doesn’t want you to talk. So you can’t say things like that. So he doesn’t have to tell you of course I do. Please spare me the humiliation of admitting it. 

“Please,” you whisper. A trembling breath. More than a plead for sex. You are asking that he be kind. Perhaps it’s more than you deserve, but you can’t do this if he doesn’t touch you like he loves you. Not with him. 

You are asking for him to fix something big, something thus far unspoken and which you don’t totally understand yourself. It’s too complicated. He shouldn’t have to do this for you. He doesn’t owe you anything. 

Erase it, you want to say. Make this feeling I can’t talk about go away. I know you love me enough to do it. 

All this, with one please. 

Spencer exhales. And he kisses you again. 

Of course, Spencer’s not good with enforcing rules. Not when you’re opening up to him in this way. Even now he looks at you like you’re a marvel. Touches you like you’re a miracle. As soft and as careful as you could’ve asked for if you’d used the words—he may as well be tracing love letters into your skin. 

All you can do is try and respect his wishes. You hurt him, badly, you know you did. Don’t add salt to those wounds. He needs you to be predictable right now. No sudden movements. No derailments. To the best of your ability, you are quiet and good and gracious and docile. 

But you are only human. Those times you gasp his name under your breath, he just holds your hand tighter. A plead or two are lost against his skin or into the sheets. He takes pity on you—murmurs gentle questions just to give you an outlet. Kisses your teary cheeks as you give your shaky answers. 

He loves me, you think, in absence of the words, over and over, until you feel it, until your whole body is buzzing with it. Until you’re buoyant and nothing is hard anymore. 

Afterwards, his stillness is what draws you back. His heart pounds against yours, he’s exactly the weight and the pressure you need. But he’s still. The momentum of the passion is wearing off, and you can sense it. 

So you allow yourself one quiet, distressed little chirp. One nervous bid for reassurance. Spencer comes to his senses and quells you with a chaste kiss. 

And then he’s out of bed. The weight of all the air in the room, the heavy cold, comes crashing down—pressing into your skin, your stomach, all at once.  

Suddenly you’re paralyzed, unable to look away from the ceiling as he dresses, grabs the glass from your nightstand and disappears into the bathroom. A few moments later he returns bearing a cloth and a full cup. The cup hits the nightstand. The edge of the bed dips. He slides one hand up your calf like always, and you acquiesce, letting the weight of your leg fall against him. A warm washcloth finds your inner thigh. 

Your mind is screaming, deafening static. 

“You okay?” Spencer asks gingerly after a few beats of silence. There is a hesitance, there. A feigned lightness, like he’s afraid of asking. Afraid of opening up this line of conversation and too good not to. 

Your tongue is heavy in your mouth as he cleans up any evidence of his having been here. 

“You got up pretty quick.”

More static. Something fights its way up your throat and you swallow it down. 

“Yeah. An old professor of mine is town. We have dinner plans.”

You don’t know what to say to that as he retrieves a few things from your dresser and returns. Normally he’d slide underwear up your thighs for you and pull a shirt over your head, but today you’re grabbing the garments from him before he has a chance. 

“I can do it,” you mutter, hurrying to yank the clothes on under his measuring gaze. Under other circumstances he might take offense to this. Might at least ask you about it. Now he only stands to give you space and pockets his hands. 

Because he knows. He knew the whole time. 

He’s not sticking around. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. Dust particles swirl through thick beams of molasses light, pouring in from the windows and warming rumpled sheets. How long was he here?

You hug your bare legs to your chest and settle your chin over folded arms, mapping dust like stars in a galaxy. “Why’d you even come?” you murmur.  

The world quiets down. Waits with you, holding its breath for his answer. 

“I don’t know.”

Light glares off the floor in a blinding white pool. Sends shooting pains into the back of your eyes as you fiddle with your own shirtsleeve. 

“Were you trying to… hurt me back, or something?”

“No.” The answer is firm and immediate. “No, I am not trying to hurt you.”

You say nothing. Wood creaks under shifting weight, but you’re not looking at him as he sighs. 

“You have to give me some time.” Your name on his tongue is reprimand, a thing he shouldn’t have to tell you. “It’s been a week. I don’t have any of this figured out. I’m not thinking straight.”

“You were thinking straight enough to drive over here and tell me not to talk while you fucked me.”

“I—” he sighs. At a perpetual loss with you. “I told you it wasn’t well thought out. I’ve been spiraling. All week. I’m not sleeping, I’m not making good choices. I mean—you—you fucked me over!” The words burst out, the way they do when he curses. “I haven’t had anybody to talk to about this. You are the only person. Do you see why that would be difficult? You hurt me so much and I miss you and I’m furious and you’re the only one I can talk to about any of it. That’s insane, right? I think you owe me some grace.”

“Did I owe you that, too?”

You gesture toward the unmade sheets and then bury your face against your arms once more. 

Humiliated. Like usual. 

Spencer is stunned into silence for a moment. 

“No. No, you didn’t. Did I—did I make you feel that way? If that didn’t feel right—”

“No,” you assuage tearfully. “I just wish you t-told me you weren’t going to stay, ’cause I wouldn’t have—I just can’t do that with you.”

“Can’t do what?” he asks, sitting on the bedside once more, hand twitching but ultimately leaving you be. 

“I can’t have sex with you if you’re gonna leave after. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t know that. But, like—you are the one person who can’t—I just really really can’t do that with you, because—” you stop yourself and change course with a shuddering breath, pressing your palms to weeping eyes. “I’m sorry. I know this is literally all my fault. I don’t get to ask for things. I know that.”

Fireworks dance against the back of your lids. Spencer is quiet. 

Then there are hands around your wrists. A thumb smoothing the delicate skin under your palm. You hiccup a gasping cry and melt toward him. It might be the most you get from Spencer, so you focus on the small touch until it burns. His voice is soft—a balm you don’t deserve. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” you sniffle, hands falling an inch, then two, as you go lax under his touch. “You don’t owe me an apology. Just—I can’t do that with you again until… until we have things figured out.”

The stroking thumb stops, and then restarts. 

“Okay.”

Finally, you open your eyes. Can’t make sense of the neutrality on his face.

“What?”

He only shakes his head. Nothing. 

Too tired to push him, you let your hands fall to your lap, and he keeps hold on your wrists. Sweeping. The lines he makes entrance you. 

“I’m sorry I put you in this position,” you whisper. 

No response. Back and forth. 

“I know you’re mad at me. You really, really have the right to be mad at me. I’m sorry for making you be nice to me. That’s so stupid, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for—”

“Angel.”

You bite your tongue and sink your gaze. What a ridiculous petname it is, now. How terrible of him to keep using it. 

“Sorry.”

Afraid to tell him he can leave, and too ashamed to let yourself enjoy his presence while it lasts, you remain in limbo. His silence does not tell you exactly how much he hates being here, but you think if the tables were turned, you wouldn’t be able to stomach it. Is it really better, his lingering, if it’s not because he loves you? With each pass of his thumb, you imagine him hating you more. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. 

“I’m not going to do this again,” he murmurs, jarring you from your obsessive contemplation. 

Now, when you look up, he’s focused on your wrist. 

“… I know.”

“No, honey. I mean… it needs to end.”

This sinks in slowly, with a heat in your face and the back of your neck and a sick tide rising in your stomach. 

The first thing you feel is panic. Drops of adrenaline in your bloodstream like you’ve just realized you’ll need to run for your life. 

“Why? Because—if this is because I said I can’t sleep with you until—”

“That was completely appropriate. You were right. It’s not good for either of us.”

“So why does that mean we can’t try again? I mean—I know you need time. You can have it. You can. We always do this, and then we get back together and it’s better. I already did the worst thing I could do—we’ll get better.”

The breath he takes is quiet, uneven and pronounced. The kind of breath you take when something hurts more than you thought it would. 

“You’re asking me to get over something I haven’t even fully wrapped my mind around.”

You falter. 

“No, I’m—I’m just telling you I’m going to wait, and you can have as long as you need—”

“Stop,” he says, more sad than angry. “You need to stop.”

“I can’t stop,” you whisper, closer to forlorn every second as you tear up and spill all over again. “I have to try.”

Spencer’s voice shakes as he speaks. “Do not do this to yourself. There is nothing you can say, alright? This needs to be over, so it’s going to be over. It’s not good for us.”

“But—but… you can’t just say it’s over, Spencer, we put so much—I’ve been trying so hard. I know I keep messing up, I’m sorry, I’m trying so hard. I don’t know what happened, I’m—I can do more, I know I can.”

“You can’t—this isn’t going to work. You can’t fix it.”

“But I love you. I want to be with you. I did it all for you, all the hard stuff, not for me, I just—I love you. I want you.”

You don’t realize you’re sobbing until he’s wrenching your hands from your face once more and pulling you into him. 

“I know you love me. I wish we were better for each other, angel, I do. But it’s not supposed to feel like this.”

It’s not supposed to feel like this. 

You shudder a cry. 

“I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to hurt you, really. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want that. You d-didn’t deserve it. I’m so, so sorry, Spencer, I ruined everything, I—”

“Shh. Just… I’ll stay for a little bit longer, okay? Just a while.”

And he does. Until the room goes dark, and the stars watch silently from above.

October 29th

It’s not going to be warm enough to enjoy the outdoors for much longer—but today, the beams of sun are still thick through the turning leaves, still gold when you close your eyes, and the sweet smell of autumn is enough to keep you out criss-cross on Rossi’s swing. 

The seal on the glass door suctions open and then slides shut again, and Penelope is joining you. You accept the mug of apple cider, holding it carefully in your lap. 

“What a gorgeous day,” she sighs, and you hum in agreement. “Probably one of the last good ones. I saw rain on the forecast later this week.”

“It begins,” you mutter. 

“Yeah. And I haven’t even found a suitable mate to hibernate with yet.”

Your brow knits. “You’re not with—”

She pauses mid-sip as you turn to look at her. Right—you weren’t supposed to have seen her with Kevin last spring. Your face warms and you try to play it off. “Oh, right. You guys broke up forever ago.”

To her credit, she doesn’t actually confirm or deny. Instead, a quiet settles. Or—a sort of quiet. Down the yard, in grass that is still lush and green, JJ and Spencer are playing some sort of game with Henry and Michael. One that seems to invoke a lot of delighted screeches from the young boys as they run around and fall over and get back up. 

“What about you?” Penelope asks. 

Apple and clove melt on your tongue and warm your throat. 

“What about me?”

“Are you hunkering down with anybody?”

“No,” you admit without fanfare. Garcia doesn’t respond—probably hoping to get more information out of you. You hesitate, and then go on. “I mean—I was seeing a guy. But it ended a little while ago.”

She speaks her pity gently, in a tone like the velveteen undersides of flower petals. 

“You didn’t tell me.”

You shrug. 

“It wasn’t… official.”

“How long were you seeing him for?”

“It would’ve been a year next month.”

This time, she’s silent for too long. 

When you finally glance over at her, she’s not looking at you, as you would’ve expected. 

She’s… looking at your feet. 

You glance down, ready to be very confused—and then you see the problem. 

Your jeans have ridden up. One sock is striped purple and green. The other, brown, dotted with horseshoes and cacti. They’re visibly too big for you. 

Quickly you try to tuck them further under yourself. But you’re sure it’s too late. 

You could explain this. You could say you forgot to bring socks on a case, and Spencer let you borrow a pair. 

Before you can, she speaks. 

“I worried that maybe you guys had split up.”

You flash her an alarmed look. “What?”

Penelope glances toward the house to make sure nobody’s about to come outside. 

“I mean… honey, you guys weren’t very subtle. I don’t think anyone who lacks my perceptive genius and emotional intelligence would have noticed, but I noticed. Like, I really noticed.”

You swallow, opening your mouth before you’ve decided your plan of action. Deny? 

“When?”

“Well, everyone always knew that you liked each other. But there was this one time—and this was a total invasion of privacy, and I will never do it again unless I have to—where, you know, you… weren’t answering your phone about a case, and I got worried, because no offense, but this team kind of has a track record when it comes to going missing, and so… I checked your location… and it pinged at Spencer’s apartment… who had just told me he didn’t know where you were. And then you both showed up. I’m so sorry, but in my defense, I was not trying to snoop—”

“Penelope, it’s fine.”

“Well—okay—and there’s this other thing that I haven’t told you about because it would’ve been mutually assured destruction, so I kind of don’t ask don’t telled it, which was… me and Kevin saw you guys on a date last spring. And me and Kevin were not supposed to be on a date. And you were not supposed to be sharing spoons—spooning, if you will—with Spencer. But I did see it. And I didn’t tell you and I felt really squicky about it for a long time and I’m sorry.”

You blink. Try to process. 

“You didn’t tell anyone else?”

“No! God, no! I like to gossip, I don’t like to ruin people’s relationships.”

“Who’s ruining whose relationships?” JJ asks breathlessly, carrying a tuckered out Michael on her hip and holding Henry’s hand as she approaches. Your head snaps up. Spencer is trailing a few feet behind her, eyeing you. 

Heat blooms in your cheeks. 

“Theoretical conversation,” Penelope supplies quickly. “Are we finally ready to harass Rossi about dinner?”

JJ looks anything but convinced—and in typical fashion, lets it go. 

“I think we are. What do you think Michael—pizza?”

“Pizza!”

Everyone cheers at that—aside from you and Spencer. Penelope hurries inside after JJ and the boys. Spencer lingers. You quickly try to get your shoes back on before he can tell that you’re wearing his—

“Nice socks.”

You sigh, pausing just a moment before you finish pulling your boot on. 

“Sorry. I need to do laundry.”

You stand, and Spencer opens the door for you. “What socks you choose to wear are none of my business.”

Halfway inside, you pause, glancing up at him. “Do you want them back?”

He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. 

“That’s okay. I have a pair just like them at home.”

This is the first time you’ve exchanged more than a few work-related sentences since he ended things for good. 

It’s sort of ridiculous, after all the melodrama. 

It’s sort of a relief. 

January 1st

Garcia’s New Year’s party was a success. There’d been the most FBI agents you’ve ever seen crammed into her apartment at once. There was a chocolate fountain, three kinds of champagne, and an elaborate charcuterie setup spanning nearly the entire counter. At midnight, you’d popped a confetti gun and blew into a noise maker and cheered and jumped around and hugged your friends. 

An hour and a half later, you’ve taken over as impromptu host—Penelope is decidedly out of commission, snoring atop her bed, still in heels and sequins. 

“Bye, guys! Happy new year!”

You wave as the last stragglers head out the door.

When you close it, and turn around: “Holy shit.”You wade through confetti and streamers and napkins, kicking a few balloons out of your way. Any flat surface is covered in sparkly plastic cups and champagne flutes. “We trashed the place.”

From the kitchen, Spencer chuckles. “It’s pretty bad.”

You frown when you notice him stacking plates. “Hey, you don’t have to do that. I told Garcia I’d handle clean up.”

He checks his watch. 

“The odds of being involved in a fatal car accident are up 208% percent right now, and they won’t be going down for a few hours. Plus, my own blood alcohol content is probably hovering around point zero four, which is well under the legal limit to drive, but I’d prefer for it to be zero flat.”

You shrug and make your way over to the record player, which had finished up A Night At The Opera a while ago. “If you want to ring in the new year by helping me clean, I won’t stop you. Blue or Abbey Road?”

“Neither?”

“Boring,” you accuse, and put on Coltrane. The jazz comes slow and crackly and warm through the speakers. 

Spencer steps aside as you enter the kitchen and hunt for trash bags under the sink—compostable, because it’s Garcia. 

When you stand back up, you’re unprepared for how close he’s going to be—barely an inch separates you and you stumble on your quest to pop backward. “Whoop—” instinctively, he reaches out and steadies you. You grasp onto his arms, eyes flickering up to his and laughing nervously. “Hey.”

Spencer’s gaze is warm and easy on you as he pulls a little smile of his own. “Hi.”

A stuttering inhale. 

A moment that is just too long. 

His fingers seem to relax against your arms, just fractionally, for just a split second. Like he could hold you. Like you could stay this way. 

“Sorry,” you breathe, releasing your grip on him and stepping back. 

“You’re okay.”

A lazy sax solo traces its golden fingers around your thrumming heart until your skin is buzzing. His eyes are the same color as the music. Just as soft. Just as leisurely as they vamp the distance between your own. 

Bio-derived plastic dampens under your fingers as you flee to the living room. 

The next fifteen minutes are spent kneeling in front of the coffee table, cleaning drips of chocolate and splashes of champagne, and trying not to think about the way his eyes caught on your lips. 

Spencer doesn’t miss you. Not like you miss him. Apparently he even went on a date a few weeks ago. 

And with the way things ended, you’re lucky that he doesn’t despise you. Being on decent terms should be enough. Letting your perpetually smoldering want trail its smoke under his nose isn’t fair. Not to you, not to him, and certainly not to his mystery girl. He’s trying to move on, and you don’t have the right to drag him down.  

But, just—that one little moment. One touch, and you’re totally thrown off your game. Now, you’re reading into the silence. You’re wondering what he’s thinking about you. If he’s thinking about you. 

Later—much later—the living room has been mostly cleaned. You’re taking the final trash bag to the kitchen when you notice something on the ceiling fan and pause, frowning up at it. 

“Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you come here?”

He appears. “What’s up?”

You point at the fan. 

“I think somebody put a cup up there.”

Spencer makes a face and reaches up to grab it. He reads the name Sharpie’d on the side and snorts, before showing it to you. 

Kevin, scrawled next to the worst smiley face you’ve ever seen. 

“How do you mess up a smiley face?” you laugh. 

“I’m sure he’d be able to tell you.”

You suck your teeth. “God—do you think they’re together again?”

“Kevin and Penelope?”

The trash bag drops to the ground as you flop onto the couch, exhausted. Spencer crushes the cup and tosses it in, standing just in front of you, studying you as he thinks. “I don’t know. Wouldn’t entirely surprise me. They’re pretty good at remaining inconspicuous.”

You hum, slinking lower in the faux-leather. Maybe some friendly chit-chat is in order. Friends ask each other questions, don’t they? “Speaking of inconspicuous relationships… I heard you went on a date.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and picks his words in silence for a moment—you hate that. You hate feeling excluded from whatever internal conversation he’s having. Knowing that he’s measuring how much truth he’ll dole out to you. 

“Who’d you hear that from?”

You track him with your eyes as he takes a seat next to you. 

“Did you?” you ask, ignoring the question—more focused on the stubbled line of his jaw. 

Spencer considers his answer for a moment, head reclined on the back of the couch, charting the glittery paper stars suspended from the ceiling. 

“I did. Two, actually.”

Two dates? With the same person?

“How’s that going?”

He approximates a smile. 

“You’re not being very subtle.”

“I’m just curious. You don’t have to answer.”

Spencer meets your eyes. Studies them in turns, like there’s a secret language etched into the fractals of pigment.  

“I like her,” he decides. And your stomach sours. 

“But you didn’t bring her tonight?”

Spencer rolls his head back toward the ceiling—and very nearly his eyes, as he dryly reminds you, “We’ve been on two dates.”

“If you like her, you should’ve brought here. You could’ve kissed her at midnight and sealed the deal.”

A ditch in the conversation. The perfect depth and width for hiding a body, as something in the air changes. Drops a degree or two. Thickens. 

“What are you doing?” he murmurs, looking back at you and finally putting an end to your game. Your face gets warm. Oops. Too far, maybe. 

“I’m being supportive.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. Is that allowed?”

“You’re sure it’s not surveillance?”

“Yes!”

Even to you, you sound overly defensive. 

“Fine.” A moment passes. He’s staring at you, in this lazy sort of way. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You didn’t bring anyone either.”

“Well… I’m not seeing anyone.”

It’s embarrassing to admit. You pinch at the fabric of your skirt, worrying the glitter sewn into black like drops of silver. Stars, or beads of rainwater. 

“Why not?”

“Do I need an excuse to be single?”

“Just curious. Is that allowed?”

Evidently the look you cast him then is not as withering as you’d it to be. Not if he’s so unfazed. Still reading you like a familiar book. 

“God, this is frustrating,” he mutters, as if to himself, tongue darting over his lips and frowning like you’re a question he doesn’t have the answer to. Your own brow pinches, ready to be offended. 

“What is?”

“I just… I thought I’d stop wanting to kiss you by now.”

Behind the safety of a bone cage, tucked where he can’t see, your heart does a somersault. It probably shows in the way your spine straightens, the catch of your breath. 

“Oh. I’m… I’m… sorry.”

Spencer cracks a dry smile. 

“You’re sorry? Why are you sorry?”

“Well—I don’t know. Because… I don’t know. it just seems like… the wrong thing to want. You have a girlfriend.”

The softening of his eyes, the tilt of his head, all spell pity. Like you’re naive. 

“That’s not what she is, honey.”

Honey. You try to remember to breathe. To think.

“Then what is she?”

He hums. 

“Not you. As much as I tried to tell myself that was for the best.”

Scratch somersault. Back handspring. Or maybe a round-off. You swallow. Pick at your nails. 

Did you think this into existence? Was all your desire really so loud?

“Spencer…”

“What?”

“That’s… that’s not fair.”

His eyes are melting glass on yours, voice lowered in a way you’ve sorely missed. “How so?”

It takes you a moment to remember yourself. “Because I’m—I’m trying to be better. I’m really trying. I don’t want anyone to get hurt ’cause of me. So if this girl likes you—”

“Angel. Nobody’s getting hurt. She knew I had someone else on my mind.”

“You can’t call me that,” you whisper brokenly. But he’s close enough you can feel his breath. You don’t know how he got close like this—when you gravitated toward him, charmed as a snake by a flute. When the inevitable outcome limited itself to brilliant, disastrous collision. “We can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“Because… because we’re not together.”

“When has that ever stopped us?”

All your air comes out at once. “This is so stupid.”

“You’re so pretty.” Delicately he cups your jaw. Strokes the tips of his fingers along the hollow of your cheek. “I was thinking about it all night. Noticed the glitter as soon as I saw you. Did Penelope do it?”

“Spencer, please.” Breathless. Pathetic. Desperate for him to put you out of your misery, one way or another. 

His throat bobs. “Come here.”

So you do. You lean in, one hand balanced on his knee, the other on his shoulder, and your lips brush so softly it can’t even be called a kiss. Still it sends a high-voltage shock through your whole body. He tastes like champagne as you kiss him deeper, as his hand wanders to the back of your thigh and hoists you across his lap. The other roots in your hair and your head spins. 

“Missed you so much,” he breathes into your mouth, not even bothering to pull away, or even to stop kissing you really. Mellow ivory and brass do a good job of concealing your soft breaths. Less so the undignified noise you make when Spencer shifts you roughly on his lap to pull you closer. 

“This isn’t a nice thing to be doing on ’Nelope’s couch,” you gasp between kisses, gripping at the front of his shirt like someone’s going to try taking him away from you. He alters his course from your mouth to trail down your neck. Lets fingers dip just beneath the hemline of your skirt until you shudder. 

“Then we’ll stop.”

Your jaw drops in a silent squeak as he nips at a delicate spot on your throat. 

The problem is that with the two of you, there is never any stopping. Not definitively. Never permanently. You can say it as emphatically as you’d like. You can even sort of mean it. But the cosmos has other plans. 

Outside, silent snow falls from a blue-black sky. There is nothing but the headlight glare from the occasional passing car. The popping and crackling of distant fireworks set off by the over-imbibed, ringing twelve o’clock in hours after the bloom of the new year. It must be midnight somewhere, you suppose. 

It’s just like you and Spencer, to be in the wrong place at the right time. It’s like you to slip through time-space cracks until you find each other in the accordion folds of the universe. 

It’s basically tradition.

spoilers: reader kinda cheats on Spencer but the consent there is questionable seeing as she was incredibly intoxicated

if u read this far WOW ily I hope u liked it :D I put blood sweat and tears into this bad boy. also shout-out @aliteralsemicolon for helping me so much with this fic she is a very helpful and willing consultant I think this never would've seen the light of day without her!!! ALSO THIS FIC WAS INSPIRED BY LIZZY MCALPINE’S SONG OF THE SAME NAME and each line corresponds to one of the dates of the scene!!! Read that here!!

[vanilleandclove]

playoffs; jack abbot x f!trauma surgeon!reader

pittsburgh has a vibrant pub scene, being of true east coast fashion. when it’s playoff season for the steelers, that can only lead to bar brawls and broken tooths, most times. sometimes it’s bloody knuckles and misogynists. + as jack’s 49th birthday is around the corner, you book him a solo-vacation. 

warnings: violence, harassment towards women, misogyny, alcohol consumption, language, comments on body image/weight by others, talks of the menstrual cycle, trauma induced infertility, postpartum depression symptoms mentioned (non-reader), age gap: reader is 33, jack is 48. word count: 4.7k notes: these are based on two different anon requests! i merged the ideas :) — anon transcript at the end. cenote = natural watering/sinkhole, i’m from the bajío lands of mexico, michoacan to be exact- my family is purely purépecha, and have only been to a cenote twice once in michoacan & cancun. 

Winter dawned onto Pittsburgh with an iron fist, near subzero temperatures, black ice, alcohol flowing into everyone to keep their blood warm, tree lighting ceremony, and most importantly, the Steelers made the playoffs. 

It became a tradition for the Pitt’s senior employees to pass the grunt work off to anyone R3 and under for the night shift and have the new attendings run the emergency room, all to gather around and watch the first game of playoff season. 

You and Heather stood at the bar, patiently waiting for the bartender to serve the three pitchers of beer. She knew you both were regulars, you thank the entirety of 2015 and 2021 when you had Abbot troubles and she had Robby issues, all around, it made for good conversation and excessive gratuity. 

It was crowded, gross, and musty. You almost wanted to scream “Go Pac, go!” just for the shoulders of the blue collared men to stop piercing into your spine. 

“I’ll get you ladies next, as well as those fancy cherries you like hon” Sara pointed at you as she walked into the back to grab the pitchers. You loved maraschino cherries, mostly because you wanted to prove you could tie the stems with your tongue to Jack who doesn’t believe you. 

“I thought boarding was worse, Sara must be swamped” Heather spoke up, yelling a tad from the loud noise around you both that could drown out her words. 

“I know her paycheck is fat during this time of the year” you shouted back, resting your hands onto the bar, glancing down at your engagement ring. 

It's been a long year with Jack, you couldn’t wait for it to be over with just so you have the false sense of a new era starting with your lover; it made for good motivation. 10 years he’s been in your life, a decade, now that made your lower back feel as stiff as a board. 

“Care to explain why we were left out of this?” Dana scooted between both of you, Bridget already occupying the extra chair you brought out for the booth. Dana’s husband was bulky and tall, like a lumberjack- pure midwest, he beelined his way to the bathroom as Dana conversed with you and Heathers

“Since when did you let the girls out to play?” you commented, giving her a hug with your outside arm, it’s been awhile since you’ve had day shift so seeing Dana was sparse. 

“Honey it’s date night, my kids are fast asleep with my eldest babysitting, the girls get to come out” she responded, giving Heather a hug before making her way to the booth. 

You smiled as it filled you with hope. Despite all of the years, kids, stressful jobs Dana and her husband had, they still had time for themselves.

“Can I buy you ladies a drink?” a stranger's voice peeked through, you could smell the alcohol seeping from his pores, his T.J. Watt jersey stained.

“No we’re good, thank you” you responded faster than you could think. 

“Really not even one?” his voice was nasally, grosser than the fact that his hot breath was directly in your face, “Could make y’all have a good time” he got a little too close to your ear. 

Jack made you carry a Swiss Army Knife- specifically the Swiss Champ on you at all times, he even gave you a 30 minute lecture on how to use it, even though you were mainly concentrating on his biceps and triceps flexing at the movement. He clipped them to your car keys, when you wore your jeans he put them on a carabiner with your keys and clipped them onto the belt loop.

“What about you darling? Want a drink with me, I know the perfect way to do jell-o shots, start at the cli-“.

“Okay, I already told you no, just go dude” you cut him off, sensing Heather’s uncomfortably from behind you, “Seriously you reek” you didn’t care for the fact that he towered over you, if he was bulky and the fist he started to make could land you in a worst spot than Dana in August. 

“You have no say for your friend missy” he pressed, anchoring his next to be at eye level to you. In your peripheral, you saw Jack straighten his back, sticking one leg out of the booth, ready for anything if you needed him. “Who knows, maybe I could take both of you”.

You made sure Heather was behind you, beginning to shield her with your arm slightly just so he wouldn’t fully register. “I bet your pussy is tight, soaking from all the attention you’re getting”. 

Within seconds you clocked his jaw, the act leading him to push you by the chest into Heather hard, getting the wind knocked into. Jack and Robby immediately got up and made their way in between you, just before you pounced onto him to throw another punch directly to his nose, the punch only making him more angry to the point where the punch that was supposed to land on your abdomen missed as Robby shoved him and led the punch to land directly on Jack’s arm that shielded your chest. 

You felt the blow nonetheless, cushioned, you still heard a groan leave Jack’s mouth. Just as Jaime, the bouncer, put the man in a citizen's arrest and quickly threw him out, Sara didn’t charge you for the pitchers or cherries, even threw in espresso martinis for you and the girls.

You all sat around the booth, Bridget in the chair, watching the Steelers versus the Packers, it was barely the second quarter. “How’s your arm?” you nudged your elbow lightly into Jack’s waist as his arm draped over your shoulders, holding your free hand and playing with your engagement ring.

“It’s fine, nice punch” Jack complimented, gaining a peck from you in response, “What even happened?”.

“You don’t wanna know” you responded, his eyes not leaving yours. He took your word for it even if it did bother him of not knowing. 

“So Rambo, I guess we should add Rocky onto your list of nicknames” Robby joked, his arm draped around Heather’s shoulder. 

You chuckled, taking a sip of Jack’s beer that you swore always tasted better, “I ain’t from Philly Robby” you deadpanned sarcastically.

“What about Rocky Marciano? He's a pure Masshole” Dana’s husband budded in smoothly. 

You nodded, “Brockton ain’t Boston” you shrugged, refusing to have another nickname of a Sylvester Stallone character, “On the other hand, we could go has Rocky and Adrian for Halloween next year” you added looking at Jack.

“I’m not putting on a red beret”.

“You’re breaking my heart Adrian” you feigned a Stallone voice only for Jack to shut you up with a kiss. 

“Do you guys have a date set?” Bridget popped the question everyone was dying to ask for the past two months since he proposed in October- after three back to back surgeries and while you were eating pizza from the same place your old apartment was next to.

You half-loathed the memory as your hair was greasy and disheveled, the makeup you had on was haphazardly wiped off with the spare makeup wipes you left in your glove compartment, your reading glasses on, and you had just pounded down a Dr. Pepper and needed to burp. 

“Not yet, I’d get married to her in the damn courthouse tomorrow but this one’s insistent on a ‘longer engagement’” he mimicked you. 

You sighed, “I want to get married in Nantucket- or Rhode Island, heaven forbid I want both our families there except his brother” you breathed the last part.

“What’s wrong with Abbot’s brother?” Heather inquired, Dana nodding as she wanted to know as well.

“You wanna tell them about Thanksgiving or do I?” you pressed, looking back to Jack.

He exhaled, “My brother made a comment on her ass- told her she must be pregnant ‘cuz her hips were wider than normal”.

“Not just that!” you added on, “He told Jack’s mom only for her to touch my stomach and ask if it was a boy or girl, it was a complete hazing ritual!” you laughed as you recalled the memory.

You did take a pregnancy test that night, only for it to be negative. Jack did assure you it’s probably just your ovulation coming, he had a bad- well good habit of knowing your cycle just by your body. 

During follicular, your nipples would darken, skin become a bit firmer than usual and you felt at ease from the in between of your period to ovulation. Luteal, especially the few days leading up to your period, you craved salt, and sex- a mix of the two and you’d have him laying down as you sucked him dry, you were insatiable during the time, your breasts heavier. Your period came during the night most times, so you’d wear a pad just in case the day before, sometimes you’d beat the hormones and start first thing in the morning, he noticed your hair would dry faster after the shower and you’d sleep more peacefully with his hand right onto your bare lower stomach. Ovulation sent him on a frenzy, truth be told he didn’t care about where in your cycle you were, if you wanted him, you had him. Your breasts were fuller, you felt more energized and sure enough, your hips widened. 

“Yikes” Robby broke the silence as they all digested what was told, “So, Nantucket?”.

“He wants Martha’s Vineyard but even for both of our salaries and older families, all that accommodation may just send us straight to the gutter” you elaborated, “Should’ve gotten married when I was 30 and we weren’t on the verge of a recession” you joked. 

“Just for that, no wedding ‘til you’re forty”.

“Speaking of big birthdays, what y'all doing for your 50th?” Dana smiled and nodded towards Jack.

“Nasty sex and barbecue?” you joked, Jack pointed at you just as he was about to speak up.

“And that is why I’m marrying her” Jack laughed, “It’s in a year, we’ll figure it out”.

The Steelers ending up advancing in the playoffs, you did eventually prove to Jack the cherry tie, only under a different roof. The next day, you all were swamped during the night shift as it approached 10 pm. 

You couldn’t lie, the engagement led you to be far more touchy. At any given moment, you wanted your hands on Jack. 

“40 year old male, TMGSW, he was stable upon arrival but during transport he kept crashing, gave him 50 of fent” the EMT ran over, it was an odd night to be running the trauma rooms.

Jack loved seeing you work, technically, you were his boss after Greene handed over the trauma department to you. He got a kick out of it as he claimed it made him a trophy husband. 

As the EMTs left, you and Ellis took over as you did an exam, only to realize his blood wasn’t circulating to his legs. “Blood flows unstable, can you call and see if there’s an OR available?”.

“They’re all filled, three with general, four with peds, I think a couple are ortho” an intern responded, only gaining a ‘tsk from you. Gloria gave a briefing to the surgical department earlier this week on maintenance in the operating rooms, leading for several of them to be closed.

“Fuck it, gown me, authorized personnel only, Parker you with me on this?” you shook your head.

“Want me to get Abbot?” she clarified as the nurses gowned and gloved both of you. 

“No- I need all the interns and med students to go to Doctor Abbot or Bridget, they’ll place you on a different case” you announced, clearing the room. “Have you ever seen a thoracotomy?” you asked.

“You and Abbot did one together my intern year,” Parker responded. 

“Good, so you know I’m not bullshitting” you replied, “I need a surgical tray and rib spreader”.

It took 30 minutes for you and Parker to complete the patient’s thoracotomy, never before have you seen her that intrigued. She held a heart in her hands- a beating heart.

“Excellent work Doctor Ellis” you told her, removed your gown and gloves as you sent the man to the ICU for observation and comfortability, you forced them to give him a bed. 

“I don’t know who’s more badass, you or Abbot”.

“He’s got the combat medic thing to bring to the table, I have the magic hands” you joked, dismissing her to do her own work as you met up with Jack at the nurse’s station.

“Your future wife just did a thoracotomy successfully with Ellis” you lightly bragged, your hand finding its way to his bicep, giving it a squeeze. Jack smirked, removing his eyes from the charts. 

“You know our shift isn’t over until 7 right?” he teased.

“I’m on an adrenaline high, sorry for being so needy for my insanely sexy fiance” you breathed, only to hear the beloved voice of none other than Myrna.

“I hear congratulations are in order for the happy couple!” you both haven't seen Myrna since before the engagement, she usually spends her times with the day shift.

“Not married yet Myrna, he’s still all yours” you responded to her, your hand finding itself resting on his forearm as he continued to chart. 

“Honey, lock him down, there’s patients all over the place ready to take him” she smiled at you, “If you guys have a daughter what will her name be?”.

“Haven’t decided yet Myrna” Jack intervened, “Might just have to get those baby name books from the gift shop” he looked into your eyes as he said the last part. 

Myrna wheeled off, leaving you two to yourselves. Jack was still doing yours and his charts which he seldomly enjoyed, took the heat off him while it could. Your hand caressed up and down his forearm, a bruise was forming on where the punch landed.

“How’s the arm baby?” you whispered to him.

“Fine, a little sore, nothing I haven’t felt” he told you, “You know you’ve gotten exceptionally clingy” he added, only for you to remove your hand when you noticed, “It’s not a bad thing, the amount of years I resisted, I’m surprised I haven’t taken you in a spare room”.

“I don’t know… It just feels good” you confessed, “You’re all mine and I got something tangible to prove it”.

“Me being around all the time wasn’t tangible enough? Or the nurses gossiping about our dirty talk that’s enough for a HR complaint if this department was anyway normal?” he quirked a brow.

“Give me your children and we’ll have another tangible thing” you teased.

“Playing with fire Doctor L/n” he responded.

“Oh you love it Doctor Abbot”.

Since August you and Jack had some instances where you thought you were pregnant, ever since Heather told you about her miscarriage, you refused to see a fertility doctor until you’ve run out of every possible option. However, your gynecologist said you were in good shape fertility wise, she made the claim that the more you expect it, the less chance it’ll happen.

Nevertheless, Jack got his labs done, perfectly normal, if anything, his sperm count was high. His therapist was shocked when he brought it up last session, thinking the trauma of his job and past were enough to shock his nerves and stunt fertility. Maybe it was all just timing.

Until Jack got even more panels done, only to reveal that his therapist was correct, he was the problem. Not having the heart to tell you, he saved it for a better day to come, hoping it was all temporary. 

The shift continued on, bar brawls and black ice, in true Pittsburgh fashion during football season. He drove you both home, seeing you dozed off in the passenger seat, he loved the days he worked with you. 

Jack enjoyed carrying you, though his back would hate him for it later, came with the job description. Your bags on both sides of him and you asleep in his arms as he made his way to the bedroom.

You groaned upon him sitting you down on the living chair. Remembering the one nonnegotiable rule.

Never take work to bed- physically and metaphorically speaking. He took your scrubs off, almost ready to give you a sponge bath because you gained clarity and consciousness. You did the rest, after extensive nights, you both settled for showering together, he washed you, you washed him. He gripped onto the support bar and you, it was a routine. He loved it. Gave him a chance to feel you all alone, he loved sex with you, just as much as he loved being nonsexually intimate with you.

The man would cut your toenails if asked, when you get sick once a year he’d gladly discard the tissues filled with snot, and didn't mind a single thing about living life with you. 

As he brushed his teeth while sitting on the stool, you took it upon yourself to massage his shoulders. 

“You know when you get lab work done it gets sent to my work email?” you brought up, kneading the knots in his shoulders as your comment made him anxious. He chose to remain silent and you understood, “Baby” you honestly didn't know about the labwork until you had to contact a patient to see if she could come in for a follow up.

He spat out the toothpaste, feeling your sensitivity towards him, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath before finally choosing to speak. “It could be temporary, maybe I just need to lower my stress levels”.

You looked at him through the mirror before crouching down to be at eye level with him in your eyes, staring into his eyes. “You know I love you regardless of if we have kids or not” you told him, “Don’t beat up yourself over things that are minuscule”. 

“I want them just as much as you do” Jack sighed, resting his forehead on yours, gripping the nape of your neck, “I have an appointment on Monday, gonna see what’s going on with me”. 

You sighed, “Maybe it’s a sign for an extended vacation” you hinted, “Get away for a few weeks, come back home to me…”.

“Like I’d go anywhere without you” he scoffed, only to realize the look on your face was sure “You’re not serious are you?”.

“Babe, we're together 24/7, it’s good to have your own time. Away from sperm tests, OB-GYNEs all up in there, fuck and work, Jack Abbot you’re not a soldier anymore sir” you told him, lightly joking, “For the past month you’ve been working on adrenaline-infused autopilot. I love you, but you can rest sometimes you know?”.

When you were met with silence you decided to speak up again, handing him an envelope with a plane ticket to Tulum that you hid in your gym bag. “Take a break, relax. At least sometime in the near future, I’m not going anywhere- hell I might just have Heather fill in for you so I don’t sleep alone” 

“Baby..” he opened the envelope, “Weren’t we saving this trip for Fourth of July?”.

“Already cleared it all with Bridget and Dana, I’m taking your caseload” you shrugged, you had the idea of him going on a vacation alone since last year, knowing he needed it. “You leave in a week from today” you smiled at him as relief washed over him, “It’s only for a week but when you get back maybe you and Robby can have something together, regain your groove”.

“Honey, I have my groove” he nodded, “I can’t go to Tulum without you”.

“Eh, we’ll do Cancun during the summer, a couple weeks, go exploring” you shrugged, “Have poolside sex in the private pool, fuck me proper” you whispered in his ear. “Oh! And the food”.

“You have quite the dirty mouth”.

“I wonder who influenced me”.

Truth of the matter was, you wanted to surprise him for his birthday. Wanted to throw a bigger get together than what you both originally planned and the only way Jack wouldn’t be at home or in Pittsburgh is if you were both on vacation or his brother convinced him to spend more than 2 hours with him.

“That 400k a year really does work wonders” he commented, “You can’t just go with me?”.

“Then it wouldn’t be alone time would it?” you told him, helping him get up from the stool holding him secured by the elbow. “Let me do this for you”.

He nodded, “You sure you can handle both our caseloads though?” letting you lead the way to the bed. “It’s just a huge ask hon”.

“Nothing I haven’t had before” you shrugged, letting him sit on the edge of the bed, “Don’t worry about baby” you noticed his sense of worry, “Plus when you get back, birthday sex”

“Oh god” he groaned, smiled from the thought but also realized he will be 66 at the kid’s graduation if you guys have a kid now after doing the math.

But that would certainly be a miracle. 

“49 isn’t that big of a deal” he spoke up, placing you between his leg and stump, planting kisses on your lotioned stomach.

“It is with the year we had” you ran your fingers through his grey curls. Hands never leaving him. You weren't wrong, with Pitfest and your near breakup, this past Halloween when you got alcohol poisoning after a stressful week, the week after Thanksgiving when Jack had inconsoble back pain from stress and work. Everything positive was a big deal.

The rest of the week passed, you had dropped Jack off at the airport Tuesday night, telling him to text you when he made it to Denver for his layover. He didn’t wanna leave you, but you knew it would be best for his own sanity. 

It was an interesting week without Jack. He got hooked on facetiming you every single night, sometimes twice a day, before and after he showered. Most of the time you were swamped at work, trying to not show your stress visibly. He knew it beyond the screen, could see the stress lines form between your brows, the lack of sleep prevalent under your eyes.

“Baby just go home” he sighed, he knew Gloria was on your ass the entire week and since you were already working overtime- 2 hours to be exact, the surgical department had separate scheduling most days. The logical decision would be to book it. Jack was awake bright and early for a tour in the cenotes of Tulum, it was 7:30 for you and 6:30 for him. 

You nodded, holding your phone towards the ceiling as you talked to your patient Sadie, she came in with a kitchen knife lodged in her wrist. She was a new mom and the sleep deprivation and postpartum only led to her lack of concentration while cooking. 

“Babe, I’ll call you back when I get home, gotta check up on my new mom” you told him, he looked calm and tanned through the phone. Couldn’t deny your mind, your future husband looked perfect. He understood you better than anyone, understood your job and life. 

“Okay, stay safe, I love you” he told you over the phone, he knew you were tired to the point where it didn’t register and you just hung up, your brain on autopilot.

“Hey hon, everything okay? Want me to get you anything? Any questions?” You asked lightly, checking her I.V. and antibiotics. 

“Do you know when I’m getting discharged? My sister’s at home but she’s leaving at 6:50 before my husband gets off work” she muttered, her throat dry from the intubation tube during surgery. 

“The knife was poking near your ulnar artery, a centimeter closer, you’d be in grave danger in a matter of minutes. Your body took a considerable amount of an adrenaline boost that led your blood pressure to skyrocket and your heart to go into what we call a silent heart attack” you told her, “Thankfully we caught it as it occurred and were able to reverse any damage but two operations in less than 24 hours- especially a strenuous one in the heart, I morally and medically can’t discharge you for at least two days” you looked at her in the eye, “I’m going to ask Bridget, my charge nurse, to transfer you to the post-op wing, it’s a bigger room and more comfortable- if not, I’ll go there myself to get you a bed”. 

“You’re a godsend” she sighed, her eyes swelling up with tears, “Do you have one?”.

“Hm?”.

“A baby” she clarified. 

“Oh no- not yet” you smiled at her, standing at the edge of her bed.

“You’re going to be an amazing mother” she complimented. 

“Thank you” you breathed, “Day shift staff will be coming in a few minutes. I’ll ask my resident Doctor Mohan to check up on you, she’s a really smart and kind person, very easy to talk to” you smiled back at her. You needed a coffee, swearing you would pass out behind the wheel.

It took a few minutes while you were back at the computer ready to clock out to realize you hung up on Jack without saying “I love you”. That was enough for you to start crying at the computer, tired and overwhelmed, and just in time for Gloria and Robby to walk up to you, greeting you with a good morning.

“You okay Rocky?” Robby quirked a brow, placing a coffee cup right next to you.

“Doctor L/n, go home, you’re almost 3 hours overtime” Gloria spoke up, earning a concerned look from Dana, Heather, Robby, and Samira.

“Do you want me to drive you home?” Whitaker blurted, the poor kid, heart in the right place except his shift was going to start in 5 minutes.

“Nah it’s okay kid, I’m fine” you wiped your tears, they couldn’t tell if your eyes were bloodshot from the tears or lack of sleep.

“I’m going to ask if Emery can fill in for your surgical cases, Jamie can take Jack’s workload” Dana told you, “Now get the hell out of here before we call your union rep”.

You chuckled, getting your bag from the corner of the desk, letting your hair down for the first time in hours. “Doctor Mohan, I have a new mom, accidentally stabbed herself with a kitchen knife- the adrenaline triggered her BP to boost and she had an MI while on the table. She’s in South 3, I told her you’d be the perfect doctor to talk to when I clock out. Please check up on her?” you spoke to her as you walked off.

“No problem!”.

You made your way to Jack’s truck in the parking lot, choosing his truck over your car because it smelt like him all over. 

He'll be back soon; you mumble to yourself. Made all the exhaustion and stress feel a little bit tolerable. 

dividers by @cafekitsune

anon #1: Jack Abbot x fem reader. Everyone at the Pitt is having drinks at some bar after the shift. Until some assholes got touchy and angry when one of the girls and she just defended them despite having the boys over too. Jack only observe since he knows his gf can handle it. He would interfere when things got out of hand. Badass gf, asshole, violence. Do however you want to. Thanks!!! :)))

anon #2: Hey!! Love all your fic for Jack Abbot❤️❤️ Can I request Jack Abbot x fem reader? Whoever loves language is touched and Jack just accepts the fact that she is. Especially when she visits the Pitt, she would be close to him, hold his hand/arm/back/every where she could touch and Jack just let her despite everyone who knew him, that he's never letting anyone touch him like that. Just something cute, soft, kisses, suggestive. Thanks!!! :)))

[starshipsofstarlord]

divine like aged wine | daryl dixon

summary. daryl begins to feel like you will get bored of him sooner or later as he is older than you, and starting to show his age. you show him just how much that doesn’t matter, and that despite the grey hairs and looming wrinkles, that you still love him (6.2k)

warnings. smut, oral sex (m receiving), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, praise, slight hair pulling, insecure!daryl, older!daryl + younger!reader (reader is mid 30s, daryl is mid 50s), age gap relationship, mentions of death, angst, fluff

MINORS DNI (18+), I DO NOT CONTROL YOUR CONSUMPTION ON THIS BLOG 👻

divider credits. @cafekitsune

The silhouette that Daryl saw in the mirror was a different man than who he had once been, he was no longer the young tracker that he was at the beginning of the outbreak. He’d aged, and there were clear staples in his appearance that made that evident. His hair was waved with its grown out length, and he carried the definition of crows feet around his eyes; his eyes that had witnessed so much misery, that had cried when he had mourned those lost.

He was bulkier, his arms held memorised muscle from his tactical efforts of taking down walkers and fighting the bad men and disastrous women that wished to cause pain in order to earn themselves power through the transpiring impact of fear. But that weight that rested either side of his torso had also brought additional huskiness to his stomach, he was no longer slender and lean like he had been when he had met you, he was a unit of the world’s making, and he was losing his appetite from looking at himself.

It would be a sin to deny the prize of food, he was aware of that, considering that in the past tense he had to survive days without consuming a meal, and you were preparing the finest dining that you could effectively make in the dim reality of the apocalypse. Years had gone by and he’d never once taken in his appearance so sullenly, but the chaos had calmed for the moment, and his thoughts were entangling in his insecure peripheral. Perhaps he could eat less, he thought to himself, understanding that there were men in better shape than him whom would risk their life to be sat at the dining table by your side.

Daryl squinted his eyes at the version of him that appeared in the bathroom mirror, the act bringing more attentive focus to the scar that ran down the left side of his face. It was on the right in the crafted glass which opposed the realistic truth, and he raised his hand to slant his fingertips against the damaged flesh. It was best for him not to turn, he was focally aware of the scars which were imbedded with cruel love upon his back’s damaged canvas. If he told himself that he was not troubled goods, he’d be lying to himself, he was imposed with the tragically acclaimed boulder of daunting tragedy casting a bland and aging shadow across his entire being.

The towel hung lowly on his wide hips, shielding the appendage that fuelled his testosterone from his own belittling view. He didn’t want to change into his everyday clothing, he’d have to discard the material that concealed half of his body and see another mound of flaws that made his heart heavier. He was lost in the time frame in which he had been discriminating his body, it had felt as though everything had been put on pause around him. But that was idly not the certified case, the soft approaching footfalls met with his ears before the door creaked to be ajar, and Daryl whipped around on the intrusion.

It was the first time that he in fact minded being interrupted following a shower by you, he’d never once flinched at your presence, and that made a light frown appear on your surprised complexion. He had been too cooped up in picking apart all the things that he did not like about his form that he had almost forgotten that you had expected him to return to you in the kitchen, and he felt surreally guilty that you had walked in on him during such a disappointing moment. “Is everything alright Daryl?” Your tone made it clear that you were concerned, and that emotion was only emphasised when he drew his gaze to the floor.

As he did so he realised that even his feet had scuffs and blisters on them, and he felt repulsed. He was attuned with the morals that he followed, but he hated the capsule of flesh that he was trapped in whilst he routinely kept somehow striving onwards. Before there had hardly been a moment where he could ponder on all the things that he despised of himself, but now there was, he realised that he had a dislike towards everything that his body had grown into. “‘m fine.” His words were not convincing, Daryl did not give you the chance however to get a conforming answer, he strode out of the bathroom, gripping his towel around himself with tight fingers as he fled from your view.

You stood there in your lonely and confusedly adjourned suffering, misunderstanding the cold attitude you had seemingly earned. All you had clambered the stairs to find Daryl was so that you could inform him that supper was ready, but he had slunk away into your bedroom, taking up the efforts of closing said door behind his retreat. Your arms wrapped around yourself as you stared into the mirror, your saddened reflection gazing tiredly at you, feeling fruitless in your attempts to make the man that you loved happy. Maybe he had fallen out of love with you, you thought with solemn afflictions, knowing that if he had it would still be impossible to hate him.

The behaviour that Daryl was displaying was strange, and you felt as though you were the root for the cause, especially since he had been aiming his attention in any direction but you. With a shaky sigh you ran your hands through your hair, tidying up the frizzed strands that had moved on their own accord from the heat of the stove. Spite boiled up inside of you as you saw your first mere strand of grey, however you held it in, shaking your head softly as you realised that there were bigger problems in the current world than your own appearance. You were in your mid thirties, making you roughly twenty years more youthful than your lover.

It had never been a problem before, your age that was, it had barely come up in conversation. With a surrender towards Daryl wishing to be left alone, you trudged back down the stairs, eating your meal by yourself and enclosing the portion that you had spared for him in a tupperware container, assuming that he would venture downstairs to eat it later. But later never came, the house remained indignantly silent and still throughout the falling dusk, and you twiddled your fingers with nerves. He needed some time to mull whatever was racketing through his brain over, and you wanted to give that to him, and so you pulled a blanket onto the couch, deciding that was where you were to lay your head tonight.

Dog curled up on your midsection, and you ran a numb hand along his back, ruffing up the fur and then smoothing it down. He was nuzzled atop of you, his chin curled in the crook of your neck, gifting you with more warmth than the blanket with. The company of the loyal canine made you feel a tad better from the distantness that Daryl had treated you with, your brain mulled over the situation as you drifted out of consciousness, feeling dread for the approaching morning. You would discover the rouse that was clouding Daryl's brain, and aid him in fixing whatever was broken within it. As you closed your eyes and drifted off, you were oblivious to Daryl's presence descending down the stairs.

The bowman watched your peaceful slumber without disturbing you, his weapon of standard choice draped over his shoulder with its leather strap. He felt guilty leaving the house in the night when you were asleep, but he found solace in clearing his head through the art of hunting. To be outside the walls was something that he had always favoured, and whilst this was his home and so were you, he was aware that he was in dire need to screw his head on straight. It wasn’t fair for him to take his toll of insecurity out on you, and guilt bubbled within him from his sudden exit from the bathroom previously.

He was now draped in his outdoor wear, the same damming boots slung on his feet that had given him those gnarly blisters. There was no time for rest, he thought solemnly, it would only enforce the fact that he was growing older in your mind, and that wasn’t how he wanted you to picture him. He wanted to be the lean, protective redneck that he once was, the one that you had met during the outbreak. There was a dwindling twine of sadness that harboured within him, there was no situation where he could go back into the far past, he’d been too preoccupied with searching for a future in which you would all survive that he hardly had a chance to glance backwards.

But now the calm of the storm had set, he had that opportunity, and he resented the journey that had drifted him into the arms of safety. Your arms would be the angelic wings that would console him, but admitting his insecurities would only damage the exterior that he had built up throughout the difficult years. His age was the threat that grabbed with ferocity at his throat, with each passing 365 days his body was now growing weaker, slowing down only had the capability of enforcing the democratic, virtuous stance of becoming a senior citizen.

He wished to bend down and press a featherlight kiss to the brim of your forehead before he departed, though he would be swindled with repenting guilt if he were to wake you, and so he plodded by his lonesome out the front door, Dog watching his fleeing footsteps with one eye open. The weight that pressed infinitely down onto his shoulders did not lessen as he stalked away, his eyes were withdrawn from anything that he could fixate on, he was relevantly seeking out a distraction in his mind. There was a subdued ache in his knee, and he had gotten used to the afflicting discomfort despite it making him feel eons older. He assured that the door closed with nothing more than the click of the flattened hinge, and Dog's ears pricked up from the sound, though he remained across your torso.

The sonnet of chorusing crickets rattled their legs against their emerald wings outdoors, the symphonised ruckus leading you to peel your eyes open. It was still fairly early in the morn, the dawning sunbeams casting shapes and dusty shadows across the wooden floorboards. Dog remained atop of you, groaning with a tiresome tone as you shuffled beneath him, removing yourself from the horizontal position that you had slept in so that you could simply be seated on the aged couch. You felt disdained, there was an enveloping silence in the house, and as you drifted your gaze over to the front door, you could only release a defeated sigh. Whilst the door remained in its closed state, the scarred boots that fit Daryl's feet and his companioning crossbow had vanished from their placements.

Daryl had left. Left you and your home to find the flavour of solace elsewhere, and you were conveyed with regretful sadness; you should have assured him that he was able to open up to you, followed him earnestly until you were assured that he was fine. The youngest Dixon was the man that you had heartedly fallen for, and whilst the deterrences that he had faced had impacted him, he was still the one that you loved. With shaky hands you brushed your knuckles under your eyes, refraining any tearful emotion from sloping down your face in the form of beaded salt. There was something the matter, and it was upon you in dutiful position to uncover what it was.

You remained seated, Dog beside you as you waited and waited. However your head instantaneously whipped to the side as you heard the door moan to be ajar, and watched as Daryl entered your home with the look of failure written in irritated scripture on his face. He’d been out hunting, it was clear from his attire and stance, however there was no game strung to his belt loops, it was starved from any prey. Daryl dared not glance at you, despite how besotted with you he was - he just wasn’t good enough, those words repeatedly whirled in his brain like a thorn stuck in his side. This time though, you were not going to let the silence create a divided space between the both of you, and so you stood, and crossed the entry way into the living space. Dog retreated from his seating, first going over to greet Daryl before excusing himself, no doubt going to rest on your bed in peace.

“Talk.” The command was missing the pressure that the word often enforced by it, instead your tone was as light as a feather, it brushed across his ears in a gentle caress that tickled his senses, and you hoped that it did not provoke his problem once more. You reached out with your palm, holding his jaw with sweet exasperation as you angled his irises to connect the dots with your own. “Whatever the matter is D, communicate it with me. I’m here to listen, it’s give and take in this relationship, so don’t, for the love of god, do not shut me out.” He wasn’t going to back away this time, the sigh that he released with fruitless despair stated as much. Even though he was evading direct eye contact, he licked his dry lips as he began to speak, his sentence breaking your heart into helpless smithereens.

“I’m gettin’ old, sunshine, an’ one of these days, you’re gonna get bored of me.” There was a somber cast across his blue paned irises, derived from his prevailing insecurities that gripped him suffocatingly tight. “An’ that’s alrigh’ if yer do, I get it. Jus’ wanna be with ya fer as long as I can.” The rolling pebble of emotion drifted down his waterline, despite the irony of him leaving to hunt. Perhaps it was his sorrowful minded thinking of lessening the blow on himself of the departure that would inhibit him from losing you, though his brain’s protective coping mechanisms were righteously silly, as you had not once had the intention of ever abandoning Daryl, and you never would.

“We’re all aging honey,” you proclaimed, copiously understanding that the toll in which your partner was experiencing were enhanced due to him being your elder age wise. But since the beginning of the outbreak, none of you were as youthful as you had began your walker killing journey on, and since being induced with every inkling of distasteful grievances that outlined your persons, you certainly all appeared older than your first scuff of survival. “And that is definitely not a flaw; we’ve lived through years of shit that has been thrown out of blue at us, and we are the ones who have lived through it. You are still Daryl Dixon, the man that I love and will always love. Your age does not define what you mean to me, and it never will. I have fought my ass off to remain beside you, and there is nobody, nobody else that I would rather have settled down with. We aren’t young any more, and there’s nothing wrong with that, we’ve grown older together, and I intend to grow even older with you until our last days.”

Daryl was possessed by speechlessness, his tongue felt like it was trapped by the sharp indent of a pin that held it to the bottom of his mouth, he was strongly relieved that was your point of your view on his mental qualms, though there were still some sirens springing a constant, nightmarish lullaby in his head. “Bu’-“ He felt as though his insistent problems may irritate you after your consoling speech, and he did not want to rouse the need for your forgiveness in the air. But he could not in-debt himself with remaining quiet now, not since he had opened his worrisome rambling heart up to you. “You still attracted ta me though? I’ve got all those ol’ scars, an’ I’ve got wrinkles now, an’ I ain’t as fast on my feet as I used ta be.”

“Daryl, honey.” You braced your hands on the same biceps that were often once flaunted by his torn sleeveless flannels, holding him steady as you leant your face closer, the tips of your noses tapping against each other. “None of that makes you any less beautiful to me, it shows that you have survived an eerily long time, and I cherish anything that you see as a flaw in yourself. Because to me, you don’t have any flaws, sure sometimes there’s decisions you make that I don’t agree with, but we all do things in the spur of the moment. And in no moment will I up and leave you for a singular reason, as there is nothing that you could do or have upon your flesh that could ease everything that I feel toward you.” You words were viper sharp with passion, and in the midst of your sentimental wording, your bodies had drawn against one another, in the proximity that you never took advantage of. Just being close to Daryl was a gift, there was a whim of it being the last time, and so you made sure that you made the most of it.

“I love you woman, more than I ever thought I could.” He traced the outline of your form with comforted serenity, his hands picked your own in the clasp of his unshackled wrists, as his thumbs stroked across the back of them. “An’ there ain’ nothin’ that could stop me from worshippin’ ya. Yer sweeter than those nasty berries that you and Maggie planted, an’ more peaceful than watching the river brush over itself.” His face lowered, as he nudged the hair out of your adoration filled expression, kissing you with vigorous need. You participated with as much necessity, as you breathed heavily through your nose for oxygen access. Your body was endorsed by the coursing adrenaline that travelled within your veins, your heart was palpitating uncontrollably in your chest from the premise of a sexual endeavour with the only man in the world that you were so enamoured with.

Releasing his hands, you gripped his locks, tugging at the rooted strands as Daryl cupped your waist with sensual desire. Your mouths were copiously in sync, moulded together in blissful animosity, as you devoured every inch of controllable humanity that rested in your skeletal bodies. He moaned into your mouth as you gave one last defying tug to the brunette strands attached to his scalp, before your fingers inadvertently danced with poisoned temptation upon the metal buckle of his belt. You laughed lightly as you gave yourselves a momentous breath from locking lips, as you unshackled the entrapment that encircled his waist, allowing the combination of metal and leather to fall to the ground. “Boots off too?” You enquired, and Daryl smiled, loving how well you knew him, the blisters were excruciating although he had masked the biting pain whilst you were orally entangled in arousing physicality.

“Yeah.” He smiled, his cheekbones becoming brightly prominent during the emphasis of his lips; with you he felt truly happy, more so now that he knew that you accepted him with age riddling his entirety. “Take ‘em off sunshine.” His tone was as smooth as a block of farmhouse butter, and you were attuned to the fact that he was not referring to his tattered footwear. With the tasking tips of your fingertips, you drew down the teeth of his zipper on the jeans that he wore, descending the metal partition lower until the top of his trailed abdomen was exposed, and the tough denim became looser around his waist. The coil of starving lust swirled around in your stomach as you shimmied the hugging fabric lower until his precum ebbed length sprung up from its aroused state. He needed this, and you, and whilst he often had the preference of being the giver in these situations, he was captivated with the notion of being the centre of your devoted attention.

Daryl always looked out for others, it was a loyal tendency that he hadn’t ever relinquished, and he felt proud with you being the focal point of his priorities, though it was admittedly nice for him to feel cherished by your body and mind. His hips surprisedly jolted as you wrapped your hand around the thick girth of his cock, the contact causing an array of hormones to shoot out from the core of his apocalyptic designed being. Air rasped in puffs inwards and outwards from his mouth as you stroked him, your motions being made up from slow and teasing intentions. You wanted him to feel like he was about to burst, he had to feel alive, which was the most important part of surviving as if there was no other time to breathe a last breath. The tip of his cock was a deep hue of pink like a well gardened rose petal, precum leaking from the slit at the very top.

Daryl’s arousal rarely was as apparently throbbing in the visual aspect department in comparison to the present; his length would usually already been sheathed within one of your pleasurable spots, such as your mouth or cunt. Patience was not a virtue to either one of you, however you wished to admire every inch of his ridged flesh, as its weight was balanced in perfect disposition upon your palm. The desire to taste his supple flesh was crawling down your spine in a stoking manner, causing bumps of paralleled anticipation to outline the shape of your vulnerable human skin. You were salivating, the moisture wafted around your tongue as you leant closer to Daryl’s shaft, the swelling waiting time lessening as you opened your mouth to take his length within its oral capacity.

“F-fuck.” His accented whisper was strewn ruggedly out from his lips as he bit stubbornly at his bottom one from the sensations that raptured his soul that had felt weakened by the clouding insecurities that bereaved any whisper of judgment into a contorted flaw which made him significantly lesser than he had once been. The feeling of your supple lips gliding down his length and towards the base of his wide cock made his mind become clouded from the affects of euphoria, it was a paradise of escape from the qualms that he often faced, and he was physically too weak to push your head away from his most personal area of his form. The large tip finally reached the back of your throat, and you swallowed down the instinct to gag, instead forcing your body’s primal limitations to continue applying pleasure to the man that you so wholly adored.

This was to be about him, and you found it to be your own duty to ensure it remained so, stretching your tongue out from beneath the heavenly weight of his cock to stroke farther down the parts of his shaft that you couldn’t quite accommodate to fit into your mouth. Your cheeks ached in a delightful way as your lips were stretched around his width, and you had to focus your breathing through your nostrils as there was no route for airflow to make passage through your mouthful of him. In a gentle notion, one of your hands found purchase around his balls, lightly stroking the skin to grant the man that you called your own more pleasure.

Sweat framed his brow, glistening beneath the dim lighting as it trickled upon his temples, his teeth gnawing frustratedly upon his bottom lip, peeling at the blood flushed flesh. This was the solace he needed, not the sexual advances of your warm, wet mouth, though he wasn’t to to complain about your heavenly lips, but you in your entirety, accepting and loving him as the same. It had riddled him with an anxiety that had rattled his bones throughout thinking that he was naught enough, contorting his mindset into one of wallowing in silence and submission that he never would be.

He was attained to wearing his flaws unto his sleeve, although you had finally brought silence to the insistent pacing of his mind. And though his body was tensed, it was for an alternative reason, as he fought off the inexplicable ending that his body would succumb to with a physical release. The motive to vanquish all tension from his body was upon him, barrelling through his veins in strokes of pleasure as your tongue danced over his sensitive flesh, but he relented, taking mouthfuls of air as he staved off from surrendering to emptying his seed into your mouth.

You were intoxicated by the careless sonnets that ripped out from his chest, they were almost that of a beast than a man. He was becoming feral, you could feel as much as his sack tightened, ready to spend all that lay within. But surprise chortled you as Daryl leant decisively backwards, pushing your head away from his nethers attentively, grasping lovingly at the line of your jaw. “Somethin’ wrong, honey?” You spoke now that your mouth was vacant of his length, ogling up at him with eyes that adored to take in his appearance, not only in moments like this.

Everything felt better now that you had consoled him with the assurance that you had no intentions of abandoning him in the now nor future, and he wanted to repay your kindness with his own actions, that too would bring him a simple man’s sin of gluttonous pleasure. He lightly pulled you up by your arms, bringing you closer to his height, his lips flush from the rotation of blood in his body that you had caused. “Nah.” Daryl answered, eyes trailing across each curve that shaped your figure with his heart practically in his throat. “Not a single thing, jus’ need ta be inside ya sunshine.”

It would be the most secure embrace that would ground him to his very core, a haven from all the shit that surrounded the both of you. Times like this reminded Daryl that the difference in age between the both of you in fact was not crucial, though sometimes it did numb his mind with it as a distraction. He pulled you to him, laying you delicately on the couch as though you may break, because you were fragile, but not in the literal sense he knew. There was nothing in the world that he cherished more than you, you were his slice of peace in the fucked up reality that you both endured, and he would be damned if he cracked any mental or physical attribute that your soul attained.

You resumed your battle of tongues, playfully biting his bottom lip that stirred an animosity within him, driving him forwards to clamber over your body, pressing himself closely to you, but it was still not close enough. His hands slithered downwards, pulling with uncoordinated vigour at your pants, appreciating the aid you granted him with removing them. He was consumed by his supple lust, a man hungered for the need to be connected with the woman who he loved. All that remained was your panties that concealed you from him, and he had little patience to toy with them.

And so he tore them from your hips, the cotton splitting in two from his lack of restraint, a half in each hand which he discarded on the floor, having peeled away all of the layers that kept your sex hidden from his gaze and touch. His digits could not resist in feeling the slick that had gathered upon your core, created from the image of him lost in his pleasure. It astounded him that your attraction to him could make you so drenched, practically lathered in a river of lust; even if he was aging you found him to be as beautiful as a deity, weathered by survival but still regarded among the gods. Though he didn’t see it, and you did, there was no other man remaining in the world that was like him, he was a perished breed of human that remained on the earth. A survivor, hardened by time but continually fighting for the beliefs that formed layers around his soul.

“Stop teasing Daryl. I thought you needed to be inside me.” His previous words spat desperately from your tongue, as you regarded him with an impatience to feel all of him. It was merely torturous waiting to feel every inch of him within your cunt, even as he adjusted himself, taking a grasp of his shaft and angling it to slide down to your entrance that was yearning to be stretched open by his length. He sung a groan out as he felt how much your body desired him against the tip of his cock, he wanted to bury himself within your heavenly warmth and become doused in the comfort that the tightness of you wrapped around him allowed him to surrender to.

His movement was slow yet backboned with intent as he pushed into you, breathing out a strung out breath that had built in his chest for far too long. He had felt inflicted by the consciousness of his wilting appearance the last handful of times that you had made love together, and he had hidden that voice. It had been imprisoned in the corners of his mind, and he had tried with determination to push it away but it had not yielded. But all he had required to dull the commenting thoughts that digressed his own body was you to pour your adoration onto him despite the flaws that he resented. “Fuuuuck.”

The tone of his voice was gravelly, stripped down by the raw emotion that he felt. Your nails imbedded themselves into his shoulder blades, sketching crescent moons into his clothed flesh as your head sank deeper into the seating of the couch. A moan was strangled out from your throat from the pleasure that sparked in your midsection as he pushed deeper into you, until he was filling you with his entirety. “You feel so- fuck, fucking good baby.” The praise that you bestowed upon Daryl lit him up like a flame, a depraved hunger danced behind his eyes like burning embers. From your words, he leaned back, his hands on either side of your head and pulled back, only to push straight back into your pussy, bringing both of you ample pleasure.

There was nothing that could compare to being so close to the man that raked his hips to pivot against your own, his pace building as the explosions of ecstasy transcended between your bodies like a cycled blood transfusion. Not a single thing. Each movement was an act of pristine intimacy, a link that blessed your vessels with the passion of having the ability to be so vividly close to one another. “So do you s-sunshine.” Daryl hissed out, having forgone thinking about a singular qualm that had blinded his perception of how lucky he was in this reality. He had survived this far, and not only that, but you had too, giving you the chance of a life together throughout the maelstrom like carnage that had changed the entire planet for eternity.

He felt his tongue become drowned by the gruff noises that it permitted to leave him, responding to each whimper and keen and moan that released from your parted, panting lips. His brow bone was tense with a frown put together by focus, as he stared down at your face, pride swelling in his chest as he had the knowledge that it was him giving you rolling waves of pleasure to spin uncontrollably throughout your veins. Your arousal coated him, making it far more easier to slide in and out of your succulent walls, they parted for him each time from the accustomed entry that you always granted him. He knew that he never had to worry about another man being in his position, he couldn’t imagine it, and nor could you from the blissful contortion that rested heavily and without care on your features.

“Getting close Dar.” The information was heaved out from puffs of air, your lips mindlessly moving even when words were not falling from them. Daryl too could feel the oncoming tide of his own release, it crept up on him like a hunting predator, staving off the kill until the prime opportunity presented itself. There was plenty of things that he was still not certain of in this world, but one that he was sure of was that he was going to ensure that you came first - as he always did. Daryl’s body continued to move, spinning the room out of focus for your eyes as he continued his motions, staggering his pace just a little, but not too much so that the looming of your high would not collapse and crumble.

Your legs bound themselves strictly around his waist, your teeth clenching as spots swayed in your vision, peppering the sight of the man fucking you with pixels of black and grey. He had you where he wanted you, topping over the edge of your orgasm as it transpired around you like an aura. He thought selfishly that he was pleased that no other soul had witnessed you appear so distracted, you were always on guard when out of the confines of your home, aware that the unexpected could traipse upon you at any second that it desired. “You getting there?” Too fucked out to form full sentences, you tangled your hands in his hair, and that seemed to pull the trigger within him.

The sound of your name escaped Daryl’s lips as he buried his head into the safety of your throat, spreading little kisses against your skin as his tension dissolved. Ropes of his seed spilled within you, filling your core as he remained inside, small, almost inaudible whimpers leaving him. You pressed your lips to the crown of his head as you brought your arms around him, cocooning him in the afterglow that you shared. He remained there for minutes longer, composing himself before he removed himself from your cunt, falling beside you on the couch that was too small for most, but for the both of you was as cozy as it could get. “Thank you sunshine.” Daryl murmured as he brought you closer to be resting against his body, and you stifled a chuckle at the doziness that had befallen him

“You don’t have to thank me for sex.” Your eyes rolled, but the archer shook his head of brown locks, his hand angling around you to raise your face to meet your his own, your lips meeting in a delicately languid kiss. His fingertips traced the line of your jaw, his heart swimming with leaps of love for you and only you. Daryl was a good man, he knew that he tried his best to be, however he was delirious with how you saw him. Not everyone would find him to be a diamond in a pile of cracked rocks, but here you were, always caressing his scars with care, and reminding him that he was allowed to be loved. A long, long time ago he wouldn’t have believed that he would have someone that stood by him through everything, let alone the silent battles ongoing in his mind. You had your own opinions, and you depicted them outright, always giving him time to himself when it was required, and as soon as there was a place to console him, putting yourself in it.

“Not fer tha’, for everythin’.” He thought of his life with you, and he could not have been more appreciative of it. It was never going to be perfect, you were both humans fighting to live in a world that wished to eradicate your species, but there were moments to be cherished when you were not trying to protect yourselves. Daryl wanted to kick himself for even attempting to protect himself from; it was foolish on his part, but you always managed to understand his mindset. That was one of the very many reasons as to why he loved you, and he could not voice it enough as he remained curled up with you, basking in the mortal emoting of the love that you held dearly for one another. He was aging, and he had hated it, but he despised it far less now that you had brought a light that only you could give to the natural process that was weaving through each of you, reminding him of the normality of it.

[clawsdevour]

children

wc: 0.5k content warning: post-timeskip, established relationship, daichi x reader, smut, making children, not proofread

⠀࿁ 𑄹 ˙ ͏

kids, a topic that's been frequently brought up ever since you got married to daichi sawamura. you never knew the day would come when you got pregnant that night.

"does it hurt?" daichi's calming voice questions. his face is like always, eyes like a puppy's looking to reassure you if you felt any discomfort.

"for the last time, no!" you giggled before biting down on your lip, eyes curled in excitement.

daichi's puffing out air with a big smile spread upon his lips before giving you a light peck on the forehead.

"what if we had kids right now?" was whispered in the crescent on your ear right before he pulled his heated face away, making your whole body shudder.

you knew he was joking, but the thought struck once again. you can't help but think about getting filled to the brim with daichi's essence, a reoccurring image that made your insides feel all tingly. envisioning the feeling of his cum gushing into your pulsating cunt while he continued to pound it deeper made you even more aroused.

something in the air made the time just feel right. you've been married for a while. you're both financially stable and in a great relationship. it was time you two started taking the first steps into parenthood and start having children and expanding the house.

"i'd like that."

hearing those words completely made daichi genuinely stop to think and gather himself back up.

daichi's face was already a flustered pink, but now he's turning bright red when he realized you mean it. he's trying to utter out words but the stutter is insane. not to mention down there... boy was growing and becoming harder than a rock while he's completely frozen from above like a statue.

"really? are you sure? you know you're gonna be the one who's pregnant for 9 months right..??" clearly, he's started to register what you said and is completely in shocked that you agreed.

nodding to show your approval, he is utterly baffled and starts planting kisses all around your face to show how much he loves and adores you. overall, you are the center of his world, now you're about to give him another person to love and take care of.

giggling as daichi's kisses are ticklish, you can't help yourself but feel this weight get lifted off your shoulders now that you know you're ready for this new step in life.

"oh just cum inside me already!" putting your hands on his bare and sculpted chest to put some space for fresh air between you two, blush blooming on your cheeks.

obviously you can't help but gush and feel like you just melted in his arms in that whole moment.. you just wanted to stop imagining and get right down to business.

"whatever you say, babe" daichi says, this time with slightly more sinful intentions.

his warm hands make their way down and put a grip onto the sides of your plush and warm waist. embracing yourself for his thrusts full of force, you place your legs on top of his broad shoulders to which daichi lands a peck on your ankle, what a tease.

daichi's rocking his hips slowly into you till you begged for more. the pleasure felt like sweet and pure ecstacy as a flood of heat spread in between your two hot bodies that oozed with sex. your core was more than clenching in anticipation for a climax, especially his.

his girth swamped your internal nether regions, stimulating your plush and pulsating walls that made his tip throb with the strong urge to let it all go. the increasing and overwhelming pleasure got you gripping the bedsheets as daichi's thrusts began to get more reckless and faster, grunts and moans beginning to echo throughout your house.

your voice grows loud and increases in pitch as daichi's poking at your sweet spot that made you want to burst into a rippling orgasm that would later make your body tremble. daichi's groans mixes with your moans that whimpered with euphoria, just nearly matching each other as you guys lock eyes knowing it's almost time.

the air and atmosphere was getting real hot and smelled like blazing lust. a sheen layer of damp sweat covered both of your bodies as you both continued to make love till the very end of the day.

"i'm so close.. are you sure about this?" daichi utters through the smothering heat in the room, eyes filled with worry since this could change both of your futures.

"yes, do it. i want to have your children... i'm yours" wrapping your arms around his hot and damp shoulders that leaned in. sharing a sweet and sweltering kiss, you were just about there at your bursting peak.

"daichi, let's cum together."

masterlist here

[irithiadourden]

Come back home

Pairing: AzRis x f!reader

Summary: You decided to ignore Azriel and went on that mission alone, knowing that there was a chance it could go wrong. A furious Azriel takes you to the Forest House where Eris heals your wounds. There is a moment when things seem to look very bad, but fate has other plans for the three of you.

Words: 1,081

Warnings: A little bit of angst? mentions of blood.

Day 3 of @sjmxreaderweek Fate

N/A: This is my first time writing this style of fic (characters x reader), so have mercy.

Div by @olenvasynyt ❤️

As Azriel carefully deposited you on an unfamiliar bed, it didn't take you long to realise that you weren't in the Night Court, especially when Autumn's High Lord appeared at your side with the same desperate look on his face as the Shadowsinger.

"She's lost a lot of blood, she has a deep cut on her thigh and several serious bruises on the rest of her body."

Eris wasted no time in answering him, instead approaching your almost motionless form on the now crimson stained sheets. His hands were quick and methodical as he moved over the points Azriel had indicated, healing and using magic to mend skin, muscle and internal wounds. The look of concentration did little to hide the panic and worry that could be seen in his amber eyes.

Being so close, a little dizzy and with the adrenaline starting to drain from your system, you couldn't help but think back to what you had buried a few years ago. As Azriel's right hand, one of his most trusted spies, personally trained by him, you had been in direct contact with Eris on more than one occasion, especially when the Koschei problem had arisen.

At first, each meeting had been tense and left you in a terrible mood, but over time you had begun to look forward to seeing him again. Sometimes you had wondered if he felt it too, the lingering tension between the two of you, but when the mate bond had snapped for him and Azriel, you automatically dismissed any possibility. Azriel was your friend .... and so much more, a person you loved and trusted blindly, the thought of betraying him in any way was unfathomable.

"Hey, you need to stay awake." Eris's deep, rich voice was like a caress. But it wasn't your fault that sleep made your eyelids flutter.

Azriel hadn't said a word since he'd put you there and told Eris where to find your wounds so he could heal you. It didn't take a genius to know that his anger was about to erupt. Swallowing hard, you used what little breath you had left to blurt out to him in an almost inaudible tone.

"I'm sorry."

That seemed to break something in him, for his stoic expression was wiped away, replaced by one of fear. In a second, his scarred hands were on your face. "Do you have any idea how terrified I was when I found out you disobeyed a direct order and went there anyway?"

You barely smiled. It was dangerous, but someone had to do it. And you were less important. You could sacrifice yourself to buy them time.

You wanted to tell him again that you were sorry, even if it was a lie, to try and wipe the despair and pain from his eyes. But you couldn't.

Eris had said something out loud, sounding worried, practically screaming.

Your eyes closed for a second, just long enough to rest. Azriel was still holding your face, and you were almost sure he was repeating your name.

The place you were in was dark, too dark even for a creature of the night like you. You were used to starry skies and snow covered peaks, to the fire that softened the freezing nights when you were out on a mission and far away. This thick blackness was just that, an emptiness that made you feel so lonely you wanted to cry. You wanted to wake up again to see Eris, to thank him for healing you. You wanted to tell Azriel that you had valuable information, that it had been worth the pain, just to take the weight off his shoulders.

But the darkness whispered, pushing you further and further away.

For an instant, you were completely filled with regret. You could not believe that you would never again be able to see the smile on Eris's face as his smokehounds greeted you. You couldn't understand the injustice of knowing that you would never wake up again to enjoy the feeling of flying, safe in Azriel's arms.

It was then, as you began to drown in the darkness, that two bright golden stars appeared in the middle of the threatening night. They were so beautiful, dancing as if to show you the way back. You decided to follow them because you wanted to return to the light. You wished to open your eyes and desperately tried to hold on to the warmth they made you feel, a sensation that enveloped your soul.

"Our mate," the two males holding your body whispered, their faces showing the surprise of this revelation.

It took you a moment to understand, to come to your senses. But then you realised what they meant. You could feel it, the golden thread that wrapped around your heart, bonding you not only to Azriel, but to Eris as well. And you could also sense the connection between them. You were so confused that you were not sure if you were breathing.

It was the lips of the High Lord that anchored you to reality, as ardent as the fire that ran through his veins. And then, while Eris embraced you, trembling slightly as if still too moved by the news, Azriel kissed you with all the love and anger of what had just happened. You felt his apprehension, his relief, the deep love that was there, which now gave rise to no guilt or doubt.

That evening, the two of them took it upon themselves to stay awake and take care of you. They wouldn't let you fall asleep for a few hours just to be sure, as if fear wouldn't allow them to be away from you for even a second until they were sure you were totally okay. There were so many questions to answer, so much to say, but that could wait until the next day.

Right now, as exhaustion finally took its toll, all you could do was smile, incredibly happy and blessed, for while Azriel embraced you from behind, wrapping his wings around you and Eris, Eris had settled his head on your chest, listening to the sound of your heartbeat to lull him to sleep.

These two males, your mates... you could only thank the Mother and Fate for allowing you to return to them. You had no intention of letting them go, just as they had shown you with every word and gesture that they would not let you go either.

[mandoalorian]

a body to break against [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky x f!reader

synopsis: a night of chinese food, shots, and unexpected camaraderie with the new avengers forces you to confront your place on the team, and it's especially difficult with bucky’s stare lingering on you.

word count: 6200

warnings: 18+ for eventual smut, enemies to lovers, thunderbolts* spoilers, alcohol consumption, mention of family member death, details of physical and emotional abuse, grumpy!bucky, avengers tower fic

masterlist

previous chapter | current | next chapter [coming soon]

You didn’t know what woke you. Maybe it was the absence of weight in the air. Or maybe it was the silence—thick and undisturbed, like something had finally shifted. For a moment, you lay still beneath the blanket, eyes fixed on the ceiling, waiting for the storm to return.

But it didn’t.

You stepped out of the room barefoot, expecting to find Bucky Barnes still haunting the apartment like some cold draft. Instead, the kitchen was empty. The chair he’d claimed last night was vacant, the beer bottle gone. His presence, which had been so sharp and intrusive, had vanished.

And you were relieved.

Until a voice startled you from the table. “Morning,” it said — warm, casual. You turned your head and saw him.

He was younger than you expected. Messy curls, soft features, and a grin that looked like it came easy. Joaquin Torres.

He waved a spatula at you. “Sam said you might be up soon. I made eggs. Hope you’re not vegan.”

You hesitated in the doorway, unsure how to exist in a space that felt suddenly… normal. And then, because your stomach growled before you could think of an excuse, you nodded and stepped in.

Joaquin talked about the grocery store being out of oat milk again, about some neighbour who kept confusing him with his own cousin, and about music. He didn't ask who you were or why you were here. That made it easier.

You ate quietly, letting the rhythm of his voice fill the silence.

When Sam walked in, the room changed. Not with tension—not like it had with Bucky—but with a kind of quiet awareness. He froze in the doorway when he saw you sitting at the table, a plate of half-eaten eggs in front of you, a rare flicker of something soft brushing across his face before he caught it and cleared his throat.

“Morning,” he said, nodding.

You nodded back, unsure if you were more startled by how natural this felt… or by the way Sam looked at you. Like he was trying not to look too long.

He joined you at the table, grabbed a coffee, and the three of you sat like a real group of roommates — almost.

But even as you smiled faintly at something Joaquin said, you felt it: Sam was watching you more closely than before. Like he wanted to say something, he hadn’t quite found the right words for.

The eggs were almost gone. Joaquin had started poking fun at your lack of hot sauce tolerance, making exaggerated wheezing noises every time you reached for your water. You rolled your eyes, but the amusement was genuine — fleeting, but real.

Sam watched the exchange with a half-smile, arms crossed, leaning back in his chair like he was cataloguing something in his mind.

“Hey, Joaquin?” he said suddenly, voice steady but layered.

Joaquin glanced over, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth. “Yeah, Cap?”

“Can we get a minute?”

Joaquin blinked. Then his eyes flicked between the two of you, his expression comically exaggerated. “Ooooh. Private talk. Say no more.”

You raised a brow. “It’s not—”

He was already standing. “Hey, I support emotionally mature conversations. You want me to pretend I didn’t hear anything, I will. You want me to eavesdrop through the wall, also doable.”

“Joaquin,” Sam said, a warning threaded through the name.

“Going, going,” Joaquin grinned, walking backwards toward the hall. “If either of you cry, I want a full recap.”

You huffed a breath through your nose. Sam waited until the bedroom door clicked shut, and the apartment fell quiet again. Then he turned back to you.

He leaned his elbows on the table, hands laced together.

“I opened my home to you,” he said quietly. “I gave you a safe place. I know it’s only your second day here, but you know I’m on your side. I need two favours from you. I want you to know, they aren’t conditional. You don’t have to answer. You’ll still have a home here, for as long as you need, until you get back on your feet. But I also need you to consider doing the right thing.”

You looked at your plate, then slowly lifted your gaze to meet his.

“I need the truth,” he said. “About your powers.”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just sat with it. The truth. The weight of it. The danger in it. Sam was right. You knew what the right thing was. You knew he deserved to hear it. 

You swallowed. “I’ve had them… for as long as I can remember.”

Sam didn’t blink.

“Most of the time, it’s just…” You hesitated, unsure how to put it into words that wouldn’t make you sound unhinged—crazy, even. “I can see people’s emotions. Auras. I can feel things — what’s coming, what’s hidden. It’s instinct, but stronger. Like… something crawling under my skin.”

“And the rest of the time?”

You met his eyes.

“Sometimes I spiral,” you said. “Sometimes it’s not just reading emotions. Sometimes I feel this… surge. A force. I can predict people. Their moves. Their lies. I can see through them. And if it gets loud. Too loud…I…”

Sam leaned back a little. Not away — just adjusting. Digesting.

“Have you ever hurt anyone with it?”

You didn’t answer.

That silence was enough.

Sam looked down, nodding once. Then he spoke, voice calm but weighted. “There’s a war in space.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“The New Avengers know. Joaquin knows. The government knows. It’s not public, and it’s not simple, but it’s coming. And if it’s already happening above the atmosphere, it could be a matter of days—weeks, even, before it comes to Earth. We don’t have enough people ready for what’s next. And I need all the help I can get.”

You stared at him. “So this is a recruitment speech?”

“This is me telling you the truth. Which leads to my second favour…” He leaned forward again, tone shifting into something firmer, something that settled into your bones. “I don’t want to sign Bucky’s peace treaty. I don’t trust it. But we both know I’m going to do it. For the greater good. Because we don’t have time for egos,” He paused. “And I’m asking you to do the same. Join us.”

You folded your arms across your chest, more for comfort than defiance.

“You want me to be an Avenger?” You bit your lip, looking down at the table. The proposition made your stomach twist with unspoken anxiety. 

“Have you ever wanted to be more?” Sam asked softly. “Because now’s your chance. You’ve already survived so much. But if you step up, you won’t be alone anymore. You’ll have purpose.”

You looked at him. The man who’d picked you up off the street and offered you warmth and protection. A home.

“I’m not a hero,” you said quietly.

Being an Avenger was your brother's dream, not yours.

Sam smiled, just a little. “Neither was I. Until Steve gave me the chance to be. Now, I’m giving you that chance.”

You didn’t answer right away. But something shifted in your chest. The tiniest spark of belief.

And when Sam stood and grabbed the treaty folder from the counter, you didn’t stop him.

You watched him sign it.

And for the first time in a long time, you wondered what it would feel like to stop running — and start becoming.

────✪────

The ride to Avengers Tower was quiet—not tense, but contemplative. Sam sat in the front, flipping through the treaty folder. You didn’t get a chance to read it for yourself, but you had gathered that they were filled with terms authored by Valentina Allegra de Fontaine herself, chairman of O.X.E. and figurehead of the New Avengers. You remembered yesterday, Sam’s passing comment about her being Bucky’s girlfriend. 

That had to have been a joke. 

Joaquin, in the backseat beside you, kept trying to lighten the mood with whispered jokes and dramatic gasps every time the tower came into view.

“Ever been in the Tower before?” he asked, nudging you.

You shook your head. “No, this is all very new to me.”

“Oh,” he said, eyes wide. “Brace yourself. It's like a reality show in there. But with superpowers and less shame. Maybe.”

“Torres, you haven’t even been to the tower before,” Sam snickered, shaking his head. Joaquin’s cheeks flushed a dusty pink, and you quirked an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Forgive me for trying to impress the lady,” Joaquin grumbled. “Okay, I’ve never been, but I’ve heard a lot about it.”

“I imagine it’s very different now, compared to what it was like when I lived there with Tony, Steve and the rest of them.”

“I would have loved to be part of that.” Joaquin hummed, his eyes filled with dream and longing.

“Yeah, it wasn’t so bad.” Sam reflected with a small smile upon his lips.

The car pulled up to the glass entrance, sleek and towering, the A emblazoned above the doors like a warning more than a welcome. Security scanned your faces — or rather, Sam’s — and let you in.

Inside, it was exactly as Joaquin promised.

Before you could say a word, someone shouted.

“Yelena, stop putting gum in John’s helmet!”

“I’m conducting an experiment!”

“Your experiment almost took out my peripheral vision!”

“Maybe use your brain instead of your biceps for once, huh?”

From across the lobby, a burly man with a strong Russian accent called out, “Does anyone know where I put my beer? It is emotional support.”

You blinked.

Sam sighed beside you. “Welcome to the New Avengers.”

A woman with sharp, blonde hair and electric blue eyeliner passed by, muttering under her breath and typing furiously into a tablet. “I swear to God if Bob drops those milkshakes again—”

Right on cue, a clatter, broken glass and milkshake all over the pinewood floor. Bob, you assumed, stood with wide eyes, examining the mess he had made with an almost delayed response. Again? This wasn’t the first time he had done this?

“Why did you even make so many milkshakes?” Yelena sighed, already grabbing a mop to clean the mess.

“Bucky said we might have guests,” Bob replied, looking genuinely disappointed that his time making milkshakes had been wasted.

“Oh my god,” you murmured.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Joaquin whispered, clearly delighted.

And then, amidst the chaos, a familiar figure appeared — Bucky Barnes. Standing at the top of the stairs in full tactical gear, arms folded, jaw tight. His eyes swept over the three of you, stopping on you for half a second longer than necessary.

He descended slowly, calculated and unreadable.

“Nice of you to show,” he said to Sam. “Been waiting.”

Sam held up the signed treaty. “Got what you wanted.”

Bucky didn’t smile. But he did take the folder, nodding once.

Then his eyes returned to you. Just for a breath.

You met his gaze and said nothing.

Because whatever this was — truce, alliance, manipulation — it wasn’t over. And Bucky Barnes wasn’t just an Avenger.

He was your enemy.

And now you were on his team.

Bucky led the three of you through a winding corridor of glass and steel, toward a meeting room tucked behind reinforced doors. He hadn’t said a word since taking the treaty, and you were fine with that. The less you had to hear his voice, the better.

Still, you could feel his presence — heavy, watchful, tense. And it made your skin crawl.

Joaquin gave you a sympathetic look as the doors closed behind the four of you. “This feels like being summoned to the principal’s office,” he whispered, earning a glare from Bucky that only made him grin wider. “Yup, confirmed.”

Sam ignored them both and took a seat at the table, gesturing for you to do the same. You hesitated — only a beat — before sitting across from Bucky. He opened the folder and flipped through the pages, then set it aside.

“The team’s unstable,” Bucky said bluntly, addressing Sam. “We’re barely functioning. Half the government wants to shut us down. The other half wants to use us as weapons. This treaty… it’s not just a co-leadership agreement. It’s our last shot at legitimacy.”

Sam nodded. “That’s why I signed it. But you know, I still don’t trust the system behind it. This whole thing is like the Accords all over again. Everything that we fought against.”

“I was on Steve’s side that day, regardless of his beliefs. I didn’t care for the politics. Kinda had my own shit going on.” Bucky sighed, running his metal hand through his wavy hair. The metallic black caught a sliver of light and sparkled under the afternoon sun. 

“Which is how it’s always been,” Sam frowned. There was that look again. The betrayal. If you hadn’t known any better, you might have thought that Sam and Bucky were ex-lovers, going through the breakup of the century. The tension in the room was sharper than a knife. “You saying you’re okay with being under the control of Val, Congressman?”

“No. No. And I’m not a Congressman anymore,” Bucky corrected like it was an extremely important detail he had to defend himself from. “You know me. You know what I’m trying to do here.”

Sam nodded briefly, something in his face softening. You read his aura, and it glowed with faith. Belief. Hope. “I still don't trust this.”

“I don’t either,” Bucky admitted. “But I trust you.”

Silence settled between them. You watched closely — the decades of history between them pressing into every glance, every pause. There was something unspoken there. Something heavy.

“Then let’s get to work,” Sam said. “She’s in.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you again. “You sure?”

You crossed your arms. “I didn’t come all this way to sit on the bench.”

“Good,” Bucky muttered, standing. “You start training tomorrow. Physical and tactical.”

“With you?” you asked, unable to keep the disdain out of your voice.

“Problem?”

You gave him a tight smile. “Guess I’ll just have to lower my expectations.”

He stared at you, unreadable, before turning to leave.

Sam caught your gaze as the door closed behind him. “He’s rough around the edges,” he said. “But he means well.”

You didn’t respond. Because it didn’t matter what he meant.

You had a personal mission. And this was only the beginning.

You were still sitting at the conference table when the door slammed open like a bad sitcom entrance.

“Lena said she’s ordering Chinese food,” Bob announced, stepping inside with the grace of a golden retriever on roller skates. “Anyone staying for dinner?”

Joaquin leaned forward immediately. “Does that include dumplings? Because if so—hell yes.”

Sam chuckled under his breath. “I could eat.”

You hesitated, eyes flicking to the door that Bucky left from. You were still recovering from sharing air with the man, let alone sweet and sour chicken.

But... maybe you needed to see what you were up against.

“Sure,” you murmured.

Bob smiled. “Great. Fun. Exciting. Oh! I can make you a milkshake too, if you’d like. I can do vanilla or chocolate, or strawberry. But not banana. They don’t blend properly because John freezes them. And come to think of it, someone keeps hiding the strawberries from me.”

“What do you mean, someone is hiding the strawberries from you?” Sam asked, puzzled with a hint of mild concern. Not concerned for the strawberries, but for Bob. 

“I’ve said too much,” Bob stilled. “Gotta run!”

And with that, he was gone, practically leaving an air of smoke behind him. 

“I can’t believe this is the team Bucky formed,” Sam sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Right?” Joaquin grinned, his brown eyes gleaming with excitement. “I can’t wait to get to know everyone.”

────✪────

When the sun set, The Avengers Tower common room looked more like a college dorm—empty takeout containers already littered the table, and someone (Alexei) had managed to crack a fortune cookie clean in half before opening it.

You were seated on the oversized sectional with a plate of noodles in your lap, wedged between Yelena—who kept stealing your spring rolls with zero shame—and Joaquin, who had already named three different sauces after himself and started rating them out loud.

“I call this one ‘Torres Tang,’” he said, holding up a little cup of neon orange sauce. “Sweet with a kick. Just like me.”

Bob laughed so hard he choked on his dumpling. Ava handed him a bottle of water without looking up from her phone.

Sam had taken the big armchair like some kind of dad overseeing chaos. Bucky sat at the edge of the couch, mostly silent, mostly brooding, chopsticks barely touched.

And somehow, somehow, it didn’t feel as tense anymore. You were still wary. Still watching him. But the noise helped. The food helped.

Empty, grease-stained boxes were scattered about, chopsticks poked out of rice bowls at odd angles, and someone had already spilt duck sauce on the rug (Bob, according to Yelena, who’d ratted him out instantly).

You were half-listening as Alexei brought over a full bottle of vodka—his contribution to the evening.

“Let’s make it fun,” he said, plopping it down with a loud thud. “One shot for every ‘Never Have I Ever.’ If you have, you drink. If you lie, I will know.”

“Dad… this is so weird.” Yelena groaned, squeezing her eyes shut.

“You're terrifying,” Joaquin said with an impressed whistle, already reaching for a shot glass.

Alexei didn’t use one. He took a clean swig from the bottle and grinned like it was water.

You blinked.

“Jesus,” you muttered under your breath. “Is that even safe?”

“No,” Ava answered without looking up from her phone. “But here we are.”

“Russia’s finest,” Alexei smirked, licking his lips. “Me, not the Vodka. I got this from Walmart,” He nudged you, and you looked at him with a hardened yet confused expression. “I was Russia’s answer to Captain America, you know? They call me the Red Guardian,” He flexed his bicep. “Touch it.”

“I uh—“ you glanced around the room. Yelena looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole. Bucky watched, his stare unreadable as usual. And Joaquin was beaming, amused, like this was the most entertaining thing he had ever seen. “No, thank you.”

“One day, you will touch it,” Alexei smiled, proud. “100 percent super soldier serum coursing through my veins. You see how I am much bigger than these two?” He gestured to John and Bucky. “That’s the vodka.”

“The serum actually went to his head and made him delusional,” John said pointedly. “I can bench press 600kg. Nice to meet you.” He extended a hand for you to shake, but you just looked at it, speechless and slightly disturbed.

“Can you guys stop being so odd, you’re gonna make her run away,” Ava warned before mouthing an ‘I’m sorry’ in your direction. You smiled, grateful for her comfort. 

You had no plans on running away, and in all honesty, you weren’t really that creeped out. You’d dealt with a lot worse, like Shane and some of the men who frequented McCready’s bar. Because of that, you were quick to realise that these guys were no more than just a simple group of harmless misfits. And for the first time, you felt like you could fit in with them. Besides, you were certainly confident that they weren’t going to harm you, and that counted for something. 

Everyone settled into positions on the sectional. Sam had taken a seat in the armchair, casually draped like he wasn’t watching every interaction in the room. But you felt it. The way his gaze drifted to you more than once. Not heavy, not unwelcome — just steady. Soft. Like he was trying to read you.

And then there was Bucky Barnes, sitting across from you.

His drink was untouched at first. But when Alexei took his second swig, Bucky gave a quiet sigh and knocked his own shot back. No flinch. No change in expression. You had no idea what kind of alcohol tolerance came with a super soldier serum, but whatever it was, it was intimidating.

“Okay!” Yelena bounced beside you, already a little flushed, a little chaotic. “Never Have I Ever—uh—crashed a government vehicle!”

You stared as Bob, Bucky, Sam, Joaquin, and Alexei all drank.

“Seriously?” you asked.

Sam gave you a sheepish shrug. “It happens.”

“More often than it should,” Ava muttered.

“I’ve never even driven a government vehicle.” You revealed, almost feeling a little left out. 

“Don’t worry,” Yelena grinned at you. “You’ll get there.”

Another round.

“Never have I ever... kissed a teammate,” Ava said, a coy little smile playing on her lips.

Joaquin drank immediately.

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

He didn’t explain. Joaquin just leaned into you and whispered, “Regret nothing.”

You didn’t drink. But you did feel two sets of eyes on you.

Sam’s—quiet, full of something like concern or curiosity.

And Bucky’s.

His was different. His stare settled against your skin like a spark. It crawled across your collarbone, dragged over your throat, and stayed. Hot and unmoving. You didn’t dare look back.

You felt your face warm — maybe from the shot, maybe from something else.

“I need another drink,” you muttered and reached for the bottle.

“Atta girl,” Joaquin said, clinking his glass against yours. “Let’s ruin our livers together.”

You laughed. Too loud. You were getting tipsy, and Yelena wasn’t helping — giggling as she told stories about “murder yoga” and missions gone wrong. Joaquin kept the mood light, telling stories about Sam and Red-Wing. 

“Who’s Red-Wing?” You asked with a slight stumble over your words.

“Oh, you’re gonna love him, he’s adorable.” Sam beamed proudly.

“He’s like… your dog?” 

Joaquin laughed at your suggestion.  

“No! He’s my surveillance and reconnaissance drone!” Sam answered, taking a swig of beer, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Even John Walker got into the discussion, though he was a loud, cocky drunk. Every time he spoke, you wanted to toss an egg roll at his head.

Alexei, on the other hand, drank like a man built to survive nuclear winters. You were genuinely impressed he was still upright. He did, however, disappear to pee every ten minutes.

And somehow, Bucky had knocked back three shots without blinking. But he had been so quiet all night. You wondered if this was normal for him. 

When it was your turn, you found yourself blurting it out before thinking:

“Never have I ever… felt like I belonged on a team.”

The room went still for a beat too long.

Everyone drank, except you.

Yelena bumped your arm. “That’s because you haven’t had us yet. These guys aren’t just team mates, they’re family. And we hope that, now you join us, you'll feel the same.”

You smiled. A little. But your fingers tightened around your glass.

You wanted to believe her.

And as your eyes flicked across the room—to the quiet kindness in Sam’s, to the electric weight of Bucky’s—you wondered if, for once, you finally might.

The chaos had dulled. Yelena had passed out sideways on the couch, her braid tangled in a takeout box. Ava and Alexei disappeared an hour ago—something about a chessboard and bad Russian soap operas. Bob wandered off humming a lullaby in a different language.

Sam was at the door, pulling on his jacket while Joaquin tried to find both his shoes.

“I told you to keep them on,” Sam muttered, exasperated.

“They were cramping my style,” Joaquin replied, wobbling dramatically with one sock on. “Besides, Yelena dared me to do a split.”

Sam gave you a look like this is my life now.

You grinned, maybe a little dazed, leaning back against the counter in the kitchen. The vodka had crept up on you with slow fingers, leaving your limbs warm and your thoughts fuzzy around the edges. You weren’t drunk, but you were hovering somewhere on the ledge between honesty and recklessness.

“You good?” Sam asked softly, his voice low so the others wouldn’t hear.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just need to cool off. And maybe drink a gallon of water.”

Sam gave your shoulder a squeeze, lingering just a second longer than necessary. “Don’t disappear tonight.”

You blinked. “I won’t.”

“Good,” he said, but his eyes lingered, warm and heavy. Like he was seeing more than you wanted him to. “Call me if you need anything. You know that, right?”

You nodded again, trying to pretend you didn’t feel the heat of his hand even after he let go.

Joaquin blew you a kiss on his way out. “Don’t let the assassin bite.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re thinking of Yelena.”

“Same energy,” he called, already halfway out the door.

The apartment fell quiet.

And then you realized you weren’t alone.

You turned — and found him there.

Bucky Barnes.

Leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

You stiffened.

Of course he’d be the last one standing.

The buzz of alcohol still coursed through you, making everything feel a little lighter, a little less sharp. You weren’t sure if it was the drink or the chaotic energy of the night, but your mind had begun to drift in and out of clarity.

You slid off the counter, intending to steady yourself, but the room suddenly tilted, and you stumbled forward, your feet tangled up in the wayward stretch of your own legs.

Before you could hit the ground, there was a hand on your arm, warm and steady. Then another, pulling you back up with an ease that made your stomach flip. His chest was hard beneath your palm, his muscles flexing as he adjusted his grip, the heat of his body surrounding you like a wall.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you instinctively pressed your hand a little firmer against him, your fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt, feeling the warmth and strength underneath. He smelled like soap, leather, and something faintly metallic — unmistakable.

You slowly looked up, meeting his eyes, and for a split second, you forgot where you were. The intensity of his gaze—blues that seemed to see right through you—made your heart flutter uncomfortably. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t look away.

"Got you," he muttered, steadying you, his voice low.

You swallowed, suddenly aware of how close you were to him. How alive you felt in the space between you.

There was a moment of stillness. A breath.

"Are you... reading my aura?" he asked, his voice quieter now, though it carried a hint of teasing.

You tilted your head, eyes locking onto him, your lips parting slightly. "No, I'm just looking at you."

The words came out before you could stop them, and immediately, the flush of heat spread across your face. You couldn’t take your eyes off him. The way his muscles moved beneath his shirt when he adjusted his hold, how his eyes flickered for a second—soft, startled. Almost shy.

And then, just like that, you saw it. The faintest blush creeping up his neck. His cheeks flushed a soft pink, and for the first time tonight, he seemed... off-balance. The man who had walked into every room like he owned it, now suddenly unsure of himself. It felt like power. Like control slipping through his fingers.

You couldn’t help but smirk at that, though your head spun slightly, making it harder to focus.

"Didn't mean to make you self-conscious," you said, your voice a little slurred.

Bucky laughed softly, shaking his head. "No... you didn’t. Just... wasn't expecting that."

You both stood there for a beat, caught in the weird energy hanging between you. He still hadn’t let go, though you didn’t know if it was because you were still too wobbly to stand or because he was hesitant to break the tension. Either way, you didn’t pull away. The air felt thick, charged, and you could sense it—there was something about him that made you feel like you were about to do something you weren’t quite ready for.

But then, in a sudden shift, Bucky cleared his throat, letting go of your arm but standing close enough that you could still feel the heat radiating from him.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped forward, opened the fridge, and pulled out a cold bottle of water. He held it out to you without a word.

You eyed it like it might explode.

“I’m not gonna poison you,” he said flatly.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Reluctantly, you took the bottle from his hand. Your fingers brushed his glove. Static popped between your skin. You pulled back too fast.

“Thanks,” you muttered.

Bucky didn’t move. He just watched you twist the cap, take a long sip, and then wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. You could feel his eyes on you. Focused. Cautious.

Like he was trying to piece you together.

“I guess tonight we learned that you shouldn’t mix vodka and Chinese food,” he murmured.

“Smartass. I’m fine. You sound like an Avenger,” you shot back. You weren’t even sure what you meant by that, or where the relevance was. Maybe you were also reminding yourself that you were an Avenger now, too.

“I am one.” He deadpanned.

“Yeah. Unfortunately.” You sighed.

He flinched—just a flicker of something in his jaw, something regretful—but didn’t fight you on it.

“You still hate me,” he said.

You looked away. “I haven’t decided.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

The silence stretched, soft and brittle.

You hated how nice the water felt. How steady he was, even when you didn’t want to trust him. He hadn’t tried anything. He hadn’t said anything clever or smug. Just… stood there. Let you exist in your tired, tipsy state without pushing.

“I can get you a cab,” he offered after a moment. “Or you can crash here. We’ve got spare rooms.”

“Why are you being so—” you stopped. Swallowed. “Why are you trying to take care of me?”

He held your gaze. “I just… I don’t know,” he looked away. “We’re family now. And family takes care of each other.”

Your throat tightened.

You wanted to say something cruel. Wanted to twist the knife, remind him of your brother, of what he did.

But the words wouldn’t come.

Because you didn’t feel like spiralling tonight.

Not when he looked at you like that.

Bucky hadn’t moved. You were still clutching the cold water bottle like it was a lifeline, and for once, he didn’t feel like a threat. Just a quiet presence, filling the silence without demanding anything from you.

You hated how easy it was to let your shoulders relax around him.

“I guess I’m just not used to this,” you muttered.

He tilted his head slightly. “Used to what?”

“Someone… noticing,” you said, voice low, almost embarrassed.

His blue eyes softened.

“I don’t need it, by the way,” you added quickly. “I’ve been fine on my own.”

Unlike Sam, Bucky didn’t contradict you. Didn’t say that doesn’t sound fine.

He just stayed quiet.

You didn’t look at him when you spoke again. “You’re not what I expected.”

He raised a brow. “Cold-blooded killer with a vibranium arm and a brooding attitude?”

“That’s not… entirely wrong,” you smirked faintly, despite yourself. “But you’re less of an asshole than I imagined.”

He chuckled, just once. A real one, deep and unexpected. “High praise.”

You took another drink of your water. Bucky watched. “What kind of name is Bucky, anyway? It’s kind of dumb.”

“My name is James,” He revealed, and something in you shifted at the revelation. A sliver of his personal life. “My sister was called Rebecca, and we called her Becky. My middle name is Buchanan, so my folks called me Bucky. Becky and Bucky.”

You felt your heart stop in your chest. “You have a sister?”

“Had,” Bucky corrected. “Being 111 years old means I don’t really have much family left.”

“Oh," Ditto. "So you’re really old. Like, older than my grandpa…”

Bucky frowned. 

“Do super soldiers die?” You pondered out loud.

“Yeah, sometimes.”

“How does one kill a super soldier?” You giggled through the water bottle, enjoying the sudden confidence that the alcohol had instilled in you.

“You’ve had way too much vodka,” Bucky huffed under his breath, extending his hand and having it hover over your shoulder, like he was afraid to touch you.

“No, no no no, trust me, if I were sober I’d be asking the same questions.” You laughed harder this time. Bucky stood there, watching you, confused, but then he finally let his hand rest upon you, and you let out a sigh you didn’t know you were holding in. 

"Come on," he said, a little more briskly, though his voice had the same softness as before. "Let's get you to bed. You need water."

You blinked, still a little dizzy, but nodded. "I’m fine," you protested, but the words felt like they slipped out half-heartedly.

He raised an eyebrow. "Sure you are."

The two of you walked quietly back into the living room, but you didn’t miss the way his hand floated just a little too close to your back, as though it might reach out again if you needed it.

But you didn’t need it. Or did you?

You weren’t sure.

You followed him down the corridor. The tower was dim, most of the lights on a motion sensor timer. You could still hear someone’s snores echoing faintly—probably Alexei, given the volume.

He stopped at a door and opened it for you. The room was surprisingly cozy. Not lavish, just… calm. A bed with fresh sheets, folded blankets, and a little chair by the window. It felt untouched, like it was waiting for you.

You stepped inside, but before you could say goodnight, Bucky’s voice followed you.

“Training starts at six.”

You turned, narrowing your eyes. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious,” he said. “You want to stay on the team, you train with me. Early.”

You groaned, already regretting everything.

“Water’s on the nightstand,” he added, nodding toward it. “And Tylenol in the drawer. You’re gonna want it.”

You didn’t thank him. Not out loud.

But you lingered in the doorway.

“Why are you like this?” you asked, quieter than before.

He looked at you, confused. “Like what?”

“Careful. Thoughtful. Like you’re trying to be better.”

He paused for a long time.

“Because I have to be,” he said. “If I’m not, then I’m just him again.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t have to ask who him was.

He turned to leave, but then hesitated.

“I see the way Sam looks at you,” he said, voice tight. “It’s not just a teammate thing.”

You blinked. That was the last thing you expected him to say.

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Sam looks at everyone like that.”

“No,” Bucky said. “He doesn’t.”

You didn’t answer. Just stepped into the room and let the door click shut between you.

But even after you lay down, curled into the strange sheets and tried to close your eyes, you could still feel Bucky’s voice in the room with you.

And the strange, unwelcome comfort that came with it.

Bucky closed the door to his own room with a quiet click.

He leaned back against it, exhaled slowly, and raked a hand through his hair. The dim light from the hallway disappeared under the seam of the door, and for a moment, he stood there in silence. Listening. Thinking.

You.

God, you were loud in his head.

He moved across the room, sat on the edge of the bed like he was waiting for something to pass—some thought, some feeling—but it didn’t. It just kept building.

The way your lips had curled, tired but amused, when he’d handed you that bottle of water. That small smile like it wasn’t supposed to be there.

The way you looked tonight—dressed in soft cotton and drunk warmth, all fire and fight and something almost tender.

You had a sharp tongue. You didn’t hide your disdain for him. In fact, you wore it like perfume—thick and impossible to ignore.

But he saw the way your expression faltered when you thought no one was looking. The heaviness behind your posture. The moments where you softened, briefly, like you didn’t know how to hold it together anymore.

And your eyes—those damn eyes. Always reading. Always pulling more out of him than he gave.

He hated that.

He hated how much he noticed you. Hated how it pulled something out of him he didn’t have a name for.

You hated him. You should hate him.

And maybe that’s what made it worse. That he knew he didn’t deserve anything else.

But still…

Still, when he closed his eyes, it was your face he saw.

The tilt of your head. The sliver of skin at your collarbone. The sound of your laugh—rare, unpredictable.

He sat back on the bed and dragged a hand down his face.

“This is stupid,” he muttered to himself.

Feelings were messy. Dangerous. They clouded judgment. He didn’t want to want anything—not peace, not forgiveness, and definitely not you.

But wanting had a way of sneaking in. Quiet and slow and relentless.

He lay back on the bed, arm draped over his eyes, heart beating too loud in the stillness.

Tomorrow, he’d train you. Tomorrow, he’d look at you and pretend none of this mattered.

But tonight… he couldn’t stop thinking about the way you felt when you stumbled into his chest.

So, so stupid.

You hated him, and he hated you.

Or, he hated being hated by you.

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world

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[st4ytiny]

Trophy Wife Seonghwa

Warnings - Selfindulgent, Sub idol, male reader, messy messy sex. Unprotected? (wrap it even if its a bro), choking? feelings of ownership, lingerie, blurred sub/dom dynamics, male wife seonghwa, unrealistically filthy rich reader. High heel kink? leg kink mention? i don't know honestly, Unapologetic ass eating / rimming, Dirty talk is not my stongsuit but i think i did it well? spare me. please don't throw rocks through my window. mentioned cum eating? (seonghwa deserves to taste himself), lack of dialogue.

Words: 4135

Parts: 1 / 2 / 3? maybe

You click your tongue as your callused hands fold into your lap, admiring the new diamond necklace you had gotten your pretty husband.

"Should've gone with rubies instead" You pout, sarcastically as a shiver ran down Seonghwa's spine. Trailing right to his cock. he looked up at you before you grabbed his upper arm, getting him to his feet again. Slowly standing up, chest to chest as you back him towards the velvet couch. His heart pounded in his ears as his calves hit the edge, sitting slowly down.

"Pretty things should be held still"

He nodded, lips parted as his eyes widened. Shifting his weight to his elbows as he leaned back, lifting those trembling long legs into the air, ankles crossed over one another.

Your hands closed around his ankles, firm and unyielding, fingers curling with a slow possessiveness that made the thin skin there feel fragile under your rings, as if you could snap him in two just by deciding to squeeze a little harder.

Seonghwa, who was trembling and flushed, let out a breath that quivered on his lips, his legs lifting higher in your grip until the red soles of his heels flashed toward the ceiling, obscene and glinting like he was some precious little thing made for display and nothing more.

His thighs shivered as the garters tugged tighter, the lace stretched so thin it bit against his skin, and every tremble made the delicate gold chain around his throat shift just enough to catch the low light, a cruel reminder of who put it there and why..

And you didn’t say a word as you dragged your hungry gaze over him, slow and heavy, letting him squirm while you drank in the sight of his body fighting to stay open, stretched, obedient under your hands even as his breath came faster and more broken with every second that passed.

The air in the room was thick, heavy with the bite of expensive whiskey and the lingering smoke from your half-finished cigarette, curling in lazy tendrils that made Seonghwa’s head swim as he struggled to breathe through the weight of your stare and the chain around his neck — and when you finally spoke, your voice was rough, dragging along his skin like sand, each word slow enough to make his stomach twist tight as he choked on another soft, helpless little sound that only made you smile in that dark, thin way that meant you weren’t anywhere near where you wanted him.

"Need to get my doll a new pair of Louboutins, the red is scratching away." you rasped, the words thick and almost lazy, like this entire display was barely worth your effort, like he was failing to meet your standards even as he shook in your grip, heels wobbling in the air while your thumbs pressed into the delicate bones at his ankles just hard enough to remind him that he wasn’t going anywhere until you allowed it — and your eyes, cold and sharp despite the warmth of the liquor, dragged lower, drinking in the way his body strained against the lace, already damp where it clung too tight. Your lips curl into a smirk as his stomach caves in a bit, trying to catch a breath desperately. almost like he was afraid to catch it. afraid he'd break, flinch.. lose his composure.

Your grip softened, slow and deliberate, as you guided Seonghwa's trembling legs down from the air. The sharp angle eased, ankles uncrossing as Seonghwa let out a breath of relief, his hips untightening. The lace is not digging into his soft skin like daggers anymore.

Your lips found the top of his foot first. Feather-light kiss pressed against skin that still quivered under your breath. Another kiss, his ankle, then up to his calf, sideof his knee. And lastly up to his thigh, where the lace garter stretched thin and left a faint mark.

Seonghwa's chest lifted in a shallow gasp, his nails digging weakly into the velvet beneath him like he didn’t know whether to pull away or melt entirely. His thighs shifted, unsteady, as if they didn’t trust themselves to hold still under your mouth.

You knelt down slowly, smoothly. Like a king lowering before an offering— your hands trailing down the backs of his legs, savoring every tremor, every little flinch he couldn’t quite suppress.

You hum, voice low but edged with something warmer now, like admiration wrapped in smoke. Your lips brushed along the sharp line of his knee, your nose grazing the faint imprint of lace against his skin.

"Too pretty to even breathe right now, aren’t you?"

His answer came only in the soft, broken sound he tried to swallow, his head tipping back against the couch cushions as his throat worked around nothing.

Your hands slid up, palms broad and steady, flattening against the outside of his thighs, grounding him, claiming him. Your eyes never left his face as you leaned in closer, drinking in the sight of him trying so hard to hold himself together while every inch of him betrayed the effort.

And when your mouth found the inside of his thigh, soft and lingering, Seonghwa shivered so hard his heels scuffed against the couch. His breath hitched.

Your warm lips gently sucking red spots that'd disappear within the next day or so. His thighs tremble as you lower each leg on your shoulders. Looking up at him with sharp eyes. Seonghwa was unable to hold the heavy weight of your hungry eyes and his hips buck involuntarily.

"Look at you," you murmured, voice low and thick like smoke curling in the heavy air.

"Shaking like you’re scared, but you’re still holding still for me. That’s sweet."

Seonghwa’s breath hitched, his lashes fluttering as he struggled to meet your eyes. His voice, when it came, was barely there. Breathless and cracked.

"I—I'm not... scared."

Your lips quirked into a slow, teasing smile against his skin. "No? Then why’re your legs trembling every time I so much as breathe on you?"

His fingers flexed against the couch cushions, desperate for something to anchor him. "It’s—just... you’re-" He broke off with a soft, helpless sound when your hands slid higher, spreading warmth and pressure in their wake.

"Too much for you?" you teased, voice dropping lower as you kissed the inside of his thigh, slow and deliberate. "Even when I haven’t done anything yet? Poor thing. So sensitive."

Seonghwa’s throat worked around a swallow, his voice tight and strained. "I can—take it."

You chuckled softly, dark amusement lacing every word. "Oh, I know you can. Pretty things like you are made to take it. Made to be looked at. Touched. Kissed.. Savored" Your teeth grazed lightly against his skin, making him jolt. "Made to tremble for me."

His hands flew up to cover his face, trying to hide the wrecked little sound that escaped him. But you only laughed again, warm and low, as you caught a glimpse of his embarrassed smile.

"Don’t hide," you said, tilting your head to catch his wide, dark eyes with yours. "I want to see every little reaction you give me. Every shiver, every breath, every time that stubborn mind cracks a little more."

Seonghwa’s lips parted in a soft gasp, his chest heaving as he tried to gather himself — but the way his body trembled beneath your hands betrayed him all over again. Your smile softened, but your grip stayed firm. "There he is. That’s my pretty thing."

He whimpered as your long fingers caught onto the thin straps of the garters as you snapped the tiny silver clasp open. You moved on to peel his lacy panties down his long legs. Despite removing his panties, the heels stayed on. They always did. Pretty dolls like him should always be dressed up.

Seonghwa moved so his hips were angled a bit to the side. One leg falling from your shoulder so he could spread himself more open. His scent consumes your mind before darting your tongue out, slowly licking a stripe from his hole to his perineum. Eyes closing as you pressed the pad of your tongue against him. He shuddered, chest stuttering as heat bloomed low and hot, his body giving itself away with every tremble, every soft gasp that slipped from bitten lips no matter how hard he tried to hold them back. The electrifying feeling of excitement shooting through his body. Precum is already pearling at his tip. A groan rips from your throat, low and guttral as your mouth coaxes him open, slow and relentless, until he is trembling under the weight of your attention, moving a finger up to slowly add to the messy mix. Slow, circling, teasing touches that never pushed too hard. Delicious moans and whimpers fall from Seonghwa’s raw bitten lips. Head bobbing back and forth as he tried shaking his mind away from falling apart.

His thighs strained against your shoulders, torn between pulling away and pressing closer, as you licked deeper, slow and deliberate, tasting every inch like you meant to leave him wrecked just from this alone. His hips bucked involuntarily again, as his eyes glazed over your body, between his legs like this. Teeth sinking into his bottom lips, muffling a needier whimper as you coaxed your middle finger slowly into him. Tongue moving at a pace that would make him go crazy but still keep himself grounded. 

“So fucking pretty.. Hwa you’re a fucking star” 

The words stained his skin like stubborn stage paint and he gasps, nodding weakly in response as his stomach caved in before he exhaled a long whimper. Impatient and desperate for you to stop treating him like he’s a delicate porcelain doll. Hips roll against your touch needily sucking your finger deeper. A chuckle rips from your throat as your tongue grows more impatient and you pull your finger slowly out before poking at his entrance with an addition. 

Seonghwa’s body fought the pleasure, his legs shaking under the force of it, but you held him steady, the tension building in every inch of him. The soft moans he tried to suppress only made the air thicken with desperation. His body betrayed him, hips rolling forward, wanting more, unable to stop. The yearning for your body against his grew with every sinful flick of your tongue, chuckling against his sensitive hole as his thighs trembled.

He pulled away slightly, but you followed, your free hand gripping his soft thigh harder, faint nail marks blooming on his skin, leaving a trail of sinful heat behind. His body shook in response. 

“I want you so bad. Fuck ever since I saw the way you rolled your hips against that fucking chair, pushing your fingers into your mouth like a touch starved slut. You knew I was watching you tonight huh?”

The words hung in the air with an eerie silence and Seonghwa almost mewled in response. 

“No I.. I didn’t know”

Good for you, that Seonghwa’s weakest card would always be the fact that he could never lie to your face. A bitter laugh pushed out of your chest as your fingers pumped slowly in and out of him. Just when he thought he’d break, you’d pull them back out. The push back in was what almost knocked the wind out of his lungs and god.. When you’d scissor them slowly, teasingly.. His eyes rolled back into his skull. Unsure if they’d ever return as he moaned. The air thickened, swirling between the smell of whiskey, sweat, cigarettes and uncurated sexual tension. You wanted to take it slow, fuck you really did. Wanting to savour your pretty wife like a nicely aged wine but he was making it impossible with those tiny needy sounds. Pulling your fingers from his fluttering hole as you let your eyes drift over him, savoring every inch, the flush in his cheeks, the tremble in his limbs, the way his breath catches each time you touch him. 

“Let me make this easier,” you murmur, your voice thick with desire but still gentle. He nods, unsure but trusting. You can see it in the way his lips part in soft anticipation.

With a slow movement, you reach over to the coffee table, hand threading between luxurious boxes for the bottle of lube. The sound is small, almost quiet in the heavy air as you open the cap. Your eyes flick back to his face, watching as he swallows hard, trying to stay composed.

You squeeze the lube onto your fingers, the coolness a sharp contrast against the warmth of your skin. You glide it over him with deliberate care, feeling the slickness spread, your touch smooth but continuously grows needier.. You can feel his body shift beneath your hands, and you know he's trying to hold himself together, but there's no denying the way his body melts under your touch, giving into the sensation.

“You’re doing good,” you murmur, the words almost a whisper, but they hang heavy between you. Getting up from the cool marble floor as you helped him manoeuvre his body to lay more comfortably against the couch. Taking a pillow to put under his hips. Your lube slicked hand fell to your own belt buckle as you undid it swiftly, not bothering to get completely naked as you pushed the expensive fabric down your thighs. Hand fiddling with the waistband of your boxers. Seonghwa gasps as his body twitches in neediness. His gaze running over your body like you’re the most delicious meal to ever be plated. 

You push your underwear down to let your swollen cock free, tip slapping against your abdomen softly as you run your hand over it, slicking what's left of the lube on your hand, over it. 

Looking down at Seonghwa almost makes your patience crumble. Eyebrows furrowed, needy hungry eyes.. The bralette of the expensive lingerie.. The strap that had fallen off his shoulder. Your tip hovers at his entrance, just teasing the edge, and for a moment, everything is still. You feel his body tense, then give in as he exhales a shaky breath. It’s the softest of movements. Just the barest of pressure, but it’s enough to make your heart race. You push forward, slowly, testing the waters, but the look on his face, that need in his eyes, makes you want to break every last inch of restraint

“Don’t hesitate.. I want you (Name)” 

Seonghwa reassures as he leaned a bit to grasp your other hand. The tension in the room crackled. A live fire that had only gotten stronger for all the years you two had spent together. Discovering each other. You breathe deeply as your eyes slant a bit, pushing the tip inside slowly. His back arches in response, immediately as a whimper gets pushed out of him, ringing off the marble walls of the hotel suite. Heat pools in both your stomachs as you slowly push more inside, taking small breaks to let Seonghwa’s body catch up.

But – the softness quickly rots and falls away as he has adjusted to your length and catches his breath. The faintest nod and you've got your confirmation to move, and you do. Slow, torturous before the glass overfills and you end up tangled together. Limbs moving and stretching, hands clawing at each other. Seonghwa’s begging;

“More—more, I can take it, I swear—”

Or

“Yes, yes, fuck—don’t you fucking dare slow down—”

Seonghwa manages to get his hands to claw up your back, no doubt that he's leaving marks even through your button up shirt. Your hands trail up his legs as you hook one over your shoulder, stilling for a moment as you angle deeper. Your hips lose all their rhythm as pure instinct takes over and the only thing filling the air is desperate sounds of skin slapping skin, needy words and guttural groans.

The pace is almost brutal, seonghwa’s body trembling on the edge of giving into the sweet release knocking at his door. But not without permission first. Of course, he might be deranged but he wasn’t ever misbehaving.

“I can’t hold it—I can’t—I need to cum… please say yes !—”

Begs rolled off his lips like it was the most natural thing and you groaned as you grabbed his chin before putting your hand back in its place on his waist. Shaking your head, coming to your senses a bit.

“Look at me when you ask”

His breath stutters, chest heaving as his wide, tear-glossed eyes snap up to meet yours, obedient even through the wrecked haze and undeniable frustration.

A raw whimper breaks out, voice cracking, as his hips jerk helplessly but he forces his gaze up like he’s clinging to the last rule keeping him grounded. His lip wobbles, bitten and swollen, and he lets out a shattered moan, tears finally slipping down flushed cheeks as he obeys without thinking. His whole body trembles, thighs quaking, but he nods through the tears, voice hoarse. 

“Please… please, I’m looking—please let me—”

He chokes on a sob, shoulders shaking as his hands claw at the couch or at your waist — desperate for grounding but still trying to behave. His eyes flutter like they want to roll back again, but he fights to keep them locked on yours, lips parting as another broken plea spills out: 

“(Name) please.. Feels like i'm gonna— break”

Your head falls back as your hips stutter despite your efforts to keep your orgasm at bay, teeth sinking into your lip as you curse, hips stuttering. Nobody ever said having such a pretty sub made being dominant so hard. You nod, finally.

“Fuck! Okay.. ! Yes.. you’re allowed..!” 

Pushing deep as ropes of hot cum filled him whilst making a mess all over himself. Grateful and incoherent thank you’s left his plump lips. Chest heaving with pleasure as you leaned down, letting his leg down from your shoulder. Both of your bodies twitching as the high got ridden out slowly. You kissed his lips for the first time tonight, messily and uncoordinated as you slowly pulled out of him. His body jolts when you fully leave him, overstimulated and empty, and he gasps against your mouth.

You shush him softly, cradling his face as you kiss him again, slower this time, lips lingering.

“So pretty for me. You’re all safe sweet boy”

Tucking yourself into your boxers, messily as you got up on shaky legs, scooping up his fur coat as you wrapped him up in it. Pulling his almost limp body into your strong arms as you carried him to the bathroom. You kiss his temple as you set him down, his legs still trembling where they dangle off the edge of the counter. His eyes are half-lidded, dazed and flushed, but he leans into your touch when your fingers brush his damp hair back from his face.

“You did so good, baby,” you murmur, voice low and soothing now, a stark contrast to the rough pace from before. Your hands don’t stop moving — one stroking down his arm, the other turning the faucet until the water warms just right.

Seonghwa shivers, not from cold but from aftershocks still rippling through him, and you’re already unwrapping the heavy coat from his shoulders, careful not to make him feel too bare too fast. The tub starts to fill, steam curling in the air, and you glance back at him — still watching you with that soft, floaty look, like he’s too tired to speak but too needy to look away. Your chest squeezes at the sight as you undid the hooks of the lingerie, sliding it softly off him like he’s delicate.

“You with me?” you ask, thumb brushing the hollow of his cheek. He nods, small and sweet, and your heart just crumbles.

“Good. Gonna clean you up now, yeah? Then we’ll go back to bed.”

The water ripples as you help him gently ease into the warm bath, his breath shallow. He sinks into the water with a small sigh, leaning back against the edge of the tub, his head tilting to rest against the porcelain. Feet on the opposite side, beside where you leaned. Sliding a hand from his knee and to his inner thigh. Massaging his tense muscles from being held up for so long. His skin is soft under the gentle pressure of your touch.

You leave him for a minute and a trail of whimper echoes from the bathroom, chuckling to yourself as you return with a glass of his favorite wine and a glass of whiskey for yourself.

The air smells like the warmth of the bath and the delicate scent of warm vanilla from the bubbles. Seonghwa looks up at you, eyes half-lidded. Lips parted slightly, an exhausted yet content expression across his face. You hand him the wine glass, careful not to spill a drop, as he takes it from you with a quiet murmur of thanks. He swirls the liquid gently before taking a sip, his eyes fluttering closed at the familiar taste.

You sit beside the tub, your whiskey in hand, leaning against the cool tiles as you watch him slowly relax into the bath. The rhythmic sound of water lapping against the sides of the tub fills the silence, and the faint sound of his soft breathing calms your own.

His fingers play with the stem of his wine glass as you trace small patterns over his frame with your eyes, appreciating the vulnerable beauty of him in this moment—softer, quieter, and yet still so alluring. You reach out again, your fingers gliding over the curve of his shoulder before slipping back down to his thigh, tracing the muscles there with a slow, deliberate touch.

Seonghwa hums, leaning into your touch, his lips curling into the faintest smile as he exhales deeply. “I didn’t expect to feel this... calm,” he murmurs, voice still hoarse but filled with a gentle warmth. He takes another sip of wine, his eyes not leaving yours.

“What husband would I be if I didn’t take care of you?” you reply softly, your voice barely above a whisper, but it feels louder in the stillness of the room. You sip your whiskey, the smooth burn warming your chest as you set the glass down beside the tub.

“True,” he lets out a breathy laugh, his voice a little more steady now. “I love you... so much.”

You smile, feeling the weight of those words settle in your chest. With a tender motion, you run your fingers over the necklace you put on him earlier.

"Just relax. No rush. You’ve got all the time you need," you murmur, feeling your own body relax into the moment. “And we both know I love you way more”

Seonghwa closes his eyes, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he sinks further into the warm water, his body melting under your touch. The tension from earlier is fading, replaced by the warmth of the bath, the softness of your presence, and the quiet bond between you.

“M’ tired (Name)” He mutters as his eyelids grow heavy. The exhaustion kicked him right in the gut. I mean.. The concert? Team dinner? The intimacy he just shared with his husband? 

You reach for the towel nearby and gently dab his face with it, your thumb brushing over his lips as you lean in to kiss him softly, a contrast to the heat and intensity that just moments ago filled the room.

Seonghwa melts into the kiss, his hands finding purchase on your shoulders, fingers digging lightly into your skin as if he needs you to hold him, keep him close.

“Let’s get you dry, alright?” you murmur. He nods softly, and you help him stand, your arms supporting him carefully as you wrap him in a soft towel and guide him to the plush bathrobe you had already laid out for him.

You hold him close, letting him lean against you as you lead him back to the bed. Scent of alcohol and sex lingering as you pushed a window open, Getting yourself out of the uncomfortable suit as you got a pair of sweatpants on after quickly wiping yourself down. A bath can wait and you let out a content sigh as you wrap your arms around Seonghwa. Feeling him grow heavier as sleep dragged him in. 

You smile softly, your fingers gently brushing through his hair, your other hand resting lightly against his back, holding him close. The weight of the night presses gently down on you both, but there's a quiet peace here now—a kind of stillness that feels like home.

.

.

.

AN: Idk if i wanna be seonghwa or reader rn. bro i kinda made yself horny writing this what is happening

Songs I listened to - Birthday by Ten, Tutti i miei sbagli by Subsonica, Guilty by TAEMIN, Chained up by VIXX, Danger by TAEMIN, Tempo & Lotto & Artificial lover by EXO, Ride or die & mr rover & amnesia by KAI, tongue tied - KEY

[pome-seed]

The Soldier's Keeper ★ 38

Pairing: Winter Soldier!Bucky x Doctor!Reader

Summary: After last night, you didn't things could get any crazier. But then news comes from the outside world, and you're left to busy yourself before you spiral.

Word Count: 5.5k

Warnings: Mention of intimacy. Horses. Psychological evaluations. Fluff. Bucky is scared. 18+ Minors Do Not Interact.

18+ blog, Minors Do Not Interact.

Authors Note: My new keyboard sounds so cool when typing, so this ones a little long.... ALSO, if you want to be apart of the taglist, let me know :)

Series Masterlist Next Chapter

You woke to the sound of windchimes. Carved carefully and hung in the trees that bordered your clearing. As you blinked through the morning haze, you realized you couldn’t remember falling asleep. 

You shifted, looking down at the blanket tucked over your barely clothed body. Memories of the night before hit you like a tidal wave, sweeping you under. Your breath hitched in your chest as you remembered Bucky’s lips on yours. Your fingers absently brushed your mouth, replicating the feeling. 

A soft clicking in the room drew your attention. When you turned, you found Bucky sitting on the floor, back against the wall, watching you.

You let out a less than dignified gasp, your fist curling tighter around the blanket. 

Tortured blue eyes met yours.

“Morning,” you whispered, your voice cracking. 

He stared at you with a pinch in his brow, his swollen lip tucked between his teeth. He stayed silent, his own mind dragging him beneath the surface of his thoughts. 

You slowly pushed up to sit, not missing the way Bucky’s gaze flickered to your bra when the cover slipped. You tugged it back up, a flush spreading across your skin. He watched you in anguished thought, hesitation and guilt heavy in his expression. 

You frowned to yourself and slid off the bed. You pulled the blanket down with you. Bucky visibly flinched when you joined him to sit on the floor. Dark shadows beneath his eyes exposed the fact that he spent most of the night in restless thought. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice rocky, weighted by shameful guilt.

Your frown shifted to something like shock. “What?” You tried not to flinch. Bucky noticed. His metal fist curled tight, where his arms were thrown over his knees. Metal plates shifted, clicking softly.

You sighed, your arms hugging your torso. “Don’t be,” you quietly begged. “Please.”

Something inside him urged him to hide from the intensity of your kind stare. From the unashamed way you looked at him. His stomach twisted with something scalding and raw, spreading through his veins like a poison.

It didn’t take you long to realise he felt guilty. Maybe even regretful. You tried not to focus on the sting that followed. “It’s okay,” you tried to steady your voice. A shiver traveled down Bucky’s spine. 

You refused to notice the goosebumps that trailed down his bare chest. 

“Bucky,” you tilted your head, urging him to look you in the eye. He hadn’t even realised he was hiding from you. He glanced up at you through dark lashes. “It’s okay,” your lips tugged into a gentle smile. “We don’t-” you paused. 

His pink lips tugged into a frown. 

“Nothing has to change.” You insisted. “We don’t have to talk about it, if you’re not ready.”

As much as it burned to say, you meant it. The last thing you ever wanted was to make Bucky feel uncomfortable, or rushed. He was barely recovering. You should have known better. “We can pretend-”

But the stricken expression that flashed across his face said different. He straightened, like your words caused physical pain. “That’s not-” He stopped himself, calming his urgent tone. “I don’t regret it.” He whispered, plates in his bionic arm shifting as his whole body grew tight. “I don’t.”

His words eased some of the sting. You relaxed, even just a fraction. “Okay.” Your lips pressed together in a thin line. 

“I don’t,” he repeated, insistent, as if afraid you might not believe him. His hands slowly fell into his lap. “I just-” He turned his head to the side. “It’s been a long time.”

You nodded thoughtfully, swallowing his words, and every tender meaning they held. “That’s okay,” you whispered, inching forward until your knees bumped his legs. “It’s okay.”

From up close, it almost looked like he was still trembling. 

“I…” he glanced back at you, his posture sagging with you so close. Those aching blue eyes bore into yours, unspoken words swirling in the shadows. “I don’t know how to do this.”

His whispered confession struck you like cold water sliding off your skin. You paused, trying not to focus on the weak tone of his voice. You said it last night, this was all so new. 

It was new and raw and terrifyingly pure.

Neither of you knew how to navigate the all consuming emotions that swelled between you.

“Me neither,” you huffed, a smile tugging at your lips. “Bucky, I don’t know how to do anything that involves you.” You picked at the frayed threads of the blanket. 

The confession left you feeling naked, but the truth of it was burning. From the moment you met Bucky, something inside you shifted. At first, you couldn’t tell what it was, or what it meant. You were too focused on fighting to survive. But after that, alone in Romania with him, you were given quiet moments to feel it. 

That safety. That beauty. That warmth.

“But I don’t want to stop,” You whispered.

Bucky’s breath stuck in his chest, his lungs struggling to expand. “Yeah?”

You nodded earnestly. “Yeah.” You could almost laugh. You carefully reached forward and slid your hand in his. His rough palm felt warm in yours. He shivered, his fingers twitching against your skin.  

“I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen,” he whispered, staring at the way your thumb brushed a scar on his knuckles.

“Then we won’t.” 

“I don’t want to ruin this.” His voice was barely a wavering wisp, hesitant and scared. 

“You won’t,” You insisted, squeezing his hand. “Bucky, I meant what I said. Nothing has to change- not till you're ready. We’ll do what we’ve done with everything else, okay? We’ll figure it out together.” His tortured blue eyes lifted to yours. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Your soft smile made his chest constrict, that warm feeling twisting in his stomach. His cool metal fingers brushed the curve of your cheek, dragging along your jaw. 

“You’re not gonna scare me off,” you whispered, leaning into his touch. “You’re not gonna break me.”

“Promise?” He slid his fingers into your hair, his palm curving around your nape. 

“I promise.” You urged. 

Bucky released a trembling breath, his restraint wearing thin. His hands slid around you, pulling you close in a moment of vulnerability. You fell into his hold easily, letting him drag you close. Your knees bumped the floor as you settled in his lap, the blanket a soft pile behind you.

Your face burned hot as you circled your arms around his shoulders. He sucked in a shaky breath, the sound tickling your neck where he dropped his head to your shoulder. Bucky’s rough palm slid down the dip of your waist as you settled on his thighs.

You stroked his hair slowly, fingering through the dark strands. He tugged softly at the locks on the back of your neck, guiding you to look at him as he lifted his head. 

“Say it again,” he whispered, his fragile blue eyes focused on yours.

“I’m not going anywhere,” your thumb brushed over his rough stubble.

The muscles in his jaw fluttered, his brows knit tightly together. He knocked his forehead to yours. He made a rough noise as he guided your lips to his. You gasped into his mouth, shock rippling down your spine. 

This kiss was different from the one before. Last night it was desperate, messy like the need for intimacy was suffocating him and you were his means to breathe.

This was slow, calm, and soft. His stubble dragged across your skin with a delicious burn. His tongue swiped against yours in a tender stroke. He was careful, like he was trying to figure out how to do this.

How to express himself without the need for words that failed him.

You tilted your head, kissing him with a tender drag of your lips. His cold metal fingers slid down your naked waist, holding you close. You felt the plates shift against you.

“Sergeant Barnes!” Shuri’s sing songey voice sliced through the warm intimacy in the hut. Bucky jumped and you pulled back, your wide eyes snapping to the curtain fluttering at the entrance. 

The two of you jumped in heady shock. Bucky’s swollen lips parted, caught on unsaid words. Your gaze snapped to the fluttering curtain that blocked the entrance to the hut.

Bucky swallowed, easily pushing off the ground with you in his arms. You made a confused noise as he set you back on the bed. 

“Sergeant, I have news, are you decent?” The girl called from outside. 

Your face went pale as you reached for the blanket on the floor. Bucky carefully found his pants and yanked them on. “I need a minute,” he choked.

“Is Y/n making breakfast? She should hear this too,” Shuri called as her voice grew distant. She must be visiting your hut, only a few yards away. 

Bucky cringed, looking back at you as he pulled a shirt over his head. You dropped your head onto his pillow with a groan. “She’s-” He paused, his ears stained a soft pink. “One second.” 

He dug through his folded clothes at the end of the bed and pulled out a shirt. You silently took it from him and slipped it on over your head. 

“Ohhh,” Shuri snickered from outside the hut. You could almost hear the smug look on her face. “Take your time, take your time. Fix your hair, and all that. I’ll just wait.” Her accent curled around her words, light and airy with her smothered laughter. 

Your face burned hot as you pulled on the pants Bucky found you. You almost wanted to crawl back under his blanket and ignore Shuri until she left. 

Bucky swallowed, looking down at you. With a warm shade of blush, and a stressed pinch to his brow, he looked familiar. He stared at you like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it. 

He huffed and held the curtain open for you. 

Shuri grinned at you both when you surfaced, her hands folded behind her back as she swayed. “Sorry to interrupt,” she dramatically widened her eyes.

“We weren’t-” Your stomach twisted painfully with something hot.

“Ah, ah, it doesn’t matter. I have news from your friends.” She grinned. 

You glanced at Bucky, your lips curving into a frown. “What news?” Bucky tilted his head.

“The accords have been officially tossed out. Steve’s on his way over, he wants to get started on building the case for your pardon.”

Those words sucked the air from your lungs, relief and fear gripping you like an old friend. It had only been a few weeks since Steve left. It felt like an eternity and a second all at once. The updates about the political turmoil came often, but they were always short and always the same.

There's been progress. Wait till you hear from us again. 

But this? It was actually happening. 

Life could actually return to normal.

Bucky’s wide eyed gaze found yours- something deeper than shock swirling there. Fear. 

Building his case meant he would have to test if the Winter Soldier was really gone. He would have to face the torturous demons that lurked in the back of his mind. 

“It’s okay,” you whispered, your hand shooting out to grab him. To steady him. His fingers shakily wrapped around yours. “It’s okay- this is good.”

“It is,” Shuri repeated, her smug look melting to something more serious. Bucky turned back to her. “We’ll take care of you, Sergeant Barnes.” She smiled softly. “When you’re ready, I’d like to take you up to the lab to get started.”

It felt too fast, too soon. But that’s how everything felt, really. One blink and everything could change. You were slowly learning to accept the never ending flurry of change.

“Okay,” Bucky swallowed, his jaw shifting. “Okay,” he repeated, gathering himself. His hand slipped from yours. “I’ll grab my things.”

Bucky didn’t look back as he left for the city. 

You didn’t know why that hurt you. He never used to linger when he left for treatments. But maybe it was because today was different. Today everything changed. 

You didn’t want to focus on the what ifs. You didn’t want to think about what would happen when he came back. Or what would happen if you had to leave Wakanda. You wanted to focus on savoring the warm feeling in your chest. The sweet air. 

The freedom and safety around you.

So you continued as normal without him. 

Usually, over the past few weeks, you and Bucky spent your days tending to the animals and farm land around you. So you rolled up Bucky’s oversized pants and set to work.

First you gathered your still soaking clothes from the night before and washed them. You then pinned them to the clothesline between trees. 

It was easy to lose yourself in mundane chores. To focus on soapy water and picking fruit, rather than the change shifting around you. Over the past two years, your life was constantly changing and morphing around you. But this change was different. 

It was a shift in the relationship that grew under tender observation. The relationship that you relied on, felt safe in, that kept you sane. 

The finality of it all is what scared you most. What if there's no turning back? What if it's too soon, too raw, too wrong, and you can’t take it back?

You imagined that what scared Bucky most too. 

You didn’t know what his history with romance looked like. You imagined that back when he was a child, it was normal. Asking girls out to dance, flirting at the boardwalk, kisses goodnight.

But after that? You almost didn’t want to wonder. You didn’t want to know what boundaries of his were crossed. What ways he may have been taken advantage of. Maybe it was wrong of you to pursue this at all. 

But then you remembered choice. This was his choice. This was something between you and Bucky alone, that's it. And if he felt ready, if he wanted you, then you would be waiting. 

Eventually you finished your short list of chores and felt useless, so you tugged on Bucky’s old cap and took the short walk to where the local animals lived. You passed a few wandering chickens, who darted at the sight of you, and a stray donkey chewing grass. 

Eventually you found yourself in the large gated area where the village and local horses wandered. You visited there often. You’d never ridden a horse before, but you were always fond of them. 

They were kind, silly creatures. Giant too. 

You dragged a barrel of hay into the gate, the mass heavier than you remembered. There were several ways to set up hay for horse consumption, you learned. Along the fence, there were thick net sacks, all needed to be stuffed with broken up straw.

So you dirtied your hands and filled the bags, walking from one to the next. The beating sun shifted overhead, painting the sky in bright colors.

Along the way, a medium sized dark brown horse trotted up to you. A soft smile spread across your lips at the sight of him. You knew this horse, met him over several trips. He was sweet, and way too lively for his own good.

He always loved nipping at your hair, so you learned to tie it back tight when coming up there. 

“Hi, Aduke,” you snickered when he nosed at your palm. “Missed me?” 

He made a chipper sound, his lips fluttering. 

You pulled a wired brush from your pouch of tools and patted down his side. “Ooh, boy, you’re shedding lots today, huh?” You mutter, scraping the brush down his hide. 

Something you also came to adore about Wakanda was the wildlife. Living in the city, before everything changed, you never got the chance to just socialize with animals like that. 

Aduke bumped you with his snout. You chuckled at the sight of him with the tip of his tongue hanging out. “You’re cute, y’know that?” You itched along his nose. 

He made a snickering noise before snatching the hat from your head. 

“Hey-! No, bad boy,” you gasped, trying to snatch it back from his strong teeth. 

Aduke huffed and danced on his feet, trotting around you. 

“That’s not mine, give it back, jerk,” you groaned, gently smacking the horse's side. You swore the horse was actually laughing at you as he pranced around. “I’m serious-!”

“You giving my stuff to the animals now?” 

You jumped, spinning around with an undignified yelp. Bucky watched you with a raised brow from where he leaned against the fence. “Jesus, Buck- gotta put a bell on you…”

His lips quirked up in a hesitant smile. “What’re you doing?”

You huffed, glancing at Aduke. “I was putting out hay, but he wanted to play.” Aduke slowly trotted up to the fence, huffing in Bucky’s face. 

He turned his head, making a face at the animal's breath. “He’s got pent up energy,” He muttered, patting the horse’s nose. 

Something else you learned in your time caring for the wildlife was Bucky had a way with animals. Much like the village children, innocent life flocked to the man. He was so gentle with them, quiet and careful, but harsh when needed. 

And the horses loved him. 

“How’d it go?” You blinked out of your daze of watching Bucky wrestle his hat from the horse. 

You couldn’t play house forever. 

“It…” Bucky’s throat visibly bobbed as he swallowed his words. “Steve’s been delayed. He’ll be down here tomorrow.” He muttered, scratching behind Aduke’s ear. “Shuri put me through an evaluation.”

“Oh,” you shifted, rubbing your dirty palms together. 

“She’s gonna do another one after we do the test.”

You couldn’t help but frown. The look on Bucky’s face read anxiety in its purest form. You knew how hard this was on him. “When are you doing it?”

He shook his head, long strands of hair falling in his eyes. “I don’t know yet. We’ll see once Steve’s here.” He finally looked up at you now, his gaze shadowed by his furrowed brow. You tried not to notice the way his gaze flickered to your lips, then back. 

Where did you go from there?

Aduke seemed to get the memo about the tension, so he promptly started nipping and tugging at Bucky’s hair. “Shit-” He winced.

You smacked a hand over your mouth, stifling an abrupt laugh. “Glad it’s not just me he does that too.”

Bucky yanked his hair free, then massaged his temple awkwardly. He gently pushed Adukes face away, an exasperated smile on his lips. “He needs to get that energy out, jesus.” He scratched his tender scalp. 

“I could see if someone in the village wants to take him for a ride,” you chuckled, patting your hands against his back in a measured rhythm. 

“Why don’t you?” Bucky lifted an amused brow. 

“I don’t want to break my neck.” You huffed, looking back at Bucky. “Usually you need to know how to ride a horse to ride a horse.”

“I’ll show you,” he rolled his eyes at you, ducking under the fence to stand at your side. 

“You know how to ride a horse?” You tilted your head, taking a few large steps to catch up with him as he started walking. 

“I know how to do a lotta things.” Bucky patted Adukes butt, signalling him to follow. 

“They taught you to ride a horse?” You blanched.

Bucky grimaced and shook his head. “No,” he dusted off his hat. “I learned when I was a kid.” 

“How?” You flinched when Bucky dropped his hat back on your head.

“When I was young, times got tough on my mom, so she sent me to live in a boys home for a summer.” He muttered, fixing the cap over your hair. “Turned out to be on a ranch, so I spent a lotta time with the horses.”

“Ah, so that’s where the farmer dream came from.” You hummed, staring at his profile. He chewed his cheek under your scrutiny. 

“Maybe,” he chuckled. “I did like that ranch. It’s probably still there, actually. Maybe the only thing that is.”

You nodded in thought. Ranches and farms were generational properties. You could imagine the place was still standing, though probably far more modernized. “You should visit, once we leave here.” 

Bucky’s shoulders tensed slightly. He shrugged. “I dunno.”

“I think it could be fun.” You bumped your shoulder to his. He glanced down at you. “I’ll go with you.”

His expression softened visibly, the crease in his brow disappearing. “Maybe.”

“But first you’ll have to teach me how to ride.” You hummed, nodding ahead to the huts in the distance. “Let’s see how much you remember.”

Bucky rolled his eyes as he yanked a saddle off the gate at the edge of the clearing. “Muscle memory, sweetheart.” He settled the seat on Adukes back- who followed you the whole walk. Bucky busied his hands with buckling and securing the saddle. You shamelessly stared at the muscles in his back shift beneath his shirt.

Bucky gave it a weary tug, then nodded to himself when he was satisfied. Bucky grabbed the reins and climbed onto the horse’s back, which was a sight you never thought you’d see. 

“Giving him a test run?” You leaned back against the fence. 

“You don’t wanna break your neck, just making sure he’s good.” Bucky muttered, easily leading the horse into a steady trot. You watched with steadily rising wonder. If you didn’t like Bucky so much, he’d piss you off with how good he was at things. 

Aduke playfully bounced with each step, obviously pleased to be moving about. After a few paces, Bucky directed him back to your side, then slid off. 

“See, muscle memory.” He swallowed, patting the horse’s back. “Ready?”

“Almost definitely not.” You cringed as you stepped closer. You were wearing Bucky’s loose fitted clothes, the wrong shoes, and you were already sweating. This didn’t bode well, but something about the carefree moment made you want to bask in it. 

“Foot in the stirrup,” Bucky slipped his hands onto your hips, helping to lift you onto the saddle. Your stomach twisted as you avoided his gaze. 

Bucky cleared his throat. “Alright, first grab the reins. Loop them over his neck like this.” He crossed the lines over the back of Aduke’s neck, making an x. “This way if you drop them, they don’t just hit the ground. Now grab ‘em.” He said, waiting for you to follow. “Give him a few gentle pulls, nothing hard.” 

You led the reins to the right then the left, watching the horse turn in those directions, his whole body moving. “Good, okay, so the big thing is horse’s move away from pressure, right? So if you press into him with your left leg, and give a gentle pull with the right reins, he’s gonna move to the right.”

You instead pulled to the left. Aduke swung his head to the side and knocked into Bucky. He gave you a less than thrilled look as you stifled a laugh. “Looks like I got that step. What’s next?”

“Giving both legs a squeeze’ll make him move. If you keep squeezing, he’ll move faster- just don’t do it yet.” He told you quickly, stopping you right as you were about to try it. 

“How do I make him stop?” You adjusted your hat to block the sun.

“You stop squeezing him, and pull back on the reins.” He gave Aduke’s butt a firm pat. “Alright, start walking.”

You instinctively clenched your legs and Aduke started moving. A slow smile snuck across your face, your body swaying with each step. “This isn’t so bad.”

“Speed up,” Bucky instructed, walking beside you. 

You instinctively pressed your legs a little tighter around Aduke’s sides. You almost immediately regretted it as he picked up to a trot, then nearly reached a canter. “Shit-!” You gasped, pulling hard on the reins. 

“Release the pressure-!” Bucky shouted as Aduke took off. 

“Bucky!” You yelped, your ass bouncing hard into the saddle. 

“Damn it, Y/n,” You couldn’t tell if he was laughing or panicking as you grunted. 

The breeze gently whipped your face as Aduke happily danced through the field. You felt like you might slip off if you stopped squeezing, but you decided to trust Bucky. You pointed your knees away from the horse’s sides and tugged back on the reins. Almost immediately, he slowed to a walk.

“You’re shit at listening,” Bucky said as he jogged up to you.

“You told me to speed up,” You glared at him. 

“Speed up, not go racing.”

You shook your head at him, wishing you were close enough to pinch his arm. “Whatever.”

Bucky held his metal hand out, wiggling his fingers at you. “Gimme the reins, I’ll walk him- hold the handle right there,” he said at the panicked look in your eye. You hesitantly handed him the leads.

“I think I bruised my ass.” You huffed.

Bucky choked on a shocked laugh. “You’re sitting too stiff, you gotta move your hips, doll.”

You squinted at him.

“Bend your knees a bit and move with him, rock your hips a little.” He glanced back at you with a raised brow as he led Aduke.

You shifted awkwardly and slowly started to rock your body with the horse’s steps. You were still stiff, but at least you weren’t knocking back into the saddle with each breath.

The walk back to the far gate- the one closest to your little homestead- was relatively quiet. It was a comfortable silence, as you felt the breeze and smelled the pollen. Bucky seemed rather comfortable in the warm silence. 

He usually was, but you thought today it might be because he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to look at you, after what happened the night before. And that morning.

When you reached the end of the gated clearing, Bucky lifted you off Aduke and helped you to the ground. You ignored the way his hand lingered on your hip as you pulled away. 

While Bucky freed Aduke from the saddle, you tugged off your hat and fanned yourself with it. You felt disgusting, soaked in sweat, horse hair, and dirt from your morning chores.

You didn’t think you would need another bath so soon after last night, but you knew you did. You could smell your own sweat. 

A large part of you soured after the realization. In all honesty, your comfortability with bathing hadn’t gotten any better since being rescued by the Avengers. You dreaded bathing, always dealing with that looming, itching paranoia when you stripped down. 

It was almost worse after you were rescued, without Bucky sitting against the door like he used to. 

One of the small things about Bucky that warmed your heart, after your reunion, was he didn’t need you to tell him. Ever since being in Wakanda, he would always find a reason to be working outside when you were bathing in the pond. Usually making dinner or washing the laundry, somewhere nearby, through the trees. 

Hearing him nearby somehow comforted you. 

But today you finished all the chores. 

Today, when you got back to the huts, Bucky had no reason to stay outside.

“Hey Buck?” You cringed at the sound of your own voice. 

He glanced back at you where he was tugging off his shoes. “Hm?”

“Can you-?” You awkwardly nodded to the pond. 

It took him a second. “What?”

“I smell like horse.” You huffed, gesturing at yourself. “Can you wait with me?”

His brows twitched up in understanding, then shifted back to neutral. “‘F course.” He swallowed, straightening. 

“I need to grab my stuff, I’ll meet you by the rocks?” You shifted.

He nodded wordlessly and headed for the trees. Once you gathered your towel, soap, and clothes, you left to follow him. There was a corner of the small lake that dipped into the thick woods, guarded by tall bushes and large rocks. 

Usually, the two of you took turns bathing there.

All things aside, it was a beautiful spot. 

You found Bucky sitting with his back against a tree that dipped halfway into the water. He glanced up at you beneath his lashes as you approached. You wordlessly handed him your clean clothes to hold. He folded them in his lap. 

You kicked off your dirty shoes and walked shore depth into the water behind Bucky. You tugged off your clothes piece by piece, then hung them over a branch. 

It was a little raw. A little intimate. A little new. The past 24 hours felt like nothing but. 

There was usually always a door, or a length of distance, between you two when he did this for you. Never this close. Never right there. Never so upfrontly recognized. 

You shivered when the cold water washed over your lower stomach. You held your arms over your chest carefully. You gave Bucky one last glance. He sat so still you could almost mistake him for a part of the tree. You could see his shoulder and knee, a few locks of dark hair, and a metal hand playing with the string of your pants in his lap.

You lowered your arms and sunk your body into the water. You lathered your bar of soap in your hands and gently scrubbed your body. “Do you ever miss having a private bathroom?” You blurted, cupping water to rinse.

“Sometimes.” He muttered, staring down at his hands. 

“I actually don’t think I can say our old bathroom was that much better than this.” You smiled, wiping down your face. 

Bucky chuckled quietly. “Yeah, guess not.” He thought back to the rusty pipes and cracked tiles. It always smelled faintly of the neighbors cabbage stew. Their vents must have connected to yours. 

It may have been rough, but it was yours. It was his. 

“I didn’t mind it.” He whispered. 

You glanced at his still form over your shoulder. “Me neither,” you smiled. You scrubbed your soapy fingers into your tangled hair, lathering the bubbles. “Maybe you can find one just like it in the city,” you snickered. “I don’t know how big the places were back in your day, but New York is kind of famous for having shitty apartments.”

Bucky dragged his thumb along the frayed threads of your top. “They weren’t bad, back in the day.” He dragged his tongue over his teeth. “Steve used to have a nice shitty apartment though,” he smiled to himself. 

“Yeah? Peeling wallpaper and all?” You wrung out your hair.

“Oh yeah. Steve used to make his own paint and paint the trim, just to give the place life.” He reminisced. 

“What’d he paint?”

“Little pictures, like trees and mountains. He was always good with landscapes and buildings.” He hummed, rolling his head back against the tree. 

“I wonder if he still paints.” You muttered.

“Doubt it. I doubt he’s seen a quiet moment long enough to try it.” 

“He still draws, did you know that?” You smiled, rinsing off. “He was drawing while you were in surgery.”

“Oh yeah?” His voice tilted up, curiosity thick in his tone. 

“Mhm,” you squeezed out your hair again. “You guys should go to a paint and sip, or something, once we go back.” You trudged slowly out of the water.

“What’s that?” His brows pinched. 

“Oh- it’s this thing where you can go and get drinks, like wine and stuff, and paint.” You paused a few feet behind him. “Can you hand me my towel?”

Bucky pulled the towel from his lap and slowly stood. He held it out behind him. Water dripped from your fingers, cold drops sliding down his steel wrist. 

“Thank you,” you muttered, scrunching your hair dry. A gentle breeze rolled through the trees and you shivered. You would never get used to bathing outside. 

“Have you ever done one?” 

“Huh?” You tilted your head at the back of his head. 

“A paint and sip.” He muttered, voice quiet. It was then that you noticed the soft blush staining Bucky’s ears pink. 

“Ah- no,” you gulped, wrapping the towel around yourself. “Not yet. Maybe I’ll go with you guys.” You tucked your chin to your chest as you dried off. 

He nodded silently as he listened to the towel ruffle against your nude skin. 

“Can you pass me-?” You glanced up and your stomach dropped as you found him already holding your clothes out for you. Your underwear dangled off two metal fingers. “Thanks,” you snatched the armful.

Bucky lowered his head slightly, his gaze set on a rock a few feet away. 

Once you were dressed, you toweled off your feet and walked back onto the grass. “Kay-” you released a shaky breath. “Wanna make dinner? I bet it’ll be pretty easy to catch a fish- I think I just poisoned the last of them with my soap.”

Bucky huffed quietly. “Yeah, cmon,” he snagged the dirty clothes from the tree branch. “I wanna see you gut it this time.” His sharp eyes swept over you.

“Yeah, that’s not happening.” You snickered, your shoulder knocking with his on the way back.

A/n: Hope I didn't let ya'll down after the last chapter, haha! I promise there's lots to come.

@rafesgurl @pleasecallmeunhinged @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @frog-fans-unite @lonelyghosts-stuff @cherryandsugar @a-world-with-pure-imagination @unicornqueen05 @cupids-mf-arrow @sharkylalala @littlesuniee @meineguete @hawkinsavclub1983 @theconsultingdoctor10 @dollface-xoxo @bloodmocha @natalia42069 @nicolebarnes @fallen-w1ngs @justachillgirllui @avaout @local-crazy @nynxtea @cherryheairt @soupiemeowmeow @akkklys @escapismurmom @sleepysongbirdsings @bumblebeebutter @lalaren @valyriantarg

[gracie-eilish]

fall-ing… part two

pairings: up and coming singer!reader x billie

warnings: mention of ankle injury per part one

an: if billie flirted with me while dressed like this i’d genuinely drop dead right there😍

… this is the most fanfiction fanfic i’ve ever written😂😂

You’d been trying to avoid the press of bodies inside the Met for the better part of half an hour.

It was too hot, too loud. Your dress, for all its beauty, was beginning to itch. Your ankle pulsed dully, just enough to remind you that yes, you had dramatically fallen on the most prestigious red carpet in fashion history. At least you were no longer the center of every lens.

Now, you were perched out on one of the few less crowded balconies that overlooked the city. The air was blessedly cool, wrapping around your flushed skin as you leaned back on the high-top stool, ankle elevated on a cushioned ottoman some staffer had mercifully fetched for you.

Sabrina Carpenter sat beside you, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, sipping champagne from a slender glass and leaning into your space like you were telling her a secret. The two of you knew each other since you were both on the same record label. You thanked the stars when you saw the tiny blonde bouncing around earlier, happy to have a friend somewhere in the sea of industry strangers.

“Okay, okay, but you have to admit it,” she said between giggles. “You still looked damn good even when you faceplanted.”

You groaned, throwing your head back with a dramatic sigh. “Sabrina, please. I’m begging you. Let me fade quietly into obscurity.”

“Oh, sweetie,” she cooed, “after tonight? Obscurity left the chat. You’ve officially entered the cultural lexicon.”

You covered your face with your hands. “I want to die.”

She just laughed and nudged your shoulder. “You’re fine. Trust me, if I’d biffed it like that, I’d be sobbing in the bathroom. You got rescued by Billie fucking Eilish. In front of the whole damn world. That’s not humiliation, that’s like.. fanfic.”

You blinked at her. “I was trying not to think about that part.”

But before she could reply, her gaze shifted over your shoulder. Her brows lifted, mouth twitching into a knowing smirk.

“Speaking of fanfic,” she murmured. “Incoming.”

You followed her line of sight, and your heart promptly tripped over itself again.

Billie.

She was walking toward you like something out of a fever dream. Her dress moved like smoke, and even though her expression was cool and composed, her eyes found yours like a heat-seeking missile. She looked like she belonged to another world, but in that moment, it felt like she’d stepped out of it just for you.

You sat up straighter without meaning to.

“Billie!” Sabrina called out, lifting a hand.

Billie smiled softly and nodded. “Hey pretty girl!!”

Sabrina turned to you with a grin that said ‘I’m about to be annoying’ and leaned in to whisper, “Don’t say I never did anything for you,” before standing up.

“I’m gonna grab drinks. You guys talk,” she announced, already walking away.

You shot her a ‘don’t you dare’ look, but she just winked and vanished through the balcony doors.

Billie stepped up beside you, her hands tucked into the sheer gloves that reached her elbows.

“You okay?” she asked, tilting her head toward your ankle.

You nodded, adjusting your posture again, nervous all of a sudden. “Yeah, it’s… I mean, it still hurts like hell. But I’ve graduated from full-blown crisis to mildly inconvenienced.”

Her lips quirked. “You really went for it, huh?”

“Apparently the universe wanted me to arrive with a bang.”

“Worked,” she said softly.

You blinked at her. “What?”

Billie shrugged, but her eyes lingered on you a little too long. “You stole the night. Honestly, when you fell, I thought it was staged.”

You laughed. “I wish it was. But no. That was all me and a little too much satin.”

She smiled, her weight shifting subtly toward you. “Well… you handled it like a badass.”

“Is that what I looked like?” you teased. “Because inside I was spiraling.”

“I saw grace,” she said simply.

You looked at her then, really looked, and something tightened in your chest. That same warmth you felt earlier when she came to your rescue hadn’t left. If anything, it was stronger now. Here, without the press and the chaos. Just the two of you. Breathing the same soft night air.

“I’m Y/N by the way.. Don’t think I told you that earlier,” you said in between nervous giggles. Billie chuckled her signature little laugh before replying.

“Billie. And no, you didn’t. You kinda just flopped into my arms.”

You groaned for the nth time that night, making Billie laugh again as she stole Sabrina’s seat.

“So… where’s the boyfriend?” She wiggled her eyebrows trying to pretend to be supportive.

“Oh he’s um.. he’s…” You inhaled slowly. Your voice dropped. “Can I tell you something?”

Billie leaned closer, her curiosity piqued. “Course.”

You gave a little wave of your hand. “Not real. He’s just… PR.”

Her brows rose just slightly, but she didn’t interrupt.

“I’m a lesbian,” you continued quietly. “But, you know, I guess I’ve got this whole ‘girl next door’ image?? Management thought that if I wanted to really make it, I needed to… play the part. So I didn’t get much of a say. How fucked is that??”

For a beat, Billie didn’t say anything. Her expression stayed neutral.

Then she said, “Huh. Didn’t see that coming.”

You gave a small, awkward laugh. “Yeah, well. Welcome to the industry Y/N.”

She nodded once, then leaned in a little closer, her voice a whisper now. “Just so you know… I’m like screaming on the inside.”

Your heart thudded so hard you were sure she could hear it.

“You are?”

“So loud,” she said, eyes flicking briefly to your lips before meeting your gaze again. “Trying really hard to play it cool right now.”

You tilted your head, smirking despite yourself. “And how’s that going for you?”

“Terribly,” she murmured.

You laughed again, warmer this time. Billie mirrored it, her hand reaching out to rest lightly on the edge of your stool.

“I kept looking for you inside,” she said. “Was starting to think I imagined you.”

“I was hiding,” you admitted. “Too many people. Too many cameras.”

“Well,” she said, taking a step closer, “I’m glad you suck at hiding.”

She was close enough now that you could smell her perfume—something dark and clean and quietly expensive. Your knee brushed her leg when you shifted.

“I’d offer to take you dancing,” she murmured, “but I don’t think your ankle would forgive me.”

You grinned. “Rain check?”

“Absolutely.” She dipped her head, her voice going even softer. “But if you need help getting back to your hotel… I’m told I’m very good at lifting people.”

You blinked. “Are you hitting on me?”

She grinned. “Little bit.”

“And what if I said I liked it?”

Her voice dropped. “Then I’d say let me take you home right now.”

Your breath hitched.

For a moment, the sounds of the Gala behind the doors fell away, the laughter, the music, the clinking glasses, and all you could hear was your pulse pounding in your ears and the slow, deliberate sound of Billie breathing just inches away.

“You’re trouble,” you whispered, smirking.

She leaned in, her lips nearly brushing your ear. “Only if you say yes.”

Billie’s words still lingered in your ear, like a ghost of a kiss that hadn’t quite happened.

You were suspended in a bubble of heat and proximity, so close to her that you could feel the whisper of her breath along your jaw. Your reply was tangled on your tongue, dizzy with the sheer intensity of her. And then-

“Ok so I only have two hands so someone’s not getting a drink, I hope that’s okay.”

Sabrina’s voice cut clean through the moment, playful and dramatic, like someone popping a balloon with a fork.

She sauntered back onto the balcony, cradling two glasses of champagne, and handed one to you without missing a beat. Her gaze flicked back and forth between you and Billie with just enough exaggeration to make her point.

“What’s going on out here?? What did I miss?”

Billie leaned back a fraction, clearly unfazed. She raised a brow at Sabrina. “Just chatting”

You, on the other hand, took the champagne and sipped just to give yourself something to do. “Sabrina,” you murmured. “Subtlety.”

She grinned and perched on the stone railing beside you, her short dress catching the breeze like a flag for chaos.

“I saw nothing,” she lied sweetly, taking a sip. “Just two gals chatting. With, like, eyes full of heat. And zero personal space.” She said the last bit into her glass as she took a gulp.

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling, too. Billie didn’t even bother denying it, she just kept glancing at you like you were the only person left at the Met.

“So,” Sabrina said, swinging her legs, “are we getting matching tattoos after this or…?”

But before you could shoot back a comeback, the balcony door creaked open again. And this time, it was your “boyfriend.”

He looked like a Dior ad come to life, all polished cheekbones and empty charm. You saw the way his eyes skipped over Billie and Sabrina, clearly not recognizing who he was standing in front of.

“There you are,” he said, slipping a practiced arm loosely around your shoulders. “Driver’s waiting. You’ve got to change for the after-party circuit.”

Billie’s jaw shifted ever so slightly.

She straightened, her voice casually cutting. “We’ll get her there.”

Your “boyfriend” blinked. “Uh—sorry?”

“She’ll be out soon,” Billie said coolly, her tone like velvet over a blade. “We’ll help her down. You go ahead.”

Something in her voice didn’t ask. It told.

Sabrina hummed into her glass. You stifled a laugh.

Your not-boyfriend raised a brow, clearly unsure of how to respond. But Billie just stared at him, utterly calm.

After a beat, he caved.

“Alright. Cool. I’ll… be downstairs.” He dropped a kiss onto the top of your head, a meaningless brush of lips, and disappeared back inside.

The door swung closed behind him.

The second he was gone, you burst into laughter.

“Oh my god, that was incredible,” you gasped. “You made him run away.”

Billie shrugged like it was no big deal. “He’s a really bad actor. You deserve at least someone who can pretend better.”

Sabrina snorted. “She deserves someone who actually wants to kiss her.”

That made Billie glance at you again, and suddenly the air crackled with silence.

You took another sip, your lips curling around the edge of the glass.

“So,” Billie started, leaning in a little, “what parties are you heading to?”

You tilted your head. “Why? Are you planning to stalk me?”

She didn’t flinch. “Absolutely.”

You raised a brow, intrigued. “You’re not even gonna play coy about it?”

“Nope. I want to see you again tonight. Preferably not with that boyfriend anywhere near.”

Sabrina let out a dramatic sigh. “And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why I’m third-wheeling for life.”

You laughed, eyes locked with Billie’s. “I’m at the GQ after-party first. Then probably that private one at the Mercer. And I’m at The Bowery tonight, the room facing the park.”

Billie smiled slowly, her tongue poking into her cheek in a way that made your stomach twist. “Duly noted.”

You raised a brow. “You planning a late-night escape?”

“Depends,” she said softly. “You letting me in?”

Sabrina groaned theatrically, sliding off the railing. “Alright, lovers, let’s move. If we don’t get down there soon, someone’s gonna think you fell again.”

As the three of you made your way back through the elegant halls of the Met, Billie’s hand slid around your waist.

You didn’t protest.

Your ankle didn’t even really hurt anymore, but the warmth of her touch, the protective way she kept you close, the subtle pressure of her fingers resting just above your hip? You weren’t about to give that up.

Sabrina kept pace ahead of you, playing it cool, but every so often you caught her giving you a look over her shoulder that screamed “oh my god, girl.”

By the time you reached the grand marble staircase again, it was quieter—most guests had already filtered inside or out to their after-party plans.

Your driver texted again. Billie glanced at your phone, then at you.

“You’ll be okay with him?” she asked, though you both already knew the answer.

You nodded. “He won’t even ask where I’m going.”

“Good,” she said. “Because I’m hoping you’ll come find me instead.”

You smirked, stepping slowly down the steps, her arm still steady around you.

“I will,” you promised.

Billie’s fingers slid ever so slightly lower on your waist. “Can’t wait.”

You exchanged one last look, full of heat, possibility, and something far too charged to be fleeting, before the three of you stepped into the night, each headed to your own car… and maybe, just maybe, toward something else entirely.

[dragonridersandhighlords]

omg please do a garrick smut 🙏🙏 he’s legit my fav man in the series ARGHH

Strategic Surrender

Summary: In a tense, late-night strategy session, simmering tension between you and Garrick boils over into an intense and intimate encounter.

Notes: Listen, Garrick fucks and he fucks hard🤤

Pairing: Garrick Tavis x reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, all smut no plot, semi-public sex/exhibitionism? (risk of getting caught), Dom/Sub dynamics, rough (Garrick practically throws you around like a rag doll at one point), no mentions of birth control (wrap it before you tap it)

Word Count: 1.5k

Masterlist | FW Masterlist

Riorson House is shrouded in silence, the stillness of the night wrapping around it like a thick fog. The echo of footsteps faded long ago, leaving behind the remnants of a day spent in strategy and scheming. Cadets had drifted to their quarters, Assembly leaders had retreated to their chambers, and even the Duke and Duchess were lost to the embrace of sleep. But not you. Not with Garrick Tavis by your side.

The dim glow of an oil lamp cast flickering shadows across the strategy table, illuminating the intricate parchment maps that sprawled before you. You tried to concentrate on the territories, the routes, the defenses—anything but the man beside you. He leaned casually against the edge of the table, one hand idly tracing the contours of the Navarrian defenses, his fingers moving with a deliberate grace that made your heart race. Garrick’s gaze was a weight you felt on your skin, and it ignited a fire that left you restless.

“Your flank is exposed,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, the kind that sent shivers down your spine. “You’d be dead before your squad took five steps.”

“Then maybe I’ll let you die first,” you shot back, refusing to meet his eyes. “Just for the quiet.”

His laughter was sharp, the kind that held secrets. “You’re mouthy when you’re nervous.”

“I’m mouthy because you’re cocky.”

“Cocky?” He pushed away from the table, drawing nearer until the air between you crackled with an intensity that was hard to ignore. “If you’re going to throw words like that around, you better be prepared for what they do to me.”

Your breath caught in your throat as you blinked up at him, suddenly acutely aware of the space that had vanished between you. Garrick towered over you, his uniform rumpled from the day’s drills, a few straps still undone. The lamplight danced across the scar that cut through his temple, revealing the storm brewing in his eyes.

“What—” You began, but your words faded into the heavy silence as he reached out, dragging his fingers along your jaw with a touch that was both tender and possessive. The tension between you, always there, began to hum with a dangerous promise, ready to ignite with just a single spark.

“You know how long I’ve been waiting for you to push me just a little too far?” he says, his voice low and husky, each word dripping with unrestrained desire. “How long I’ve imagined bending you over this gods damned table while you're still spewing stratagy objections?”

You swallow hard, the weight of his words igniting something deep within you, awakening a surge of boldness that you didn’t know you possessed. “Then do it.”

The moment those defiant words leave your mouth, Garrick springs into action. In one fluid motion, he clears the table, sending stacks of parchment and colorful markers tumbling to the floor with a heavy thud that reverberates in the dimly lit room. The sound of chaos is almost intoxicating, a symphony of anticipation that makes your heart race. Without breaking eye contact, he seizes you by the hips, effortlessly lifting you onto the table as if you weigh no more than a feather.

His mouth crashes into yours, fierce and hungry, a whirlwind of heat and intensity that leaves you breathless. The kiss is possessive, unapologetic, as though he’s claiming you—body and soul. You gasp, surrendering to the way his tongue sweeps into your mouth, exploring with a confidence that makes your pulse quicken. In this moment, you feel utterly consumed, as if your very essence has become entwined with his.

“I could ruin you right here,” he growls against your lips, his hands sliding up your thighs, calloused palms brushing against the fabric that separates you. “Right on top of classified documents. Where anyone can come in and see.”

A soft moan escapes you, the sound escaping unbidden as you clutch at the fabric of his collar, pulling him closer. 

With a swift motion, he pushes you onto your back, dragging you down the table until your thighs dangle over the edge, vulnerable and exposed. He deftly pulls your pants down your legs, revealing more skin to his eager gaze. Kneeling before you, he hooks your legs over his shoulders, the world around you fading into nothingness.

His fingers tug your underwear aside, teasingly slow, igniting a fire that burns bright within you. “No teasing,” you warn, your voice strained with anticipation.

A smirk dances across his lips, barely brushing against your inner thigh. “I never tease. I devour.” 

And he does.

His tongue moves with an exhilarating skill and precision, igniting a wave of sensations that draws a strangled cry from your throat. As he licks into you, the initial slow rhythm builds with an eager urgency, each flick of his tongue pushing you closer to the edge. He holds your thighs wide, his thumbs pressing bruises into your skin that mark your surrender, making it impossible to squirm away from the relentless pace of his assault.

You feel the world around you blurring into nothing as pleasure surges through you like wildfire. The heat of his mouth consumes you, and before you can process it, you come fast, a symphony of bliss crashing over you as you cry out his name. Your back arches off the table, seeking more of the intoxicating pressure, more of him. He doesn’t stop—not right away. Instead, he licks you through the waves of ecstasy, savoring every shudder that ripples through your body until your legs tremble against his shoulders, thoroughly spent yet craving more.

Only then does he rise, lips glistening with your essence, eyes burning with an insatiable ferocity. “Still with me?” he asks, his voice a low growl, fingers deftly undoing his belt, the sound echoing in the charged atmosphere.

You nod, breathless, still reeling from the aftershocks coursing through you.

“Good.” His pants slip down to his knees, revealing the hard evidence of his desire. He steps forward, lining himself up, his gaze locked onto yours, thick and commanding, and thrusts into you with a single stroke that knocks the wind from your lungs. 

A gasp escapes you as he fills you completely, the sensation overwhelming. “Fuck,” Garrick groans, his voice thick with lust. “You feel—gods, you feel better than I ever let myself imagine.”

He sets a brutal rhythm, hips crashing into you with a fervor that makes the table rock beneath the force of his thrusts, wood creaking in protest as if echoing your shared desperation. His grip on your hips is vice-like, bruising yet intoxicating, each thrust driving you deeper into a haze of raw pleasure. Low curses spill from his mouth, mingling with your own breathless gasps as he takes you without restraint.

“You love being fucked where anyone could walk in,” he pants, the wildness in his voice sending shivers down your spine. “Don’t you?”

You nod frantically, lost in the way he fills you, the way he claims every inch of you with primal ownership. 

“You want them to know you’re mine now?” he asks, and the intensity of his gaze makes your heart race.

“Yours,” you breathe, the word spilling from your lips as an affirmation of surrender.

He growls deep in his chest, a feral sound that reverberates through the air, igniting a primal instinct deep within you. With every thrust, he pushes deeper, harder, the relentless rhythm driving you toward the precipice once more. The world around you blurs, and stars burst behind your eyes, a kaleidoscope of brilliance exploding in a haze of ecstasy. A second orgasm rips through you, raw and violent, leaving you gasping as waves of pleasure crash over your body like a tempest, each pulse radiating from the core of your being.

Garrick follows suit with a harsh grunt, the sound rumbling from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt, filling you completely as he spills inside you. The warmth of his release mixes with the electric energy still coursing through your veins, a heady combination that sends a shiver down your spine. For a moment, time seems to suspend, and all that exists are the ragged breaths that escape your lips and the creak of the old table beneath your shivering bodies, the haunting music of your surrender echoing in the stillness of the room.

The air hangs thick with the scent of sweat and sex, an intoxicating blend that wraps around you like a cocoon, blurring the lines between pleasure and reality. Garrick leans down, his breath hot against your skin, lips brushing your ear with a tantalizing intimacy that sends goosebumps racing across your flesh. “Objections?” he murmurs, his voice a low, velvety growl that stirs something fierce within you.

You let out a laugh, breathless and wild, the sound mingling with the soft thrum of your racing heart. “None. You win,” you reply, the words flowing effortlessly.

His mouth curves into a smirk against your neck, a predatory satisfaction lighting up his features. The way he looks at you now, with a mix of triumph and hunger, sends a thrill coursing through your veins. “Good,” he replies, his tone rich with a promise that hangs heavy in the air. “Because I plan to run these drills again. Thoroughly.”

Everything Taglist: @lxnvmvrzx @bodhidurrans @bookwormysblog @nikfigueiredo

[saturnyo]

Whiskey & Scars

Pairing: Tommy/Reader

Summary: Joel, the man you love, is dead. You were able to kill his attackers, but you were unable to save him in time. Reeling from the shock of losing him, you closed yourself off from the community, especially Ellie and Tommy. But after one nightly encounter, something new blooms between you and Tommy

WC: lil over 2.5k

Warnings: mentions of death, suicidal thoughts, mainly fluff

Grief in itself is strange. One minute you can be just fine, and the next you are a sobbing mess falling to the floor and unable to function. For you, you were numb. Everyone moved around you, helping Jackson repair itself after the onslaught of infected, while you felt as though you were stuck in place, unable to reconcile with the fact that Joel was gone. Anguish, regret, and sorrow are all that you know now.

The grey, morose sky explodes in anger as lightning and thunder crack like a whip, screeching into your ears. Dark clouds hover above, creating a moment of tranquility before the cold, jagged raindrops pelt down, slicing lines on your cheeks, red tears flowing ever so lightly. You stand right outside, knowing he is lying there on a table like a slab of meat. Thirty minutes have passed since you got here, and you haven’t gathered the courage to walk inside. The rain has drenched your clothes, making you feel weighted in the spot where you were standing.

Stinging pain is a jarring reminder of all that you have lost. Your heart fractures at the memory of Joel's bloodied, broken body lying there drained of life. You were supposed to be with him. You were supposed to be his patrol partner, but you switched places with Dina to try and help soothe the tension between Joel and Ellie after the New Year's party events.

Your last memory of him was the morning when it all happened. He was standing in his kitchen, messing with the coffee maker that had been on the fritz for a while. No matter how much you tried to tell him to see if he could find another, Joel was hellbent on trying to fix it. He’s a very determined and stubborn man, and you loved him for it.

The way his hands felt upon your skin as he whispered sweet words into your ears. How he cuddled you at night, holding you close, afraid that you’ll disappear. His lips worshipping your body in some form of a sacramental prayer as you moaned his name out into the darkness of your home.

If only you could reverse and freeze time…

The atmosphere was solemn in Jackson. Walls were still being repaired after the horde breached them, and many lives were lost, mainly to being bitten. The last few weeks were filled with funeral after funeral, mourning the losses of our fellow men. Ellie was still in the hospital, healing from the beating she took after the encounter with the unknown group. At first, you couldn’t stand to see her lying there in the hospital bed, injured but alive. Looking at her reminded you of the fact that she had almost died too. Reminding you of your morality and how easily it can be snuffed out.

Ellie became your comfort and your pain all at once. She was so much like Joel in the way she wouldn’t back down and how stubborn she was. You can’t imagine how she must be feeling with the way she and Joel left things and the argument they had on New Year's. The guilt she must also be racked with, consuming her until there’s nothing left..

The sound of horse hooves and hammers brings you back to focus, zoning in on the doors in front of you, taking careful steps as if you’d disturb what lies within. It isn’t anything evil or any monster you might read about in a children’s book, it’s something worse.

Dust dances in the air to the song of your pain as you see bodies lined up, white sheets draped over them to save anyone the pain of looking at the gruesome scene. On the right side of the room, you see Tommy. His head in his hands, staring at Joel as if he’s willing him to wake back up. His somber expression at seeing his brother just gone, as nature goes on around us, like nothing happened.

Tommy hears your slow footsteps thudding against the floor, looking up at you with a sign of understanding. He and you share the same pain. The pain of losing someone you love. You sit down beside him in silence, the void-like feeling is palpable, where neither of you knows what to say.

“They’re all dead,” you whispered, your voice deep and menacing. “We killed them.”

“Good,” Tommy muttered.

Silence falls over you two once more, a bit easier now. He stands giving you your space with Joel. His hand rests gently upon your shoulder, a smile comforting you in your suffering. Time stood still as if the world came to an end all over again. Seeing his body destroyed you, damaging your mind in a way it can’t be repaired.

Your trembling hands gently grip Joel’s, placing a light kiss upon it.

“In another life…I would have loved doing laundry and taxes with you,” you cried. Choking wet sobs echo throughout the building in a cacophony of misery. The overwhelming desire to end it all to be with him is strong. But you couldn’t. Not only did you not want to leave Ellie behind, but you also knew Joel wouldn’t want you to try the same thing he did when he lost Sarah. That’s the only thing providing you comfort right now, the fact that he finally gets to see her again.

Getting up, saying one last goodbye before walking out the door and into the world broken and shattered

The tipsy bison has become your second home in the recent months since Joel’s death. Each night, you wander into the familiar sight of Seth standing behind the counter. He spots you as he places a glass on the counter, pouring whiskey for you, a routine that both of you have become accustomed to. He’s become not a friend but an acquaintance as of recent. You still didn’t like him, especially after what he said to Ellie and Dina, but he apologized to them, and he seems genuine. Plus, Tommy asked you to give him a chance before you tried to beat his face to a bloody pulp. You and Tommy have been estranged more recently as well. With the weight of building Jackson back up and dealing with so much death surrounding you, it was hard to find time to sit down and take a minute. It was just you in the bar at the moment, as it was after closing, but Seth made an exception for you. The low hum of music played on the speakers a familiar tune that you used to love. Something from before the outbreak, which seems like a lifetime ago.

The door opened, cutting through your half-drunk state as Seth once again walks out from the back to tell who walked in that he was closed. You didn’t spare a glance and stayed focused on your glass in front of you. It made everything easy to forget and damn you sure wanted to.

“Oh hey Tommy, what do you need?” Seth spoke.

Hearing Tommy’s name made you finally glance away from the bar as you saw him standing there, a slight look of disappointment as he stared at you. You hated it. He and everyone else look at you in pity. You wanted anything else other than fucking pity.

Anger or even hatred

Just god forbid not pity.

“You can head home, Seth. I’ll close up for you,” Tommy answered.

Seth took him up on the offer and quickly started to leave. Before he walked out, he told you goodnight and to stay safe. His footsteps faded away, as you hoped Tommy would do the same and just leave you the hell alone. But of course he wouldn’t. He sure is a miller just like Joel.

So goddamn stubborn

“Are you here to lecture me?” you asked.

You heard him sigh deeply, obviously growing impatient at your antics. He recently had to take you off patrols for showing up drunk. An explosive argument happened between you two in front of Jesse and Dina, and Ellie. He yelled about how your reckless actions could get them killed. Your heart ached as he said that, feeling as though he blamed you a bit for his brother’s death. Ellie looked at you as you stormed off. You’ve grown distant with her as well, and your heart ached at the thought of it, but she just reminded you too much of Joel, especially Tommy.

“What are you doing y/n? This isn’t going to help,” he began to lecture you.

“You heal the way you want, and I’ll do it the way I want, ok?” you fired back.

Another song plays out through the bar, slicing through the tension between you and Tommy. Whatever anger you had between each other dissipated as the weight of the world seemingly fell onto his shoulders. The song is slow and intimate, charging the air with emotions that threatened to spill out. A weight settles between the now and before as you stand up, walking to the dance floor, as you start to sway to the music. You knew you probably looked crazy to Tommy, standing there as he watched you, but you needed the distraction.

Warm hands fall onto your hip and grip your hand as you see Tommy has started to slowdance with you.

He’s close. Way too close, but the overwhelming scent of his cologne and the warmth of his breath upon your neck as you gently lay your head on his chest is the first time you felt serenity in months. Stepping closer, wrapping your arms around his neck, no words are spoken, and none are needed. Anything that needs to be said is spoken with your eyes. The feeling of being within someone’s arms again feels like heaven compared to the living room couch you’ve been sleeping on. After Joel passed, you couldn’t bear to move out, but you also couldn’t bear to enter the bedroom that you two used to share. So the couch was your last option.

Tommy’s brown eyes hold an immeasurable amount of pain and responsibility as everyone looks to him for guidance. You know he’s barely been given to properly grieve, having to juggle people constantly coming to him on what to do. And there’s you. Adding more stress on top of it as you act out, drinking away your sorrows.

The soft sway of your bodies moving together in perfect sync as the world slowed down around you. If you could bottle up the feeling this moment has made you feel, you would keep it forever. It could sustain you for the rest of your days, making you feel safe and…wanted. His eyes crinkle at the sides as he gives you one of his signature smiles again, and this time, you aren’t sure if it was the alcohol or not, but the way his voice sounded made a certain ache start to grow between your legs.

“How do you think all of this will end?” You gestured to everything around you, distracting you from the growing feelings that have started to bloom.

“I’m not sure but..” he hesitates, “but what do know is that you aren’t alone. I have your back.”

His sincerity warms your heart. You begin to notice the way his hair is pushed behind his ears as his curls bend around them. His skin is tanned from hours of hard outside work, evident by the rough calluses on his hands. The lines of age show on his forehead as he starts to think deep in thought, and the lines that form on the corner of his mouth when he smiles widely. He’s handsome, a type that makes your mouth water and weak in the knees.

The sudden realization that you wearing a short sundress that falls barely below the curve of your ass and cupping your breasts pushing them up together as they sit there perfectly makes you slightly self conscious. You weren’t even thinking when you put on that outfit before you left your home earlier that night; you just grabbed the first thing you saw in your drawer. Tommy’s gaze follows yours as he takes you in, his pupils dilating and his breath hitches, wondering what the hell these new thoughts he had about you were.

Tommy couldn’t understand his feelings for you at first. You were his brother’s woman, his girl, so you were off limits. It’s not like he was waiting for something to happen so he could swoop in, no, he would never do that. But the last couple of weeks, seeing you walk around Jackson as your hair swayed behind you, the green of your eyes shining just right in the sun, and the look of your lips almost brought him to his knees. But you didn’t feel the same way. Both of you were still mourning, so he distanced himself away giving you your space to heal, but unknown to him, something was growing within you too.

Whether it was because of the alcohol or the music or both, you gathered to courage to kiss him. Your hands drift into his soft curls, holding on like he were your liferaft, preventing you from drowning underwater. Tommy didn’t kiss you back at first, making you feel as though you completely misread the situation. Embarrassed and ashamed, you start to pull away, heading for the door before he grabs you, pulling you back in and smashing his soft lips onto yours once more.

A moan escapes his lips as he backs you up against a nearby table. His hands hurriedly drift underneath your dress, gripping your thighs, making marks upon your skin. You hop onto the table, wrapping your legs around Tommy’s waist, urging him to continue. You were desperate, and so was he. You were oxygen, and he needed you to breathe until suddenly a bottle falling off the table snapped you two out of your daydream.

“I-I’m sorry,” Tommy stammered. “I shouldn’t have done this. Fuck-this isn’t right.”

He gently helps you back off the table as the lust you two felt goes away. The moment you two were in is gone as reality comes into focus. You straighten out your dress and fix up your hair as Tommy stares at you, a feeling of disappointment and sadness radiate within his big brown eyes.

“Tommy…” you whispered.

His hand cups your cheek as his thumb lovingly caresses your face. Savoring what’s left of the moment, you lean into his touch, not wanting it to end. You leaned in closer, your knees nearly touching, as if you and he were drawn together by an invisible force. A quiet chime of a clock nearby distracts both of you for a moment, making you giggle

He stops for a moment, looking at you in a way different from how he has ever before, at least not that you have noticed. Tommy stares at you as if the entire world begins and ends with you

“What is it?” you asked

“Nothing, it’s just…you are beautiful,” he whispered

In that moment, inside the rustic bar surrounded by music in the dead of night there was a still silence inside your mind. Not an uncomfortable one but peaceful.

“I’m here, baby, like I said, I’ll always be.”

You put your head in the crook of his neck, inhaling the cedar scent clinging to his shirt.

“Home,” you murmured silently to yourself. “I’m home.”

[fiction-is-the-new-reality]

Pt 5: Bitter Words from a Ghost

word count: 2k

warnings: violence, kidnapping, adult language, angst, and mention of bile three times.

a/n: *tapping on microphone* uh does this thing still work? Is anyone still out there? My quarterly yearly post for this series just dropped. Thank y’all for hanging in there! Thank you for reading and I understand if y’all don’t give two shits anymore lmao. I hope it’s good. There is more to come!

previous part series masterlist

As the smoke and dust settle from the aftermath of the rooftop checkpoint, you take a moment to catch you breath. Looking out over the city, you let your mind drift to moments before this. Those nights spent patching Jason up, staying up late watching movies with Jason and Dick, all the times you and Jason would annoy Dick. You smile slightly, letting a sigh slip past your lips. Allowing yourself to stay in these moments, you fail to realize the figure slowly looming over you. 

There’s a loud creak over your right shoulder causing you whip your head around. Unfortunately, time stops, and in your panic, all you can do is put your hands out in front of you. But it's futile; the Arkham Knight is already slamming you down onto the roof. The force of your head bouncing has your teeth gnashing awkwardly together.

His massive hand comes to crush your throat, cutting off your breath, as his other hand smothers your face. You can see his thick, lengthy fingers wrapping around your mask in your peripheral vision, their presence both unsettling and somehow oddly intimate. A faint, metallic scent accompanies the sight. Without hesitation, he repeatedly slams your head onto the floor. 

You begin throwing punches and shoving with all your might, but his arms remain immovable, and it feels like hitting a brick wall. You start desperately flailing, like a fish gasping on dry land, but it does nothing against his unwavering hold. 

As your brain is slammed against your skull, a wave of disorientation washes over you. The lack of oxygen causes your vision to swim, and the world around you dissolves into indistinct shapes and colors.

"Stop." Your voice doesn't even register in your own ears. You haven't the slightest idea if you're screaming or whispering. 

“s-s-stop.” You're interrupted by the Knight's robotic voice. 

"Stop and let you go? That's funny." His voice, a distorted, three-part echo, boomed as three versions of him loomed over you. Your eyes roll back in your head, and then you're falling limp, allowing Jason to lift you.  

Jason throws your limp body over his shoulder and descends the fire escape, your weight doing nothing to slow his movements. Reaching the APC, he roughly throws you into the backseat. Jason shows no care at how your body flops against the cold metal like a ragdoll; a dull thud echoes in the otherwise silent vehicle. 

With a sudden jolt, you're awake, jerking against the heavy ropes that tie your arms to the wooden chair below you. The smell of gunpowder and something metallic fills your nostrils, and the darkness so thick you open your eyes wider, just to make sure they weren't still closed.

Suddenly, there's the sound of shuffling and a door opening in front of you, and you’re given no time to recognize the blue and red lights illuminating the Knight before you're blinded by harsh light. There's a buzz coming from the lights that mimics the buzzing that's pounding in your head.

The sounds of heavy boots move in your direction, and you squint, forcing your eyes to focus on him.

"I'm disappointed. I was expecting more of a fight." 

You scoff, "Untie me, and we'll go again." 

He only stalks closer to you, the robotic helmet intensely locked on you. 

"Or are you too chicken-shit for that?" 

He doesn’t respond until he’s in your personal space. "Your taunts might work on weaker men, but this isn't about you and me. This is purely about our shared friend." 

There's a beat of silence as he circles you.

"Sorry, you're going to have to help me out here. I mean, I-I seriously doubt we have a mutual friend." 

"Oh, come on, birdy, think." His condescending voice fills you with anger.

"I kidnapped Barbara. I knew all the hiding spots and ways to attack Bats." You remain silent, eyes staring uninterested at him. 

"I'm after Bruce." 

"I don't know a Bruce, sorry." 

"Ahh, birdy, cut the bullshit. This is a safe place. No one's listening. Now–" 

"Like I said, I don't know a Bruce. Now can you cut the bullshit and either kill me or untie me. My ass is going numb from this chair."

Arkham Knight stands directly in front of you. Your only choices are to glare at his pelvis or glare up at him. His gloved hand reaches out and tilts your head up, and you stare at each other's masked faces. The tension has you tingling from head to toe, and you shift in your seat. With a tightening grip on your neck, the Arkham Knight leaves you unable to decipher the intentions hidden behind the impassive mask that conceals his face.

The sudden yank of your hood sends a shiver down your spine, the loss of fabric leaving a burning trail on your neck. You pathetically press yourself into the back of the chair, feeling the cold wood dig into your back as you struggle against his hold, your bound limbs useless. 

"Help me with Bruce, and I'll leave your mask on." He says the sentence so sickeningly sweetly that it practically drips off his lips and into your ears. 

"I don't know a Bruce." 

A humorless laugh comes out of him. "You'd rather protect him than yourself? He can't even protect you! He couldn't protect Barbara, and he won't protect Tim either.” He gives a laugh in disbelief.

“Do you know how easy it was to find and get you here? He didn't interfere once; no one did. No one showed they cared about you, yet here you are, risking your identity for him. It's pathetic how he has you all brainwashed. You're pathetic." He spits out the last sentence as if it pained him to say it.

"I'm not here to hurt you. I just want to hurt Bruce. So I'll give you one more chance. Either help me with him or lose your protection." 

"God, do you just love to hear yourself talk? I told you I don't know a Bruce, so either piss or get off the pot." 

He chuckles, "You're an intrepid, foolish birdy."

There’s a knot of tension in your stomach as he bends down, waiting for his next move. He places his hands on the thick mask covering your face and, with a slow, deliberate movement, begins lifting it from your face. Time ticks by agonizingly slowly. You stare into the cold, unwavering LED blue slits of his mask, the light reflecting in your own eyes. As the mask leaves your face, you remain unmoved, shoulders straight and head held high. 

"Now what?" Your face contorted in a sneer, your nostrils flaring as you looked at him with utter disgust. 

He lunges to full height and stumbles backward, the movement jerky and awkward. With another jerky move, he turns his back to you, and your mask clatters to the floor, echoing in the silence. 

The moment hung in the air, but before it could continue, a loud explosion behind you has your chair propelling forward. Using the momentum, you slam it down on the ground; the wood cracks and splintering pieces fly all around you and you’re finally free.

Frantically, you fumble for your mask, fingers brushing against the smooth material before pulling it over your face. Your heart pounds as you turn to see the chaos.

It's Batman- of course, it's fucking Batman, you think. 

You watch as they are at each other's throats. Arkham Knight standing his own against Batman; with every move that Bruce makes, Arkham Knight counters perfectly. The fight resembled a deadly waltz: quick steps, sharp turns, and the glint of steel under the buzzing white lights – a far cry from a clumsy brawl. 

Bruce throws Arkham Knight across the room, giving him time to check on you. As Bruce faces you, Arkham Knight stands, and the harsh light of the room pings off the gun he's unholstering. 

"Batman-" You try to warn him, but are interrupted by the Knight.

"Turn around." He demands of Bruce.

"Who are you?" Bruce's voice is firm, and as he turns, he shields your body with his broad one, hiding the Knight from your view.

"You really have no idea, do you, Bruce?" With a hiss, his helmet retracted, morphing the robotic voice into the familiar tones of a deadman.

"Jason? But… you're dead." 

Not believing your ears, you step around Bruce. Your eyes lock onto the man ghost in front of you. Bile burns the back of your throat, and hot tears blur your vision as your eyes widen in shock. A cold sweat slicks your back as a shiver runs down your spine, chilling you to the bone—your heart hammers in your chest, a frantic drum against your ribs. Bruce’s lips begin working, but his words are lost on your ears. As everything around you fades into nothingness, leaving only Jason in view, he pointedly ignores your presence, acting as if you are entirely invisible.

Bruce pushes you away as Jason circles him like a wolf stalking its prey. 

"What's the matter? Lost for words? I expected more..I'm hurt." 

Bruce mirrors Jason. "Joker sent me the film. I saw him…kill you." 

"Don't you dare lie to me! How long did you wait before replacing me, huh? A month? A week? I trusted you…and you..you left me to die!" His voice seething with raw emotion. 

"That's not what happened!" Bruce's voice comes out harsh.

"You always told me, Bruce, focus on what I want to achieve, and it'll happen. Well, you want to know what I want now, huh? I want you dead." Jason snarls as he gestures at Bruce with his gun.

"Jason-" He finally turns his fire-filled eyes to you.

"And what about you, huh? How long did it take for you to forget about me? How long until I was nothing but a distant memory?" His acid-coated words slice through your heart like knives. Your tears bleed down your face. 

"Don't say that. Don't pretend like I'd ever forget you." You move to approach him like you'd approach a feral animal, palms towards him, showing you mean no harm, and your footsteps light. 

In your approach, Bruce sees the opportunity to pounce. He lunges forward, pounding his head into Jason's. Jason stumbles backward before putting more distance between the three of you. Bruce throws a smoke pellet down and grabs hold of you before grappling back through the way he came. Two warning shots follow the smoke trail. 

"You can't hide from me! I will hunt you down!" Jason's pained and anger-ridden voice calls out after the two of you. And the bile rises back to your throat.   

The helmet clattered against the ground as Jason angrily threw it down, collapsing onto his knees. His breath hitched in ragged gasps, hot and sour, with the bile threatening to overflow. His mind kept replaying everything. The visceral disgust on your face when he took your mask off, and then the heartbroken, teary-eyed look when he yelled at you. The way Bruce reacted and spoke sounded genuine. 

Maybe he really mourned me. Maybe he cared.

Doesn't matter; he never tried. He replaced me. He didn't care enough to save me.

I need to see her. I need to talk to her. 

No, she's just like him. 

Stop!

His mind was going in circles, dizzying him. He couldn't focus on anything, and his thoughts kept racing. The more he tried to calm down, the more anxious he became. He felt trapped in a never-ending cycle of worry and fear, unable to escape. Suddenly, he was back in the asylum with Joker. His undershirt was too tight. His skin felt weird moving over his joints, and his lungs couldn't get enough air. Jason runs his hands through his hair, pulling at the raven-colored strands. His hands come to cover his face, and for the first time in a while, he allows himself to cry. 

On a tall building in the middle of Gotham, you and Bruce are standing, looking at each other, but it’s more like you’re looking through each other. Both of your minds race with what had happened. You didn't know how long you had on the building, it could have been five minutes, could have been 5 hours. You would believe either one. You can't stop thinking of Jason's face. 

The last time you had seen Jason was when he was still a pimply, slightly pudgy sixteen-year-old. Now, he's a twenty-seven-year-old with scars covering his chiseled face. Yet, the one thing that had been unchanged by time was his vibrant teal eyes. You’d never forget them and how he could still look directly into your soul, leaving you feeling like you had stood bare before him. 

"What do we do now?" Despite how hard you try to sound normal, your voice comes out in a whisper. 

"We continue to fight. Gotham still needs us. It doesn't change anything. We keep going unless he stops." His gruff voice comes out even more clipped than usual.

"But it does change things, Bruce, you know that." 

"No, it can't change anything. He is still the Arkham Knight. He is still wreaking havoc on Gotham." 

"Tell me honestly that it doesn't change things for you, Bruce."

"It just makes it more personal." Bruce is off into the night, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

Tagliat: @thegirlwiththeyarn @geminizmoonz @emilia527 @anime5005 @babypaperwitch @skypperlegacy @rwylm-things @mayo-0-o @ex-cla-ma-tion @pheonixfucu @not-herexo @g0atmansbridge182 @theg0ddesshera @just-lost-inbetween-worlds @marigiano @lilocapoca @misaki-kira8 @blackcanary130 @ykyouluvme @kiwi03 @xbonniepricexx @definitelynotanalien @ghostlyleech @pinkmaggit666 @stupid-ninja @reanie-xoxo @kittykatchicha @bunz-lover @justalittleb1tcrazy @gghoulpool @snackeyalleyjuice @comealivedaya @diariesofamentallyillfangirl @peter-parker-tony-stank-trash @awstrck @gemini-bichxx-blog @xdrin @harleycao @screamingsilence3 @ex-pinguina @ppiglovestravel-blog @catsinhatswithbats @jazminjacuinde @honeywolflower8364 @lillianmorningstar @moonlight-dreamer04 @whiskytoast @nightwingmania @tinasdcstuff

[slytherin-pen]

In The Night, I Am Yours

pairing: Eris x Reader

word count: 1.1k

warnings: mentions of Beron and his abuse.

tags: no use of y/n, gn reader, sex worker!reader, reverse hurt/comfort, Eris needs a hug, soft!eris

a/n: heavily inspired by that scene in HOTD where Aemond goes to a brothel for cuddles. written for day 5 of @sjmxreaderweek

The Velvet Den wasn’t the most glamorous brothel in the Autumn Court. It wasn’t the most expensive or the most infamous, either. But it was the kind of place where a person might stumble in and forget, for a few blessed hours, the cruelty waiting outside.

You were used to visitors coming through your door with desires they could not voice elsewhere. Some wanted pain, some wanted power, and some simply wanted to be seen.

Then there was him.

Eris Vanserra, heir to the Autumn Court. The male who had set whole villages ablaze, who wore his arrogance like armor, who moved through the world like he was untouchable.

And yet here, he was just Eris. And he only ever asked for one thing.

To be held.

The first time, you had blinked in surprise. Surely, you had thought, this was some sort of trick, some game he was playing. A test.

But when he had stripped off his heavy crimson cloak, the fine embroidered jacket beneath it, and then the linen shirt—baring skin dusted with old bruises and scars that looked suspiciously like whip lashes—the truth had been impossible to deny.

It was no secret that Beron was an abuser. Lesser Fae. High Fae. His own family. No one was safe. Despite that knowledge, you couldn’t help the shock and rage that coursed through once you saw the evidence of his brutality on Eris’s body.

You had to take a moment to collect yourself, clearing your throat before motioning toward the bed with your hand. When you had moved to untie your robe, Eris stopped you. He had no desire for you to be nude. You had simply shrugged and crawled onto the bed with him.

Now, months later, it had become a ritual.

The moment Eris stepped into your room, well past midnight, always cloaked and hooded, you would lock the door and open your arms.

And he would come to you, shedding not only layers of clothes but his mask, too.

Tonight, he looked particularly tired.

You watched from the bed as he crossed the room, undoing the heavy buckles of his armor with slow, mechanical movements. His hands trembled slightly, a detail you might have missed if you weren’t so used to looking for it.

Wordlessly, you rose and went to him, brushing his fingers aside to help.

Unbuckling leather. Pulling bloodstained gloves from his hands. Lifting the weight of his armor from his shoulders. He let you, his eyes closed, his breathing steadying.

When at last he stood in just his pants, the firelight highlighting the pale scars across his chest, you reached for his hand.

“Come to bed, Eris.”

He let you lead him without resistance.

You pulled him into the circle of your arms, lying back against the pillows. One of his arms curled possessively around your waist, the other came up to grip the fabric of your shift, as if to anchor himself to you.

For a long time, there was only silence.

Only the feeling of his breath against your throat, slow and uneven. Only the weight of his body half-draped over yours, heavy and real and alive. He smelt faintly of woodsmoke and cedar.

“Today,” he rasped, so quietly you barely heard him, “he made me watch.”

You didn’t ask who he was. You didn’t need to. You stroked your fingers through his hair—that thick, fiery mane usually slicked back so perfectly—and found it damp with sweat. As if he’d only just escaped whatever horrors Beron was up to today.

“What did you see?” you murmured.

“A traitor,” he said flatly, his body tensing up again. “My father caught him trying to flee the court with his mate. Punishment was swift.”

Your hand kept moving through his hair, slow and steady. You didn’t press him to continue, but he did, after a long, shuddering breath.

“I had to stand there,” he whispered. “Had to… pretend I approved. That I agreed.” His fingers clenched in the fabric of your shift. “While they screamed.”

You pressed a kiss to his temple, feeling his body tremble in your arms. “It’s not your fault,” you said softly. “If you have any chance of making this court a better place someday you have to do what he asks to survive.”

Another ragged breath. Another long silence.

“What if I end up like him?”

It broke something in you every time he said things like that. Things a little boy might have whispered in the dark.

You tightened your arms around him, offering your body as a shield against the dreadful thoughts clawing at his mind.

“You won’t,” you said fiercely. “You’re nothing like him, Eris.”

He said nothing, but the tension in his body eased a little at your words.

For a while after that, he simply lay there. You ran your hands along his back, mapping the faint new scars with your fingertips.

Eris buried his face against your throat, breathing you in like you were the only clean thing left in the world.

Eventually, you felt him slip into sleep. His body slackened in your arms, the furrow between his brows disappearing.

You knew he wouldn’t sleep long. He never did. A few hours, maybe, and then he would be gone before sunrise. Back to the Forest House, back to the games, back to his cage.

But for now, he was here. Warm and alive in your arms. And you would hold him for as long as he needed.

He stirred once in the dark hours before dawn, and you murmured his name to ground him. He settled again almost immediately, like a child reassured by a familiar voice.

You wondered, not for the first time, how long he’d been alone before he found you. If anyone had ever held him like this before now. If his mother was ever even allowed to. If he even knew how to accept it outside of this corner in the world the two of you have carved together without fear or shame.

Your heart ached for him.

You brushed a kiss against his forehead and whispered promises he might never hear.

“I will always hold you. You are safe with me. You don’t have to be alone.”

Outside, the first gray light of dawn began to seep through the curtains. Soon, he would leave. He would become the heir again. The monster his father demanded. But here, in this stolen pocket of time, he was just a male. Just Eris.

And for as long as he let you, you would be the one to comfort him. To hold him like a lover he isn’t allowed to have.

taglist: @tele86 @phamtastical