#(and maybe the first little stirrings of jealousy)

[revelboo]

Got an interesting one for you! Well. Least j hope it's interesting.. how about scenarios of bots with spicy kitty humans finding a spot that soothes them? Like how a cat will mellow out but still be grouchy? Cute bonding moment that is maybe a little funny.

Current ideas are rung and breakdown, maybe bug husbands tho I'm sure there's other storyline i haven't quite gotten yet!

🤣 cute!

Attention

Breakdown

• “What the pit do you want, squishy?” Curling a lip at you, Breakdown vents when you just glare up at him. Because he already knows and that was a one time thing. An accident. “Forget it. Go pester Knockout.” And you just keep staring up at him, expression mutinous. Annoyed, he shakes his head. Trying to ignore you.

• Watching as he leans an elbow on the desk you’re on, chin on a fist, you move closer. Know he’s pretending you’re not there hoping you’ll go away. Pointedly walking closer, you scowl up at him. Because you know that he knows what you want. He’s just being a jerk. Coming to a stop right in front of him, you cross your arms and stare him in the optics. You’re not about to beg, but you’re going to get your way.

• “For frag’s sake,” he snarls as you sit and stretch out on your belly back to him. Demanding without saying a thing. Venting, he reaches out and slides a servo against your spine, digging in a bit mindful of his strength. And you make that fragging, little nose of pleasure that winds him tight against his will. The first time he’d figured this out had been an accident. He’d tried to pin you down flat because you’d annoyed the pit out of him and you’d made a startled, little moaning sound when he’d applied a barely any pressure to your spine. Liking it.

• Shuddering as he rubs that servo against you, unerringly finding and massaging every knot away, you close your eyes and lay your cheek on your arm. Breakdown can be an absolute shit to you out of jealousy, but his big, blunt servos are magic. Not that you’re ever going to tell him that.

• Jaw gritting as you whimper, pushing back against his touch, he hates that his spike stirs. Doesn’t like you. Resents Knockout’s fascination with you. Even if seeing you and Knockout playing always gets him in the mood. It shouldn’t. Shouldn’t be aroused right now. Apparently Knockout’s fetish for organics is starting to rub off on him. Not that he’s about to admit it, because he’d never live it down.

They’re starting to arrive

[sabraeal]

to all the ghosts still standing in this room, Chapter 5

[Read on AO3]

Written for @meibemeibelline for her birthday; a request that was as surprising as it was welcome after I had to break my plan for chapter 4 in half back in July and had NO idea when I'd get back to Soowon and Lili and their no-good, very bad stint in politics.

A line of palanquin snakes through the city streets; not small sedan chairs but spacious carriages slung over no less than eight shoulders, vibrant reds and verdant greens and searing yellows lacquered over every inch of their ornate carvings. No less than a hundred by Soowon’s admittedly casual count, each one containing a foreign dignitary of his rank— if not his pedigree— or one of their entourage of only slightly less prestige. And all of them wait on the new queen, eager to pay their respects; a procession of Xing’s power and might.

The reality, of course, is far less stunning.

“A kidney stone?” He’s heard of them before, of course; some of the more gouty court officials seemed to come down with them with an alarming regularity. But they were more a source of irritation than anything else; a slight delay on the documents he requested, or an increased amount of carrying-on when he inquired about their health. Not something to ground the inner workings of Kouka to a halt.

“It’s supposed to be quite painful,” Judoh assures him, satisfied that the punishment seems to fit the crime. “The queen sent someone from her court not too long ago to express gratitude for our continued patience—”

“Funny,” he hums, eyes hanging half-mast against the afternoon sun. It’s stronger here than in Kouka, warmer, and trapped in the humid confines of the palanquin, verging on intolerable. “I don’t remember deciding to be patient.”

“—And to beg our forgiveness for the wait,” Judoh continues, as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “Apparently the man’s some important advisor. From the old king’s court, so I hear it. Can’t possibly continue on without him.”

Soowon stifles a sigh. The reliance on its generals had kept Kouka’s council in good health, if not necessarily young, but even still, there is not a single part of him that can imagine Son Mundok holding up a state function to pass water. Knowing his pride, he’d beg Hak to kill him first. And when his beloved grandson refused, the venerable general would no doubt try to take things into his own hands— a real soldier knows to die when his body fails him— and Hak would struggle against him— just go piss already, old man, so the rest of us can get on with our lives—

“Your Highness?” The space between Judoh’s brows furrows, their two ends separated only by a wrinkle of concern, and, ah, he’s let himself wander again. A poor habit for a man who would have been king. Who still might be, if his cousin gets her way.

“Keep me updated.” It’s the request of a man with tied hands, but there’s little else to be done. Soowon may have been a conqueror once, able to move mountains with a wave of his hand, but here the only ones he may push around are made of paper, and only as far as the queen’s feet.

So all he can do is settle back into the palanquin, shuttering the windows until he is only left with shadows and a woman who barely looks like An Lili.

Soowon’s not fool enough to believe Lili never wore cosmetics; all noblewomen did, save for his cousin in her leanest years. The Water General’s late wife may have been rumored to be a one-in-a-generation beauty, the most coveted young lady of Kouka’s court, but even so— the odds that his daughter just so happened to have naturally moon-pale skin, or had been born to a set of perfectly shaped eyes seemed…improbable, to say the least. But when her too-red mouth wraps around an impatient, “So…?”

Well, he knows she's not in the habit of wearing that much. One rub of his thumb and he’d leave a swathe of real skin peeking through that mask.

She shifts, robes rustling like tree leaves as she tries to fold her arms, one sleeve disappearing into the drape of another. “What’s the story?”

“It will be a little while longer.” Chimes tinkle delicately in the air as Soowon turns to smile, and hah, he cannot look much like himself either, dripping ornaments as if he were the empress herself. “There are a great many dignitaries who desire to give the queen their good wishes.”

Lili sighs, poking sulkily at the giant comb thrust through her hair, and, for a single moment, looks like herself. “I guess we’re lucky she came to see us last night. It’s going to take us four hours just to get five words in today.”

“My,” he hums, amused by the attempts to stem the natural current of her hair. He’s never seen it up like this— dammed, really, the more he thinks about it— but by the way she fusses, it’s as successful as sand during the rainy season. “You really think we’ll get a whole five?”

She offers him a look that might kill lesser men. Mice, at least, if any dared to cross her. “It was nice of her to try though. Especially since she’s got all this going on.”

It’s the same sentiment she shared last night as she unrolled her futon next to his, heedless of the way Judoh choked on his own protests. Soowon had plenty of own as she bustled so close to where he was bedded down, clad in only her sleep robe, as if they were only two young girls sharing covers, and not Kouka’s highest ranking noblewoman aside from his cousin and some war criminal.

There were men who begged me for their lives, he nearly reminded her, as if she had not been trapped at the palace with him, little more than a hostage to ensure her father’s continued good behavior. And people who trembled before me.

Xing’s queen had been one of them. Only from rage and frustration, however, spurred by the indignity of being forced to treat with her country’s conqueror and the son of her beloved’s murderer. His own cousin had been another, quivering as he held her beneath his cloak, saving her life even as she reached for his blade. He’ll never forget the way her knuckles shook beneath the weight of his hand, only stilling when he told her, not yet. It’d been a promise, one he meant to keep, but—

“But?”

Soowon blinks, meeting that unerring blue fixed on him, as unceasing as any sea. “Did I say…?”

“No.” By the way she huffs, throwing herself back onto the seat, his silence annoys her more than his speaking. “But I can tell you’ve got something churning around in there.”

Her hand snakes out of her sleeve again, fussing with the comb. Like a loose tooth, probed again and again, as if she might be able to inure herself to the pain if she prodded at it enough, and he—

He reaches out, fingers stopping just shy of where gold makes its first sweep over the curve of her skull. “Allow me.”

Her fingers may still their fussing, but her eyes narrow, suspicious, as if he must have some ulterior motive to put on this display of altruism. Putting on his most angelic— and infuriating— smile, he adds, “If you keep squirming, I think our bearers might drop us where they stand.”

It garners him a roll of her eyes, and oh, he has certainly earned the scowl that graces her mouth, but she at last relents, dropping her own hands to make room for his.

“Well?” she murmurs, bending her head forward. Soowon’s no expert at the application of hair ornaments, but he has a lifetime of experience at making them livable, once placed. “Are you going to say it or not?”

A sigh sloughs out of his nose, ruffling the stray hairs beneath his hands. There’s not many— the comb was applied well, as was the lotion to keep it in place— but just like Lili herself, what little of her can reach will always make its bid for freedom. “I am only concerned that Xing’s queen seems to feel it necessary to meet her allies in secret.”

She takes the implication with all the grace he expects; that is to say: none at all.

“So what are you trying to say?” she pouts, peevish, even as she submits to his subtle fussing. “That you think Kouren had some ulterior motive for visiting us?”

He slips the comb free from the base of her skull, the tines no longer digging into the soft flesh there. Her huff of relief fans over the silk of his robe. “I think that it would be foolish to believe any sovereign would act for a single reason, no matter how rational.”

“She wanted to see us before all this hubbub.” Her glare fixes on him even through her fluttering lashes, cheeks puffed petulantly. “It’d be hard to meet as friends with all these politics in the way. Kouren told us that already.”

“It would have been much easier if we were already in Kyuu’s castle before arranging any clandestine meetings.” It’s an easier argument to make than the other, more obvious one— Xing’s queen does not like him, and is in no rush to greet him as a friend. “There are far more ways for us to meet as allies once we have been officially received as guests of the crown.”

“And she couldn’t just have been excited? We haven’t seen each other in a long time!” It’s the sort of thing an excitable young general’s daughter might do, especially the kind that likes to throw a cloak over her silk dress and call it traveling incognito, but for a queen such as Xing’s— well, it’s almost impressive how easily Lili can conjure the impossible. “You don’t think she just wanted to catch up?”

Soowon may not know much of what goes on inside the mind of the Water Tribe’s most favorite daughter, but he does know this: there is no more fruitless a hill to die on than attempting to explain to An Lili that not everyone feels the same way she does about every person in her acquaintance. Especially when it comes to him; for all that she was trapped with him for months, playing loyal general’s daughter, she easily forgets just how much blood still drips from his hands, never to be forgiven.

“Then why approach us in disguise?” With a wiggle and a twist, he slides the comb along the curve of her scalp; not as tight as it was before, but close enough to hold with comfort. At least, so he hopes; he might have a similar amount of hair, but hers is thicker, more wild, straining against every pin and tine. “Could she not have sent one of her Stars to bring us to her? Why should Xing’s queen choose to risk herself when we may move just as easily?”

Lili may like to play the simple general’s daughter, that even pressed, somehow Joon-Gi’s child cannot do the same political arithmetic he does over breakfast, but—

But he can see the sums adding up behind her eyes as she lifts them, coming to answers she doesn’t quite like. “You think Kouren can’t trust her court.”

“Or at least several someones quite high up in position.” His hands fall to his lap as she sits up, one of her own absently creeping up to check his handiwork. For as much as she complains about him so much as breathing, this apparently passes muster. “Ones who would be privy to whatever private arrangements she makes within the palace grounds.”

His reasoning, however, does not. Lili takes one long, thoughtful pause before she informs him, with appropriate concern, “I think you’re being paranoid.”

Soowon stares. “Paranoid?”

“Yeah, you’re projecting,” she insists, warming to the idea the more unhinged it becomes. “You didn’t trust any of your own council, so now you’re assuming that other people can’t trust theirs.”

His mouth opens, then closes again. It’s a solid line of logic, he has to admit, for all that it is wrong. “If there is nothing wrong with meeting on Kyuu’s grounds, then why would she come all the way out into town just on a rumor?”

Lili scoffs, eyes rolling like waves against a breaker. “Some people just want privacy. I would have thought you, of all people, would get that.”

“She is a queen,” Soowon insists, stymied. “She doesn’t have privacy.”

None more than she can steal, at least. And if her court is loyal, then there’s little need for that.

“All the more reason for her to want it!” Lili shakes her head, as if he is the difficult one, playing particularly dense to agitate her nerves. “Not everything had to be about politics, you know. Sometimes people just want to feel like people. Even queens.”

“That is certainly a”— naive, simple-minded, foolish— “unique take on the situation,” he allows, gracious, as he settles against the seat back. “However, you have failed to take into account the reality  of the queen’s station. She cannot simply just—”

“Yeah? And how many things have I done that a general’s daughter ‘cannot simply just?’” Her head tosses, proud. “Not everyone is as married to playing their role as you are. Some of us like to be ourselves, too.”

“Lili—”

She moves to fold her arms, but the palanquin drops— abrupt at first, before settling into a smooth descent to its pedestal— and they fly out in all directions, grasping for purchase, anything to catch herself—

And settle on his sleeves, already reaching out to steady her. Soowon can’t quite account for why.

“Lili,” he says, impressively even as he skirts the endless depths of her eyes. “It is a mistake to believe anyone could be just like you.”

Her mouth works for a long moment, sinking first into one word before slipping off, again and again until her eyes narrow, and she settles on, “Oh, honestly.”

“Wait—” It’s impressive how expertly she slips from his grasp, her own sleeves too slick under his fingers as she throws herself toward the door. “If you’d wait just a moment—”

Her wrists elude him, the sharp spurs of her elbows keeping him at a distance as she slides along the bench, knees knocking into his with all the delicacy of a bull let to run in a temple. But finally a blind grasp catches her around the arm, holding her in place. “What?”

“I think you have forgotten,” he says through a smile, half breathless and not at all amused. “That I am the one who takes precedence.”

*

Soowon emerges from the palanquin like the sun at dawn, the dangling beads and glittering gold decorations sending sunlight scattering in all directions, a halo of light enveloping him as if he were Hiryuu himself, benevolently mortal once again.

That’s the worst part about him, really— for as annoying as he is, Soowon actually looks like he’s Yona’s cousin. Like he could just descend from the heavens and have at least half the earth and most of the stars revolve around him, no questions asked. Like dragons from Kouka’s four corners might curl up at his feet— if they weren’t already so busy chasing Yona, and weren’t, you know, grown men instead of small scaly cats.

It’s just stupid, is all. Some people could really think that this guy is cut out for all this royalty crap.

Lili doesn’t do so bad herself, she has to say. Oh, it’s no clouds parting and golden rays splitting the heavens or whatever, but she doesn’t trip over herself, robes streaming behind her with the silken grace of a river’s current. She doesn’t so much climb as drift up the stairs, eddying in Soowon’s wake like a leaf on the water. Impresses the heck out of the crowd, too; they’re pressed in around the palanquin, commoners so close she can count the whites of their eyes as they widen, gasping as if she’s just as remarkable as the empress’s cousin; someone important in her own right instead of only in someone’s shadow.

It’d be nice, if only the rest of it wasn’t so overwhelming. Kouren’s up at the top of these hundred stairs, and her people cheer like they know it, like every whoop and holler might bring them one step closer to their queen. Not like Soowon’s coronation— or at least, any of the dozen ceremonies Kyesook had put on after it, desperate to prove the king’s legitimacy in the face of the growing rumors that King Il’s red-haired daughter had survived the palace coup. The common folk had been cordoned off a dozen paces back from the castle stairs, the boundary guarded by no less than two dozen of Judoh’s hand-picked soldiers. There’d been cheers, to be sure, but none of them ever reached the pavilion, drowned out by distance and the weight of Soowon’s dignity.

“Wow,” she hums, elbow bouncing into his side. “You really weren’t popular, huh?”

Soowon slants her an impassive look. “Most of my power always came from Kouka’s generals. Queen Kouren’s comes from the love of her people.”

“Makes sense.” Her hand lifts, fussing with her comb more from habit than complaint. Annoying as he is, he at least knows how to make himself useful. “You are a hard person to love.”

Soowon would never do something so pedestrian as sigh— at least, not with all these common folk and foreign dignitaries to see— but the ghost of it catches in his chest, hitching against the elbow she’s got lodged in his side. “Both things come with their advantages and their drawbacks. One may have a personal preference over another, but they are equal in application.”

“Yeah, you would say that,” she huffs, utterly unconvinced. “But you had five generals, and Kouren”— her arm swings out, encompassing all the cheering masses— “has all this. That’s gotta be hundreds and thousands of people.”

He does that little bob he does, that incline of his head to acknowledge her point right before he eviscerates it. “True enough. But you are forgetting: each of my five generals stands for his tribe. And each of those tribes has their army, trained to support and suppress those hundred thousand people, all on a single word.”

Of one man, he doesn’t say; he doesn’t have to when she’s the daughter of one of them. Her mouth closes with a click. “Oh.”

“It is one thing to worry about torches and pitchforks and rioting outside the castle gates.” There’s a smug sort of slant to his smile, one not aimed at her but elsewhere— and obnoxious nonetheless. “But it’s quite another to walk down the halls of your own palace and wonder which blade is waiting to be put in your back.”

“W-well,” she mutters, fingers numb as she surveys the guardsmen studding the stairway, more decoration than protection. “That’s only if they don’t like her. Which is a pretty big ‘if,’ if you ask me.”

“Really?” A corner of his mouth lifts, and oh, what she would give to be able to reach up and shake that too-knowing look right off him. “I find few men can stomach a competent woman.”

“That’s because most men are useless,” she snaps, barely keeping herself from adding, like you. “They’re threatened by a woman doing their job and making them look bad.”

His hand opens, so gracious, and— god, she’s proven his point for him, the ass. “As you say.”

“What?” she grouses, still annoyed from walking right into his dirty trap. “Are you trying to say you can’t stomach a competent woman doing your job better than you?”

It’s not until she’s said it— until it’s out there, in the air, rampaging like a tiger let loose in a menagerie— that she realizes—

“Oh no,” he says, too soft, too amused. “I don’t have any illusions about my usefulness.”

That stops her in her tracks for a minute, feet stuttering beneath her. She nearly opens her mouth, nearly tells him, that’s not what I meant—

“The queen is just ahead,” an attendant tells them— or rather Soowon, hovering at his elbow and give her only a cursory look. “You will be next to greet her.”

It’s not until he smiles now— his safest, most unassuming one— that Lili realizes it’s the only one that hasn’t met his eyes. “Thank you. It will be our honor.”

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Something that has been on my mind.

Taskforce 141 with a smol reader who can sleep anywhere because she just fits into all the small spaces around the base and everyday it's a game between the taskforce on where they find the reader dozing off on the base! 🙈

Hope you have a good day! 😽

The Great Task Force 141 Hide-and-Seek Champion

Pairing: Poly!Task Force 141 x Tiny!Reader

Warnings: Mild language, ridiculous amounts of fluff, protective 141, jealousy, cuddling

Author's Note: i tried making this poly. You might be able to see it if you squint so… yeah :)

Summary: You have an uncanny ability to sleep anywhere. Thanks to your small size, you manage to squeeze into places no one expects, turning the base into your personal nap zone. At first, it was a game—finding you before Price lost his patience. But slowly, things change. Now, the boys aren’t just looking for you—they’re making sure you’re safe, warm, and taken care of. And maybe… just maybe… they’re realizing they don’t just want to find you. They want to keep you.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

Day 1: The Supply Closet

"Where the hell is Mouse?"

Price’s voice echoed through the barracks, already laced with exasperation. It had only been an hour since they'd last seen you. An hour. And you’d already vanished.

Gaz, standing casually by the doorway, sipped his tea. “Check the supply closet.”

Soap narrowed his eyes. “Why the hell would she be in the—”

Ghost, moving like a man far too used to this, didn’t wait for the debate. He walked straight to the supply closet, gripped the handle, and pulled it open.

There you were.

Curled up on one of the metal shelves, wedged between a stack of MREs and a pile of folded tarps. Your cheek was pressed against a plastic-wrapped ration pack, arms tucked under your head like a damn cat.

Soap stared. “Yer kiddin’.”

Price sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "How the hell do you find this comfortable?"

You stirred slightly, mumbling something incoherent before sleepily muttering, “Warm.”

Gaz snorted. “Comfortable, Mouse?”

A small nod. “Mm.”

Ghost studied you in silence, then turned and walked away.

Soap gawked. "We’re just leaving her here?"

Ghost shrugged. “She’ll wake up eventually.”

Price sighed. He wasn’t paid enough for this.

——

Day 5: The First Shift in the Game

It started small.

The first time Soap found you tucked into an abandoned supply box, he huffed out a laugh, shook his head—and left his jacket over you.

The next time, Gaz found you curled up under a desk and quietly slid his extra hoodie beneath your head.

Price, despite all his grumbling, was the one leaving snacks.

And Ghost? He never woke you. Never disturbed you. But he stood guard.

The others didn’t notice at first. But after a few days, Soap started eyeing him.

"Y’know, mate," he smirked, "fer someone who acts like he don’t care, you sure stand ‘round a lot whenever Tiny’s sleepin’."

Ghost didn’t react. Didn’t even blink.

But the next morning, when you woke up in your favorite nap spot, there was a blanket over you.

——

Day 12: The Wrong Soldier Found You First

This was not part of the game.

Normally, it was them who found you. Normally, you’d wake up to soft teasing, grumbling, or just being carried away in Soap’s arms.

But today?

Today, some random soldier found you first.

It was innocent at first.

The guy had walked into the break room, noticed your small form curled up in the corner, and let out a snicker.

"Christ, does she ever actually work?"

The temperature dropped.

The conversation across the room stopped.

The soldier barely had time to react before four very dangerous men turned to look at him.

Ghost’s voice was low. Cold. "What did you just say?"

Soap moved first, stepping closer—a little too close. "Say it again, mate."

Gaz threw an arm around your shoulders, very pointedly shifting you away from the guy.

And Price? Price just gave the final nail in the coffin.

“She’s with us.”

The soldier left.

Quickly.

——

Day 20: The Final Nap

At this point, Price was done.

"Alright," he sighed, rubbing his temples. "Where the hell is she now?"

Soap groaned. "We've checked the barracks, the mess hall, the damn armory—"

Gaz cut in. "—and all the lockers."

Ghost, silent as ever, merely looked up.

The team followed his gaze.

And there, sticking out of an open vent, were a pair of very familiar boots.

Soap wheezed. “Oh, no bloody way!”

Gaz just stared. “I don’t even wanna know how she got up there.”

Price turned on his heel and walked away.

“I don’t care anymore,” he announced. “If she falls, she falls.”

Ghost crossed his arms. “She’ll come down eventually.”

Soap grinned. “God, I love this game.”

——

Day 27: The End of the Game

They weren’t expecting to find you here.

Ghost stopped in the doorway first.

Soap nearly bumped into him before looking past and freezing.

Gaz, coming up behind them, just blinked. “Well… shit.”

There you were.

Curled up in Ghost’s bed.

And not just curled up—wrapped in his blanket, half-buried under the heavy black comforter, nuzzled into his damn pillow.

Ghost just stared.

Soap broke first. He grinned. “Oh, this is rich.”

Price, arriving last, sighed. "At this point, she’s not hiding anymore. She’s just making a statement."

Ghost finally moved forward, stepping to the edge of the bed. He tugged at the blanket.

Nothing.

You made a soft, grumpy noise, burrowing deeper.

Soap snorted. “Mate, she just claimed yer bed.”

Gaz smirked. "Might as well get in."

Ghost glared.

Price, done with all of them, turned to leave. “You deal with it.”

Ghost exhaled through his nose before sitting on the bed.

The shift in weight made you stir, eyes cracking open.

"...Ghost?"

He hummed.

You blinked sleepily at him before mumbling, "...Warm."

Soap grinned. "Y’know, mate, if ye just let her sleep with ye, we wouldn’t ‘ave to find her all the time."

Ghost stared.

And, to everyone’s surprise…

He laid down.

Didn’t move you. Didn’t wake you. Just shifted so you weren’t alone.

Soap gawked. “No bloody way.”

Gaz smirked. “I think she wins.”

Ghost just closed his eyes.

Fine.

She wins.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[reidmarieprentiss]

Life With Spencer

Part Two

Summary: Living life with Spencer, ups, downs, firsts, and hopefully -- lasts.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: vomiting, food poisoning, talking about puking, smut (18+), sooo in love, awkward/real-life scenarios, visiting Diana, Derek being an instigator as always, no real timeline - they been dating for like two years…, this one is pretty smutty!!! and all the smut is Derek's fault so say thank you to Derek Morgan

Word count: 21.5k

a/n: y'all i was quickkkkkk wit it this time i am so obsessed with this idea and this spencer you have no idea,,, it is just flowing out of me like word vomit frrrrr and thank you all SO SO SO MUCH FOR ALL OF THE LOVE ON THE LAST ONE YOU GUYS KEEP ME GOING MUAH MUAH MUAH

main masterlist part one

It was a rare, sunny afternoon, and you were out in the world—something you didn’t always have the energy or time for, especially lately. But today had started slow and soft. Spencer had asked if you wanted to get breakfast with Penelope and Derek, and you’d agreed, mostly because he looked so hopeful when he asked and because Penelope always made you feel like a beloved member of a secret club.

The four of you had snagged a table at a small café tucked between bookstores and flower shops, the kind of place Spencer liked because the menu had locally sourced teas and the tables didn’t wobble.

He was waiting at the counter now, patiently awaiting collecting your drink orders, always double-checking them before passing them off—yours with coconut milk, Penelope’s with extra foam, Derek’s with exactly one sugar. Spencer Reid, your attentive, overthinking, wonderful boyfriend, was doing what he always did: quietly taking care of the people he loved.

And then it happened.

Derek, mid-laugh, glanced up toward the counter—and his smile froze. His eyebrows raised slightly. Then he leaned over to Penelope and nudged her arm with the subtlety of a wrecking ball.

“PG. Look at that.”

Penelope turned, and you did too, instincts kicking in. And there she was.

A woman, maybe a few years older than you, statuesque and striking in a very deliberate way. Hair was perfectly blown out, posture was impossibly confident, and the toned arms on full display in a sleeveless top. She was leaning just a little too close to Spencer. Smiling a little too warmly.

You watched her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear as she said something that made Spencer glance up, polite and unaware. He smiled at her—your smile, the one that made your stomach flip when it was yours and yours alone—and nodded, clearly answering a question she’d asked. Then she touched his forearm. Lightly. Casually. Familiar in a way that made your blood stir.

You blinked.

And then it hit.

First—insecurity.

Because, yes, she was gorgeous. Her body was lean and graceful, her face radiant in that effortless, magazine-cover kind of way. She looked like someone who wore SPF, drank green juice, and knew how to contour. And you… well, you were you. You didn’t always remember to put on mascara, let alone exude that kind of practiced poise.

Then—jealousy.

That she would walk right up to your man as if he was available. As if his warm smile and gentle demeanor were an invitation to flirt, to try, to touch. As if you didn’t exist.

And then, surprisingly—pride.

Because, of course, someone would flirt with him. Have you seen him? Spencer was gorgeous. Tall, with soft eyes and messy hair and long, delicate fingers that fluttered when he talked about anything he loved. He radiated thoughtfulness. Of course, people noticed.

Finally—impressed.

You couldn’t even be mad at her confidence. The way she approached him without hesitation. That kind of boldness took guts. To see a man in public and think, Yes. Him, and then go for it? You almost wanted to applaud her. Almost.

Penelope leaned over and whispered, “Do you want me to cause a distraction? I could pretend to faint. Or drop a scone.”

You shook your head, lips curving into a slow smile. “No… let’s see how long it takes him to figure out what’s happening.”

Derek snorted. “You think he will? I’ve seen this man miss someone flirting with him while literally being given their phone number.”

Spencer turned, drink tray in hand, the woman still beside him, clearly not finished making her case.

But the moment his eyes found you—only you—his entire face softened. He smiled like he always did like he couldn’t believe he got to walk toward you.

And just like that, all the swirling feelings calmed.

Because she might’ve approached him, but Spencer? He was already yours.

“Okay, I have the drinks!” Spencer announced brightly, carefully balancing the cardboard tray in his hands as he approached the table. His voice carried that classic, slightly too-loud enthusiasm that meant he was proud of himself for not spilling anything on the walk over.

He looked so pleased with himself—so genuinely content to be bringing everyone exactly what they ordered—that for a second, you almost forgot the scene you’d just watched unfold at the counter.

Almost.

Penelope took her drink first with a wide, performative smile. “Oh, thank you, kind sir. What ever did we do to deserve such princely service?”

Spencer blinked. “Well, statistically speaking, I owed you both a drink since I didn’t pay last time, and Derek insisted on splitting that check evenly even though he ordered an extra—”

“—thank you, Spencer,” you interrupted gently, sliding your cup from the tray and brushing your fingers over his hand with a small smile. He looked at you, caught in mid-ramble, and paused.

There it was again—that softness. That barely concealed awe. Like just looking at you slowed his entire system down.

Derek, meanwhile, was eyeing him with one raised brow, sipping his coffee like he was trying very hard not to say something smart.

But Penelope? Penelope had no such restraint.

“So,” she said sweetly, far too sweetly, “did you make a new friend while you were up there?”

Spencer blinked. “What?”

Derek coughed pointedly. “Tall glass of water, blonde hair, caressing your arm?”

Spencer looked genuinely confused. “There was a woman next to me—she asked what kind of milk they used. I told her about the non-dairy options and suggested oat milk for a smoother foam. Why?”

Penelope let out a strangled little laugh and buried her face in her cup. Derek outright guffawed.

You just smiled. So wide and fond and helplessly in love.

Spencer looked around, increasingly suspicious. “Did… did she say something weird?”

“She was flirting with you, baby,” you said gently like you were explaining a very complex concept to a very sweet alien.

Spencer’s mouth fell open. “What? No, she wasn’t—she asked about milk—”

“She touched your arm, man!” Derek interrupted.

“She probably just wanted to know where to stand—”

“She flipped her hair,” Penelope added with wide eyes. “Three times!”

Spencer looked at you again, a little horrified. “You… did you notice that?”

You laughed softly, wrapping your hand around his. “Yes, Spencer. I noticed.”

Spencer blinked at you for a beat longer, cheeks going warm. “…Oh.”

You leaned closer, giving him a smug little smile. “It’s okay, lover. I like that you’re oblivious. Means I never have to worry.”

Penelope beamed. Derek groaned into his coffee.

Spencer, still a little stunned, just held your hand a little tighter. “I really did just think she was curious about milk…”

You kissed his cheek. “I know, Spence. I know.”

—

“Y/N?” Spencer asked softly, his voice warm and casual as if he’d been turning the thought over in his head for a while.

“Yeah, Spence?” you replied, eyes still focused on your laptop, adjusting the spacing on the final slide of the presentation you’d been working on all morning.

“What do you want to do for your birthday?”

You paused, fingers hovering over the trackpad, and glanced toward the corner of the room. Spencer was exactly where he always ended up on your weekend workdays—curled into the armchair you’d jokingly dubbed “his spot,” legs folded underneath him, a Rubik’s cube dancing between his nimble fingers. The light from the window dappled across his curls, making him look more like a daydream than a real person.

“I hadn’t thought about it yet,” you admitted with a smile, closing your laptop slightly to give him your attention. “Why, did you have something in mind?”

Spencer didn’t look up. His eyes were locked on the colorful cube, the sound of soft plastic clicks filling the space between you. “Cancún,” he said plainly. “We could go to the Mayan ruins, and you could drink and tan on the beach while I read under an umbrella.”

It was said so matter-of-factly as if it were a logical answer to a multiple-choice question. You blinked—and then giggled, unable to help it.

“You’re serious,” you grinned.

He nodded without missing a beat, eyes still glued to the cube. “Of course. The Mayan pyramids at Chichén Itzá are among the most well-preserved examples of ancient Mesoamerican architecture. And I figured you’d enjoy a piña colada and maybe, you know…” His fingers paused just briefly as he gave you a shy glance. “Some time to relax?”

You melted a little like you always did when he tried so hard to think about you, even in the middle of his excitement. “That sounds kind of amazing.”

He shrugged. “I also looked at a couple of options closer to home in case you didn’t want to fly. But I wanted to start big.”

You stood, laptop forgotten, and made your way over to him, sliding into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Spencer Reid,” you said, threading your fingers gently into his curls, “how long have you been planning my birthday without telling me?”

He flushed slightly. “Seventeen days. And six hours. Approximately.”

You kissed his temple, your heart blooming with affection. “You’re ridiculous.”

…

Cancún was everything.

Beautiful, in the way only a place brushed by turquoise water and painted sunsets could be. The kind of beauty that slowed your breath and made you reach instinctively for Spencer’s hand, just to make sure you were both seeing it together.

Fun, in the way that caught you off guard—like when Spencer surprised you by agreeing to dance at that beachside bar after one too many sips of some bright, fruity drink he couldn’t name, cheeks flushed and curls tousled from the wind. Or when he reluctantly joined you in the ocean and immediately lost his footing, laughing so hard he had to clutch your waist for support. More drunk on you than anything else.

Exciting, too. Walking together through the ruins of Chichén Itzá, Spencer practically vibrating with enthusiasm as he explained the alignment of El Castillo with the solstices, hands animated as he gestured toward the shadows cast by the ancient steps. You let him ramble. You loved to let him ramble. Especially when he was this alive, this bright, under a sun he claimed was “just slightly too hot for intellectual pursuits.”

But it was relaxing, too. Quiet mornings with breakfast on the balcony. Your legs draped over his lap while he read to you—sometimes history, sometimes poetry, sometimes just the resort menu aloud in Spanish with a smirk because he knew how it made you laugh.

And, of course, it was romantic. So romantic.

Stolen kisses in shaded courtyards, bare feet brushing under restaurant tables, late-night swims in the moonlight, wrapped in each other’s arms as the waves lapped softly nearby. He tucked hibiscus flowers behind your ear. You kissed sunscreen into the slope of his nose. And when you lay side by side in bed, salt still lingering on your skin, you whispered plans for the future like the stars outside the window could hear them.

Cancún was everything. But mostly, it was yours. Your time. Your memories. Your little pocket of paradise—with the person you loved most.

But all good things must come to an end, as they say. And in your case, the end came in the form of tacos.

It started off like the perfect night. You and Spencer had decided to cap off your trip with dinner at a little oceanside bar—one of those that had hammocks instead of chairs and lights strung overhead like fireflies. You ordered something that sounded incredible on the menu, something bright and spicy, and Spencer got something safe, because of course, he did.

You ate slowly, sipping a drink and watching the waves, laughing when Spencer made a face at the live music that was just slightly off-key. It had all been perfect—until it wasn’t.

The two of you had decided to take a final stroll along the beach, your sandals dangling from one hand, his fingers laced with yours as the tide whispered around your ankles.

And then you gagged.

It wasn’t dramatic at first. Just a small, subtle noise that you immediately tried to swallow down. You turned your head to the side and kept walking, squeezing his hand tighter like you could distract yourself from your own body.

Spencer noticed instantly. Of course, he did.

“Are you okay?” he asked, stopping to face you with concern already blooming in his eyes.

You nodded quickly, avoiding his gaze, your free hand pressing to your stomach like it might help keep everything inside. “Mhm. I’m fine.”

But your stomach had other plans.

The waves weren’t the only thing churning anymore. A sudden roll of nausea swept through you, violent and immediate. You froze. Then shook your head, wide-eyed and desperate.

“I—I need to go back to the room.”

Spencer didn’t hesitate. He grabbed your sandals from your hands, wrapped an arm around your shoulders, and turned you back toward the resort with a quiet, “Okay, we’re going. It’s okay.”

You felt mortified. You never threw up. Not since that one infamous night ten years ago involving too many sugary desserts and a bonfire with school friends.

But by the time you made it to the elevator, you were already gagging again, your hands shaking. Spencer pressed the buttons like a man on a mission and practically carried you down the hall.

And then… your head was in the toilet. Cold tile beneath your knees. A mess of tears and sickness and embarrassment.

You wouldn’t let Spencer even near the bathroom.

The moment he tried to follow you in, concern etched all over his face, you turned around mid-stumble and pointed a trembling, authoritative finger toward the balcony.

“Out there. Balcony. Now.”

Spencer blinked, stunned. “But I—”

“No, Spencer,” you groaned, one hand on your stomach, the other braced on the wall. “I love you. So much. But if you hear me throw up, I will have to walk into the ocean and never return.”

And before he could protest, you shut the door behind you, sealing yourself in like it was some kind of quarantine chamber. You couldn’t stand the thought of him hearing it—the retching, the gasping, the miserable sounds you hadn’t made in over a decade.

Meanwhile, Spencer stood barefoot on the balcony in the dark, completely banished like it was his fault you were sick. He pressed his palm to the cool glass of the sliding door, face full of worried confusion.

“She basically devours the goriest horror movies she can find but throws me outside for a little food poisoning,” he muttered to himself.

And yet—he stayed. Just outside the door, pacing softly, arms folded, waiting for any sign that you were okay. Because if you needed to pretend he wasn’t hearing you puke your guts out? Then he would pretend, too.

You clutched the toilet's cool porcelain like it was your only anchor, your forehead pressed to your arm, knees aching against the tile. The world was spinning in sharp little circles, and your entire body was clammy, a thin sheen of sweat coating your skin.

But then, from outside the bathroom door came the soft sound of Spencer’s voice. “Y/N?”

“Spencer!” you croaked, panicked and furious in equal measure. “NO!”

There was a pause, and you could hear the shift of his bare feet on the floor, and the rustle of his shirt as he leaned gently against the other side of the door. “Baby, it’s okay,” he said, calm and steady like he was soothing a frightened cat instead of a grown woman violently rejecting tacos. “It’s normal. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“It’s so gross!” you sobbed, barely able to catch your breath between waves of nausea and your own tears. “I’m sweaty, and—and puking, and I don’t want you to see me like this!”

There was a long silence. Not awkward. Not disappointed. Just full of Spencer’s care, humming just beneath the surface like a low, warm current.

And then, with a voice so soft it barely reached through the wood: “Sweetheart… I’ve seen humanity at its worst. But I have never, not once, thought someone I loved being sick was anything but human. You’re not gross. You’re hurting. And I want to be here for you.”

You sniffled, knuckles pressed to your lips, too ashamed to answer at first.

“I can stay out here. I will,” he continued gently. “But just… let me bring you a glass of water when you’re ready. Or a washcloth. Or a hug. You don’t have to let me in, but don’t shut me out.”

Your heart broke a little at how kind he was. And maybe it was the nausea, or maybe it was love, or maybe both—but you whimpered through the door, voice small and shaky: “I hate being vulnerable.”

And Spencer, without missing a beat, said softly, “I know. That’s why I’m so proud of you. You’re doing it anyway.”

Before you could stop it, your body lurched forward and you retched again, vomiting hard and fast—hopefully for the last time. Your throat burned, your stomach twisted, and by the time it was over, you were choking on a sob you hadn’t meant to let out.

You flushed the toilet with a shaky hand, then slid back against the wall, collapsing ungracefully onto the tile floor. Knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. You were crying now—really crying—coughing between tears, breath hitching like your body didn’t know how to calm itself down.

The door creaked.

“Y/N!” Spencer’s voice was sharp with worry. “I’m coming in.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

The door opened, and there he was—barefoot, heart pounding, hair slightly windblown from the balcony breeze, and eyes wide with panic.

He spotted you immediately, curled up on the floor, flushed and tear-streaked, the air still heavy with misery.

“Hey—hey, no, no, no,” Spencer rushed to you, dropping to his knees without a second thought. “Can I hold you?”

“I didn’t—” you hiccuped, trying to catch your breath. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

He cupped your cheeks gently, thumbs brushing away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling. “You’re sick, not radioactive,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours. “Let me take care of you, please.”

And something in you cracked again—but this time, not from nausea or shame. This time, it was the comfort. The love. The refusal he had to let you face any of it alone.

You covered your mouth with your hand, still red-eyed and trembling. “At least let me brush my teeth,” you mumbled, voice hoarse and shaky, cheeks burning with leftover embarrassment.

Spencer immediately nodded, standing up with you in one fluid motion, his hands warm and gentle as they steadied your arms. “Yes, absolutely. That’s actually really important—”

You let out a wet, half-laugh, half-sob as he began.

“—because vomiting introduces stomach acid into your mouth, specifically hydrochloric acid, which can weaken enamel. So you should actually wait a few minutes and rinse with water first—”

“Spencer,” you croaked, even as you leaned against the counter, reaching for your toothbrush.

“Right, right,” he said softly, rubbing your back. “I’ll wait to give the lecture until you’re minty fresh.”

You couldn’t help but smile—still teary, still exhausted, but somehow lighter. Because he wasn’t there to see you at your best. He was there because he wanted to be, even when you were at your absolute worst.

“Need to be able to kiss you if you’re going to talk dirty to me,” you muttered flatly, toothbrush halfway to your mouth.

Spencer, who had just handed you a glass of water to rinse with, froze.

Then, slowly—painfully—his cheeks turned pink, that signature flush creeping all the way to the tips of his ears. He let out a surprised laugh, nearly stumbling back a step like the words had physically knocked him off balance.

“Oh my God,” he said, grinning now, visibly relieved to see a flicker of your usual spark return. “You’re definitely feeling better.”

You rinsed, spit, and wiped your mouth, finally looking at him with a tired but mischievous little smile. “Still weak. Still gross. But capable of inappropriate humor? Always.”

Spencer beamed and then, because he couldn’t help himself, leaned in to kiss your forehead. “You scared me.”

“I scared myself.” You sighed. “But thank you for being here. Even when I banish you to balconies.”

He chuckled, resting his hand on your hip. “For future reference, you’re allowed to puke. And I’m allowed to love you anyway.”

“Thank you, baby,” you murmured, stroking your fingers gently across his stomach—a spot you knew was always sensitive, always made him twitch or blush or just melt a little. His breath hitched ever so slightly, and he looked at you with soft, grateful eyes.

“You’re not allowed, though,” you added, scrunching your nose. “I don’t want to hear you puke.”

Spencer balked, his mouth dropping open as his eyebrows shot up in exaggerated mock offense. “Excuse me?”

You laughed, stepping back just slightly to put a hand on your hip, already amused with yourself. “It’s gross! I probably wouldn’t find you sexy anymore.”

He let out a sharp breath that was half gasp, half laugh, and shook his head slowly, grinning with that very specific brand of Spencer Reid indignation. “Wow. Wow. That’s… I see how it is.”

And then, with the softest, most ridiculous gesture imaginable, he raised his closed fist and lightly—very lightly—tapped it against your jaw. Like he was throwing the world’s gentlest punch.

You both burst out laughing.

“Violence?” you teased, holding your hand to your chest. “This is what happens when I speak my truth?”

Spencer smirked, eyes glittering. “You threaten my sex appeal and my digestive dignity, and I’m the villain?”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You’re rude.”

“You’re lucky I’m still in love with you.”

“You’re lucky I am,” he shot back, lips twitching into another grin.

And just like that, the nausea, the embarrassment, the tile-floor misery—it all drifted away, replaced by laughter, love, and the kind of comfort that only came from being exactly where you belonged.

—

Spencer’s sitting at his dining table, shoulders hunched and brow furrowed in concentration, a case file spread out before him. He’s got one hand tangled in his hair and the other scribbling something in the margins of the profile, lips moving soundlessly as he works through his thoughts. It’s the posture he takes when he’s fully in the zone—focused, brilliant, unreachable by most.

But not by you. Not usually.

You’re curled up on the couch a few feet away, watching him with quiet affection and just a hint of boredom. He’s been at it for nearly two hours, and though he’s still talking to you intermittently, it’s all half-responses and murmured agreements. You know he doesn’t mean to ignore you—he’s just wired this way, intense and single-minded when something’s clawed its way into his brain.

Still, you’re feeling a little fragile today. Not enough to show it or say it out loud, but just enough to want a little more softness. A little more attention. Something light.

So you joke, voice casual but tinged with a vulnerability you hope doesn’t show, “Sorry I’m being so annoying, I’ll try to contain the full force of my unbearable personality.”

Spencer doesn’t look up.

“Mm, yeah,” he murmurs, pen still scratching across the paper. “That’d be great, thanks.”

You blink, your breath catching slightly in your throat. It takes a second to process that he actually heard you. Or at least—he heard the words. Not the meaning behind them. Not the way you laughed softly at the end, like it was all a joke when it wasn’t really.

And now he’s nodding to himself, flipping the page, muttering something about behavioral escalation, completely oblivious to the way his offhand agreement landed like a punch to your gut.

You sit still for a moment, too still. The kind of stillness that only happens when you’re trying not to cry out of sheer ridiculousness. It shouldn’t hurt. You know he didn’t mean it. But it does.

It does.

Without a word, you stand up slowly and make your way down the hall. You don’t slam the door. You don’t huff or sniff or stomp. You just slip into the bathroom and close the door gently behind you.

Spencer doesn’t even look up.

But after a minute or two—midway through a paragraph—his brain finally pings with something off.

The silence. The lack of your usual commentary or music playing faintly on your phone. The way you hadn’t laughed at his last mumbled fact about the statistical relevance of childhood trauma. The fact that you’re gone.

His pen stills.

“...Babe?”

No answer.

He looks up. The living room is empty. The soft blanket you were under is tossed neatly on the arm of the couch. The bathroom door is shut. The apartment is silent.

His heart sinks.

He replays what just happened in his head, scanning it like a file, rewinding your last words.

And then it hits him.

Oh. Oh.

Spencer sets the pen down slowly. His brow furrows, not with confusion but with regret. He pushes his chair back, stands, and crosses the hall to the bathroom, knocking gently—barely more than a tap.

“Sweetheart?” he says softly, already wincing. “Can I come in?”

Because now he knows. Now he really heard you.

Your head jerks up at the soft knock, startled, and you quickly swipe at your eyes with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, trying to erase any evidence of the tears threatening to fall. You hadn’t expected him to notice—not so soon, anyway.

His voice comes through the door, tentative and quiet, like he already suspects he’s hurt you. “Y/N?”

You sniffle, caught off guard but trying to play it cool. “I’m in the bathroom…”

“I know,” he replies, a sheepish little laugh wrapped in nervousness. “So… can I come in?”

There’s a pause. You stare at your reflection in the mirror—your red-rimmed eyes, the wobble of your bottom lip, the way you look like someone who’s trying too hard to keep it together. You sigh, but it comes out shaky, the kind of sound that gives you away before your words even have the chance.

“No, Spencer,” you say, voice cracking around the edges, thin and brittle. “Go back to work.”

You try to sound firm, but it’s no use. The second half of the sentence trembles out of your mouth like you’re holding it together with scotch tape and hope. And Spencer hears all of it.

On the other side of the door, he presses his hand flat against the wood like it might get him closer to you. Like maybe, if he touches it gently enough, the damage might reverse itself. His chest twists with guilt, a deep kind of ache he doesn’t quite know how to sit with.

“Hey,” he says softly, not moving away. “I’m not going back to work.”

“Spencer—” you try, your voice small.

“I wasn’t listening,” he cuts in, regret wrapped around every word. “And I’m so sorry for that. You were making a joke, and I just… answered without thinking. I wasn’t really hearing you, and I should’ve. That was a really stupid thing to say and I—I hate that it hurt you.”

You bite your lip hard, tears gathering again, this time not from the offhand comment but from how earnest he sounds now. How soft. How aware.

“I’m not going to push,” he says gently. “If you want me to leave you alone, I will. But I’m staying right here. Just so you know, you’re not alone in there. Not really.”

Silence falls again, but this one is different. It’s full of his presence, not the emptiness from before.

Your voice comes a moment later, barely a whisper. “I just felt… stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” he says immediately. “You’re not annoying. And you don’t have to joke about your feelings to make them easier for me to handle. I want to hear them. I want to know when you’re upset so I can help.”

You hesitate. Then, very quietly, the lock on the door clicks.

Spencer waits.

The door creaks open a few inches, and there you are, tearful and trying your best to look like you’re not.

His eyes soften as he takes a half-step forward, one hand reaching up to tuck a stray hair behind your ear. “Hi,” he says gently.

Your voice is still thick. “Hi.”

“Can I hug you now?”

You nod, and the dam breaks completely the second you’re in his arms. He holds you tight—steady, warm, and wordless—resting his chin on your head as you bury your face into his chest.

“I didn’t mean it,” he murmurs. “Not even a little bit. You’re my favorite person. Always.”

And you believe him. Because the thing about Spencer is—when he’s paying attention, really paying attention—he loves you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And right now, he’s paying attention to everything.

—

It was a slow afternoon at the Bureau, the kind where the hum of the fluorescent lights seemed louder than usual, and even Penelope had stopped trying to invent fake emergencies to liven things up. Files sat untouched, coffee mugs were half-full, and the bullpen was quieter than it had been in weeks.

So when Derek nudged Spencer’s arm and muttered, “Come on, pretty boy, lunch run,” Spencer didn’t argue. They wandered down to the corner deli with the flaky bread and the too-strong espresso Spencer would never drink but secretly liked the smell of.

They sat outside—Spencer with his book tucked under one arm, Derek unwrapping his sandwich with the kind of dedication that meant he wouldn’t speak for the first five bites.

But then, halfway through a fry, Derek looked up. Squinted. Tilted his head.

“Wait,” he said slowly, continuing their conversation, bugged by Spencer’s lack of enthusiasm about the subject. “So you’ve never…”

Spencer blinked, startled, then furrowed his brow. “No?” he answered cautiously, his tone more question than statement.

Derek nearly choked on his drink. “Bro, you literally have a girlfriend!” he said, laughter bubbling up. “How long have you guys been together now?”

“A little over a year,” Spencer replied, shrugging a little as he picked at the edge of his napkin. “But… it’s not about that. We don’t just have sex; we have a relationship. She’s my best friend.”

Derek clutched his chest in mock pain. “That’s sweet, Romeo,” he said dramatically. “But you’re telling me, in all this time, you never asked?”

Spencer looked thoughtful as if he were truly trying to remember if he ever had. “She never offered,” he said eventually. “And I didn’t want to pressure her. It’s not… transactional. We’re just—close. We talk. We… trust each other.”

Derek blinked. “You know you’re allowed to ask, right?”

Spencer tilted his head. “Are you?”

“Yes, Reid,” Derek sighed, dragging a hand over his face. “You can ask for things. Especially in a healthy relationship. Especially if you trust each other. You talk about stuff. It doesn’t make you pushy. It makes you communicative.”

Spencer sat back in his chair, chewing that over.

“…I guess I just figured… if she wanted to, she would.”

“And maybe,” Derek said, sipping his drink like he was about to drop the thesis statement of the day, “she’s just waiting for you to stop treating her like she’s a research subject and start treating her like she wants to be wanted.”

Spencer blinked.

“Oh,” he said. Then softer, “Oh.”

Derek just smirked, biting into his sandwich again. “You’re welcome.”

…

“So I had an interesting conversation with Derek today…” Spencer started, his tone just casual enough to seem like he was testing the waters—but not quite enough to hide that something was definitely on his mind.

You smiled over your shoulder at him, where he was sitting on the other side of the kitchen island, elbows resting beside the cutting board you’d left out earlier. The sizzling of the carrots in your pan gave a little punctuation to the moment. “Yeah?”

He nodded slowly, brows raised just a little, the way they always did when he was internally drafting something that made him nervous. He looked like he was mentally pacing even though he was perfectly still.

And then, as if someone hit play on the audio file he'd been rehearsing in his head, he blurted out with the grace of a baby deer on ice, “Will you give me a blowjob?”

The carrots hissed in the oil.

You froze for a fraction of a second—just long enough to let the words fully register—then turned to face him, eyes wide with amusement and a grin tugging at your lips.

“What did you and Derek talk about?” you asked, voice barely containing the delight now bubbling up in your chest.

Spencer flushed immediately, the tips of his ears turning red like you’d flipped a switch. “It—well—I just mentioned that we hadn’t… I mean, not that I expect anything, but he asked, and, well, we haven’t, and I wasn’t sure if—maybe—I was allowed to ask?”

You put the spatula down and turned off the heat, walking slowly around the island toward him, arms crossed but smile blooming. “You needed Derek Morgan to give you a permission slip to ask for a blowjob?”

“I didn’t need it,” Spencer said defensively, but he was already fidgeting with the sleeve of his sweater, looking up at you with a sheepish, caught expression. “He just reminded me that asking isn’t a bad thing. I didn’t want to pressure you. I didn’t know if you’d want to or if it would make things weird or—”

You leaned over, kissing his temple, your voice warm and teasing. “You’re adorable when you’re mortified, you know that?”

He groaned softly, letting his forehead fall into his hands. “Please forget how I said it.”

“No chance,” you laughed, wrapping your arms around his shoulders from behind. “But… I am glad you asked. Even if your delivery needs a little work.”

“So that’s not a no?” he mumbled into his palms.

You nuzzled into his hair and whispered, “Definitely not a no, Spencer.”

And just like that, your carrot sauté had officially been put on hold.

Spencer looked up at you from his seat with those wide, impossibly earnest eyes, his cheeks already flushed with a mix of embarrassment and anticipation. His voice came out in a breathy little burst like he couldn’t quite believe the moment was happening.

“I’ve never had one before,” he admitted, almost reverent in tone like it was a confession and a milestone all at once.

You smiled, soft and fond, brushing your fingers through his curls with that familiar warmth that always settled him. “I know, baby.”

He nodded like he expected as much—but then curiosity sparked in his eyes again. “Have you?”

You tilted your head, pretending not to notice the question forming. “Have I received a blowjob?”

Spencer groaned immediately, covering his face with both hands again like he regretted opening his mouth in the first place. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed, full and bright, the kind of laugh that always pulled a reluctant smile from him even in his most dramatic moments.

“Yes, I’ve given a blowjob or two,” you replied, nonchalantly, dragging out the answer just enough to tease him.

He lifted his head, peeking at you through parted fingers, eyes narrowing playfully. “Is that an accurate count?”

You smirked. “Do you want the real one?”

Without missing a beat, Spencer groaned again, this time more dramatically, and let his head fall forward—landing squarely against your chest like it was the only safe place in the world. He let out a muffled, mock-mournful, “I suppose not,” as his hands found your waist, holding onto you like he needed emotional reinforcement.

You chuckled again, wrapping your arms around him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “You’re too cute for your own good, Dr. Reid.”

He sighed, breath warm against your skin. “And you’re still evil.”

“Mm. But I’m your evil.”

That earned you a soft laugh—low and content—and the kind of squeeze around your waist that said he was glad you were the one he was nervous with. The one he was learning with. The one he trusted to laugh, tease, and still love him through it all.

“Is my evil going to keep being evil or…” he mumbled, barely audible like he was trying not to let himself say it all the way.

You arched a brow, grinning as you tilted your head closer to him. “What was that, baby?” you teased, voice syrupy sweet. “You sound a little desperate.”

Spencer groaned—half a whimper, half a plea—his face still pressed against you as if the heat rising in his cheeks might be hidden there. “Y/N…” he whined, the syllables dragging out of his throat like they were coated in syrup and shame.

You cupped the back of his neck, fingers sliding into the soft curls there, and hummed, lips brushing beside his ear now. “Hmm? Are you getting worked up?”

He nodded.

Just once. Small. But you felt it.

“Thinking about my mouth?” you whispered, your voice velvet and heat, each word wrapped around him like a tightening string. “Wrapped around you? Licking you… sucking you…” You smiled as he shivered against you, the tension building in his shoulders like a coiled spring.

“…swallowing you?”

His breath caught—sharp, choked, completely involuntary.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

His whole body did it for him.

Spencer was trembling—not visibly—not in some dramatic, cinematic way—but in the subtle, desperate tension that rippled through him beneath your hands. It was the kind of trembling that came from want layered under nerves, from anticipation that had nowhere to go but deeper.

He was quiet, but you felt the way his fingers tightened around your waist, how his forehead pressed harder into your chest, like if he hid there long enough, he could escape the fire you were so expertly stoking.

But he couldn’t.

You weren’t going to let him.

Your voice dropped even lower, almost a purr now, your lips ghosting over the curve of his ear, “You want me to, don’t you?”

He gave the barest nod again. Like even that little motion required a full-body permission slip.

“I want to hear it, Spence.” You trailed your fingers down his back, slow and light, the kind of touch that made it worse. Made him ache more. “Tell me you want it.”

He groaned—tried to suppress it, but it broke free.

“I do,” he whispered, voice nearly cracked in half. “I want you to…” He trailed off, unable to complete the sentence, the weight of the words too heavy in his mouth.

You softened, cupping his jaw and tilting his face up so you could see his eyes. They were glassy, wide, and so full of helpless want that your heart nearly cracked for him.

“Sweet boy,” you murmured, brushing your thumb across his cheek, “you don’t have to be shy with me. You know I’d never laugh at you.”

“I know,” he breathed. “I just… I’ve imagined it so many times and now that it’s real, I…”

“You’re overwhelmed.” You nodded, brushing his hair back from his flushed face. “That’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He nodded quickly, jaw tight with restraint, pupils blown wide with anticipation.

You leaned in, kissing him—gently at first, then deeper, your mouth moving slowly over his like a promise. His hands gripped you just tight enough to ground himself, and when you pulled back, your lips were still brushing his.

“Go lie on the bed, baby,” you whispered, your voice full of velvet and control and care. “Let me show you what it feels like to be worshipped.”

And for once, in his brilliant, spiraling, overthinking mind—Spencer didn’t argue. He just obeyed.

You watched, wide-eyed and deeply amused, as Spencer practically hightailed it down the hallway like you’d just fired a starting pistol at a race track.

One moment he was wrapped around you, whimpering under your breathy teasing, and the next—whoosh—he was gone, a blur of long limbs and nervous anticipation as he disappeared into your bedroom.

You couldn’t stop the giggle that bubbled up from your chest. It escaped in a full laugh as you slid the pan of forgotten carrots to a cool spot on the stove. They could wait. Spencer Reid could not.

You walked down the hallway slowly, and deliberately, enjoying every heavy beat of your heart and the warm, fluttering thrill building in your belly. By the time you reached the bedroom doorway, you were prepared to find him nervously waiting under the covers, maybe still in his undershirt, doing that thing where he fiddles with the hem and doesn’t make eye contact—

But no.

Absolutely not.

You stepped into the doorway and nearly doubled over.

“Spencer!” you shrieked, half in joy and half in stunned laughter.

There he was.

Completely naked.

No covers, no strategic sheet positioning, no half-off clothes like some dramatic movie scene. Just all of him, sprawled on your bed, flushed pink and already looking a little overwhelmed—but so clearly ready.

His curls were messy from where he’d run his hands through them. His legs stretched out nervously, feet flexing like he didn’t know what to do with his limbs now that he was all bare. His hands were clenched into the blanket on either side of him, and his entire face was red.

But he held your gaze, wide-eyed and proud, despite how clearly embarrassed he was.

“I, um—” he began, voice cracking like a teenager, “I didn’t know if I was supposed to wait under the blanket, or if you wanted… access…”

You covered your mouth with your hand, laughing into your fingers before you walked over, eyes sparkling.

“Spence,” you whispered, crawling up the bed as he watched you like you were both a goddess and a thunderstorm, “you are the most beautiful, ridiculous man I’ve ever met.”

He swallowed hard. “Is… is that a good thing?”

You leaned down, pressing a kiss just below his belly button as he sucked in a breath.

“It’s the best thing,” you murmured again, lips brushing just above the sharp line of his hipbone, letting the heat of your breath linger there while your fingers lightly traced along the sensitive skin of his thighs.

Spencer’s entire body shivered. His hands clutched the comforter like he needed an anchor, his back arched just barely off the bed in anticipation. And then—his voice, soft and breathy and absolutely wrecked already, slipped out:

“O–okay good,” he stammered, blinking down at you with flushed cheeks and blown pupils. “So what do I do…?”

You looked up at him, chin resting lightly on his lower stomach, and gave him a smile so soft, so steady, it made him swallow hard. “Just let me do the work, yeah?”

“Mhm,” he nodded quickly, his curls bouncing, throat working around a nervous gulp. His fingers twitched against the blanket again, like he didn’t trust himself to keep still.

You brushed your hand up his thigh, slow and deliberate, watching as his eyes fluttered shut from just that. “Can I start, baby?”

His head lolled back against the pillows. “Please,” he whispered, voice hoarse and pleading. “Do anything… just—do something.”

You grinned—loving, amused, and more than a little hungry—and kissed the inside of his thigh.

“Anything?” you teased, voice like velvet.

Spencer made a sound that was half laugh, half moan, and all desperation. “Anything,” he groaned. “I’ve been mentally preparing for this since I was sixteen, please don’t make me wait.”

You kissed higher. “Well,” you murmured, lips grazing the base of him, “good thing I’ve been practicing since then.”

And then—finally—you took him into your mouth.

And Spencer Reid stopped thinking for the first time in his entire life.

It was just the tip.

Just the head, just the softest, most teasing pull of your lips around the very beginning of him. You didn’t rush, didn’t dive in or try to overwhelm him—no, you knew better. You knew exactly what you were doing. You let your mouth rest there, warm and wet and barely moving, while your tongue flicked out slowly, tracing over that sensitive little slit at the top.

Spencer gasped.

His entire body jerked, muscles twitching like he’d been shocked. His hands flew from the sheets to the top of your head—not to guide or push, never that—but to hold on. Because suddenly he wasn’t sure where the floor was.

You dragged your tongue around the underside of the head, slowly tracing that ridge, the texture of your mouth perfectly tuned to the places he didn’t even know he was sensitive. You flattened your tongue and gave one long, deliberate lick along the underside, and—

Spencer lost it.

A strangled moan burst from his throat, cracked and raw like he’d been holding it in for years. His thighs trembled on either side of you, his back arched, and his hands tightened in your hair just enough to let you know: this is too much, this is everything, don’t you dare stop.

“Oh my God,” he choked, voice barely recognizable. “Oh my God, what—what are you doing to me—”

You pulled back just an inch, lips glossy and grin slow, voice sultry with delight. “Just the tip, baby.”

He stared at you like you’d rewritten physics. “That was just the—” he stopped, exhaled like he’d run a marathon. “I’m gonna die. You’re going to kill me.”

You laughed softly, full of warmth, kissing the base of him. “Not before I ruin you first.”

And then your mouth was back on him, and Spencer Reid stopped remembering how language worked.

The muscles in his thighs tensed beneath your hands, his breath catching in his throat like his lungs couldn’t decide whether to inhale or just shatter. He didn’t say your name this time—he couldn’t. It hovered on the edge of his tongue, but the sound died somewhere in his chest, overtaken by sensation.

You were slow, focused, and reverent. Every little movement felt purposeful like you were studying him again—not with questions or statistics but with care, and your tongue.

His head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut, and a soft, fractured moan escaped him. “Oh my God—” he breathed, hands fisting the sheets beside him, his whole body trembling under the weight of what you were doing to him.

He wanted to say something. Anything. A fact. A thank you. A prayer. But all he could manage was another helpless sound from deep in his throat, one that seemed to surprise even him.

You looked up at him once—just once—and that was it.

Spencer came. Loudly. Beautifully. Like someone unraveling at the seams in the safest hands possible.

“Shit,” Spencer whispered, his voice cracked and breathless, still reeling from the wave that had just wrecked him.

You pulled back slowly as you swallowed, wiping your mouth with your thumb, smirking like you’d just completed the most satisfying science experiment of your life. “Hmm?” you asked sweetly, batting your lashes at him.

Spencer let out a groan and immediately covered his face with one hand, his curls sticking slightly to his forehead. “That was so quick,” he panted, the words muffled behind his palm. “That’s so embarrassing.”

You laughed—soft and affectionate—as you leaned forward to pat his trembling thighs. “I take it as a huge compliment, baby.”

He peeked through his fingers at you, cheeks flaming red, mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure if he should pout or grin.

“I had plans,” he said dramatically, flopping back against the pillow. “Plans that involved at least five more minutes of dignity.”

You bent over and kissed the top of his head. “Yeah, well, your dignity didn’t stand a chance the second I started kissing your stomach.”

Spencer groaned again. “I told you that spot is unfair—”

“Not my fault you’re cute and responsive.”

He sighed, defeated, and rolled onto his side, reaching for you like he needed to physically confirm you were still there. “You’re evil.”

You curled into the bed beside him, pulling the covers over both your bodies as his arm draped around your waist.

“Yeah,” you murmured against his temple. “So I’ve been told.”

And Spencer just nodded, breath finally starting to even out, already plotting revenge he absolutely wouldn’t survive executing.

—

They don’t happen often. Spencer’s nightmares—true, bone-deep night terrors—are rare, but when they come, they’re merciless. Cruel. All-consuming.

And tonight is one of those nights.

You wake before your eyes are even open, stirred not by sound exactly but by the feeling of wrongness beside you. The mattress shifts sharply under Spencer’s body as he thrashes, limbs jerking under the sheets. His breaths are short and panicked, puffing from his lips like he’s being chased, hunted by some unseen force only his subconscious knows how to conjure.

He whines—a soft, broken thing, high-pitched and choked—and it makes your heart snap clean in two.

Unlike the times when he wakes you in the middle of the night shuffling for a glass of water or pacing from a post-case spiral, there's no irritation, no groggy frustration. Only fear. Only worry.

You sit up instantly, resting your weight on one elbow as your free hand reaches for him, brushing the soaked curls back from his clammy forehead. He’s burning with sweat, his t-shirt clinging to him like a second skin, his body caught between escape and paralysis.

You start to hum. Soft. Steady. Familiar.

It’s the tune you’ve used a hundred times to calm him—after a case, after a long day, during those quiet moments when the world outside gets too loud for Spencer Reid’s mind.

Your fingers stroke through his hair as you hum, and slowly, slowly, the rhythm of his breathing begins to shift. His muscles twitch less. The tension under his skin begins to loosen like a tight knot finally unraveling. Then, finally, his eyes flutter open—wide and glassy and searching.

His head turns toward you like a compass, finding its true north. He reaches out blindly, fingertips catching your wrist, shirt, shoulder—anything to anchor himself in the waking world.

“I’m here, baby,” you whisper, taking his hand in yours and pressing it to your chest so he can feel the steady beat of your heart. “You were having a nightmare.”

He nods once, but his jaw trembles, and then—the dam breaks.

His chin wobbles, lips pulling into a grimace as silent tears rise like a tide and begin spilling down his cheeks. He doesn’t sob. He doesn’t wail. It’s quieter than that. More devastating. Like something fragile inside him finally cracked open.

“Spencer, my love,” you whisper, brushing your thumb under his eye as you guide him gently toward you, “do you want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head—violently, once, twice—and that’s enough for you to know. It was either his kidnapping… or you.

But you don’t press. You just nod. And pull him closer.

He lets you move him, lets you shift back against the pillows so he can collapse against your chest, curled in, face tucked to your skin, holding on like you’re the only thing keeping him afloat.

You cradle him. Wrap yourself around him like armor. And then—so softly, so lovingly—you begin to sing.

“Stars shining bright above you…”

Spencer’s breath hitches but slows.

“Night breezes seem to whisper ‘I love you’...”

You press a kiss to his curls, feeling him melt into you.

“Birds singing in the sycamore trees…”

“Dream a little dream of me,” you finish gently, brushing your nose against his temple.

And then, a soft sound. A tiny, choked snort of a laugh.

You glance down to see his eyes squeezed shut, but the corners are crinkled.

“You’re ridiculous,” he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep, tears, and love.

“And you’re mine,” you whisper back. “Try and sleep now, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

And you do. Always.

—

Spencer barely remembered to eat that morning.

His mind had spiraled from the moment the facility called—soft voices and hesitant words and phrases like "she's declining" and "you may want to come soon"—and by the time he got to Hotch’s office, he could hardly string the request together in a full sentence.

But Hotch didn’t blink. Didn’t ask for details.

“Go,” he said simply, leaning back in his chair. “Take whatever time you need.”

Because everyone knew Spencer Reid never took time off. Not unless the sky was falling. And this? This was his sky.

He’d meant to text you. He really had. You were always the person he told first—when he had a rough case, when he learned a new theory, when he read a sentence in a book that made him think of you. But this wasn’t something he wanted to say over the phone. This wasn’t something he wanted to share—not yet. Not when it felt like he was barely holding it together.

So instead, he packed. A little chaotically. A little too fast. He folded things with military precision one moment, then dropped a pair of socks on the floor and forgot to pick them up.

He kept checking the clock, like maybe time would slow down if he stared at it hard enough.

And that’s where you found him—a half-zipped suitcase on the bed, his tie thrown over the back of a chair, a look in his eyes like he wasn’t entirely there.

You knocked as you opened the door, calling gently, “Knock knock!”

His head snapped up. Eyes wide. Guilt immediate. “Y/N—God, I—” he blinked, stepping toward you before stopping himself mid-step. “I was going to call. I should have called. I meant to tell you.”

You stood in the doorway, taking him in—his uncombed curls, the slight shake in his hands, the suitcase half-packed but with none of his favorite books.

“Tell me what?” you asked softly, walking toward him now, your voice the only calm thing in the room.

Spencer’s shoulders slumped. He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his palms over his knees like the movement might settle him.

“It’s my mom,” he said quietly. “She’s not doing well. They called. Said I should come.”

And then—his voice even softer, like it hurt to say— “I didn’t want to worry you.”

You knelt in front of him, gently grounding your hands into his. “Spence,” you whispered, “you don’t have to protect me from this. I want to be worried about her. With you.”

He didn’t speak right away. Just leaned forward, forehead pressed to yours, eyes closing as he exhaled like maybe he could finally let some of it go.

And when he opened them again, you were already packing his books. The ones you knew he’d want. The ones that made him feel at home. The way you did.

“You need to tell me these things,” you said, not unkindly but firm—your voice was soft, steady, and kind of serious, and it didn’t leave room for argument. You were beside his suitcase, carefully tucking the last of his books into the corner, smoothing the fabric over them like it would keep him safe.

Spencer nodded solemnly, his jaw tight, lips pressed into a thin line. He looked down, guilt clouding his features like a child being gently scolded—not because you were harsh, but because he knew he should have told you. He meant to. He just… didn’t. And that fact alone ate at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I wasn’t thinking.”

You looked up at him then, pausing for just a beat before you asked the question like it was the most obvious thing in the world, as natural as breathing: “Do you want me to come?”

His eyes darted to yours. Surprise flickered behind them—not because he didn’t want you to, but because the thought hadn’t yet made it to the surface. His mind had been too full of logistics, of fear, of memories he didn’t want to revisit alone—but now, with you saying it like, of course, like it wasn’t even a question—he felt his chest ache in the best possible way.

“What about work?” he asked quietly, still hesitant. Still Spencer.

You shrugged, standing slowly as you closed his suitcase and turned to face him fully. “It’s a family emergency.”

And you meant it.

Because Diana was your family too. Because he was your family.

Spencer blinked, and in that blink, something shifted. His shoulders dropped, the breath he’d been holding finally released, and his fingers reached for yours like he needed to ensure this was real.

“Okay,” he said.

And it was more than agreement. It was relief. He didn’t have to do this alone.

Not this time.

Spencer had thought it wasn’t possible to love you any more than he already did. He’d been so sure of it—so convinced that whatever threshold love had, he had already reached it with you. Already filled every available space in his heart with the sound of your laugh, the weight of your gaze, the way you said his name like it was a vow.

But then you stood in his bedroom, your hands on his suitcase, folding his shirts and slipping his books inside like you knew exactly which ones he’d reach for when the silence in the facility got too loud. You didn’t ask what you should pack. You didn’t ask for instructions. You just knew.

And when you asked if you should come with him—not out of obligation or pity, but because of course, you would—you said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. He was the one who needed to be reminded that this is what love looks like. This unwavering presence. This gentle certainty.

He looked at you and thought, How foolish of me.

To believe he’d reached the edge of it. To think there was a limit. To not realize that love, when it was real—when it was you—only deepened.

It didn’t swell like a tide. It unfolded like a galaxy.

And as you zipped up his bag, took his hand, and told him it was a family emergency—no hesitation, no doubt—he knew with absolute clarity: He hadn’t even scratched the surface of how much he could love you.

…

The plane ride was, as expected, not Spencer’s idea of a good time.

He had tried—really tried—to keep it together, to focus on the practicality of air travel, the necessity of getting to his mother quickly. But no matter how many times he told himself it was just recycled air, probability, and basic physics, his mind still latched onto every microbe, every cough within a five-row radius, every time someone touched the bathroom handle and then the seat tray without washing their hands.

His leg bounced with a steady rhythm. His fingers drummed lightly against his knee. His eyes stayed fixed on the in-flight safety card even after the flight attendant had long finished her speech.

And sleep? Forget it.

His brain was too busy. Running through timelines and medications, wondering if his mother would remember his face, wondering what kind of decline they meant when they said “declining,” wondering if he’d already missed something important.

But then, amid all that spiraling noise, he felt a small, warm weight shift against his arm.

You’d fallen asleep.

It was subtle at first, just the way your head leaned further into him, your shoulder relaxing as the hum of the cabin lured you in. And then, slowly, gently, your cheek came to rest against his shoulder. A little sigh escaped your lips, something soft and content, and then—

A tiny snore.

Followed by the unmistakable damp warmth of drool beginning to spread onto the shoulder of his sweater.

He blinked. Looked down. And instead of being annoyed or grossed out, or even startled—Spencer smiled.

It was small. Barely there. But real.

Because there was you in all the discomfort, stress, and spiraling unknowns. Snoring. Drooling. Completely knocked out and trusting enough to use him as your pillow. And for just a moment, the world didn’t feel so heavy.

He adjusted his arm a little so you’d be more comfortable, rested his cheek on top of your head, and let his eyes close—not to sleep, not yet, but to breathe.

And if his heart beat just a little slower after that? Well. He figured maybe drool wasn’t so bad after all.

When you and Spencer finally made it to the facility and stepped through the front doors, a weight settled over both of you—thick and invisible, wrapping around your lungs and squeezing with every step down the hall. It wasn’t just sterile lighting or that muted scent of disinfectant and aging upholstery. It was the stillness. The hollow kind that only existed in long-term care centers, where time felt both endless and unkind.

Spencer was quiet beside you. Almost too quiet.

He held your hand, but his fingers weren’t threaded with their usual softness—they were locked tight like he needed the contact to anchor him to the floor. He hadn’t spoken much since the drive. You knew he was trying to hold it together; that part of him was walking in that door as her son, and another part was walking in as a protector, a man who had spent his whole life-solving unsolvable problems—except this one.

You offered a small squeeze, and his eyes were already glassy when he looked at you. He gave you a grateful, heartbroken smile.

The nurse met you at the door of Diana’s room. He was kind. Soft-spoken. He gave Spencer an update that he barely registered, nodding absently as he mentioned medication changes, good days and bad days, and lucid moments that came less and less frequently.

And then… you were inside.

Diana Reid sat by the window, hair neatly brushed, her cardigan buttoned all the way to the top like someone had helped her with care. She stared out at the garden with a faint smile, her gaze fixed on something that wasn’t quite there.

“Hi, Mom,” Spencer said, his voice barely above a whisper.

She didn’t turn. Not right away. Not until he stepped closer.

And then—slowly, cautiously—her head turned. Her eyes met his, blinking once… twice…

And she smiled.

“Spencer,” she said softly, voice a fragile thread. “You’re so tall.”

Spencer laughed. It cracked in the middle.

You stood back, giving them space, tears threatening behind your eyes as he knelt beside her, taking her hand, speaking gently to her like she might drift away if he was too loud.

It was hard. So much harder than you thought it would be.

But watching him speak to her, watching him love her through the heartbreak—it reminded you of everything you already knew about Spencer Reid:

That his heart was vast. And no matter how much it hurt, he would always show up.

You would never tell Spencer how much it hurt you to see this. Not the weight of the facility. Not the trembling fragility in Diana’s voice. Not the way Spencer’s face cracked in places you’d never seen before.

Because this wasn’t about you. It wasn’t your pain to center. You were here for him.

And no matter how deeply it ached to see him kneeling there, clutching his mother’s hand like he was trying to hold time still, you knew the pain running through his veins was sharper. More personal. More impossible.

So you stood quietly at his side, calm, steady, present.

Spencer looked up at one point, eyes flicking toward you with a soft, hopeful smile, and said, “Mom, this is Y/N. My girlfriend.”

Diana tilted her head, brow furrowing slightly. She studied you for a long moment, her expression unreadable.

Then she let out a soft, amused little huff. “You’re far too young to have a girlfriend,” she said, teasing, her tone light but off-kilter, like she was only half in the moment.

You offered a polite, if slightly uncomfortable, smile, stepping forward gently. “It’s so nice to meet you, Ms. Reid. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Your voice was sweet, and your posture was perfect. You were warm, polite, and kind, even as her words stung—not because they were cruel, but because they were true, in their own heartbreaking way.

Because she didn’t see him.

Not the man who spent his entire life trying to understand her. Not the man who fought tooth and nail to keep her comfortable, safe, and protected. Not the man who flew across states to hold her hand.

She saw a boy.

“Aren’t you in school?” she asked him, blinking rapidly, confused now. “Where’s your backpack?”

Spencer froze.

You saw it the moment his smile faltered—the millisecond his lips tried to recover, tried to shape themselves into something reassuring. “Mom… I’m 28.”

She blinked. “No. No, you’re not. Don’t lie to me, Spencer.”

“I’m not lying,” he said gently, trying to hold her gaze. “I’m 28. I work for the FBI now. I—”

Diana’s face changed. The confusion shifted into something sharper. Panic. Fear.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re just a boy. You’re my little boy. Stop lying to me!”

Spencer’s voice caught in his throat. “Mom—”

You were already stepping forward, crouching beside him, reaching across to squeeze his arm gently. “Spence,” you whispered softly, “maybe… maybe not right now, okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just sat there, his mother’s panic echoing in his ears, his shoulders tense and still.

You turned to Diana, voice sweet and soft again. “Would you like to talk about your garden? It looks so beautiful out there.” You pointed to the window.

Diana’s eyes flicked to you, wide and tear-glossed, but she nodded slowly, her fingers relaxing just slightly.

And beside you, Spencer just kept holding her hand. Even as it trembled. Even as he did.

The night was hard—long, quiet, and restless. Spencer had said goodnight to his mother with that practiced softness you’d seen before, like he was trying not to fold inward, trying to be composed. But when you got back to the hotel, that composure started to crack.

He showered in silence. Didn’t ask for your music. Barely responded when you gently offered to order room service or rub his back. He just moved through his routine like a ghost, heavy and quiet, haunted by something too big to name.

Eventually, he crawled into bed beside you. But sleep didn’t come easy.

He tossed. Turned. Huffed softly against the sheets. You didn’t press. You just opened your arms when he finally rolled toward you, found your chest, and curled into the soft rise and fall of your breath like it was the only thing grounding him. You held him close, stroking his back, whispering nothing in particular—just letting him know you were there.

By morning, he was finally still. His curls were splayed across your chest, one arm slung limply around your waist, his breathing deep but a little uneven, like even in rest he couldn’t quite settle.

You tried to slip out without waking him—so carefully—but the second your warmth left his side, he stirred.

“Shh,” you whispered, already rounding the bed. You ran your fingers gently through his curls, leaned in, and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “Still here, sweetheart. Just sleep.”

He sighed under your touch, not quite waking, and you watched his brow soften again as you guided him back into slumber.

Only then did you slip into the bathroom with your phone, the door cracked open just enough to hear if he called out.

You sat on the edge of the tub, scrolling quietly.

There are flower shops near the facility, coffee places with quiet booths and good lighting, a few tucked-away bookstores, art galleries, natural history museums, and a pop-up science exhibit that might be small but still worth exploring.

Las Vegas had no shortage of distractions—but finding the right ones for Spencer? That was a challenge. It took knowing his moods, his quirks, the things that soothed his mind when it spiraled. You weren’t just looking for something to do—you were trying to build a soft place for him to land in case today broke his heart again.

You’d do it all if it helped. Because he would do the same for you. And because loving Spencer meant knowing how to love gently.

When Spencer finally stirred again, it was slow—his lashes fluttering, his breath shifting against the pillow, his limbs stretching just slightly like he was testing the air around him. The light from the window was soft, filtered through the gauzy hotel curtains, casting everything in that gentle, golden morning haze.

You were exactly where you wanted to be: curled up beside him, one hand absently stroking through his curls as your eyes skimmed over the pages of your book. The moment you felt him stir, you marked your place but didn’t move—just kept running your fingers through his hair, grounding him.

Then he let out a sound. Something between a whimper and a groan—deep, low, and raw from his chest.

You looked down immediately, concern tightening in your throat. “Okay, baby?” you asked softly, brushing a curl off his forehead.

He didn’t open his eyes fully—just turned his face slightly into your side, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper.

“Just need you.”

You set your book down without hesitation and wrapped your arms around him, tucking his head to your chest, holding him as close as he needed. “You have me,” you murmured, kissing the crown of his head, letting your hands trail gently along his back. “Always.”

And in that quiet little cocoon of tangled sheets and steady love, you gave him the safety he didn’t know how to ask for—but always found in you.

Spencer nodded against your chest, his breath hitching just slightly. Before you heard the sniffle, you felt the damp warmth of a tear at the edge of his eye. His whole body curled into you like he was trying to hide inside your arms.

His voice cracked when he started, “You… you were so perfect yesterday.”

You tilted your head down, kissing the top of his hair again, your fingers still carding through the curls at the nape of his neck. “Hmm? Why’s that, my love?”

Spencer didn’t answer right away. You could feel him searching for the words, his mind flicking through the moments like files in a cabinet, trying to find the one that made his throat tight and his chest feel like it was folding in on itself.

“You didn’t panic,” he finally whispered, his voice fragile. “When she started to spiral when she didn’t remember me—when she yelled at me—you didn’t look scared. You didn’t try to fix it. You just… helped. You gave her a different focus, something gentle. You gave me time to breathe.”

You stayed quiet, holding him tighter, because you knew he wasn’t done.

“And I didn’t even say thank you. I—I didn’t tell you what it meant. I couldn’t. I think I was… still trying to hold myself together. But I saw it. I saw everything you did.”

You felt his shoulders tremble slightly as another breath shook out of him.

“You were just… perfect,” he murmured again like he didn’t know any other word big enough at that moment. “And I’m so lucky you’re mine.”

You pulled back just enough to kiss the corner of his damp eye and whispered, “You don’t have to thank me, Spence. That’s what love looks like.”

And you stayed right there, arms around him, holding the weight of everything he didn’t have to carry alone.

—

It started small—barely a shift. A silence between words. A longer pause before answering your texts. A softness to his eyes that held more weight than usual.

Spencer was in his head again.

You could feel it the way people feel a pressure drop before a storm: subtle, but undeniable.

He still kissed you good morning. Still held your hand when you crossed the street. Still brought you your favorite snacks from the store without asking. But behind it all, something tugged at him. A quiet unease that he hadn’t voiced yet, but you knew was there.

And in his head, it was loud.

Because Spencer Reid had never been loved like this before.

Not with the kind of tenderness you offered without question. Not with the way you remembered what calms him, what overstimulates him, what makes him light up. Not with the way you touched him so reverently, not because he was fragile, but because you treasured him.

You made space for his rituals. You never mocked his routines. You celebrated his quirks and soothed his spirals. You told him he was enough—and somehow, you meant it.

And he believed you. He did.

But tonight, after you’d made dinner, rubbed his back, and laughed at all his nerdy jokes, something inside him twisted tight.

You always did so much. You made loving him look easy.

And Spencer?

He didn’t feel like he deserved easy.

He lay beside you in bed, his arm wrapped around your waist, chin resting lightly against your shoulder, but his thoughts were somewhere else. Tangled and noisy and sharp.

Do I do enough? She deserves flowers and poetry and grand gestures and I… fold her laundry when she’s tired. What if she thinks I’m not trying hard enough? What if she doesn’t know how much I worship her?

His grip around you tightened slightly—subtle, but enough for you to feel it.

You turned your head, looking at him in the low glow of the bedside lamp. “Spence?” you asked softly. “Where are you right now?”

He blinked, eyes darting like he’d been caught.

“I’m here,” he said automatically, then hesitated. His voice dropped. “I mean… sort of.”

You rolled gently to face him, brushing a hand through his curls, watching how his lips pressed into a thin, guilty line.

“Talk to me?”

He swallowed, hard. “I just… I don’t think I do enough. For you.”

Your brows knit, but you didn’t speak. You let him keep going.

“You do everything in your power to make me feel safe and cared for, and—and loved, and I just—what do I do? I… hold your coffee while you put your shoes on. I memorize your schedules. I read your favorite book three times and bookmarked my favorite parts and never even told you because I was nervous you’d think that wasn’t enough.”

His voice cracked, just a little. “But I adore you. And I don’t know if I’m showing it right.”

You leaned in, and touched his cheek, your heart full and aching.

“Oh, Spencer,” you whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You do everything right.”

Spencer’s eyes glistened, and for a moment he didn’t trust himself to speak. He opened his mouth once, then shut it again, his throat working like he was trying to find language that didn’t exist yet.

“I…” he began, then paused, frustrated. “I don’t have the right words. Not—not mine, anyway.”

You rubbed your thumb gently along his cheekbone, watching him carefully, waiting.

His hand tightened around yours like it grounded him. Then, almost breathlessly, he said, “Can I… borrow someone else's?”

You nodded without hesitation. “Of course.”

Spencer took a breath, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. And then, in a voice that shook at the edges but still carried so much warmth, he began to recite:

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers.”

You felt your breath catch in your throat. Pablo Neruda. You recognized it immediately.

Spencer’s voice dropped lower, reverent now, every word reverberating between you.

“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.”

He stopped, just barely, a breath trembling against your skin. When he opened his eyes again, they shimmered—not just from tears, but from everything he couldn’t say without someone else’s poetry to carry it.

“I don’t always know how to say it,” he whispered. “Not the way you deserve. But I feel it. Every second. It’s—in me. Like that poem. Like breathing.”

You moved closer, cradling his face in your hands, your own tears slipping free now, quiet and full.

“Spencer,” you whispered, voice thick, “you show me you love me every single day. And that?” You touched your forehead to his. “That was the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

He exhaled shakily, wrapping his arms around you like he never wanted to let go.

And maybe, neither of you ever would.

—

The motel was small and a little sad—one of those off-the-highway places with flickering neon signs and rooms that smelled vaguely of lemon cleaner and disappointment. The team had wrapped up the latest round of interviews for the night and gathered outside near the parking lot, taking advantage of the cool evening air and vending machine snacks before turning in.

Morgan sat on the SUV's hood, tearing into a bag of trail mix like it had insulted his family. Emily leaned against the passenger-side door, sipping a bottle of water, eyes sharp and amused. The conversation had already veered wildly off-course from the case, and like clockwork, it had drifted into teasing territory.

“I’m just saying,” Morgan said, grinning around a mouthful of almonds, “this town might be depressing as hell, but I did see a very enthusiastic bartender eyeing me at the diner.”

Emily let out a low, knowing chuckle. “Oh, please. You were offered three numbers from women we interviewed today.”

“Hey, I didn't take any of them. I can’t help that I’m desirable,” Morgan said, giving her a playful nudge with his foot.

“Desirable or shameless?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

He smirked. “Why not both?”

Spencer, who’d been half-listening while flipping through the case file one more time, looked up from where he was perched on the curb. “Do either of you ever think about, I don’t know, boundaries?”

“Boundaries?” Emily repeated, grinning as she turned toward him. “Come on, Reid. You make it sound like we’re chasing people through hospital wards. We’re talking about consenting adults.”

“Exactly,” Morgan added, wagging a finger. “Grown folks, grown decisions.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow and muttered, “Some people might prefer to focus on the case.”

Emily narrowed her eyes playfully. “You mean you.”

Spencer didn’t respond, but the blush creeping up his neck was answer enough.

Morgan leaned forward like he’d just smelled blood in the water. “You’re telling me, Pretty Boy, that in all the time we’ve been out in the field—years, by the way—you’ve never, not once, had a little... off-duty adventure?”

Spencer shifted awkwardly. “I don’t really think—”

“Oh my God,” Emily gasped, feigning horror as she clutched her water bottle. “Never? Not even a little flirtation at a hotel bar? A mysterious woman with a tragic backstory? A man in a cowboy hat named—”

“You’re projecting,” Spencer said flatly.

Emily grinned. “I’ll allow it.”

“I just don’t see the point in meaningless interactions with people I’ll never see again,” Spencer said, shrugging a little like it wasn’t a big deal.

“Buddy,” Morgan said with a laugh, “it’s not meaningless if it’s fun.”

“Exactly,” Emily chimed in. “We’re not saying you’ve got to form a long-term emotional attachment over drinks and a shared trauma. Just that… exploration is healthy.”

“You guys sound like a pair of bad sex ed videos,” Spencer muttered, tucking his file under his arm and standing up.

Morgan grinned. “We’re trying to help you, man.”

“I don’t need help,” Spencer said. “And for the record, I’ve had plenty of—experiences. Just not with every waitress and desk clerk, we pass along the way.”

“Oh, come on,” Emily had joked. “Name one.”

And he’d blinked, fumbling for the simplest, most obvious answer. “I have a girlfriend?”

It was meant to be enough. More than enough. He thought maybe they’d drop it after that. Maybe Morgan would whistle, or Emily would roll her eyes and call him smug. But instead—

“And I bet those are the only tits you’ve ever seen,” Morgan laughed, head tossed back, that familiar, easy drunk-banter tone laced with sharpness he didn’t realize he’d crossed.

The laughter that followed was sloppy and loud. Emily chuckled too, but hers was a little more hesitant—her gaze already sliding toward Spencer like maybe they had gone too far.

Spencer didn’t laugh. His spine stiffened, and his mouth pressed into a tight line.

Because yeah… okay, maybe it wasn’t entirely wrong. Maybe he hadn’t racked up any wild, tangled encounters in foreign cities or hooked up with someone he couldn’t remember the last name of. Maybe he didn’t have wild stories about tequila-fueled nights or poolside flings. But it wasn’t like he’d planned that.

He was just… different.

And sometimes—especially moments like this—it made him feel like he’d missed something. Like everyone else had been handed a script on how to be effortlessly cool and experienced, and he’d shown up too late to memorize the lines.

Morgan was still grinning, but Emily had caught on now, her smile slipping completely as she glanced toward Spencer again. He wasn’t saying anything. Wasn’t making a witty comeback or rolling his eyes. He just stood there, arms crossed too tightly, jaw clenched a little too hard.

“Hey,” Emily said softly, nudging Morgan. “That was a little much.”

Morgan blinked, still chuckling, but when he looked at Spencer and saw the tension there—the discomfort etched into his face—his smile dropped too.

“Reid,” he said, sobering, “I was just messing around, man.”

Spencer gave a small, tight shrug. “Yeah. I know.”

But his voice didn’t match the words. Not really.

Emily stepped forward and leaned her shoulder into his gently. “Hey. You’re not missing anything, you know. We just talk a big game. It’s a lot of noise.”

Spencer nodded, still not quite looking at either of them. “It’s fine.”

Morgan sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Seriously, that wasn’t cool. I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad. You’ve got someone who loves you, and that’s more than a lot of people ever get.”

That softened something—just slightly—in Spencer’s shoulders.

“I’m gonna head back,” he murmured after a beat. “Big day tomorrow.”

And he turned, walking slowly back toward his room, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

Behind him, Emily gave Morgan a look, and Morgan just exhaled heavily.

Because for all the joking and teasing… they sometimes forgot how deeply Spencer felt things. And how, sometimes, even good-natured laughter could echo like a bruise.

…

He hadn’t stopped thinking about it.

The conversation replayed in his head like a bad tape—Morgan’s words looping, the laughter echoing louder than it had in real-time. He knew, knew, they didn’t mean it to cut so deep, but it did. Not because it was true, necessarily, but because some part of him believed it might be. That maybe he wasn’t enough. Not worldly enough. Not man enough. Not good enough to keep someone like you.

So when he got to your place, there was no ritual. No careful organization. No meticulous unwinding.

His bag hit the floor with a dull thud. Coat flung over the back of a chair. Shoes still on. Keys? Thrown onto the table without a second thought.

He didn’t call out for you. He didn’t stop to think. His whole body was thrumming, full of something frantic, aching, needy.

He found you in your office, sitting at your desk, focused and unbothered by the world unraveling outside your door. You barely had time to register the sound of his footsteps before he was there—pulling you out of your chair and into his arms like gravity had just given up.

“Spencer—” you gasped, your hands reaching up to steady yourself, to steady him, but the name barely made it past your lips before his mouth was on yours.

He kissed you hard, breathless and desperate and full of something wild. It wasn’t how he usually kissed you—not the slow, adoring kind. This was urgent. This was please and prove it and don’t go anywhere ever again.

“What’s up, baby?” you whispered against his lips when he let you breathe for a second, searching his face, already knowing something wasn’t right.

“Need you,” he murmured hoarsely, his hands already on your waist, sliding up your back like he couldn’t hold enough of you. “So badly.”

You blinked, caught in his intensity, your palms cupping his jaw as he dove back in—another kiss, this one softer but still tinged with desperation. His hands moved like he was afraid you’d disappear, like he had to memorize the feeling of you all over again in case this was the last time.

“Spencer,” you murmured, voice gentler this time, one hand finding his curls, the other pressed flat over his chest. You could feel his heart pounding. Racing.

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closing. “I couldn’t stop thinking about what they said. Morgan. Emily. The way they laughed—like I’d missed out. Like there’s something wrong with me for not having… all those stories. And then I thought—what if you think that too? What if you’re just being patient? What if you’re settling for someone who doesn’t know what he’s doing, who’s boring, or… or disappointing?”

Your heart shattered right there in your chest because he said it with such rawness like the words had been pressing against his ribs for hours, maybe days, desperate to be let out.

His brow was still pressed to yours; eyes closed like he couldn’t bear to see the look on your face when you answered—afraid, deep down, that some part of his fear might be right.

“Baby,” you breathed, your voice caught halfway between shock and heartbreak, your hands gently cradling his face, “what are you talking about?”

He opened his eyes slowly, and they were glossy now, full of something unspoken, something tangled and bruised and fragile.

“I just—” he started, then shook his head, frustrated with himself, with the thoughts that wouldn’t let go. “They said it like it was funny. Like I was some… monk. Like I’d never lived, never explored. And I laughed it off, but it got stuck in my head. I kept wondering if I’d missed out on something. If you felt like you were missing out.”

Your mouth parted to respond, but he kept going, like now that it had started spilling out, he couldn’t stop. “I know I’m not like other people. I know I can be awkward and too intense and not very spontaneous. I like routines. I like structure. I don’t know how to do the whole flirty one-night thing, and I never wanted to, but I also don’t have some grand collection of stories or past lovers or wild memories. I have you. And maybe I’m scared that’s not enough for you.”

You stared at him, chest aching, your thumbs brushing along his jaw as you tried to hold in the tears forming behind your eyes—not from hurt, but from how deeply he was hurting.

“Spencer,” you whispered, pulling him close until your foreheads touched again. “You are enough. You are so enough, baby. You are the most thoughtful, attentive, ridiculously loving man I have ever known. If you think for even a second that I’m missing out, then you really haven’t been paying attention to how obsessed I am with you.”

His breath hitched. “But they—”

“They don’t know us.” You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “Spence, I don’t want the stories. I want you. I chose you. Again and again, I would, and I will choose you.”

He swallowed hard like the words you’d just given him were something he hadn’t expected to receive—something he didn’t quite know how to hold without shaking. His eyes were still wet, dark, and glistening as they searched yours, wide and aching with hope he wasn’t sure he was allowed to have.

“You mean that?” he asked, his voice barely there as if it might break if he spoke any louder. There was something so young in the way he asked, so open and raw, like some forgotten version of himself was still standing there, waiting to be told he was too much, or not enough, or somehow both.

Your thumb brushed the side of his cheek with a gentleness you didn’t even know you possessed until you met him. And with your lips inches from his, you whispered back—

“I mean it as much as I do when I say I love you.”

You didn’t blink. You didn’t smile or try to soften it. You just said it the way you meant it—honest, unwavering, full.

Spencer stared at you for a long, still moment as if trying to memorize the shape of those words on your face. Then his arms tightened around you suddenly, pulling you flush to his chest like he could hide you in his bones like he needed to protect this feeling from ever being pulled away again.

“I love you,” he breathed into your hair over and over again. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

You could feel it with every word—how much he needed to say it now, not because he thought you didn’t know, but because he needed to believe it was real again. That someone could know him like this, down to the soft, sensitive, tender center of him, and not walk away.

“I’m not settling,” you whispered into the fabric of his shirt. “You’re it, Spencer. You're everything.”

His hands trembled just slightly as they threaded into your hair, and he kissed you again, more like a promise than a need this time.

And he stopped thinking about that conversation for the first time in hours—maybe days. Because nothing they said mattered anymore. You were his truth now.

“But…” you started, your voice soft and trailing off, like you weren’t quite sure if it was the right moment. Spencer pulled back just slightly, enough to look at you with those wide, earnest eyes, already on alert. He searched your face like he was bracing for another blow, some revelation that would unravel all the reassurance you’d just given him.

You saw the nerves there—always just under the surface with him—and your heart ached with affection. So you softened the weight of the moment with a gentle smile, tilting your head and raising your brows with playful mischief.

“If you still want me…” you said, voice dropping just enough to hint at something less heavy and a lot more suggestive, “…I’m right here.”

And then you wiggled your eyebrows dramatically.

For a second, Spencer blinked at you, caught off guard—until the realization hit, and he let out an actual, genuine laugh, rich and real, the kind that melted the last traces of tension from his shoulders.

He leaned in slowly, letting his nose brush yours, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I always want you,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and warm.

You felt the hum of it in your chest, your fingers curling into the collar of his shirt as you leaned into him again. “Even when I’m annoying?”

He kissed you once, then twice, like punctuation. “Especially then.”

You giggled, your foreheads pressed together, your noses brushing as you whispered, “Even if I don’t have a wild backstory and a cowboy hat?”

“I’ll buy the hat,” he grinned.

“You’d look terrible in a cowboy hat.”

“And you’d still want me.”

You sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, hands wrapped around you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. And maybe you were.

Spencer’s hands moved without urgency, just steady and sure, like he was mapping every part of you he already knew by heart—reaffirming that yes, you were here, and yes, you were his, and yes, you wanted him just as much.

His palms slid along your back in slow, grounding strokes, fingers pressing into your muscles with the kind of gentle care that made you sigh into the kiss, your body melting against his. You could feel the way his fingertips flexed—like he wasn’t just touching you, he was feeling you, trying to say a thousand quiet things all at once with nothing but the movement of his hands.

You hummed softly, lips parting against his in a breathless murmur of contentment, and just as you were leaning further into the kiss, his hands drifted lower.

Down the curve of your spine. Down to the swell of your hips. And then—

Both of those big, warm, sturdy hands settled on your ass, squeezing gently before he started kneading with slow, purposeful pressure like he had all the time in the world.

You broke the kiss with a quiet, needy whine, your fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt. “Spencer…” you breathed, not even sure what you were asking for—just overwhelmed with how good it felt, how expressive he was being.

He only smiled, his forehead still pressed to yours, his thumbs stroking slow circles against the fabric of your pants as he spoke in a whisper that sent a shiver down your spine.

“You like that?”

You gave a small, breathless laugh, eyes fluttering half-closed as your hips shifted instinctively under his touch. “You’re lucky I love you. Anyone else, and I’d be filing a formal complaint for being so handsy.”

“Mm,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw. “Good thing I’m yours then, huh?”

His hands squeezed again, just a little firmer this time, and the warmth in your stomach curled tighter.

“God,” you muttered against his throat, “you are so repressed until suddenly you’re not.”

He chuckled into your skin, the sound deep and warm and intimate. “Just needed to be reminded you’re not going anywhere.”

You pulled back enough to meet his eyes, fingers stroking gently at his curls. “Spence,” you whispered, smiling softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He kissed you again like a thank you. Like a promise. And then he kissed you again, just because he could.

This was new.

Not the wanting—he always wanted you, always looked at you like you were the safest place he’d ever known. Not the intimacy either—you’d memorized the shape of his affection over time, the soft way he kissed you good morning, the slow, reverent way he touched you like he was reading a favorite passage over and over again.

But this—this was different.

This was Spencer stripped down to something raw and instinctive, something that didn’t think twice, didn’t second-guess or calculate or stop to breathe. It wasn’t the soft hum of his love—it was the ache. The heat. The urgency that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with how much he missed you. Needed you.

He had walked through the door, and in that instant, the world narrowed down to you.

No bag hung up. No coat carefully folded. No slow exhale as he sanitized his hands or washed away the day.

He’d tossed everything aside like it didn’t matter—and to him, right now, it didn’t. All that mattered was you.

And now here he was—holding you like he couldn't stand even a molecule of air between your bodies, kissing you with something fierce in his mouth, something that tasted like longing and relief and the echo of every moment he’d spent thinking what if she thinks I’m not enough?

But he wasn’t thinking anymore.

There was no mental filing system running in the background, no tallying glances, no hesitation as he moved his hands from your back to your ass and touched you with the kind of surety that had your breath catching.

Spencer Reid was making the first move. Spencer Reid—whose fingers usually trembled with careful reverence—was now gripping you, pulling you closer, like he needed to remind himself you were real and his and here.

And for once, he wasn’t checking to see if it was okay. He wasn’t reading your expressions like a case file. He wasn’t trying to solve you.

He was just feeling.

Driven by want. By love. By the low, possessive ache of missing you too much for too long.

And you could feel it in every kiss, every touch, every shift of his body against yours.

You barely managed a breath. “Spencer…”

But he kissed you again, cutting off whatever else you were going to say, hands gripping tighter like he couldn’t bear to let go. His voice was low and rough when he finally spoke, lips brushing yours as he whispered—

“Need you.”

Another kiss.

“So badly.”

There was no doubt in his eyes now. No fear. Just hunger. Warmth. You.

This wasn’t the moment he fell in love with you. He already had.

This was the moment he let himself have you. Not carefully. Not hesitantly.

But fully. Completely. Now.

“Oh—okay,” you sputtered, your voice breathy and barely coherent as Spencer’s mouth moved lower, tongue warm and wet against the soft skin of your neck. He kissed you there with a kind of focus that made your knees feel untrustworthy, his lips sucking gently just beneath your jaw, tongue flicking over the mark he left behind. Your head tilted without conscious thought, already giving him more access, and your hands clutched at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from floating away.

But then he paused. You felt it in the shift of his breath, the faint hesitation in his hands. Not out of doubt—no, not anymore. Out of deliberation.

Spencer huffed softly, almost frustrated with himself, forehead resting against your collarbone as he breathed in deep, trying to center himself. He was never this forward, never this commanding, and it was clearly throwing him off for a second.

Then he lifted his head, pressed his lips to your ear, and in the lowest, softest tone, said, “I’m going to shower.”

You opened your mouth to protest, heart thudding, already missing his warmth—“Spence, wait—”

But his hand came up, gentle but firm, covering your mouth with one broad palm, effectively silencing you.

“No,” he murmured, meeting your gaze with something that sent a shiver down your spine. “I’m going to get clean before we continue.”

Your eyes widened, heart hammering now for an entirely different reason. There was no teasing glint in his eye, no nervous laughter. Just calm certainty and the weight of intention behind his words.

You nodded beneath his hand, slow at first, then faster, your face burning with heat as his fingers brushed your cheek, thumb lingering just shy of your lips. You could feel how flushed you were, how needy—his sudden authority was so quiet, so natural, that it wasn’t even about the tone. It was about him.

“Good,” he said softly, nodding once in return. His hand slipped away, leaving your lips tingling. “While I shower, I want you to log out of your computer,” he murmured, voice a warm ribbon against your skin. “Then I want you to go wait for me in the bedroom. Can you do that for me?”

You whined, your throat catching on the sound, and you nodded again—eager, trembling, soaked.

He smiled, and even that was gentle, but his eyes had darkened with something deeper, something you weren’t used to seeing from Spencer—but loved.

Without another word, he kissed your temple, then backed away, his fingers trailing down your arm like he didn’t want to leave but had to.

“I won’t take long,” he said, walking backward toward the bathroom, watching your dazed, needy form with an expression that was already promising more.

And you? You didn’t move for a solid ten seconds after the door shut. Just stood there, breath shaking, heart pounding, thighs pressed together.

Then—obedient, aroused, and wholly overwhelmed—you walked toward the computer.

Log out. Bedroom. Wait.

You'd never followed instructions faster in your life.

Spencer had never taken a faster shower in his life. No overthinking, no triple-wash rotations, no alphabetizing of shampoo bottles or lingering beneath the spray with his eyes closed and the world churning in his mind. Tonight, it was all function—scrub, rinse, done. Because you were waiting.

Waiting like you wanted him. Like he was allowed to take. And God, did he want to take.

He toweled off quickly, wrapping the fabric low on his hips, water still clinging to his skin in rivulets that caught the dim bathroom light. He barely looked in the mirror. He didn’t need to. His feet carried him straight out of the bathroom like he had a gravitational pull toward you, eager and electric.

He reached the threshold of the bedroom, breath catching the second he saw you. And everything in him went still.

You were sitting in the center of the bed, cross-legged like something carved out of a dream—soft light from the bedside lamp casting golden shadows over your bare shoulders. You clutched a pillow to your chest, arms wrapped around it, chin resting lightly on top, eyes wide and glowing.

But it wasn’t the posture. It was what wasn’t there.

From behind that pillow, there was nothing. No straps, no sleeves, no hem. Nothing to hide behind but the downy shape of the pillow—and your teasing, trembling confidence.

Spencer’s breath left him in a rush like it had been yanked from his lungs. His fingers flexed instinctively at his sides, nails lightly digging into the soft terrycloth at his hips.

“Darling…” he said it like a prayer, like a plea, like a man trying to keep his soul tethered to his body. His voice cracked ever so slightly. “Is there… do you have anything on?”

You tilted your head, biting your bottom lip with the most innocent look like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing to him. And then, without a single word, you shook your head.

No.

Spencer inhaled sharply through his nose, a sound half desperate, half reverent. He took a slow step forward like he wasn’t sure whether to drop to his knees or just stand there and stare.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked, “you’re gonna make me forget how to speak.”

You just blinked up at him, lashes fluttering slightly, still hugging the pillow to your chest like you were shy—though the playful twitch at the corner of your mouth said otherwise.

He ran a hand through his damp curls, chest rising with each deep breath, trying to keep control of the fire simmering just beneath the surface. You had listened. You had waited. And now here you were, offering yourself with that look like he could do anything and you’d say please.

“Are you teasing me?” he asked softly, taking another step closer.

You hugged the pillow tighter, lips curving into a guilty smile. “A little.”

His eyes darkened.

“Good,” Spencer whispered, and something about the way his voice dropped—low and sure and just a little wicked—sent goosebumps racing up your arms. He was close now, close enough that you could see the rivulets of water still trailing down his chest, the way his curls clung damply to his forehead, the flush of heat rising up his neck.

He wasn’t shy right now. Not uncertain or hesitant. This wasn’t the man who asked for permission at every moment. This was the man who’d spent the last week thinking about you. Who had walked through the door and claimed you with his mouth. Who had told you what to do and watched you obey.

And he was still in control.

His fingers slid under the edge of the towel at his hips, knuckles brushing his skin, slow and deliberate. His gaze raked over you like he was starving, and you could barely breathe under the weight of it.

“Because now,” he murmured, taking one step closer, “I can finally repay you.”

You felt it like a chord pulled taut between you—the anticipation, the heat, the hunger wrapped around something deeper. Not just lust. Craving. Possession. Worship.

Your breath hitched, hands gripping the pillow tighter, but your thighs pressed together under it involuntarily, betraying how completely undone you were by the sight of him like this—wet, bare, confident.

“Repay me?” you echoed softly, trying to sound coy, but your voice trembled.

Spencer’s eyes flicked up to yours, and his smile—God, that smile—was all promise.

“For all those times,” he started, letting the towel drop silently to the floor, forgotten. He stood there without shame like he already knew you couldn’t look anywhere else. “For all those times you touched me, kissed me, looked at me like you do, and made me beg for it. For making me want you so bad I couldn’t even get through a full shower.”

You swallowed hard, lips parted.

He leaned in slightly, hands coming to rest at the edge of the mattress, bracketing your knees. “Put the pillow down.”

You blinked at him, and he raised an eyebrow in quiet command. “I want to see all of you.”

You threw the pillow.

His breath caught. And then he was moving.

Spencer kissed you like a man possessed—nothing careful about it. No hesitation, no gentle build. Just heat and hunger and the wild ache of missing you pressed into every inch of your mouth. His lips were rough against yours, breath warm and heavy as he claimed you all over again with just his mouth.

Then his hands—those beautiful, skilled, big hands—came up to your shoulders, steady and sure. He broke the kiss only to guide you gently, reverently, down onto your back, your hair fanning out over the pillows as he followed your descent until your spine hit the mattress with a soft sigh.

You reached for him again the second he pulled away, lips parted in protest, already pouting. “Spence—”

But he was already rising, standing tall again at the foot of the bed with that look on his face. The one he got when he was running through a theory in his head, all focused intensity and faint amusement, the corners of his mouth twitching like he knew something you didn’t yet.

You watched in confusion as he bent down, plucking the discarded towel off the floor. “What are you doing, baby?” you asked, blinking up at him, breath still uneven.

He straightened and looked at you with the kind of soft determination that made your chest squeeze. “You’re going to lift your hips,” he said matter-of-factly, walking back toward the bed, towel in hand, “and I’m going to put my towel under you.”

Your brows furrowed, heat crawling up your neck. “Wh–what? Why?” you asked, your voice going small. “Am I… too messy?”

You sounded shy. Embarrassed, even.

Spencer just chuckled, low and warm and affectionate as he knelt one knee onto the bed and leaned forward, brushing his nose gently against yours. “No, darling,” he whispered, lips grazing yours in a kiss so soft it almost broke you. “But you will be.”

And then he smiled—sweet and so smug—like he’d already made you come twice in his head and was just now getting started.

Your breath hitched. Your thighs pressed together. And your hips lifted.

As soon as the towel was nestled beneath you, Spencer’s hands smoothed over your hips with a kind of care that contrasted sharply with the fire simmering just beneath his skin. He settled between your legs with a reverence that made your heart ache, eyes dark and steady as they trailed down your body like he was studying a sacred text.

And then he began to kiss.

Soft, open-mouthed kisses against your thighs, the crease where your hip met your stomach, the delicate line of your navel. Each one slower than the last, parting your skin with warm breath and tongue, worshipful in a way that made your breath catch in your chest.

He was so focused, not distracted, not looking for affirmation. Just there, completely absorbed in the act of being close to you. Of learning you. Of claiming this new part of you for himself.

But still… your heart fluttered with nerves. A pang of insecurity twisted in your chest.

“Baby…” you murmured, voice shaky, half-laced with awe and half with hesitation. Your fingers brushed through his curls, trying to tether him, your voice barely a whisper. “You don’t have to.”

He stilled at the bottom of your stomach, lips warm against your skin, hands gently cradling your hips like they were the most precious thing he’d ever held.

His eyes lifted slowly to meet yours, his expression unreadable for a moment—serious, but not cold. Just concentrated.

“I know I don’t have to,” he said softly, voice like velvet, slightly hoarse. “But I want to.”

You swallowed, lips parted.

He leaned in and pressed a kiss just above your hipbone, the gentlest kind of reassurance.

“I want to learn every part of you,” he whispered. “Not just the ones we’ve already explored. I want to know what makes you breathe harder. What makes you loud. What makes you fall apart.”

You whimpered then—just from the words.

Spencer’s lips twitched, eyes full of quiet, contained hunger.

“I’ve thought about this,” he continued, breath ghosting lower, hands still firm on your thighs. “About you. About how you’d taste. About how you’d sound when I finally got to make you feel good like this.”

You exhaled sharply, eyes fluttering closed.

“And if you’re nervous,” he said gently, “that’s okay. But I’m not. Not anymore.”

He pressed one more kiss just beneath your navel.

“Let me show you how much I want this,” he murmured. Then his mouth dipped lower. And you forgot how to ask him to stop.

His mouth dipped lower—slow, deliberate, reverent—and your breath caught in your throat so fast it almost hurt. You were trembling, just slightly, with the anticipation of it, your fingers still tangled in his curls, not pulling him closer, not pushing him away, just holding on like you weren’t sure what would happen when he finally reached you.

Spencer’s hands stroked slowly along the outside of your thighs, thumbs brushing upward in long, soothing arcs, grounding you. You could feel the way he wanted this—his touch wasn’t frantic, wasn’t hurried. It was intentional. Every movement, every breath, every kiss, like a declaration.

And then—finally—his mouth reached where you needed it.

He started with a soft, exploratory kiss, his lips pressing gently against the most sensitive part of you, and you gasped, hips jerking slightly. His hands tightened around your thighs, just enough to steady you, but not to restrain you.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Spence…”

He hummed, low and content against your clit, and the vibration of it traveled through you.

He looked up once, just briefly, to check on you—and what he saw made his breath hitch. Your head thrown back, lips parted, chest rising and falling with shaky, shallow breaths. You were a vision. All flushed skin and trembling limbs, and you were his.

His hands slid further under your thighs as he settled in, fully committing now, and when his tongue flicked out to taste you—slow and precise—you whimpered, thighs twitching against his palms.

Spencer groaned. Deep and low in his chest, like he hadn’t expected to enjoy this so much like you had just become his new obsession.

“That’s it,” he murmured against you, his voice half-praise, half-need. “You’re already doing so good for me.”

And then he really got to work—slow, languid licks followed by teasing little swirls of his tongue, like he was trying to memorize what every reaction meant. Every little gasp. Every roll of your hips. Every shaky moan.

It wasn’t perfect—it was messy and unpracticed and full of a kind of eagerness that was unmistakably Spencer. But it was so good. Because it was him. Because he was paying attention. Because he wanted to give you everything.

Your fingers tightened in his curls as you let out a breathless, broken moan, back arching into the pillow, into the towel, into him.

“Spencer—Spence, oh my God—”

He moaned softly in response, like your pleasure was feeding something primal in him, and he redoubled his efforts, his tongue moving with more confidence now, more pressure, more purpose.

He treated this like an experiment like you were his thesis and your pleasure, the final data set he had been born to analyze. 

If anyone asked him—if you asked him—he’d turn beet red and stammer something about just following instinct, maybe quote some outdated medical journal on female arousal, but the truth? The truth was that Spencer Reid had done his homework.

He’d read. He’d watched. He’d studied. Not just academically, but with purpose, with the quiet kind of obsession he reserved for the things he wanted to master. And right now, that thing was you.

You were already breathless beneath him, trembling from the waves of pleasure he’d pulled from you so far. But Spencer had that look in his eyes again—the one he got when he was chasing a theory, testing hypotheses in real-time. He’d seen what you responded to. He was collecting the data, building toward a conclusion.

So when he adjusted his grip on your thighs, anchoring them gently but firmly over his shoulders, and leaned in again, you thought you were ready.

You weren’t.

His mouth closed over your clit—not gently. Not shy. And then—he shook his head.

Your cry was sharp, ragged, pulled straight from your chest without filter or form. Your back arched off the bed, every muscle in your body drawn taut like a bowstring as pleasure burst through you, electric and dizzying.

“Oh my— Spencer!” you gasped, voice cracking as your thighs instinctively tried to close, but his arms were already bracing them open, holding you there, grounding you with a strength you hadn’t expected from someone who spent most of his time holding books, not bodies.

Spencer paused for the briefest second, blinking up at you in stunned, awe-struck wonder. You were writhing. Crying out. Your back was arched so high he genuinely worried for a split second you might hurt yourself—if not for the desperate way your hands clawed at the sheets and your breath came in gasping, incoherent strings of his name.

And then you said it—voice cracked and reverent and broken around the edges— “Don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”

Spencer didn’t stop. He doubled down.

His mouth sealed over you again, this time with even more purpose, sucking and shaking, varying pressure like he was experimenting, chasing the formula for your complete and utter unraveling. And God, he was close.

You were incoherent. Wrecked. A shaking, crying mess of nerves and sensation, repeating his name like a litany, fingers in his hair, in the sheets, in the air, searching for something to hold on to while your body tried to come apart under the weight of it.

He moaned into you—actually moaned—because he hadn’t known it could feel like this. Your pleasure was addictive, intoxicating, and he never wanted to stop chasing it.

When you came, it wasn’t a gentle fall. It was a collapse like your body couldn’t hold itself together any longer. Your voice was gone, your thighs shaking, and all you could do was ride it out.

But Spencer hadn’t stopped.

You were still trembling—breathless and glassy-eyed, your limbs splayed out like you’d just been unraveled and your soul hadn’t quite returned to your body yet—but Spencer? Spencer was locked in. Focused. Eager. Insatiable.

His mouth remained sealed to you, tongue still lapping in slow, methodical strokes like you were his favorite dessert, and he wasn’t done savoring every last drop. And maybe he hadn’t realized.

No, you realized, he definitely hadn’t realized.

He hadn’t realized you’d just had a full-body clitoral orgasm. That you were already spent, flushed, and shaking from the inside out. Because to Spencer, this wasn’t the end. This was still data collection. Ongoing results. Field research.

Your hips gave a weak jerk beneath him, overstimulated but helplessly pliant. You tried to lift your head, tried to warn him with a broken, “Spence—baby—I—I already—”

But your voice dissolved into a moan as he gave another slow, deliberate drag of his tongue over your still-pulsing center. Your body flinched, caught in the strange limbo of pleasure and overwhelm, but Spencer didn’t pause—he moaned, and the sound vibrated through you, making you shudder again.

And then you saw it.

You felt it.

The slight shift of the mattress. The tension in his thighs. His hips grinding down into the bed. Not frantic—rhythmic. Slow. Purposeful.

Your dazed eyes dropped to where his body pressed into the sheets—Spencer was grinding into the mattress, his cock rigid and leaking, caught between his stomach and the bed as he rutted against it with the kind of desperate need he probably didn’t even realize he was showing. All while still licking you with the same kind of focused obsession he brought to his most complex theories.

The sight nearly took your breath away.

He was lost in it—eyes half-closed, one hand gripping your thigh tightly, the other splayed possessively over your stomach, holding you down, holding you here as he licked and licked like you were everything he’d ever wanted.

And maybe you were.

“Oh—Spencer,” you gasped, voice caught somewhere between awe and overstimulation, your fingers sinking into his damp curls again. “Baby, you’re gonna kill me—”

He finally pulled back—barely—his mouth glistening, lips swollen, breath ragged as he looked up at you with dazed, reverent eyes. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his brow, and his voice was hoarse, hungry when he spoke.

“You taste—so good,” he whispered like it was a revelation. “I can’t stop.”

You whimpered, your back arching again just at the sound of his voice.

And still, you could feel the soft thrusts of his hips into the mattress, like he couldn’t help himself. Like just being here, having you like this, tasting you, was enough to drive him to the brink.

And it hit you clear as day—this wasn’t for your pleasure only.

Spencer Reid was getting off on this. On you. On making you fall apart again and again. On turning every theory into practice.

And God help you—you were ready to let him keep going.

Spencer ate like a man starved. Not of food, but of you—the taste of you, the sound of you, the way your body responded to his every touch like it was made to be deciphered by him and him alone.

He experimented—slow flicks, gentle suckling, broad strokes of his tongue that made your thighs twitch and your toes curl. He noted every whimper, every little gasp, every sudden grab at the sheets with the quiet, terrifying brilliance of someone who didn’t just want to please you—he wanted to master you. Completely.

And then, when you were already trembling and slick with sweat, eyes half-lidded and barely able to breathe, he brought his fingers into the mix.

Two long, elegant fingers—ones that had flipped through a thousand pages and solved puzzles most couldn’t dream of—slid up and pressed directly against your clit, rubbing furiously, while his tongue pushed inside you with an intensity that made your thighs snap closed around his head like a vice.

The world fractured.

You cried out—screamed, really—as your hips bucked wildly, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave. You weren’t just coming. You were thrashing, your entire body consumed by the overload, trembling violently as Spencer held you down and kept going.

He didn’t stop. Not when your thighs clenched. Not when your fingers yanked at his hair. Not even when your voice cracked trying to call his name through the chaos.

He moaned against you, drunk on your body, on the mess he was making, the slickness he was drinking down like nectar. His eyes rolled back as he kept thrusting his tongue into you, fingers rubbing your clit with that same maddening rhythm, chasing something deeper, more.

“Spence—!” you choked, the sound mangled by a sob, too far gone to form words, too sensitive to take anymore.

It wasn’t even about pleasure anymore—it was just too much.

You reached for him with shaking hands, every part of you trembling, legs twitching uncontrollably. “Baby— Spencer, I can’t—please, please—”

And even then, he didn’t stop until you grabbed fistfuls of his hair and physically pushed him away, your voice wrecked and teary as you cried out, “I need—I need a second—!”

Spencer pulled back immediately, breathless and wide-eyed, mouth glistening, curls messy and damp where your thighs had pressed against his head. His hands released you like he was afraid he’d gone too far.

You were panting, chest heaving, body covered in sweat and shivering from head to toe, the towel underneath you wrinkled and soaked.

He opened his mouth to speak—an apology, maybe—but your hand caught his cheek.

Your eyes met his, hazy but full of emotion. “That was incredible,” you whispered, voice hoarse and shaky. “But holy shit, Spencer.”

He blinked. “Did I—? Was that—?”

You gave a dazed, giddy laugh. “I had to push you off. That’s how good it was.”

He flushed instantly, eyes wide, pride, concern, and lust tangling across his face.

“Let me just—let me breathe for a second,” you added, still gasping as you pulled him down into your arms, your body too weak to do anything else but hold on.

Spencer melted into you without question, lips pressing to your cheek, jaw, and forehead. “Okay,” he murmured softly, voice wrecked but sweet. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

And he did. Every piece. And he wasn’t letting go.

You were blinking up at the ceiling, dazed and glowing.

And maybe later, Spencer would blush. Maybe he’d be shy, overthink it, and pretend he wasn’t proud of himself.

But right now?

Right now, Spencer Reid looked at you like he’d just discovered fire.

Spencer had his head nestled against your shoulder, still catching his breath from how completely he’d just wrecked you. His curls were wild, lips swollen, cheeks pink, but his hands had returned to their default setting: gentle, steady, anchored somewhere on your body like a reassurance that you were still here, still his.

Still real.

But even as he held you, your chest rising and falling in the aftermath, he lifted his head slightly to check in—eyes soft but searching.

“You okay?” he asked, voice hoarse, lower than usual, like the sheer intimacy of what had just happened had rewired something in him. “Still with me?”

You turned your head just enough to fix him with a tired, narrow-eyed glare, your voice still raspy but laced with teasing fire. “You’re not that good.”

The corner of his mouth twitched up immediately, a smug little smile blooming across his face as he shifted onto an elbow to look down at you. “I think I am,” he replied, way too pleased with himself, voice silky and satisfied.

You blinked slowly up at him. “Oh, do you?”

He nodded, eyes half-lidded, hair clinging to his forehead, looking every bit the genius who had just figured out a new way to make you lose your mind.

So you did the only thing you could do to wipe that smirk off his face.

Your hand slid down between your bodies, warm and sure, and wrapped around him—soft at first, fingers barely ghosting over his cock, which was flushed and heavy and leaking at the tip, still twitching slightly from the way he’d been grinding against the mattress earlier. Spencer let out a soft gasp, hips jerking almost reflexively.

But you weren’t done.

You pinched lightly at the tip, just enough to make him jolt with a strangled sound in the back of his throat, the kind that shot straight through you.

“Oh my—” he hissed, breath catching completely.

You began stroking him slowly, deliberately, the barest pressure over his most sensitive skin. You watched with a lazy sort of satisfaction as his eyelids fluttered and that smug expression crumbled, replaced by slack-jawed awe.

“Still feeling smug, baby?” you asked sweetly, your thumb dragging through the moisture at his tip.

Spencer whimpered.

Actually whimpered.

His mouth opened but no words came out, just a shaky breath as his hips bucked into your hand and his fingers gripped the sheets beside your head.

You smiled.

“Didn’t think so.”

You moved slowly down the bed then, with sultry purpose, eyes fixed on his like you knew exactly what kind of power you had—like you’d reclaimed every ounce of strength he’d taken from you moments ago, and now, you were going to use it to ruin him in return.

You trailed your hands up his thighs, soft and deliberate, and he was already shaking beneath your touch, eyes wide, lips parted, chest heaving. Still flushed, still glistening slightly from his feverish grinding into the mattress, he looked like a man who had no business looking so undone.

And then you leaned forward—so close he could feel your breath against the head of his cock, tongue slipping out to just barely trace a circle around his leaking tip.

Spencer gasped, his hips twitching, one hand flying into your hair as the other gripped the edge of the bed for dear life.

“Oh my God,” he breathed, voice ragged. “You—oh, fuck—”

You didn’t answer. You just kept eye contact as you moved in slow, delicate laps, tasting the salt of him, flicking the very tip with the flat of your tongue until he was cursing under his breath and moaning freely—no longer quiet, no longer composed.

He’d come into this night feeling unsure, wondering if he was enough. But now? Now he was helpless. Vulnerable in the best way. Because you weren’t just giving—you were showing. Showing him what he did to you. Showing him how much you loved him. How much you wanted him.

You wrapped your lips gently around the head, sucking—soft at first, light pressure that had his whole body jolting. “Ohh— god, I—please—” he groaned as his fingers tightened in your hair, not guiding, just holding on.

And then, without warning, your mouth dropped lower.

Your tongue slid beneath him, your lips parting wider, and suddenly his balls were enveloped in the wet heat of your mouth.

Spencer cried out, his head thrown back with a choked sound that was more pure sensation than speech, thighs trembling under your palms.

“Nn—fuck, you’re gonna—” He couldn’t even warn you properly. He couldn’t think.

It was overwhelming. Too good. Too new. Too much.

You hummed softly against him—just enough vibration to push him that last little bit over the edge—and that was it.

Spencer broke.

He came with a cry, long and raw and completely unrestrained, his fingers twitching in your hair, hips stuttering as his whole body shook with the force of it.

You felt him pulse in your hand, warm and heavy and completely at your mercy, and still, you didn’t look away.

When he finally slumped back onto the bed, breathing like he’d just sprinted through a storm, his hand falling from your hair like his bones had melted, you leaned forward and kissed the inside of his thigh before slowly climbing back up beside him.

His eyes fluttered open, glassy and wide.

“Wha—what just—what was that?” he whispered, voice hoarse and trembling.

You smiled, smug and sweet, curling up beside him and running your fingers through his hair.

“Field research,” you murmured.

Spencer let out a breathless, wrecked laugh and buried his face in your neck.

He wasn’t going to let you go anywhere.

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[scorpieuns]

KISS ME MORE | PARK SUNGHOON

summary: freshman year is just around the corner, and you still haven’t had your first kiss, so who better to ask for help than your best friend?

word count: 3.2k

MINORS DNI!!

warnings (18+): smut. fluff (just a smidge). kissing. swearing. oral (f. receiving). fingering (f. recieving).

A/N: this was literally just an excuse to write the ‘teach me’ trope im currently obsessed with lmfao. decided to return with another short fic while a longer one is currently in the works!

Your saturday was lazily drawing to a close, the amber light of the late afternoon bathing your room in a rich, golden hue as it filtered through the sheer curtains.

Sunbeams danced across the floor, casting long, dappled shadows that shifted gently in time with the breeze from your fan, its low hum blending with the quiet outside.

The heat of the day was still lingering, but your room felt cool—a refuge from the summer heat beyond the window.

You and Sunghoon spent another day in the slow, unhurried haze of summer break.

You had wandered through quaint little shops in town, indulging in some ice cream from your favourite parlour—before ending the day by hanging back at your place.

Soft, flickering light from the television lit up the room, casting faint shadows over the cozy chaos of blankets and pillows on your bed.

The movie playing right now, was one of your favourites—a classic romance that you knew almost every line to.

Your gaze was fixed on the screen, eyes wide and entertained, but Sunghoon seemed content to only half-watch.

His attention was mostly absorbed in a book he had got from one the thrift shops you’d visited a while ago, his cute glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he read quietly.

Sunghoon lay beside you—completely at ease, the quiet flipping of his turning pages blending in with the mumble of the movie’s dialogue as the two of you sat in comfortable silence.

But every now and then, Sunghoon would glance up from his book, watching you for a moment with a fond, almost amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

He silently chuckled at how deeply you were invested in the story, even though he knew you’d seen it more times than you could count.

As the movie played on, the flickering shots of the couple lost in passionate kisses filled the screen, but your mind was elsewhere.

Each romantic scene drew at a part of you, stirring feelings of uncertainty that you tried to brush away.

The effortless intimacy the characters exchanged seemed so foreign and so far removed from your own experiences. A soft sigh escaped your lips as you shifted slightly on the bed, that weird feeling in your chest only returning.

Fall was approaching, and the thought of starting college without ever having kissed had been gnawing at you.

You were always the one admired from a distance—some guys flirted but that was all they did. The real experiences, the ones you saw in movies and tv shows still remained an elusive mystery.

It felt like you were missing some crucial part of your youth, something that was supposed to happen naturally, yet it hadn’t.

In the locker room, when your friends would share their stories about their latest flings or kisses, you’d smile, laugh along—but inside you’d cringe, hoping no one asked about your own love life.

It was your secret, the thing that made you feel out of place despite how perfect you seemed to everyone else.

Then, there was Sunghoon.

You glanced at him, your best friend, lying beside you with a cute focused expression etched into his features.

He didn’t talk much about his romantic escapades, but you’d heard enough to know he wasn’t inexperienced.

Sometimes you’d catch a glimpse of faint hickeys on his neck or the way girls would glance at him.

It left you with a strange feeling, one you couldn’t quite name…was it jealousy? Insecurity? Maybe both. You felt your face heat up, embarrassed by how much it bothered you.

And as another kiss scene played out on the screen, your gaze flickered back to the couple.

You bit your lip, the pang of longing growing sharper. What did it feel like? To be kissed—or to have someone look at you like you were their whole world, for just a second?

The thought of entering college without knowing something so simple yet so intimate made you feel…painfully awkward.

You tried to focus on the movie, but the thoughts kept circling back, louder and louder. Now the movie no longer held your interest, and the weight of your unspoken feelings became too much.

Unable to shake the feeling, you sat up as your mind ran on impulsivity.

The movie played on, but you no longer cared about the plot or the characters. All you could think about was the current problem you had and the one person who would listen to you.

You shifted on the bed, turning to him. “Sunghoon." you murmured, your voice softer than usual.

He responded with a low, distracted hum, barely lifting his gaze.

One hand rested on his chin, finger grazing his bottom lip in a way that drew attention to the curve of his mouth, while his eyes flicked over the pages with slow, deliberate focus.

"How does…kissing feel?"

That got his attention. Sunghoon’s eyes snapped up from the book, the words clearly catching him off guard.

He pushed his glasses up with one hand, studying you with a mix of curiosity and amusement. “What are you on about now?”

You cringed at how juvenile your question sounded now, already hesitating, “I…” your face flushed with a mix of embarrassment, “I haven’t…kissed anyone before. And with college coming up, I just feel…I don’t know…insecure.”

Sunghoon’s brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “Wait, you’ve never kissed anyone?”

You rolled your eyes, “Okay, Mr. Midfielder. I’m not like you, alright? It’s not like I’ve had tons of people drooling over me.”

A soft laugh escaped him as he sat up, expression softening. “No (Y/N), it’s just hard to believe.” he said, a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re… like, insanely pretty.”

Sunghoon’s words sent a little flutter in your stomach—but you brushed it off, chalking it up to him just being nice.

“Of course, you would say that,” you muttered, playfully shoving his shoulder.

“I’m serious,” Sunghoon insisted lightly, catching your wrist, gently lowering your hand. His eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, you couldn’t look away.

There was something in the way he looked at you that made your heart race, your breath catching in your throat.

You tore your gaze away, suddenly feeling exposed under the weight of his attention. “This is stupid,” you mumbled with a wry laugh, already regretting bringing it up.

But Sunghoon wasn’t letting it go. He muttered your name softly, his voice coaxing you to meet his eyes again. He reached out, his fingers gently tilting your chin up until your gaze locked with his once more.

His touch was soft, barely there, but it made your cheeks warm. “It’s not stupid,” he murmured, his eyes searching for yours. “It’s okay to be new to things. Everyone is at some point.”

“Yeah, I guess,” you muttered, staring at the comforter as if the intricate embroidery held the answers to everything swirling in your head.

Sunghoon watched you intently, his heart aching at the sight of your lips forming a soft pout and your expression so full of uncertainty.

How was it possible that you had never been kissed?

He couldn't understand it, and yet, the thought of you being with someone else, experiencing that first kiss with someone who didn’t know you like he did—pulled at something in his chest.

Sunghoon would kiss you in a heartbeat if given the chance, but after ages of trying to ignore his feelings—of pushing aside how much he actually wanted you, he wasn’t sure he could handle it without letting everything else spill out.

His hand was still holding yours, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles over your skin, and for a moment, the touch seemed to blur the lines of just simple camaraderie.

The warmth of it messed with your thoughts, and before you could second guess yourself, the words tumbled out.

“Well, you’ve done it before, right? You could, I don’t know… teach me.”

“What?” Sunghoon froze, his breath catching in his throat, his eyes wide with surprise. His voice dropped an octave,“you’re asking me to… kiss you?”

You nodded, scooting just a little closer, close enough to feel the faint warmth of his body against yours.

“Come on, Hoon. We’re best friends. It’s not like it would… mean anything.”

Even as you said it, you couldn’t really believe the words yourself. There was an undercurrent, a dull gut feeling, that told you it wouldn’t feel like practice.

To you, maybe. The thought tore through Sunghoon’s mind.

He ran a hand through his hair, messing up his bangs as he tried to think. For the first time in a long while, he seemed genuinely flustered, “I don’t know, (Y/N).”

His voice was thick as he swallowed, cheeks slowly tinging pink. “That’s not exactly something you just… teach.”

“It’s just a kiss. I just wanna know what I’m doing when I eventually have to kiss someone for real.”

Sunghoon’s gaze flickered, his eyes betraying more than he wanted to show. For a split second, his eyes darted to your glossed lips, his breath hitching as he quickly looked away.

He pushed his glasses up again, licking his lips as he huffed. “This is a bad idea,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

“Why?” You asked, the plea in your voice betraying your own feelings. “It’s just one kiss, Hoon.”

Right?

You tried to keep it light, casual, like it didn’t matter. Like it was just a small favour between friends.

But inside, your heart hammered against your chest, your skin felt flushed, and the air between you both had clearly shifted.

The way Sunghoon was looking at you now, though, like he was really considering it—like he was seeing you in a way he’d never let himself see before—it was almost too much.

“Are you… sure?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, as if speaking too loud would shatter the moment.

Your fingers brushed against his knee, lingering for just a second longer, “I mean, it would just be practice.” You stated, but underneath it all, your heart skipped a beat, a buzz coursing through your veins as you looked back at him.

Sunghoon’s resolve crumbled at the feeling of your hand on his knee.

How could he say no to you when you looked at him like that—those wide, pleading eyes making it impossible to refuse?

He swallowed hard, his breath shaky. “Just… a practice thing,” he muttered, his eyes flickering between your gaze and your lips, fighting the gravitational pull on them.

“Yeah,” You muttered quietly, reaching up to remove the wire rimmed glasses from his face and placing them on your bedside table before glancing back at him.

Sunghoon’s hand moved up, threading through your hair before gently brushing it away from your face, his touch slow, deliberate.

His thumb traced the edge of your cheek, pausing to brush against your bottom lip in a way that sent a shiver through you.

The touch was soft, almost hesitant, but it ignited something deep inside you, making your breath hitch.

Your stomach fluttered as you met his intense gaze, his dark eyes trained on your lips. He leaned in closer, close enough that you could feel his breath fanning lightly over your skin, teasing, heightening the anticipation.

Sunghoon’s lips hovered over yours, just barely ghosting against them, brushing so softly that it made you ache for more.

Unable to resist the pull any longer, you closed the distance, pressing your lips gently against his.

The kiss started soft, tentative, your body hyper-aware of every detail—the warmth of his breath, the way his lips responded immediately, moulding into yours with an eagerness that surprised you.

Oh.

You pulled away for the briefest moment, eyes flickering down to his lips, your heart pounding through your ears.

Without a second thought, you leaned in again, this time a lot bolder, your hand finding the side of his face.

Sunghoon didn’t hesitate. He kissed back within a heartbeat, a soft sigh escaping his lips that sent a rush of warmth to the pit of your stomach.

His hands slid around your waist, pulling you against his chest, the space between you vanishing as your bodies pressed together.

Your fingers slipped into his hair, the soft strands curling around your fingertips as you tugged on them softly, his soft groans between kisses making your pulse race.

Sunghoon’s lips were firmer this time, more needier with every kiss, sending a rush of heat through your body as his grip on your waist tightened.

You softly fell back into the bed as he hovered over you, his tongue tracing your bottom lip before you parted your lips a little more, a low groan rumbling through his chest as he licked into your mouth.

Your hands slowly drifted down Sunghoon’s body, slipping beneath the thin fabric of his shirt to trace the contours of his torso, his breathy moans travelling straight to your core.

“Fuck.” He rasped, pulling away, “maybe we should stop.” Sunghoon’s eyes were glazed over, lips were swollen and tainted with your lip gloss, “I don’t think I’ll be able to control myself (Y/N).”

“Then don’t.” You rushed, breathless and wasting no time kissing him again, an unmistakable moan leaving Sunghoon’s chest as he kissed back desperately.

He pulled away—already missing the feeling of his lips on yours before they moved to your jaw, trailing soft sloppy kisses that travelled down to your neck, the feathery feeling creating a dull ache between your thighs.

Your sighs of pleasure almost bordered on moans as he gently sucked your delicate skin—pink and purple marks blooming on your skin, recklessly marking you from your neck to your collarbone.

Sunghoon’s hand drifted over the small of your back, sliding over to find their place on your ass squeezing the soft flesh with a lewd groan—an involuntary moan slipping past your lips at the feeling, tugging his hair.

Everything had your mind spiralling. Sunghoon’s lips were on your neck, his hand roaming every inch of your body.

You’d be lying if you said you didn't want more—craved more.

He trailed wet kisses along your chest, lifting your shirt to press a few more along your stomach, revelling in the way you leaned into his touch, your soft whines and sighs driving him up the wall.

You admired the way Sunghoon looked when he glanced up at you with his eyes, weaving your fingers through his already dishevelled hair, moving to his face and caressing his rosy cheeks.

Sunghoon’s fingers finally met the waistband of your shorts, lifting your hips up as quickly pulling the layer of clothing away, “fuck, you’re so beautiful.” He hissed, running his hands up and down your thighs.

His other hand brushed over your underwear, groaning at the sight. His finger traced over your wetness on the silky fabric, and you leaned into his touch, with the most beautiful moan he’d ever heard.

“Fuck baby, you’re so wet.” Sunghoon groans as his thumb taps at your clothed clit, clenching around nothing at the mention of the pet name he’d just given you.

He kissed your thigh, hooking his finger into your underwear and sliding the damp pink fabric down your legs, almost moaning at the sight of your dripping cunt.

Sunghoon lifts your leg and holds it over his shoulder, swiping his tongue over his thumb before meeting your clit and your head falls back, “Hoon, fuck.” You moaned, grabbing at your sheets.

“Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?” Sunghoon says softly, and you nod—watching him dip below your thighs, lips move to your clit and sucking on it gently.

You never fathomed anything would feel this good. Sure, you’d touched yourself a couple of times, but nothing could beat the feeling being eaten out.

You cry, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of his tongue dipping into your folds, letting his thumb swirl around your bundle of nerves while his tongue entered your core, moaning into your entrance.

The vibrations from his moans sent shockwaves up your spine, head tipping back in from the sensation with a broken cry, legs attempting to fly shut but he pushed them apart with a sound of disapproval.

His tongue swiped upwards, and his eyes fluttered closed at the taste of your arousal, reveling in the insanely beautiful moans that tumbled from your lips.

Your hands weaved into his hair, tugging the soft strands as you shamelessly bucked into his mouth with broken whimpers.

Sunghooon held you firmly against the sheets to stop you from squirming, unable to stay still from the feeling of his nose causing friction on your clit as he lapped at your pussy.

Your eyes peer over at him and the pornographic sight of him buried between your thighs makes your cheeks burn.

When his hand moves from your thigh you don't think much of it, until you feel his fingers circle your entrance.

Sunghoon pulls away from you, just in time to watch your plump lips fall open when he easily slides his fingers into your dripping core.

“You have know idea how good you look baby.” He panted, plump lips covered in your arousal biting his lip at sight in front him, completely enamored by your fucked out expressions.

Sunghoon’s fingers curl inside of you and they brush over your sweet spot, your mouth opening in a broken moan.

“F-feels so good, Hoon” you mewl breathlessly, grabbing his free arm as you bucked into his fingers, pumping them into you at a perfect speed.

You cheeks flushed furiously at the sounds of his fingers fucking your sopping wet core, broken raspy moans leaving your chest as his lips pressed kisses to your overstimulated clit—your mind a scrambled mess.

All you could think about was the pleasure that was currently surging throughout your entire body, making your toes curl and your head dizzy. A few whines and broken moans was enough to tell Sunghoon you were close, furiously clenching around his fingers as you begged him not to stop.

“That’s it baby, come for me.” He coaxed, his voice raspy and breathy, moaning at the sight of his fingers easily slipping in and out of you.

Your body jerked forward and your hand flew to his arm, blunt nails digging into his skin as you let out a whimper, back arching as his name tumbled past your lips in high pitched moans.

You were almost embarrassed by how fast Sunghoon made you come, mind clouded and hazy as he continued pumping his fingers, your walls clenching around his digits as he fucked out your high.

He pulled away shortly after, fingers slipping out of your entrance and placing a gentle kiss to your inner thigh.

You watched the messy haired brunette suck his fingers into his mouth, eyes closed and moaning at the taste of you—before you leaned over, softly grabbing him by his shirt and pulling him to your mouth for a kiss, lightly tasting yourself on his tongue.

"So we both agree that this wasn't just practice, right?" He mutters against your lips and you laugh, still dazed and high from the aftermath of your orgasm.

"Yeah, I don't think I wanna do this with anyone else. You're my only option, Park." His smile grows and he pecks your lips again.

[imnez-daydreams]

yeah you wish that i was yours (so do i)

pairing : andrew “pope” cody x reader

warnings : fighting, manhandling, choking, blood, licking of said blood, injury, jealousy, pope makes j watch him and reader, pope calls reader “kid”, “baby” n "my girl".

summary : what happens when you keep pushing pope to play fight with you. (except they are both also yearning idiots in love). read part 2 & part 3.

w/c : 2.6k words (yes i may have gotten carried away)

a/n : im super² sick but i could. not. get my ask and this thought from @erwinsvow out of my head so i decided to try and churn my inspiration from lovely shea into this fic. i just finished s1 and this is my first time writing pope so i hope i got his character okay :”)). apologies if this isn't the best work, i'm literally curled up and still burning up as i'm writing this booo. dividers are credited to @saradika-graphics. hope you enjoy !! do like, comment or reblog (or send hot soup) if you did <33

The first strike is the day when Pope gets out of prison. 

You’re standing dumbstruck with your bought meal still in hand when you spot him sitting in the middle of the couch. He’s so … real this time. You must look like an idiot to the rest of the family, still in shock. (Maybe Pope would let you in on this secret later on in your relationship, but when he saw you again, he felt that you were as beautiful as the day he lost you). 

Pope’s eyes travel down your frame, soaking in every detail of you, memorising you as if he didn't have every pixel of every picture you mailed him ingrained in the hardwires of his brain. When his eyes flit back up to meet yours, you feel something start to unlock behind those walls. 

Your eye twitches when you notice how close Smurf is next to him. You hate how she’s already sunken her venomous claws back into Pope, probably starting to scheme how she can puppeteer him again. You want to save Pope, get him away from the void that sinks its teeth in you and never leaves, not entirely, even when you think you’re free. So you do the thing all Cody’s are good at, starting a fight.

“Move, you’re in my spot.” You try to keep your voice even as possible, as if seeing Pope in person after all these years didn’t sweep the rug out from under your feet.

“Hey lay off, Pope’s only been back a couple hours. And since when is that spot y-” You cut off Baz by squeezing in the free space that separates Pope from the end of the couch.

You make yourself comfortable, well as comfortable as you can being so close to Pope again, and place your feet in his lap (despite having more than enough space). Pope glances down at how you've made yourself at home in his lap, then at you. You raise an eyebrow, trying to seem unbothered and rest your side against the back of the couch. 

The family starts talking about their business again, making you begin to lose interest. Just as your eyelids start to drop though, you catch Smurf smoothing her hand over Pope’s curls. Something stirs in you. The part of your brain that makes you do stupid things.

You kick your foot in Pope’s lap, wanting to annoy him. (Wanting him to pay attention to you instead). It works slightly, with him gripping your ankle. But he’s still looking forward. Staring out into space, shielded, guarded, as if the two of you didn't share secrets as kids. As if he wasn't your guard dog the moment he laid eyes on your trembling frame, when Smurf introduced you to the family shortly after she found Catherine. It’s not enough. So you put on a show. Making crude jokes, poking and prodding at him, laying on the snarky attitude.

Pope thinks this is unlike you, unlike his childhood sweetheart friend. He puts together that you must want something, not him obviously but maybe just some attention. Pope doesn't mean to be that aggressive, a sentiment he reserves only for you. But this new kid is unnerving him. It unsettles him, how J quietly laughs at your bad attempts of mean jokes, how his eyes occasionally roam over you. It's why he's been staring straight instead of at you. If Pope gets lost in the sight of you, he wouldn't be able to stand guard. Except J’s gaze dips down, making Pope follow his eyeline. Realising the kid has the nerve to travel his eyes down to the small bit of exposed skin, when your kicking of him makes your shirt ride up.

Pope’s jaw clenches and you think you've finally gotten to him. But he pounces on you so fast that you almost get whiplash.

What the fuck?

Pope is hovering over you, your wrists pinned by one hand, his knees spreading your legs apart to accommodate his frame. You feel his free hand sliding down the front of your shirt, but your confusion is quickly brushed off when Baz cuts in,

“Fuckin’ cut it out you two! I don’t need another headache right now.” 

That signature heavy stare remains on you for a couple more seconds, almost like Pope is trying to decipher you. Then, he grunts and lets go of your hands, moving off the couch completely. 

The second strike is when you both get into a screaming match. Well, more like you’re shouting and Pope is Pope still. The job had gone wrong and he had refused to accept your care until you had finished stitching up Deran’s bullet wound. Even though Pope was very visibly concussed and in pain. The whole time you attended to Deran, you kept stealing glances at Pope, just to make sure he was still alive and kicking (it's what you tell yourself), only to find him already staring straight at you. Keeping your tongue tied, you busied yourself with patching up the boys. Until they all went off, leaving you and Pope alone. Giving you the empty space to berate Pope for his lack of self-importance when it comes to his family. 

“Drop it, kid.” Pope grumbles out, passing by you to take a drink from the fridge.

“No, no. You’re not doing to me (to yourself).” You respond, putting all your might into pushing his back that's facing you.

Pope feels the force from your shove, his strong arm slamming against the cool fridge door to brace himself. His shoulders are hunched. His head hung low. You can feel the tension brewing inside of him. That barely contained anger simmering beneath the surface. He straightens up when he swivels around, dark eyes meeting yours. 

“I don't think you really want to play this game with me kid.” Pope stalks towards you, his footsteps not making a sound.

You scoff, meeting him halfway and getting in his face.

“Why? Afraid you’ll lose? Think y-” You don't get to finish your sentence because Pope’s hand wraps around your throat.

It’s light, not enough to constrict your airflow too much. He’s holding back again. You hate it. You hate him. That’s a lie you repeat to yourself when Pope slams your back to the wall. You despise him because even now in his anger, he still places his free hand behind your skull. Cushioning your pretty little head leaving your back to feel most of the ache. But you want more. More pain that only Pope can give to you. (Or maybe you want Pope to give his pain to you).

Pope tilts his head down to make sure you’re looking right at him. Closing the gap between you two, he whispers against your lips,

“If you play that game with me kid, the only way it ends is with you face down on my bed. I won't stop giving it to you, even if you're begging so sweetly. You want that huh? You want me?” Pope tightens his hold on your throat, but you can sense the vulnerability spilling out at the last sentence.  

“Say, I’m sorry Andrew, c’mon kid.” Pope breaks eye contact to give you this command, whispering in your ear.

“I’m s-sorry … Andrew.” You manage to gasp out.

Satisfied, Pope softens his hold on you, rubbing the sensitive skin on your neck. He plants a soft kiss at the top of your head, so gentle you almost think you imagined it.

“Good. There’s my baby again.”

The last strike is when most of the family is lounging by the pool.

You can feel Pope staring at you.

Sometimes you think he stares harder when he thinks you aren't looking. Smurf’s out somewhere on a task so all the brothers are playing their usual game in the pool, wrestling and fighting over the ball. You’re basking in the sun, leaning sideways on your elbow by the side of the pool. Frowning when you keep noticing Pope playing rough with J. He doesn't deserve that. What better way to lessen that burden on him by putting it on yourself right? (Of course that's the only reason why, not to stop Pope from feeling outshined by a new arrival, totally not). You splash water at Pope, complaining how you're so bored, stating confidently that you could score against him.

“Alright’ kid, c’mon show me what you got then yeah?” Pope relents as he enters the pool again.

You feel giddy with excitement even though you know he's just doing this to get you to shut up. 

…

Pope is barely tightening his hold on you from behind, giving you a fair chance to back out and win easily. But you don't want that. You want Pope to get aggressive with you, put his face all up in yours, make you submit to him. Why can't he just give you what you want? Why is he always so gentle with you? You know why deep down, but that doesn’t stop your emotions from getting the better of you.

You swing your arm back, decking Pope with your elbow. The blow makes him release you completely, and you swim up, up, up and finally breathe when your face exits the water. Easily scoring and celebrating when you climb out the pool, meeting J’s small grin and bumping shoulders with him. You nearly make his shot topple over.

“How about that huh?” You boast despite knowing you played dirty, but your cocky smile falls when J’s expression changes before he downs the shot.

You frown, turning back. Oh, shit. Pope’s emerged from the pool too, but his nose is dripping an obscene amount of blood. It trickles down his chin, his chest and stomach.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry Pope. You okay? Here come on, I’ll get you cleaned up”. Running over to Pope, reaching for his arms to lead him back into the house.

But his hand catches you first. 

One hand bounding both of your wrists.

“You can clean me up here just fine, kid.” Pope says so calmly, not even a little bothered about the blood gushing out and down.

‘Yeah okay, let me just get the first aid kit alright?” 

“Kid.” Pope pulls you closer by your hands and walks you backwards.

“I said you can do it here. You’ve had such a mouth on you lately baby, let’s put it to good use yeah?”

Oh, fuck he can’t just say things like that.

The back of your legs hits a lounge chair. The one beside where J’s sitting on, eyes darting between the two of you.

“I’ll get out of your wa-”

“No. You're staying there.” Pope’s tone leaves no room for arguing, guarded eyes locking onto J.

Though when Pope looks back at you, his gaze softens the tiniest bit. Unnoticeable to anyone else, but not to you.

“Pope I- I’m really sorry oka-”

“Shhh, it’s okay kid. M’not mad.” Pope brushes your back with his free hand as he maneuvers the two of you on the empty seat, you atop his lap.

“Just want you to take care of me.” Pope whispers into your ear, private from J.

You furrow your brows at his words.

Oh.

Now you understand. 

Of course Pope would see through you, he’s always seen you. The only one who had.

Pope reels back, just enough to meet your eyes with his intense gaze. An unspoken connection. One asking if you want to stop, keep your bond a sacred secret. The other responding to let them see, see who I belong to, that I belong to you. 

The red string that ties the both of you coils protectively around your shared hearts. A beat passes, and you feel the red string relaxing.

Pope lets your hands go as he leans back into the seat, letting you crawl slightly back. You brace your arms, and lean down. The taste of copper fills your senses as you slowly drag your tongue up Pope’s abs. He shudders beneath your contact, not used to a caring touch. You make your way up to his chest, noticing his erratic breathing. Finally, you make it to Pope’s face, where most of the blood is smeared all over from his initial attempt of cleaning it off. 

You meet Pope’s eyes. He’s already watching you. He’s  always watching you. 

Cradling his jaw with your hand, you scoop up the remaining scattered blood on your thumb. You bring your finger past your lips, not breaking eye contact with Pope.

He doesn't blink. 

He hasn't taken his eyes off of you, not since he caught the glimpse of you being all close to J.

In a blink, Pope smashes your lips together, hand pushing at the back of your neck, strong arm wrapping possessively around your waist. He shoves his tongue past your lips, swallowing up your sweet moans and tasting his own blood. 

It's intoxicating. He’s intoxicating. 

All you can sense is his bruising grip on you, the metallic taste of his blood, his heavy breathing.

The big splashes of water as the other brothers fight in the pool, the overlapping shouts and quarreling, the clinking of shot glasses. None of that even registers in your mind.

All you can think and feel is Pope. Him, him, only him.

When you both slowly part for air, Pope rests his forehead against yours. Still breathing heavily, his hungry eyes dart down to the red string of saliva connecting from your lips to his. 

“Hey! If you two are done being fuckin’ freaks, we could really use Pope and J back in the game!” Baz’s voice cuts through the intimate moment.

“Dude c’mon they were just getting to the good part.” Craig butts in and you have to resist rolling your eyes as you scoot away from Pope.

“Shows over. You boys have fun, but I’m gonna take my girl inside.” Pope announces much to their disappointment, you can already hear them arguing over how to settle the remaining rounds.

“That goes for you too, you can go now.” He deadpans to J, who if you didn't know any better, was tomato red all over from the hot sun.

“Oh y-yeah, of course.” J stutters out as he gets up and away from the two of you.

You barely contain your amusement as you turn back to Pope.

“You didn't have to do that, you know.” You mutter as you stand up from the edge of the seat, reaching out your hand to him.

“He kept looking and smiling at you, as if you didn't already belong to me.” Pope raises himself, slowly holding your soft hand in his. 

You grin, knowing he knows that he's dodging your actual question. No words are needed, not when the shared eye contact speaks for the two of you.

You didn't have to let me take care of you in front of an audience.

I know, but I wanted you to. Wanted them to see, see who I belonged to.

Pope hesitantly interlocks his hand with yours, making you crack a smile. Him being oh so shy as if he didn't just have his tongue down your throat a moment ago.

“Thank you.” You whisper as you lead him back into the house.

Pope doesn't respond, just keeps burning his eyes into your frame. You don’t elaborate either, choosing to walk in silence. But it's not an uncomfortable silence, no. Not when your intrinsic bond is weaved beyond words. A whole chapter said with just his eyes meeting yours. 

Thank you for letting me take care of you.

Thank you for letting me love you, in our own messed way.

The understanding flows through the red string connecting your hearts.

a/n : rly scared that i got his characterisation off so im sorry if it is :((. LISTENN ok i'm sorry, when i sent that ask I was in a much more feral mood, but since i got sick (again) I wanted some comfort and softness sprinkled in. hey don't look at me like that. tagging @callsign-fangirl bcs we go feral over shawn hatosy in chat. anyways hope you enjoy !! pretty please like, comment and reblog with your rambles if you did muaks <3 !

[leighsartworks216]

Yeah, 'Cause Maybe Then You'd Want Me Just As Much

Sylus x Mephisto!Reader

In the actual Nightplumes memory, Mephisto actually gets along with the dove but um fuck that, we want it to hurt. Also wanna say the "I'm busy right now" line is from the actual game, which inspired this tbh

Title from "Girl Crush" by Little Big Town

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, jealousy, self-esteem issues, self-worth issues, body dysphoria, shapeshifting, biting, fear of water, storms, pet names, crying, possibly ooc

Word Count: 3,699

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Ugh, doves. They think they're sooo perfect just because they're so round and cute and everyone loves them. Those pathetic little coos. A bird should make real noise, not just those dumb sounds.

So why is Sylus - a man whom you were led to believe had good tastes in avian creatures - giving it so much attention?

You bite his earlobe. His head jerks away on reflex, a soft hiss escaping through his teeth. "Behave," he chides. Doesn't even look at you.

You glare down at the pathetic dove again. Somehow it hurt its wing. And for some godforsaken reason Miss Hunter brought it to Sylus to look after. You know for a fact she has a doctor friend, why not foist it on him until she gets back from her trip? Yeah, Sylus is great with animals, but that's beside the point.

You bite his ear again. He sighs. "Do I have to send you on a mission?" You bristle at the question, feathers standing on end. His brow is furrowed as he gets back to examining the dove's wing. It's not even a bad break; it'll recover in no time.

So why can't he spare a second on you?

You try a different approach. With a more delicate touch, you preen the ends of his hair. He still doesn't glance your way. "I'm busy right now. Go entertain yourself for a bit."

Oh...

You step awkwardly on his shoulder, feeling suddenly too out of place there. Your wing almost clips his head as you take off for your perch. Even here, the wood just feels wrong under your feet. Your feathers are ruffled. They can't seem to relax. A chasm opens in your heart. Synthetic as it may be, you can still feel it. Like a black hole, sucking in all the light.

The dove coos. You can't stay in here. You slip out of an open window and fly off. Where to, you have no idea. Anywhere but here.

"Anywhere" lands you outside the window of a fourth floor hotel room. The light is still on, just a small lamp by the bed, but it's enough to see a familiar figure sitting against the headboard reading a mission brief. You tap on the glass.

Miss Hunter looks up with a start. The surprise quickly turns to a frown. She gets up in a huff and jerks the curtains closed.

You can hear a phone ringing inside a second later.

"Sylus! What have I told you about sending your bird to spy on me?!"

The faint crackle of Sylus's voice answers with a sharp scoff. "I haven't told Mephisto to do anything," he retorts.

"Then why is it outside my window right now, huh?!"

"Why don't you ask?" he teases dryly. "Maybe they missed picking fights with you."

"You-!"

"Goodnight, kitten."

The beep of an ended call. You tap on the glass again, softer this time.

Miss Hunter huffs inside. Moments pass, but the curtains remain drawn shut. You can't tell if the lamp has been turned off; you can't even hear her moving around. Maybe she's decided to take the "out of sight, out of mind" approach. Unsurprising, really. If she isn't ignoring you, she's shouting abuse at you.

A large crack of thunder rumbles through your circuits, stirring the air with electricity. You hadn't even noticed the weather - the clouds are dark, covering every sliver of sky for miles.

You tap on the glass more urgently.

The first droplets of rain begin to fall. Slow, random. And then more and more, all at once in a barrage of water. You press yourself tighter to the window and tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap-

The curtains are thrown open. The window lifts from its sill. Before she can angrily ask why you won't leave her alone, you fly in as quick as you can. Just in the nick of time, it seems, as the rain turns into a proper storm, lightning firing through the sky in a burst of light. You tumble onto the end of the bed, feathers ruffled.

She huffs as she slides the window shut, ready to tease you or yell at you, but another loud boom of thunder makes her flinch and close the curtains quickly, words stolen. "Fine! I guess you can... stay the night," she relents. She rounds the bed to sit back down where she was before. She picks up the tablet with her mission data and holds it up, pointing at you accusingly. "And no telling Sylus about anything you see here, got it?"

You caw back at her. You don't wanna tell Sylus anything right now. It might distract him from his sweet, precious dove...

Knees bent, she sets the tablet on her thighs and starts reading again. Rain hits against the window, picked up by a growing wind that slams it into the hotel building. Another shock of thunder. She curls slightly more into herself.

You preen your feathers. Align them all once more, clean them from the long flight here, soothe your nerves. All the while watching Miss Hunter's reactions to the storm. With every boom of thunder, she's startled from her reading. She does well trying to hide it. You can see the twitch in her eyes, the tension in her shoulders and hands as she holds tighter to the tablet, the way her knees pull in slightly more. It doesn't take a genius to see what's happening. The real question is why she's not doing anything to deal with it. Is it because she's trying to play it cool with you around? Not giving anything away so you'd have less to report back with?

You look around the room. It's nothing special. Certainly nothing as luxurious as the suites Sylus stays in. A suitcase is on the floor by the tv stand. A work bag is set on the desk. The perfect amount of stuff for a week-long work trip, you suppose.

You fly over to the desk, nails ticking against the wood.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

You poke your beak into a few of the pockets on the bag.

"Leave that alone! Don't go through my stuff!"

You wonder for a moment how soundproof these walls are, and just how confused someone listening in would be when she's answered by the caw of a crow.

You finally find what you're looking for in a side pocket and pull it out. It doesn't really fit well in your beak, but you make do. She's just tossed her tablet aside to jump up and bolt over to you, but she stops when you fly back over to the bed.

She blinks at you, confused. "What are you...?" You hop across the cheap bedding and hold out the item to her. She hesitantly accepts your offering, and you drop the earphone case in her hand. Understanding dawns on her. "Oh... thanks."

You walk to the other side of the bed, going around the tablet to roost on top of the untouched pillow. It's kinda hard and lumpy, but at least you're not outside. With that much water, you'd certainly shut down. You have no idea how Sylus would retrieve you if you had, way up here. A bitter part of you wonders if he would.

Miss Hunter watches as you tuck your beak under your wing. You don't really sleep during the night, but you'll manage. She slips the earphones in her ears and plays some music on her phone. The storm outside, the faint pulse of music, and her tapping on the tablet are the only sounds.

She opens the window for you in the morning, when the storm has passed. With one last warning not to follow her or report back to Sylus, she heads out for her mission and you take your time flying back home. She asked about the dove only once during your stay. A bandaid around her finger reminds her not to ask again.

-

"What time did you get back, pretty bird?" Sylus crosses the room from the doorway, fully dressed for the night and reaching out to scratch you under your chin.

You scoot away, further down your perch, glaring at the pretty white thing on his shoulder. He doesn't try to reach you. He lets you step away, hand dropping and eyebrow raised. "Are you going to be this feisty all week?"

You caw indignantly. Of course you are! That should be you perched up on his shoulder! You should be the one preening under his attention! Instead, Miss Hunter brings along a new, cute little thing, pestering him to take care of it "for her", and now it's the only bird around here he cares about.

He tsks. "You don't have to be jealous, sweetie. It's only for a week. As soon as she gets back, you'll never have to see it again."

The dove flies down from his shoulder to the perch. Your perch! You caw obscenities as you take its place on Sylus's shoulder - your rightful place. He winces at how loud you are directly in his ear, wings spread to give you a larger appearance as you speak your mind to the little dove that seems to only stare up blankly at you.

He smoothes a hand down your back. For a moment you forget how angry you are with him, too, for indulging Miss Hunter with this stupid task. For pushing you away in favor of caring for the pretty little dove. For not saying more when she called him about you. For just that moment, the firing synapses of your circuitry tingle pleasantly where his fingers brush over your feathers and seeing the dove on your perch becomes bearable as you stand on his shoulder, your favorite perch of all.

"Easy, pretty bird. It knows this is your territory," he assures. "It's still young, that's all."

And then you remember that none of this would be happening if this damn bird wasn't here.

You caw one last time at the dove, nibble harshly at Sylus's ear, and retreat through the living room door. You follow the familiar twists and turns up into the tallest heights of the base, into an alcove full of your treasures and soft bedding. You don't come up here often anymore, but it feels safe. The one spot of the house that really is just yours; no matter what Sylus says, this is his territory, you're just given more allowances than other people. And thanks to the times in the past when the twins would try to toss things up as a competition, tossing pebbles and jewels and even bullets, you have the privilege of pulling shut a little door, fully isolating yourself in your sanctuary.

Small lights turn on at the flip of a switch that makes a pleasant click. They shine and shimmer against your piles of trinkets. Coins, jewels, jewelry, a shell casing or two - all in their respective piles.

You hop over to your nest: the finest twigs woven together into a bowl shape, with strips of soft fabric lining the inside. Laying in it is like resting in cupped hands. You imagine they're Sylus's hands, clean from ever having held any other bird in his lifetime. His thumbs smoothing down your sides until your feathers are fluffed and eyes are relaxed shut. Pressing soft kisses to your head as he talks to you. You want to be cared for like that. Is the dove getting that same attention?

You get up from your nest. You can't think about it. Can't allow yourself to linger on the thought for any longer than you already have. So you sort through your things. You begin dividing them up into new piles with a different organization system. One by one, everything is shifted over. You're not sure how long it takes. You don't care.

But once you've finished, it feels wrong. Settles uneasily in your gut. Everything is out of place, even though it's all organized. Everything isn't where it should be. You spend even longer sorting it all back.

-

You squeeze your eyes shut. Tighten your hands into fists. Dig your nails into your palm as you will your shape to change. Grit your teeth as metal panels try to shift in unusual ways. Synthetic feathers standing up along your head, neck, back and arms, shuttering with the strain.

You release a breath and everything comes back together; metal in place, feathers laying flat, body un-tensed. You pant softly. Inhale deeply, and try again.

It feels wrong. It's like trying to squeeze into a too-small shirt. It won't happen, and the more you try to force it, the more it hurts, the more uncomfortable you are, and the more the fabric strains at the seams.

You gasp deeply. You're lightheaded. You wobble where you sit on the roof, supporting yourself unsteadily against the snow-laden tiles. It takes a minute to pass. Your skin feels misaligned, like a twisted sock. You try to ignore it; it just means you're a little bit closer to succeeding.

"I thought I might find you up here."

You turn away from the voice. From the sound of Sylus's shoes against the roofing. He sits down a few feet away, eyes never giving up their gaze on you. You hate it. For all the time you've known him, his attention on you has never made you uncomfortable or unsettled. Now, you wish he'd just look anywhere else. Go anywhere else.

Secretly, deep down, you're glad he's finally looking at you again.

He tilts his head. Frowns at the strange way your feathers stick up, and the odd shift of the synthetic skin on your back. "The dove is gone," he says.

You nod. "I know."

Quiet.

"Do you want me to apologize?" he asks.

You shrug. "Doesn't matter. It's gone."

"But you're still upset."

You pull your knees to your chest, but you can't pull them up as far as you'd like to. It's like there's too much strain. A rubber band drawn too far out and waiting to snap or break under the tension. You try to ignore it. Play it off. Pretend everything is normal and that this is intentional.

He doesn't buy it for a second. It's the curse of growing up with him. Of being by his side most of your lives. Of course he knows something is wrong.

You listen to the shifting of fabric behind you. Nearly jump at the feeling of cloth placed on your shoulders. His heavy black coat, long and still warm from his body. You don't feel the falling snow. Yet you can't stop yourself from pulling the front closed around you.

His fingers skillfully brush along your feathers, soothing them down with ease. And yet they keep standing back up a moment after, revealing the distress of your thoughts. Before he can say anything, you do.

"Do you wish I was a dove?"

His hand stops, pausing mid pet. He reaches out to turn you toward him. One hand on your knee to face you to him, the other on your shoulder. You wince as he does. And he notices - of course he notices. He's frowning, brow furrowed, as he pulls aside his coat to expose your legs further. You don't meet his eyes, but you feel them.

"Is that what you've been trying to do up here?" he questions, voice tight with concern and gravity. "You can't force yourself into changing-"

"But if I could, would that make you happier?"

You meet his gaze. Imploring, begging him to tell you. Tell you that he's been distant this week because he realized just how much better doves are. Because he realized how much trouble you are, mechanized and synthetic and fake. Because you aren't enough now that you can't be anything more than you are.

His large hands rise to your face, holding your cheeks, keeping your attention on him. He leans forward slightly, foreheads not quite touching. "If you could change again, I would be happy to see you become anything you wanted. Whether that means becoming a dove, or a hawk, or a hummingbird. The shape you take doesn't matter to me, because I fell in love with you. Crow, or dove, or human. Just you."

You search his eyes. Those pretty garnet eyes. Searching for any hint of a lie. But you already know he means it. "You were so dismissive of me..."

He frowns, brow pinched, but he nods. He doesn't deny it. "I know. I'm sorry."

Emotion chokes up in your throat. "You didn't even ask Miss Hunter about me. Or- Or keep that dove from getting up on your shoulder." You hate that you can feel your face crumpling as tears bite your waterline. See the pain in his face as he diligently wipes away the ones that slip free. You hate that you're so emotional over this - over a stupid bird, but- "I don't want to be replaceable. I don't want to be just a pet to you."

"You're not-"

"Then act like it!" His eyes widen, shocked by your outburst. "Just stop pushing me away for Miss Hunter. Stop... stop waving me off and ignoring me. You're all I have, Sylus. I can't- I don't want to be replaced."

A sob tears its way out of you. Sylus can't recall a time he ever saw you crying - before or after the experiments. You were always happy, or curious, or angry. But never had you cried. Synthetic tears wash down your face, and it's his fault. An ache clenches his heart like a closed fist. He did this. He pushed you away, he made you feel unworthy, unimportant. Let a dove take liberties in your territory.

He draws you into his chest, arms wrapping tightly around you. You don't resist, even as he feels your feathers standing on end. They shudder with your cries. He smoothes his palms over them. Brushes them down, scratches the nape of your neck as he gently shushes you. You press your face into his collar. Your fingers curl tightly into his shirt. You hold on. Cling to him like he'll disappear if you loosen up for even a second.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs against your head. He means it. Deeply. "I should have acted differently. You are my closest friend. My beloved. And I ignored you."

He rubs your back overtop his coat, slowly. Feeling along your spine, your shoulder blades. It's still misaligned. Shifted out of place. You're in pain - because of him.

He's careful as he gathers you into his arms. He scoops you up, cradles you against him while doing his best not to hurt you further; he can't bear the thought of making things worse than he already has. Snow crunches beneath his feet as he stands on the tiles. He turns and begins carrying you inside.

"Let's take care of you now, pretty bird."

-

Just like trying to squeeze into a too-tight shirt, the removal can be tricky. Sylus makes it seem easy.

He rotates your legs until they pop back into the ball-joint, never lingering any longer than he has to. You lay on your stomach, quietly sniffling, while he seems to massage your back, slowly easing the metal into place. Each fix releases the strain. Each soft click eases your feathers back into a resting position.

When he's finished, he helps you sit up. Your legs overhang the table, dangling in the air. He doesn't look at you at first. Busies himself with grabbing a cloth. But then he looks you in the eye as he wipes away the watery formula of your tears. His brow is tight. Lips pulled down into a frown. His eyes, filled with remorse. You can almost see the plan formulating: all the auctions he could go to to buy the shiniest, most interesting things you love to cheer you up; of all the jewels in his treasuries, which would you like the most, if he doesn't just give them all to you; where will Miss Hunter be and when to give you the perfect opportunity to play tricks on her.

You don't want any of them right now. After a week of being pushed aside, of being distant, all you want is right here in front of you.

You nudge his hand away. He obeys without hesitation, dropping the cloth to the table and holding it there, restraining himself. He watches, slightly bewildered, as you reach out for him. You wrap your arms around his neck, drawing him down to your height, and hold him there.

He stands still. Doesn't do anything.

You squeeze him around his shoulders and he finally moves. Arms circle your waist, hands resting open against your back. You breathe him in, soak in his warmth. Your feathers finally relax. You finally relax.

"I don't hate you," you whisper beside his ear.

He releases a long breath, shoulders sagging under your arms. He's still tentative, still careful as he brushes his nose against your temple. "How can I make it up to you?"

A thousand diamonds. A million. No amount is too much. Nothing too far for him to reach. He would bake in the sun for a week if you said. Fly across the globe in search of the perfect pebble. Give you a whole new set of feathers, darker than midnight and softer than a kiss. He's prepared to give it all - what lengths will you have him go to absolve himself? What would it take for you to forgive him? How can he fix the damage he caused?

"Stay with me."

"You can ask for anything."

You shake your head. Turn your head to bury your face solidly in his neck. "I just want you again."

'Again' tears his heart to shreds. He scoops you up once more, trading places so he sits on the edge of the table with you in his lap. Your territory. "You'll always have me," he swears. "And I will spend lifetimes making sure you never doubt that ever again."

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08 @lunaizhere @sine-nomine0 @beautifulthingsiadore @lalaluch @nothankyew @terriblesoup @jeleryyy @nezuswritingdesk @anaathxma @ssushi @mina7820 @monophobix @mentaltrouble2201 @mskaylacharite @nerrivm @ichosesparklingtorment @schnittled @animegamerfox @flamedancer13 @rebloggingislove @moonlight-inthe-sea @persepolys @satorubabee @sleepykittycx @perla-drg @17chuuya @slovesyouuu @leiakitty @lemonn015

[lllivia]

You belong with me

Shauna Shipman x f!reader

Summary: Shauna can't help noticing how close you and Jackie suddenly became after the plane crash..

Warnings: smut, top!shauna, switch!reader, sadistic pregnancyhormone driven Shauna (obvi), jealousy, biting, oral (reader receiving), slight overstimulation, humping, not proofread

Shauna had just woken up after a cold emptyness had swept over her, turning to see that you were nowhere to be found in the spot you usually slept.

Getting up she went over to the window, her fingers curling around the dusty curtains, the sudden feeling of envy rising within her as she gazed over at you and Jackie.

Well, now she knew where you were at least.

-

It was normal for you and Jackie to spend time and do chores together after the crash that had stranded you all in the wilderness. You wouldn't exactly say that you were close before everything happened - at most having a few not so deep conversations at practice or a party. But very shortly after the crash when (almost) everyone had decided that it was a good idea to abandon the plane and head to the lake, Jackie had suddenly come up to you out of nowhere and started a conversation by the water (which obviously didn't go unnoticed by Shauna as she openly stared in your direction while you spoke).

-

"What are you guys doing?" Shauna's demanding voice sounded through your silent giggles as you and Jackie sat next to eachother.

"Washing laundry.. What does it look like?" You smiled teasingly in response, raising an eyebrow at the dumb question before putting the top back into the water filled bucket in front of you and gesturing for Shauna to sit down.

She did just that. But not without glaring harshly at her best friend first and purposely kicking her foot out a little too hard, "accidentally" hitting her in the process as she slumped down on the log beneath her.

"Ow Shauna, what the hell was that for?!" Jackie quickly exclaimed in annoyance while she instinctively reached for her ankle.

"Whoops" she shrugged in response, not even caring to hide the gleam of satisfactionin her eyes. "I slipped."

-

Situations like these just kept happening after that, where you and Jackie would be hanging out - maybe a little away from the rest of the group when Shauna would suddenly appear and "subtly" insert herself into the situation. But a couple of months had gone by when Shauna decided it was enough.

What exactly was it that Jackie had that she didn't? She could care for you much better - please you so much better than Jackie could even imagine.

It wasn't like you and Shauna didn't speak at all, you had actually been pretty good friends even before the crash, there were even late nights where she would still press herself up against your back for "warmth".

Which made the switch of attention to Jackie so much worse.

-

"Y/n" Shauna's voice whispered into your ear.

Stirring awake you turned over to face the wide awake girl next to you. "Is something wrong?" You managed to rasp out, rubbing your eyes tiredly as Shauna's face finally came clearly into view.

"No, I was just wondering if you wanted to come with me to the lake for a - yk, early swim?" She responded, unable to hide her little smirk while watching your cute expressions as you tried to get yourself to wake up.

"Um.. yeah sure, want me to wake Jackie and the others?" You blinked groggily over at her, finally sitting up and pulling your blanket off.

"No." Shauna said harshly, not hiding the disdain in her voice quickly enough as she curled her lip slightly. Why did everything always have to be about the perfect fucking princess Jackie. Well it wouldn't be this time, no, this time you would be Shauna's. Just Shauna's.

"Well - ok sure that sounds fun, just let me get dressed" you responded, taking a double take to look at the expression you could only think to describe as loathing on Shauna's face before standing up.

"I'll wait for you outside, don't want to wake the others" Shauna said and sighed in relief, finally smiling properly at you and blushing slightly. Because even though she was the one who rejected the thought of going with the others, she still liked how willing you were to spend time with her.

-

"So.. You've been hanging around Jackie a lot lately, haven't you" Shauna broke the silence on the way down to the lake, the sentence coming out more as a statement than a question.

You looked over at her as she spoke, noticing the lack of eye contact, the brunette just continuing to look straightforward as she walked.

"Yeah! After the crash we kinda just figured out that we have a lot more in common that we thought - would you believe me if I said we literally bonded over how much we love mint ice cream" you giggled and recalled the memory before furrowing your brows. "I hope that's not a problem- I mean, since you're best friends and all. I don't want you to think that I'm like trying to steal her away from you or anything"

Well it was a problem, but not for that reason.

You were down by the beach before Shauna could think of a reply that didn't sound like she wanted to rip Jackie's skin off. And you decided that maybe it was just too much of a sensitive topic and didn't push her further into answering.

Quickly getting undressed down to your underwear you ran into the water as if to shock the water before it could shock you with its icy feel. "Come on slowpoke! You were the one who invited me down here" you giggled as Shauna stepped out of her shorts and walked out into the water, grimacing as she slightly regretted this as the way of getting you alone.

"Jeez, it's fucking freezing.. I guess fall is coming up" She murmured to herself as she finally dipped into the water and swimming over to where you were - already laying on your back with your eyes closed.

You opened your eyes when you felt Shauna swim up beside you and followed to meet her. "This was nice Shauna, I feel like we haven't hung out in forever" you smiled over at her shyly, trying not to peak down at the lacy bra she had decided to use as swimwear.

Shauna however was not being so subtle as her hungry eyes skimmed over your sun kissed body - wishing she could see what was under the hindering clothing pieces.

But oblivious as always you didn't think much of the staring. "So.. Why is it that you invited me out here?"

The doweyed girl licked her lips as she thought of something to say. "I just wanted to spend time with you" she answered and her eyes softened slightly, thinking of how she had been acting kinda short tempered with you before this. It wasn't your fault that Jackie had stolen you away from her, but her hormones which were now at full dial made her act in unpredictable ways.

You only grinned back, caught offguard by the response before splashing water at her. "When did the Shauna Shipman become so corny, you could have just asked me to hang out instead of waking me at the crack of dawn" you laughed.

Smirking she quickly got over the cold water dripping down her face before doing the same to you. "Shut up."

You continued to splash eachother back and forth for a while before heading back up onto shore to get dressed.

Just as you were about to ask Shauna to turn so you could put on some dry underwear her hand suddenly caught around your wrist. "What's that." She demanded, her hand tightening every millisecond you didn't answer.

You looked down into your hand, not understanding the sudden reaction. "It's Jackie's necklace, she gave it to me"

That was when something snapped inside Shauna.

"Why do you have that." Her grip never letting loose.

"She gave it to me a few days ago, said it meant a lot to her." You tried pulling away to no avail, Shauna's gaze continuing to darken.

"She doesn't fucking deserve you." She spat before she could stop herself.

"What?" You asked in almost a whisper, starting to get nervous from the sudden change of attitude. "What do you mean "she doesn't deserve me"?"

"It means that she could never be good enough for you. You belong with me."

You halted your movements out of pure shock, now more confused than ever. Shauna had never explicitly shown interest in you - except maybe for the downright exposing glances, the small gestures and gifts, that one slumberparty you had promised eachother not to bring up again...

Before you could say anything Shauna suddenly pushed you, not rough but hard enough to make you stumble backwards and fall onto your pile of clothes.

"You belong with me." She repeated, her eyes almost wild as she crouched over you, enjoying the slightly scared look on your face.

That's when she kissed you, your noses bumping painfully at the urgency of it all. You didn't know what to do at first, feeling Shauna's weight push you down onto the protective layer of your clothing as she pressed forward.

It didn't take long for you to respond however, and it quickly became a losing battle for the upper hand, Shauna easily winning as she pinched your arm painfully, making you open your mouth with a whimper which she quickly silenced when she pushed her tongue into your mouth. When you finally managed to shove her slightly to get air, a string of saliva kept your red lips connected. Shauna only looking down at you proudly before licking her bottom lip, breaking the bond of your mixed spit that came between you.

She let you breathe for just a second before leaning back down, roughly grabbing the back of your hair in the process and making you hiss. Her other hand continued to trail downwards over your stomach, stopping only to grope one of your tits before heading down to her final destination where she knew you needed her the most. As her fingers lifted the corner of your already wet underwear (now even wetter) she smirked against your bruised lips when her fingers brushed over your clit, the sensation making you buck your hips up slightly.

"Mmm do you think you deserve this?" Shauna asked breathlessly against your neck, groaning when she felt the warm wetness seeping out of your opening.

"Yes - yes, please Shauna just touch me" you pleaded before yelping. Shauna had just bit you - hard. But the feeling of her rubbing your clit deliciously distracted from the pain as you quickly felt her lick and soothe the red bleeding mark.

"Beg, I want you to tell me I'm the only one who can touch you like this, not Jackie - not anyone else." She snarled and bit down again, not noticing that her hips had started moving against your thigh in a chase for her own release.

"Please, please, p-please Shauna. Nobody could ever make me feel as good as you do, nobody." You were almost at the verge of tears, the frustration making the build up all the more intense as you waited for her to give in.

That seemed to do it for her as her hips stuttered against you and she whimpered. The idea that you were only hers to please was enough motivation for Shauna to cease rubbing your clit lazily and finally plunge two fingers inside of you.

"O-oh fuck Shauna" you moaned out, dragging your nails down her bare back as she used her other hand to lift up your top so she could get a proper view of your full beauty.

"Shit" was all she mustered as she looked down at you, her fingers never slowing their aggressive pace. Your fucked out look was better than Shauna had ever dreamt of, she was truly never going to let you go after this. You were making her go absolutely fucking crazy.

She leaned back down and this time licked down the curve of your collarbone before biting roughly once again. Jackie had to see that this - you were the one thing she couldn't steal from her. She breathed in, taking in your scent in an almost primal matter before kissing you once again.

"Cum, fuck - I know you want to." She mumbled against you. Her thumb reaching up to finally stimulate your clit all while her pointer and middle finger continued at a relentless speed.

That was just what you needed. The feeling of her pressing harder against you and the plead for you to cum was what drove you over the edge as you gushed all over Shauna's hand, spasming slightly and trying to push her away when she didn't slow down.

"Shauna - Shauna stop it's too much" you tried moving away from her again and she continued for just a second before letting up, lifting her hand in front of her face to study the slick covering her finger.

"Clean it up" She demanded and pushed her fingers against your mouth until you opened up, before closing it again once her fingers laid on your tongue. You whimpered against her when you tasted the bittersweet slick that came from your release, feeling helpless and blissed out as her knee accidentally brushed against your already sensitive clit.

Her eyes were burning into your akin the whole time as she watched you lick between her fingers to get every last drop off of her.

"I'm not done yet" She smirked and didn't waste any time before crawling down your body till she reached your still covered pussy, blowing cold air onto the area to get a reaction. The only thing you could do in response was clench around nothing in anticipation, not knowing if you could even handle another orgasm that quick.

Shauna proceeded to peel the wet undergarment off and took a moment just to look at what was in front of her. Oh she was going to have so much fun.

Her mouth quickly engulfed your throbbing clit, not able to stall any longer as she needed to feel you squirm against her tongue. "You taste so fucking good" she groaned, spreading your thighs open further when your legs threatened to close around her.

It was almost too much, the feeling of her tongue thrusting in and out of your sore hole making you reach for anything to hold onto - the closest thing being her hair. But the slightly maniacal girl beneath you had no problem with the painful tug, the feeling rather making her hips buckle desperately against the ground beneath her, looking for any sort of relief.

Only a couple of minutes went by before you felt another orgasm about to sweep over you, making you grind against Shauna's pleased face even harder. "I'm gonna cum - oh my god" you were basically riding her at this point - not that Shauna minded in the slightest.

"Go on y/n, cum for me" Shauna gasped against you, feeling herself also nearing the edge after the unbearable minutes of humping the ground beneath her.

You couldn't hold off a second longer and gave one final thrust against her tired tongue before cumming harshly. "Oh god Shauna you feel so good!" You moaned loudly just as Shauna came too, her release being known when she whimpered against your already sensitive abused hole causing it to spasm.

It took a little while before either of you spoke up again, just laying beside eachother in silence catching your breath. "Fuck, what am I supposed to do with these bruises? It literally looks like I got mauled by a bear" you finally questioned, shyly brushing your hand over the already purplish marks that were covering your neck down to your breasts.

Shauna just shrugged and turned over to you, leaning on an elbow as her eyes gazed over your body "Show them. Maybe it'll be enough for Jackie to back off" She decided, smirking proudly to herself.

"Shauna you bitch" you laughed in disbelief before pushing her playfully down again and straddling her lap.

"My turn."

-

a/n: first smut in a while, hope it wasn't too long.. Anyways send requests 🙏

MAIN MASTERLIST

[youthguk]

Front seat surrender | jjk (m) | Parasocial

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: smut, car sex, oral (m receiving), best friends with benefits, a little bit toxic, jungkook and reader are a little messy and ruin life’s of people around them

words: 4,6k

summary: jungkook was yours even if you had a boyfriend and another girl was warming his bed. you had him wrapped around your finger. one sharp breath, one heated stare— two bodies reckless in the backseat

this is a part 2 of parasocial series. however, this can be read as a stand alone story!

Reason #2. Front seat surrender

​​"The hell is wrong with you tonight?" The words cut through the party noise, making you wince.

You slouched deeper into the couch cushions, your plastic cup dangling limply between your fingers. The bass thumped through the floorboards as people laughed and danced around you, their joy making your mood feel even more out of place.

The summer breeze drifted through the open windows, carrying the sweet scent of June flowers. Your first year of university lay conquered behind you - a battlefield of all-nighters, caffeine-fueled study sessions, and those nerve-wracking moments before exam results. But through it all, Jungkook had been your constant, your anchor. The same guy who'd shared your elementary school lunch table was now sharing your college journey, your paths parallel even as you pursued different dreams - you in the biology labs, him in the maze of computer science.

"God, you two are totally dating, right?" The question followed you everywhere like an echo, bouncing off hallway walls and floating across cafeteria tables.

The memories of that night in senior year still burned bright - Jungkook's fingers intertwined with yours, his whispered words against your skin: "It should be me. I want it to be special for you." After that, something shifted. The careful dance of friendship blurred into something more intimate. His touch lingered longer - an arm sliding around your waist in crowded corridors, pulling you onto his lap during lunch breaks, his palm warm against your thigh. You found yourself melting into these moments, your fingers absent-mindedly playing with his hair while he hunched over textbooks in your room, or curling into his side during movie nights, his heartbeat steady under your ear.

The whispers grew louder. Even as Jungkook worked his way through the university's dating scene, you remained his constant star in an ever-rotating constellation.

"We're just friends," became your mantra, even as something deeper stirred in your chest, unacknowledged and unnamed.

Each time he disappeared with another girl, you swallowed the bitter pill of jealousy with a smile. Because no matter whose bed he woke up in, you were still the one he'd drop everything for at 3 AM if you needed him.

But watching him with others carved little wounds in your heart, each one deeper than the last.

Then Ren appeared - all soccer-star swagger and magnetic charm. His pursuit was relentless, and you found yourself drawn to him like a moth to flame. The resulting explosion with Jungkook was nuclear.

"What the hell does it matter to you?" Your voice had risen with each word, hands trembling.

Jungkook's eyes had flashed dangerously. "What does it matter? Are you seriously asking me that?"

"Yeah, I am! You're out there hooking up with half the campus, but God forbid I actually date someone!"

"That walking STD clinic?" Jungkook's voice had softened then, that familiar tenderness creeping back in. "You deserve better than that, baby. You deserve the world."

"Maybe I want to decide what I deserve." Your chin had lifted defiantly. "I'm giving him a chance."

Six months later, that argument still simmered between you, erupting periodically in heated exchanges and meaningful glares.

Ren, your golden boy with his campus king crown, was everything Jungkook wasn't - and that was both the appeal and the problem. He couldn't comprehend your relationship with Jungkook, couldn't understand why your best friend's hands still found their way to your waist, why his lips still brushed your cheek in greeting. Jungkook, for his part, seemed to delight in pushing those boundaries, his touch growing more possessive whenever Ren was watching.

"Have you fucked him?" Ren's question had come like a thunderbolt after watching Jungkook's hand slide dangerously low on your back.

The lie had tasted bitter: "No." You'd avoided his eyes, guilt churning in your stomach. What was there to tell? It was ancient history - well, sort of.

Despite his obvious hatred for Jungkook, Ren stayed. He took you on proper dates, showered you with gifts, and yes - the sex was good.

When Jungkook found out about that last part, his reaction was explosive.

"You should have talked to me first!" His voice had cracked with emotion.

You'd laughed, sharp and defensive. "Since when do I need your permission for my sex life?"

"Don't you remember-" He'd run his hands through his hair in frustration. "Why are you cutting me out because of him?"

But you weren't cutting him out - you were just drawing lines that should have existed all along. Every time you did, Jungkook acted like you were severing vital arteries instead of creating healthy boundaries.

His possessive tantrums had been almost entertaining - until Teri. Tall, blonde, and apparently more than just another notch on Jungkook's bedpost. A month had stretched into two, and now she was everywhere - at group hangouts, campus parties, even movie nights. The sight of her made your stomach twist.

"Want to catch Anora?" You'd called him last week, missing him and any attention while Ren was away despite the constant stream of texts from your boyfriend.

"Already saw it with Teri." His casual response had felt like a slap. Since when did Jungkook take his hookups to movies? "But hey, Teri's roommate is throwing this end-of-year thing next week. You in?"

"I..." The lump in your throat had made it hard to speak. Their campus was an hour away, and the thought of watching them together made you feel physically ill.

"Come on," he'd coaxed, his voice holding that special warmth reserved just for you. "I'll drive you there myself."

An hour alone in his car? "Okay," you'd agreed before your brain could catch up with your heart.

But now, a week later, at this very party, you were sitting there with a sour expression that you weren't even trying to hide.

Everything started not as you wanted when he picked you up to get to the party. 

The car ride started with Jungkook pulling up in his cherished '98 Toyota Supra - the same one that had carried you through countless high school adventures. You tugged at your tank top, the summer heat providing a convenient excuse for the revealing outfit and short denim skirt you'd chosen for this hour alone with him.

"Remember when we almost crashed this thing trying to learn stick shift?" you asked, sliding into the familiar passenger seat.

His laugh filled the car. "You mean when you almost destroyed my clutch?"

The conversation flowed effortlessly in your little bubble, words tumbling out unfiltered between bursts of laughter. Your hand found its way to the back of his neck - an old habit - fingers threading through the soft hair there. Usually, this would be when his hand would find your thigh, that familiar touch that always sent warmth pooling in your stomach.

But something was different today. Each time his hand drifted toward you, he'd pull back sharply, as if burned. The sixth time it happened, you couldn't help but notice how white his knuckles were on the steering wheel.

"What the fuck?" you muttered under your breath. Since when did Jungkook hold back with you? Was this about... her? The thought of Teri being the reason for this new restraint made your chest tight with an emotion you refused to name.

"You okay?" he asked, glancing over.

"Peachy," you replied, forcing a smile. What right did you have to feel this way? Ren's latest text sat unread in your phone, a reminder of your own relationship status. So you swallowed the bitterness and kept the conversation light, even as jealousy gnawed at your insides.

The house came into view, music already pulsing through the walls, fairy lights twinkling in the growing dusk. Jungkook's hand found its usual spot on your lower back as you navigated through the crowd of drunk students, his body a protective shield behind yours.

Teri spotted you from across the room, Annie and Tom trailing behind her. Her face lit up at the sight of Jungkook, and she moved in for a kiss. Your stomach lurched, but Jungkook - after catching your eye - only gave her a quick hug.

"I'm sooo glad you made it," Teri slurred, swaying slightly. You couldn't help but roll your eyes.

After a few dances with Jungkook, his hands stayed firmly on your waist - no wandering touches like before. Your skin tingled where his fingers should have been but weren't. The bass pulsed through your body as you watched Teri and her friends whisk him away, leaving you alone with Annie and Tom on the couch. Their lips locked together while you nursed your drink, stealing glances at Teri hanging off Jungkook's neck, her lips brushing his ear. Despite staying sober to drive you home, he seemed to be enjoying her attention.

"Hello? Earth to space cadet?" Annie's voice cut through your brooding. Tom finally came up for air, both of them staring at you.

You drained your beer, pushing yourself up from the couch. "I'm out."

Annie's hand shot out, grabbing your wrist. "Are you crazy? It's barely been two hours!" She spun you toward the dancing crowd, where several guys were already eyeing you appreciatively. "Look at all these guys checking you out."

You rolled your eyes. "I have a boyfriend, Ann."

"Funny how you only remember that when it's not about Jungkook," Annie muttered, but the alcohol buzzing through your system let you brush it off.

"Boring. I'm leaving," you insisted, pulling away.

"It's late, and dressed like that? Have you lost your mind?" Genuine concern laced Annie's voice.

Your lips curved into a mischievous smile. "I'll find someone to drive me. Didn't you just point out all my admirers?" You winked at her.

Weaving through the crowd, you zeroed in on the most attractive guy you could spot through your beer goggles. "Want to give me a ride, handsome?" The words dripped like honey from your lips. His eyes darkened with desire and understanding. The attention, even this kind, soothed the ache in your chest, numbing the cocktail of anger, hurt, and jealousy burning in your stomach.

He nodded, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as he led you toward the door. The crowd's energy vibrated around you as you pushed through. A flutter of nervousness tickled your stomach, but something in the back of your mind told you this night would end exactly as you planned.

The stranger stopped so abruptly you collided with his back. Like clockwork. Showtime.

"Get the fuck out before I make you." Jungkook's voice rumbled like thunder, and the stranger vanished like morning mist. You lifted innocent eyes to meet Jungkook's, watching his broad chest rise and fall with barely contained rage. "What the hell are you thinking?"

Victory danced through your veins. Just as you knew he would, your Jungkook had been watching, even while entertaining Teri across the room. Your Jungkook would never let you leave with anyone else.

"I just wanted to go home," you murmured, pushing your lower lip out into a pout and furrowing your brows. Pure innocence. Jungkook's scowl began to soften around the edges, even as he fought to maintain his anger.

You flashed him an angelic smile, bringing your index finger to your lips in that way you knew drove him crazy - one of many secrets you'd shared over late-night conversations about what got you both going, even now with other people in your beds. "My head's spinning... I can't stay here anymore," you whispered, and the last of his frown melted away.

How could he stay mad at you?

"You know I would've taken you home - all you had to do was ask!" He guided you toward the exit, his frustration evident in every step.

The June night air kissed your skin as you walked to his car. "You seemed busy," you purred, and Jungkook's growl sent shivers down your spine.

"Bullshit. You know I'm never too busy for you." He ran his fingers through his hair, jaw clenched. God, he looked good when he was worked up.

"Sorry," you gazed up at him through your lashes as he steadied you with a hand on your waist, helping you into the car.

"I forgive you, but I wouldn't forgive myself if something happened to you." He gripped the steering wheel tight, starting the engine.

"Kookie," you cooed, reaching out to stroke his neck. "Isn't it amazing that we have each other?"

A smirk played at his lips. "You could say that."

"No, really..." Your fingers traced the curve of his bicep, giving in to your body's constant need to touch him, to confirm he was still yours. Completely.

His arm tensed beneath your touch, a fleeting reaction, but you felt it. His gaze flicked toward you—dark, hungry—before snapping back to the road. A muscle in his jaw ticked as his eyes had taken in the way your legs, bare under the short skirt, angled toward him.

Yet, Jungkook kept his hands on the wheel. Kept his focus.

“We’ll always be in each other’s lives. I won’t allow anything else,” he murmured, his tone as steady as if he were reciting the time.

Your thighs pressed together, heat pooling between them, betraying you.

“Stop at that little shop and get me some ice cream,” you said, your voice feigning nonchalance. “And get some for yourself too.”

Jungkook let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. “Well done, Y/n. You’ve got me wrapped around your finger.” Yet, he pulled into the lot without hesitation.

The gas station shop stood mostly deserted, its neon sign buzzing faintly in the night. Your pulse quickened as you realized—no audience. Of course, Jungkook’s windows were tinted, but if your little plan worked, you wouldn’t want any spectators anyway.

Jungkook stepped out, leaving you alone in the car. You watched him through the windshield, eyes trailing the broad line of his back, the powerful way he moved. He’d always been good-looking, even in high school, but university had sculpted him into something more—a man.

Your fingers curled against your thighs, pressing hard. A slow, traitorous thought slithered through your mind. If his body had changed this much, what else had?

You threw your head back against the seat, exhaling sharply. Fuck. This was Jungkook. Why did you start this?

Ren.

Your stomach twisted. You had a boyfriend. A serious relationship. Or at least, it could’ve been serious—could’ve become something real.

Your eyes flicked back up, catching Jungkook’s reflection in the glass door as he stepped out, two ice creams in hand. And just like that, the guilt evaporated.

He slid into the driver’s seat, handing you yours, but before he could start the car, you stopped him.

“Wait. Let’s eat here.”

He stilled, turning his head slightly. His gaze dropped again, just for a second, to your skirt before he forced it back up. His fingers tapped against the steering wheel. “It’s dark,” you continued. “We’ve got half an hour left to drive. Let’s just sit for a bit.”

Jungkook’s lips pressed together as if he were testing the weight of your words. Then, with a slow nod, he leaned back. “Amazing reasoning for someone who was ready to leave with a stranger ten minutes ago,” he muttered, a trace of irritation lacing his voice.

You swatted at his thigh—a playful tap. But the way his muscles jumped under your palm wasn’t lost on you.

You ate in relative ease, chatting about summer plans, laughter slipping in between bites. You avoided mentioning Ren’s lake house, the two weeks you were supposed to spend there. Jungkook talked about work, how he was saving up for a new car.

The ice cream melted, sticky and sweet.

Your thumb smeared with a drop, and instinctively, you brought it to your lips, tongue darting out to clean it. But not before making sure Jungkook was watching.

His Adam’s apple bobbed.

“You’ve got something…” His voice was rougher now, his thumb gesturing to the corner of your mouth.

You blinked at him, feigning innocence. “Where?”

He pointed again, this time on himself.

You tilted your head, pretending to inspect your reflection in the mirror before sighing. “Better clean it yourself, Jungkookie.”

His breath hitched—just barely, but enough. He reached forward, swiping his thumb across your lips. The warmth of his skin sent a shiver down your spine.

You caught his wrist before he could pull away, guiding his touch. Slowly, deliberately, you let him trace the outline of your lips. His pupils blew wide as his breathing grew heavier.

You parted your lips, drawing his thumb inside, your tongue curling around the pad of it.

Jungkook went rigid.

His fingers twitched, barely brushing against your teeth, his breath coming out in shallow, uneven bursts. You sucked lightly, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on his. The effect was instant—his chest rose sharply, his other hand gripping his thigh.

“Y/n, you—”

You sucked harder, feeling the way his body jerked, the way he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His free hand found his belt, gripping it like an anchor.

Poor thing. Big, intimidating Jungkook, the guy everyone feared—sitting before you, struggling to keep himself together.

You pulled his thumb from your lips with a wet pop.

“I…” You leaned closer, voice dripping with intent. “Want to take care of my friend.”

Your fingers trailed down, tracing the outline of his jeans. Even through the fabric, he was already straining against it.

Jungkook cursed under his breath, eyes dark and unreadable. “Fuck, Y/n, don’t joke like that.”

You smiled, wicked and knowing.

Still, he barely hesitated as he shoved his seat back, giving himself more space.

His legs spread wide, head tilted back against the headrest, breath shallow.

The space between you crackled with unspoken words, heavy breaths filling the car like a storm about to break. His fingers trembled slightly as they brushed your waist, hesitating—just for a second—before his hunger swallowed his restraint whole.

“Fuck,” Jungkook muttered, his voice raw as his forehead met yours, eyes dark and unreadable. “We shouldn’t—”

“We already are,” you whispered, undoing his zipper with slow, deliberate precision, your touch both a challenge and an invitation. His breath hitched, his restraint fracturing as your hand wrapped around his hard cock, warmth searing through your palm. His jaw clenched, a curse escaping between gritted teeth.

You felt him, hot and heavy in your grip, marveling at how thick and perfect he was. The way he twitched in your grasp, the heat radiating off him, made your mouth water. The anticipation pulsed between your legs, the ache undeniable as wetness pooled between your thighs.

His head fell back against the headrest as you leaned down, the tip of your tongue teasing him, tasting the anticipation on the tip of his dick. The groan that tore from his throat sent shivers down your spine, deep and guttural, like he was losing himself in you..

“Fuck, baby…” His fingers found your hair, gripping tight—too tight, a contradiction between wanting control and surrendering to you entirely.

You let him guide you, let him use you, taking him deeper, reveling in the way his composure unraveled with every flick of your tongue. The way he cursed your name, a plea and a punishment in one breath. You moaned softly around him, reveling in the weight of him on your tongue, in the way he barely held himself together under your touch. The way he filled your mouth, stretching your lips, sent an intoxicating thrill through your body. You were dripping for him, your thighs clenched together, desperate for friction.

The car’s interior felt suffocatingly small, filled only with the slick sounds of desperation and the raw edge of something neither of you wanted to name. You were lost in it, lost in him, lost in the way he unraveled for you so beautifully. And when his body finally tensed, his release shattering through him, the sound he made sent a shiver down your spine—a sound so unguarded, so devastatingly undone that you felt yourself trembling in response.

But the hunger wasn’t satisfied. Not yet.

Even as he came undone in your mouth, his body still thrummed with hunger. Lust. That damn longing neither of you could outrun.

His breathing was ragged as he grabbed a condom, his fingers shaking just enough for you to notice. He slid it on swiftly before pulling you onto his lap, hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you’d slip away.

His fingers found the hem of your tank top, pushing it up with deliberate slowness, his eyes darkening as your breasts spilled free. He groaned, dragging his thumbs over your nipples before taking one into his mouth, his tongue circling, teeth grazing, making you arch against him.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmured against your skin, his voice wrecked with desire.

You stared at each other in the dim light, breath mingling, hearts hammering against ribs like they wanted to break free. His lips parted, something unspoken lingering there, but neither of you dared voice it.

Because this wasn’t just lust.

It was poison, dressed as passion.

And yet, as you sank down onto him, your body stretching to take him in, the only thing that mattered was the way he filled you, the way his hands gripped you tighter—like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the moment.

“God, you feel…” Jungkook's voice broke off into a growl, his forehead pressing against your shoulder, his hands roaming your body with reverence and possession.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your short denim skirt, shoving it up roughly to expose the slick heat between your legs. His grip tightened as he thrust up into you, the stretch so intoxicating it made your head spin.

You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure crashed through you in waves. He groaned, his hands steadying your hips before he snapped his own upwards, burying himself deeper. The force of it sent a cry tumbling from your lips, the intensity overwhelming as he set a brutal pace.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he panted, his voice trembling with restraint, but the way his hips surged up against yours betrayed his desperation. His hands wandered, one gripping your waist possessively while the other trailed down, slipping between your thighs. The second his fingers found your clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles, your entire body tensed.

Your breath hitched, vision blurring as pleasure coiled tight, unbearable, electric. His touch was ruthless, his thrusts pushing you closer and closer to the edge until the pleasure became too much to hold back.

“Jungkook—” His name broke from your lips in a strangled moan as you came undone around him, waves of ecstasy rippling through your body. Your walls clenched tight around him, pulling him deeper, making him groan as he chased his own release.

His movements grew frantic, desperate, his teeth grazing your shoulder, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force. And when he finally let go, his release spilling into the condom, he clung to you like a drowning man.

The air between you was thick with something more than lust—something dangerous, something that made you forget why this should’ve never happened in the first place.

And when you finally collapsed against his chest, panting, trembling, your bodies tangled together in the sticky heat of the moment, you knew it wouldn’t be the last time.

No matter how much you wished it would be.

You gripped the car door handle, knuckles white against the cool metal as the engine rumbled beneath you. Jungkook's cologne filled the space between you, mixing with the crisp night air that whistled through a crack in the window. Neither of you spoke, but your racing heartbeat seemed to echo in the silence.

"So." His voice cut through the quiet, lips curving into that familiar half-smile. "Is this your way of telling me you and Ren are over?"

Ren's name hit you like a punch to the gut. You pressed your forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching streetlights blur past. "No," you whispered, your reflection avoiding his gaze in the darkened glass. "I... I don't know what's gotten into me."

Jungkook's low chuckle vibrated through the car. "I do."

Your gaze snapped to him. "What?"

His eyes caught yours, dark and knowing. "This was your way of checking if I still belong to you."

Your chest tightened. "That's not—"

"Don't lie to me, baby." His words sliced through yours, wrapped in a velvet laugh. "I know you better than you know yourself."

The truth of his words sank into your skin like ice water. Your reflection stared back at you, cheeks flushed with shame.

Your nails carved crescents into your palms as you clenched your fists in your lap. Every cell in your body screamed with self-loathing - for the betrayal, for the way your skin still tingled where Jungkook had touched you, for knowing you'd never look at Ren the same way again.

Jungkook's voice dropped to a husky whisper. "How do you plan on fucking him now?" His words dripped like honey laced with poison. "Now you that you remembered how good my dick feels?"

Heat bloomed across your face, equal parts shame and something darker, hungrier. You smacked his arm. "You're an asshole."

His laugh filled the car as he gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Maybe." Those eyes found yours again, gleaming. "But you love it."

The next morning, you blinked against harsh fluorescent lights as you emerged from your last biology lecture. Your notebook was filled with sketches of cell membranes and chemical equations, but your mind kept drifting to other things. The strap of your bag dug into your shoulder as you pushed through the heavy doors into the summer air.

Your lips curved upward as fragments of last night flickered through your mind - the way Jungkook's fingers had branded your skin, how perfectly he'd filled you, the rough edge in his voice when he'd...

"Y/N."

The sharp voice shattered your daydream. You spun around, and your stomach plummeted to your feet. There stood Teri, her manicured nails digging into the strap of her designer bag.

Her mascara-rimmed eyes blazed, lip curled back in a snarl. "Slut." The word cracked like a whip in the space between you.

Your jaw clenched tight enough to ache. "Excuse me?"

In one fluid motion, Teri reached into her bag and hurled something at your feet. The familiar scrap of black lace made your blood run cold. Your underwear.

The ones you'd left tangled in Jungkook's backseat.

Shit.

Whispers rippled through the crowd of students gathering around you, but they felt distant, underwater.

Teri's voice trembled, each word sharp as broken glass. "You think I'm stupid? You and Jungkook—using people like we're fucking disposable while you two play whatever twisted game this is?" Her voice climbed higher, cracking at the edges. "You clearly have feelings for each other. So why the hell are you dragging the rest of us into your mess?"

Your mouth opened and closed, but your throat had sealed shut. What defense could you possibly offer?

She stepped closer, close enough that you could see tears gathering in her eyes beneath the anger. "You could've just had him. Why mess with others?"

The guilt pressed against your ribcage like a physical weight. But underneath it, something else unfurled - a dark satisfaction that purred: She's gone now. Jungkook was never meant to be hers anyway. She was just trying to be another obstacle between you and him.

Because what you and Jungkook shared was sacred. Untouchable. Beyond anyone else's understanding.

part 3

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[lyvhie]

★ ˙ ̟ ─── . “i like it”.

donghyuck x reader

| summary | who would have thought that being evasive about something important would lead to Donghyuck losing you? | cw | fluff, slight jaemin x reader, jealousy, maybe angst if u squint, pet names. | a/n | changing this again 😇 someday i'll stop 😔 ALSO, my sweet wife @peterm4rker will be writing an awesome fic for jaemin following the events of this one, so stay tuned 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

Contrary to what everyone believed, you and Haechan weren’t officially lovers but existed in a complicated, undefined space. Friends who occasionally kissed, shared intimate nights, and blurred the lines between friendship and something more. Hyuck was content with this arrangement, or at least, that’s what he told himself.

Things with you have been this way since the last year of high school, when you were each other's first kiss. Back then, you were both a bit clueless and hadn’t had much experience with other people, so you suggested it might be nice, and less awkward, to practice with each other since you were friends.

After that, this dynamic continued over the years. If you were bored or just in the mood, you’d make out until your mouths were sore. But that was it—nothing exclusive, nothing complicated, no feelings were involved. These were the unspoken rules between you two. Perhaps rules isn’t the right word, but it was a silent agreement you adhered to.

Both you and Hyuck had your fair share of flings, yet, amusingly enough, you always ended up coming back to each other. And he liked that. There was something undeniably comforting about it, the way it felt so effortless, so familiar, like slipping into your favorite sweater on a cold day. It was simple, warm, and safe. It wasn’t complicated, it was home.

Over time, being with you felt so right that he no longer desired anyone else. Everything about your dynamic was easy and, most importantly, simple. It provided a safe haven for his fears, a sanctuary from the expectations he dreaded. Commitment was a word that stirred anxiety in him, a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep. The thought of fully opening up, of risking his heart, scared him.

So, he clung to the simplicity of what you had, where no questions were asked, and no demands were made. It was his way of staying close while keeping his fears at bay, holding on to you without the risk of losing himself.

Haechan believed that as satisfied as he was with you, you felt the same about him. In his mind, you both fit perfectly into the arrangement you had. After all, why change something that worked so well? To him, everything was simple, easy, and just the way it should be.

However, things weren't as black and white for you as they were for Haechan. Over the years, you had hoped that what you shared would evolve into something deeper, something more defined. You craved a sense of permanence, a relationship that was established, tangible, and secure. What started as a casual connection had grown into something much more significant for you, and the lack of clarity began to weigh.

While Donghyuck found comfort in the ambiguity, you found yourself longing for certainty. The undefined boundaries that once felt liberating now felt confining.

It was no secret how fond you were of him. After all, you had been together for a long time, sharing each other's highs and lows, witnessing the best and worst moments side by side. The bond you had was undeniable, and with time, you felt it was only natural to express your feelings. You thought it would be okay to bring up the idea of something more, to gently nudge the relationship in a new direction.

So, you began to hint at your desires in subtle ways, slipping them into conversations, testing the waters at every suitable opportunity. You teased him, dropping little clues, hoping he'd pick up on your intentions and reveal his own. Each time, you watched closely, searching for any sign that he might feel the same way.

You'd casually ask questions about where he thought you both would be in the future, framing it as mere "curiosity." If he ever saw you both settling down, or if he thought things might change someday. Each question was laced with hope, a subtle push toward something more concrete.

But Donghyuck deflected. He'd laugh it off, turn the conversation back to something lighthearted, or give vague answers that neither confirmed nor denied anything.

And yes, he wasn't oblivious, far from it. He noticed your hints, understood the implications, but chose to play along as if he didn't. He pretended not to see the deeper meaning behind your words, it was easier for him to feign ignorance than to confront the truth, to face the possibility that things might change in ways he wasn't ready to handle.

Plus, he couldn't quite understand why you suddenly wanted to change everything. Why complicate something that, in his eyes, was already working perfectly? There were no conflicts, no major issues between you. Why bother putting a label on your relationship when things were smooth as they were?

Donghyuck thought that if he just waited it out, the dust would settle, and you'd drop the topic. He figured things would naturally return to how they were—cuddle sessions, late-night calls, movie nights, making out and, most importantly, no difficult questions about the future. It was a cycle he found comfort in, and he was sure you'd come back to it too.

For a while, he was right. You did stop bringing up the subject, and he felt a wave of relief. Everything seemed to return to normal, the familiar rhythm of your relationship restored. He thought he had successfully navigated the storm, and things were back on track.

But the peace didn’t last long.

At first, he assumed you were just caught up with life—work, family, college—the usual exhausting demands of adulthood. It made sense that you'd take longer to respond to his texts, miss his calls, or cancel your usual meetups at each other's places. He reasoned that it was temporary, just a busy spell you were going through.

However, as time went on, the excuses didn't quite add up. The distance between you grew before he could even fully realize it. Sure, you still talked, but only through messages, as you had stopped answering his calls. Even those conversations felt different-strange, tense, lacking the warmth they once had.

It was as if you were slowly becoming strangers, the easy familiarity between you fading away. An unspoken abyss seemed to be widening, pulling you further apart with each passing day.

He couldn't understand. Was it something he did? Did he say something wrong? Did he forget an important date? No, that couldn't be it-you wouldn't be acting this way if it were something so simple. Was it about the way he avoided your questions? But he was sure he had handled that well, giving you answers that, in his mind, should have put your concerns to rest.

Donghyuck replayed every conversation in his head, searching for a clue, a moment where things might have gone wrong. He thought he had done everything right, keeping things easy and light, steering clear of anything that might cause friction. Yet, despite his efforts, the growing distance between you suggested otherwise, leaving him confused and increasingly anxious about what might have caused the shift.

Once again, he decided to leave things as they were. You might just need some time for yourself, he thought. He just needed to be patient. That was all.

So, he tried to stay calm, holding onto the hope that this was just a phase, a temporary distance that would eventually close. He reassured himself that you weren't slipping away, that he wasn't... losing you. But deep down, a quiet fear lingered, growing harder to ignore with each passing day.

At some point, it became too much for him to bear. He missed you-terribly. The ache of your absence was overwhelming, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to make things right, whatever it took. He decided he would go to your place and apologize, even if he wasn't entirely sure what he had done wrong. He just knew he had to fix it.

In his mind, he planned everything meticulously. He would bring your favorite food, a small peace offering to show he cared. He would listen, really listen, to what you had to say, without deflecting or brushing things off. And then, he would apologize, sincerely, for anything he had done to hurt or upset you. He was ready to do whatever it took to mend the rift between you, to bring things back to the way they were.

And that's when things, already bad, started to get worse. As planned, he went to your favorite restaurant to pick up the peace offering. But that's when he saw you. His heart did that familiar happy dance it always did whenever you were around, but it soon came to an abrupt stop. Was he thrilled to see you after what felt like an eternity? Absolutely. What didn't sit well with him was what he was seeing.

Who was the guy you were with? Was this the reason behind the headaches, the exhaustion, the countless canceled plans? The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. Not only had you lied to him, but you were with someone he didn't even know. And worse—it was clearly a date. The way you were dressed, more put-together than usual, was a dead giveaway. This wasn't just a casual meetup; it was something more.

He noticed the way you smiled, the soft giggles that escaped your lips, the way you played with the end of your hair, something you did when you were feeling shy or nervous. He saw the subtle scrunch of your nose, a telltale sign of your genuine amusement, something he had always adored. It was everything you used to do with him, now directed toward someone else.

The sight of you laughing, seemingly carefree, with another person shattered the hope he had been clinging to, leaving him standing there, stunned and, dare he say, heartbroken. A wave of emotions crashed over him. Confusion, betrayal, an ache he couldn't ignore. But above all, there was jealousy.

It gnawed at him, a bitter, burning sensation that he couldn't shake as he watched you with someone else, sharing moments that once belonged to him and only him*.*

He knew what he had said about not being exclusive, that it was just for the sake of avoiding the labels and formalities of the situation. But this—this wasn't supposed to happen. Not when you had once casually told him that you didn't need to date anyone else when he was by your side.

He remembered the words he'd spoken about not wanting to change things, about not needing to turn what you had into a conventional romantic relationship. But even so, this—this moment—was never supposed to come.

You had felt a pair of eyes burning into the soul for a while now. You couldn't help but glance around, trying to figure out where it was coming from. But there was nothing, just a person leaving the restaurant in quick steps.

You blinked a couple of times. Was it just you, or did the back of that person look strangely familiar?

"Hey, everything okay?" Jaemin's concerned voice pulled you back, and you turned your attention to him.

Had you been missing Haechan so much that you were imagining things?

"Yeah, sorry," you said quickly, giving him a small, awkward smile. "I thought I saw someone I knew, don't worry," you waved it off, hoping he wouldn't ask more.

Jaemin smiled softly, his concern still lingering in his eyes, but he didn't push further. "Okay, if you say so," he replied gently, his voice calm and understanding, but he could tell something was off.

Here was the person who had been easing your worries these past few days. You and Jaemin had been friends for a few months now, ever since you first met at a museum. He had offered to guide you through the exhibits, sharing fascinating stories behind the artworks. At first, you assumed he worked there, only to find out later that he was just another visitor like you.

You still remembered how you had worried about taking up his time, only for him to laugh and wave off your concerns, saying it had been a fun walk. That shared experience led to more conversations, and by the end of the visit, you had exchanged numbers. What started as a casual acquaintance quickly blossomed into a comfortable friendship, one that had become a welcome refuge during the tumultuous times with Haechan.

Things with Donghyuck were... a mess, to say the least. It hadn't been as bad when you were still unaware of your true feelings for him. But once you recognized the depth of your emotions, everything became harder to bear. The weight of unspoken words and unmet desires grew heavier each day.

It only worsened when he confirmed, in his subtle yet unmistakable way, that you and he would remain in the same undefined space for the foreseeable future. The realization that nothing would change, that your relationship would stay stagnant, left you feeling trapped in a cycle of longing and frustration.

You sure liked Donghyuck, more than you ever thought you could like someone. But you couldn't keep burying yourself deeper into this hole of uncertainties. That's why, when Jaemin asked you out for the first time, you didn't refuse.

You had noticed his interest in you, and you thought, why not give it a chance? It felt like a welcome change from the storm of emotions that had been weighing you down.

And you were right. Jaemin was caring, attentive, and you shared so much in common. With him, you didn't feel the constant need to second-guess everything or wonder where you stood. He was always direct and sincere, there was no hidden meaning or unanswered questions, offering a sense of clarity that you had been craving, a simplicity that felt refreshing. It was… less intense, less complicated than it was with Haechan.

Jaemin tilted his head slightly, watching you with that warm, curious gaze he always had. “You sure you’re okay? You seem a little distracted tonight,” he asked softly, his concern evident in his tone.

You smiled, feeling a little guilty for letting your thoughts wander. “I’m fine, really. I guess I’m just a bit tired,” you said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “But I’m having a great time with you.”

His lips curved into a gentle smile. “I’m glad to hear that. I was worried I was boring you,” he teased, a playful glint in his eyes.

“Not at all. You could probably talk about the most random thing, and I’d still be entertained,” you said, chuckling.

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Oh, so you’re saying I have that kind of charm, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, laughing. “Don’t let it get to your head, Jaemin,” he laughed too, and for a moment, the tension you'd been feeling earlier seemed to fade away.

“Well, we've spent the whole day together, and it's already," he checked his wristwatch, "real late. I think it's time to take you home, princess," Jaemin said with a teasing smile, his tone light yet affectionate.

"As much as I want to say the opposite, I think you're right," you replied, letting out a small laugh. "I'd hate to turn into a pumpkin or something."

He chuckled, standing up and offering you his hand. "Don't worry, I'd make sure to bring you back to the ball before that happens."

You rolled your eyes at his playful tone but took his hand anyway, letting him guide you out of the restaurant. The evening air was cool and refreshing, and Jaemin stayed close to your side, his presence steady and comforting.

When you reached his car, he opened the door for you with a small bow, earning a laugh from you. "A true gentleman," you teased, sliding into the passenger seat. "Only the best for you," he quipped, winking before closing the door and walking around to the driver's side.

The drive home was filled with easy conversation, the kind that made time seem to slip away. Every now and then, you'd catch him glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, a soft smile tugging at his lips as if he were just happy to have you there.

“There you are,” Jaemin said as he parked in front of your house. “Safe and sound,” he added, turning to you with a warm smile.

“Aw, it’s over already?” you said dramatically, a teasing pout on your lips.

“Don’t worry,” he replied, leaning slightly closer to you, his voice dropping into that playful tone that always made you smile. “I have an idea for what we can do next week. If you’re interested, of course.”

“Oh, another date plan so soon?” you leaned closer as well, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Mhm,” he hummed, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “But it’s a surprise, so don’t even think about asking.”

“Then you shouldn’t have told me,” you said, rolling your eyes playfully. “Now I’m curious.”

Jaemin chuckled softly, his hand reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered for a moment, just barely grazing your cheek. “I’ll make the wait worth it,” he said softly, his gaze flickering down to your lips.

The air between you shifted slightly, growing more intimate as he leaned closer and closer, his breath almost mingling with yours, his lips just a whisper away from yours and—

Knock! Knock! Knock!

“How long are you planning to stay there?”

You turned your head abruptly, your heart skipping a beat at the familiar voice. There stood Haechan, arms crossed, an annoyed expression on his face as he stared into the car.

Your chest tightened at the sight of him, but you forced yourself to play it cool, letting out a small, frustrated sigh.

Jaemin pulled back, his brow slightly raised as he glanced at Haechan, then back at you. The sudden interruption had shattered the moment.

“Friend of yours?” Jaemin asked, his voice calm but curious, as his eyes searched yours for an answer.

“Yeah, something like that," you replied, laughing awkwardly. "Remember Haechan?"

"Oh, Mr. Gray Area," Jaemin said with a knowing smirk.

“Yep, that’s him,” you said, trying to play it off with a soft chuckle before letting out a small sigh. Quickly, you unbuckled your seatbelt and reached for the door handle. “By the way, don’t leave yet. You forgot something at my house last time, I’ll take it for you real quick.”

“Alright, pretty, take your time.”

Jaemin smiled, leaning back in his seat as his gaze followed you. Meanwhile, Haechan’s eyes were also fixed on you, his arms crossed as he stood waiting. When you stopped in front of him, his brows rose expectantly.

“What are you doing here?” you whispered, trying to keep your tone neutral, though a hint of frustration slipped through.

Haechan shrugged, his expression unreadable. “You were having so many headaches, I wanted to check if you were okay,” he said, the lie rolling off his tongue smoothly.

His gaze flickered to Jaemin, still sitting in the car, who offered him a brief, polite wave. Haechan forced a tight-lipped smile, biting back the urge to roll his eyes. “And apparently, you are,” he added, his voice dropping slightly, laced with sarcasm. “Didn't know you had a thing for bulked-up gym rats. Should I start hitting the gym too, or is he the exception?"

You rolled your eyes, biting back a retort as Jaemin's curious gaze lingered from the car. "Haechan, please—"

"What?" he interrupted, leaning in slightly with a mock-innocent expression. "I just wanna make sure I'm keeping up with your new preferences.”

You lifted a hand to stop him from talking before he could say anything more, and he pressed his lips together in silence right away, though the grumpy expression on his face was impossible to miss.

"Just wait and behave," you said firmly, giving him a pointed look before turning to head inside your house.

Haechan huffed at your words but didn't argue. The moment you disappeared through the door, though, he turned back to Jaemin's car, his gaze narrowing slightly. After a brief pause, he walked closer, his shoes scuffing against the pavement, and knocked on the car window, waiting for Jaemin to lower it.

He leaned in slightly, resting his arms on the edge of the window so he could get a proper look at Jaemin.

Damn. He's hot. That, Haechan couldn't deny. What a handsome man.

Fuck.

He hoped Jaemin had a terrible personality because, honestly, it was unfair for someone to look that good and be a decent person too.

“Yes? Can I help you?” Jaemin asked, a polite smile adorning his face as his brow lifted slightly at the sudden interaction.

Haechan tilted his head, his gaze traveling up and down Jaemin’s figure, taking in every detail as if analyzing him.

“Jaemin, right?” Haechan said back, his lips curving into something between a smirk and a challenge. “Just wanted to see who’s been stealing my girl’s attention from me these days.”

Jaemin let out a small chuckle, tilting his head slightly. “Your girl? Funny, it didn’t seem that way since we started going out.”

Haechan scoffed, but he masked it with a shrug. “Well, she just likes making new friends,” he said casually, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed him.

So this was it, huh? Your sudden distance, the unanswered calls, the excuses—it was all because you’d been going on little dates with this guy. Haechan felt something unpleasant settle in his chest, but he pushed it down, keeping his expression cool.

Jaemin hummed, unfazed by Haechan’s words. His fingers tapped lazily against the steering wheel as he looked at him with mild amusement. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

Haechan let out a dry chuckle, tilting his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jaemin shrugged, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Just saying… You seem a little too interested in her new friends for someone who didn’t want to put a label on things.”

Haechan’s smirk faltered for just a second, but he quickly recovered. “I just like knowing who she spends time with,” he said, his tone light, but there was an edge to it.

Jaemin chuckled, shaking his head. “Right. Well, now you know.” He leaned back in his seat, drumming his fingers against the car door. “Anything else, or can I go back to waiting for her without the interrogation?”

Haechan clicked his tongue, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He wanted to say something, anything, to wipe that amused expression off Jaemin’s face. But before he could come up with a comeback, the front door opened, and you stepped out, holding a jacket in your hands.

As soon as you saw them still talking, you narrowed your eyes. “Is everything okay?” you asked, eyeing Haechan suspiciously.

Jaemin grinned. “Depends on your definition of okay.”

Haechan just huffed, looking away. “Just having a chat,” he muttered.

You sighed, already exhausted. “I don’t even want to know,” you mumbled, handing Jaemin the jacket. “Here, you left this last time.”

Jaemin took it with a grateful smile. “Thanks, pretty.” He shot you a wink, completely ignoring Haechan’s glare.

Haechan clicked his tongue again, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets. “Great. Now that he got what he came for, he can go,” he said, voice dripping with fake sweetness.

Jaemin raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. “I was leaving anyway,” he said, flashing you one last smile before rolling up his window. “I’ll text you later.”

You smiled and waved as you watched Jaemin’s car disappear down the street. But the moment he was out of sight, your expression shifted, and you turned to Haechan with a sigh.

“I think you can go too,” you said, your voice even, though you weren’t exactly pleased to see him there. Even if—against your better judgment—your heart twisted in something dangerously close to happiness after so long without seeing him.

“What? Are you mad because I interrupted your little ‘date’?” Haechan scoffed, using his fingers to make exaggerated air quotes.

You rolled your eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh as you moved to walk past him, unwilling to entertain whatever mood he was in. But before you could get too far, he was quick to step in front of you, his hands gently grabbing your shoulders to stop you.

“Okay, okay! I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said quickly, his voice softer this time, though the usual playful edge was still there. “I just wanna talk. Please?”

His puppy eyes had you folding faster than you’d like to admit. With a sigh, you cleared your throat and gently pushed his hands away, walking past him to your front door. You held it open without a word, and he didn’t waste a second following you inside.

It had only been a few weeks, but as Haechan stepped in, it felt like years since he’d last been here. Everything was the same—the familiar scent of your home, the way your shoes were neatly placed by the door, the dim lighting that made the space feel warm.

He watched as you leaned back against the couch, arms crossed, silently waiting for him to speak. The weight of your gaze made him hesitate, unsure of how to start the conversation, or if he even knew what he wanted to say in the first place.

His throat felt dry as he swallowed hard, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets while his eyes wandered around the room. “You redecorated?” he asked, his voice casual, or at least, trying to sound like it.

You raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“Ah,” he let out a small, awkward chuckle, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Guess it just feels different then.”

“Come on, Haechan,” you sighed, your voice steady but tired. “Just tell me what you’re doing here.”

He frowned slightly, the awkwardness that had filled the room earlier quickly fading as he stepped closer to you. The usual ease in his movements returned as he moved toward the couch.

“What do you mean, ‘what am I doing here’? I missed you,” he said, his voice sincere, genuine as he placed his hands on either side of the couch, leaning in just enough to be close, but still keeping a safe distance, his gaze never leaving yours.

You looked at him, his words hitting you more than you wanted to admit, but you forced yourself to act unimpressed. “Yeah? You came all the way here just to say that? You could’ve just texted me.”

“I did,” he shot back, his voice a little sharper now. “But you left me on read

“Then you should’ve taken the hint that I didn’t miss you.”

He let out a short laugh, though it was laced with bitterness. “Well, I noticed. You’ve been busy, huh? Going out on dates with that guy and all.” His eyes narrowed slightly, the jealousy evident in his voice. “How long have you two been meeting?”

“Why would that be any of your business?”

“I mean, it would be good to know if you started things with him while you were with me,” he said, his voice laced with something you couldn't quite decipher—hurt? Resentment? “Or if it was after you started acting like I don’t exist.”

“With you?” You let out a small, dry laugh. “Donghyuck, we were never together. You made that very clear.”

Haechan’s jaw clenched at your words. He opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Because you were right. He had been the one who insisted on keeping things the way they were. No labels. No commitments. No messy emotions.

But now that he was faced with the reality of what that actually meant—you moving on, finding someone else—he hated it.

“That’s not—” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “That’s not fair.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “Oh, now it’s not fair?” You shook your head. “It was fair when I was waiting around for you to maybe want something more? When I kept dropping hints, hoping you’d stop pretending you didn’t see them?”

He pressed his lips together, his gaze dropping for a moment. He had seen them. Every single one. And he had ignored them. Every single one.

“Jaemin actually wants to be with me,” you continued, voice softer now but no less firm. “He doesn’t make me feel like I have to prove I’m worth it.”

Haechan’s chest tightened at that. “And I did?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him, and somehow, that was worse.

He hadn't realized that was how you felt. Sure, he knew he had been difficult, he never denied that, but he never thought he made you feel like you weren’t enough. He thought that by keeping things the way they were, he was protecting what you had, not slowly pushing you away.

“Listen, I…” He took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair as he tried to gather his thoughts. “I know I’m an idiot. I know I messed up, and I know I wasn’t being fair to you. I knew what you wanted, and instead of being honest, I chose to pretend I didn’t see it, because I was too scared to do anything about it.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise. It wasn’t often that Haechan was this honest. He had always been open with you, yes, but when it came to his own emotions, his fears, his insecurities, he usually buried them under jokes, teasing, and playful distractions. But now, he was just laying it out there, no filter, no deflection.

You swallowed, arms still crossed, but your stance had softened. “…And what exactly were you so scared of?”

He swallowed hard, guilt creeping into his expression. “I didn’t want to lose you,” he admitted, voice quieter now. “I thought if we just kept things the way they were, you’d stay. That I wouldn’t have to face all the scary, complicated parts of actually being with someone.”

“So what?” still, you couldn’t let yourself be swayed so easily. Not when it had taken so much for you to finally step away. “You were scared, so that justifies everything? That makes it okay?”

“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “It doesn’t. And I’m not saying it does.” He ran a frustrated hand over his face before meeting your eyes again. “I just—I need you to know that it wasn’t because you weren’t enough. It was never that. It was me being a coward.”

By now, you were already softening toward him, and he could tell. His hands found your face, cupping it gently.

“I’m really sorry,” he murmured. “I swear I never meant to make you feel that way or push you away. Being without you these past days... it made me think about everything. And I already knew this, but you have no idea how much you mean to me. I realized all those doubts didn’t matter, because, God, it’s you. It’s always been you. I can’t imagine spending my life with anyone else.”

His eyes stayed locked on yours, his thumbs tracing soft circles on your cheeks. The way he was looking at you… if not love, then something dangerously close to it.

“Please, give me a chance,” he pleaded. “I know I let you down, and I know words aren’t enough to make up for everything I put you through. But I swear, I won’t mess this up again. I’ll show you—show you just how much I want you, how much you mean to me, how much…"

He took a shaky breath, his grip on your face tightening just slightly, as if afraid you’d slip away.

"How much I need you," he finally whispered. "Not just for now, not just because I miss you, but because I don’t know how to be without you anymore. Because every moment without you felt wrong, and I never want to feel that again. Just… let me prove it to you. Please."

You were speechless at his sudden confession. His eyes held the same desperate sincerity as his voice, and you could feel how genuine he was, more than you’d ever seen before. You were sure that, if you wanted, he’d drop to his knees and beg for your forgiveness. Your heart was pounding so violently, you almost felt like it might burst from your chest, just to show him how deeply he affected you without even trying.

You wanted to speak, but you couldn’t as he kept going, probably babbling at this point. “I’ll do whatever it takes to prove it to you. You want a real relationship? Let’s do it. You want commitment? I’ll give it to you. Hell, you want me to write it in the sky? Tattoo it on my forehead? I’ll—”

You interrupted him by crashing your lips against his.

His eyes widened in surprise, his breath hitching, but it took only a second for him to snap back to reality. He kissed you back just as desperately, as if he had been waiting for this moment forever. One hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, while the other cradled the back of your neck, fingers tangling into your hair as he poured every ounce of emotion into the kiss.

You could feel the way he melted against you, how his desperation seeped into the kiss, as if he was trying to pour all the words he couldn't say into it. His grip on you tightened, like he was scared you'd slip away if he didn’t hold on tight enough.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, his lips chased yours, unwilling to let the moment end. “Does that mean…?” he whispered, eyes searching yours, still uncertain.

You exhaled, resting your forehead against his. “It means… you have a lot to make up for.”

A small, breathy chuckle left his lips, but there was no cockiness, no playfulness—just sheer relief. “I will,” he promised, his hands cradling your face as if you were the most precious thing in the world.

His lips met yours once again, this time more gently, more lovingly. He honestly felt like the luckiest person in the world right now.

He pulled away just slightly, his breath still mingling with yours. “Tell me… you and that Jaeman guy—”

“It’s Jaemin,” you corrected.

“Whatever,” he mumbled, brushing it off. “You and Minjae… how far did you go?” His brows lifted slightly, his thumb grazing your lower lip.

You exhaled a soft laugh. “Is it really important?”

“Very much,” he murmured, tilting his head as his fingers trailed down your jaw. “I need to erase every trace of him off you.”

You rolled your eyes, trying, and failing, to hide the small smile creeping up on your lips. “We didn’t do much more than a few pecks…” you admitted.

Haechan groaned dramatically, as if your words physically pained him. “A few pecks?” he repeated, shaking his head. “Disgusting. Unacceptable.”

Before you could roll your eyes again, he was on you, pressing kiss after kiss against your lips, barely giving you a chance to breathe. Each one was soft yet desperate, as if he were really trying to erase every trace of Jaemin’s touch, replacing every memory with his own.

You let out a breathless laugh, trying to push him away, but he was relentless. He peppered kisses along your cheeks, your chin, your nose, your forehead—everywhere he could reach.

“Okay, stop!” you giggled, placing your hand over his mouth to halt his attack. “I get it already.”

His eyes sparkled with mischief as he kissed your palm, his lips lingering against your skin.

“I'm making sure there's no room left for Jaeman.”

Jaemin glanced at his phone screen, checking the time for what felt like the hundredth time. His foot tapped against the floor, his eyes flickering to the entrance every time the bell chimed, expecting—no, hoping—to finally see the person he had been so anxiously waiting for: you.

Don’t get him wrong, he was always excited to see you. But today, that excitement was laced with unease. That feeling had settled in his chest the moment you called him, asking to meet. Usually, just the thought of seeing you would have him grinning like an idiot, but something in your tone during that call had put him on edge. There was a distance in your voice, something careful, something that made his nerves spike.

It didn’t help that it had been days since the last time you properly talked or spent time together. That alone was enough to make him feel uneasy. And now, as he sat there waiting, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this meeting wouldn’t be the kind he was hoping for.

He shook his head slightly, trying to push away the nagging thoughts. Maybe he was just overthinking. Maybe you just wanted to see him because you missed him, just like he missed you. And honestly? That was reason enough for him.

The bell rang again, and this time, when he looked up, there you were. His heart did that little flip it always did whenever he saw you, no matter how much he tried to play it cool. He knew you hadn’t known each other for that long, your time together still fresh and new, but there was something about you that made it feel different.

He called your name and waved to catch your attention, his smile appearing almost instantly as soon as he saw yours. You hurried toward the table, slipping into the seat across from him.

"I'm sorry, did I make you wait too long?" you asked, slightly out of breath. "Something came up, and I couldn't help but be late."

That something had a name and a surname—Lee Donghyuck.

The very person who insisted on accompanying you and personally driving you to the café as soon as you mentioned needing to see Jaemin. Not only did he take the longest route possible, driving at a frustratingly slow pace, but he also kept you trapped in the car, stealing kisses and whining about why you had to see Jaemin at all.

You almost had to beg him not to follow you inside the café, and it took a mix of stern scolding and a few more stolen kisses before you were finally free from his relentless affection.

Jaemin chuckled softly, shaking his head and dismissing your apology with a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, I didn’t wait that long,” he said, his words making you exhale in relief. “Is everything okay? We haven’t really talked much these past few days.”

You smiled sheepishly. “Oh, yes, sorry. It’s just… a lot’s happened, and I didn’t really have the time to catch up with anyone,” you explained with a light chuckle.

Jaemin’s expression softened, and a hint of relief washed over him. “I’m glad it’s just that,” he said, his tone light. “I thought maybe I did something wrong, messed things up between us.”

You couldn’t help but feel a small pang in your chest at his words. He really did care, of course.

“No, nothing like that. It’s just… things have been a bit complicated lately,” you hesitated for a moment, then decided to be honest. “And I just needed some space to think about… us.”

Jaemin's smile faltered just slightly as he noticed the way you fidgeted with the napkin, your lips pressing into a thin line. The way you avoided his gaze for a moment, only to return to meet his eyes, told him everything he needed to know. He was right—this was going to be an unpleasant conversation.

He remained silent, his gaze steady and attentive, nodding slowly as he listened carefully to every word you said. He could tell that you had thought this through, giving you the space you needed to speak without feeling rushed.

“Look, I really enjoyed our time together, it was honestly so much fun, and you’re such a sweet person, but…” You paused for a brief moment, your mind drifting to the little gremlin waiting for you in the car outside the cafe. “I have someone I care deeply about, despite everything that happened. I want to give it a real shot, because… that’s what I’ve been waiting for. And I really thought I was ready to make things work with you, but I can’t do that when my heart belongs to another person.”

“… I see.” His words were simple, but they carried a certain weight. There was no anger, no resentment, just quiet understanding and a hint of sadness. “I guess I can’t really argue with that, can I?”

You watched as he leaned back in his seat, exhaling a slow breath. His expression was composed, but the way his fingers tapped idly against the table gave him away. He looked… upset. Maybe even hurt. You knew you were doing the right thing, but it didn’t make it any easier.

“It’s not that I don’t like you,” you blurted out, feeling the need to clarify. “You are amazing, Jaemin, and you deserve someone just as good as you are. And I’m not—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted gently, offering you a small chuckle—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He had noticed the way you were starting to fidget, your nervousness creeping in. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re doing something wrong. I appreciate your honesty. I can’t say I’m happy about it, but… I kind of saw this coming.”

You frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

Jaemin tilted his head, studying you for a moment before giving you a knowing smile. “It’s Haechan, isn’t it? The person you were just talking about.”

You nodded sheepishly. Was it really that obvious?

He let out another small chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah… I had a feeling. Especially after our last encounter,” he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck before meeting your gaze again. “Honestly? I wish things were different. I really do. But I get it,” his voice softened. “When someone already has your heart, there’s not much room left for anyone else, is there?”

You had prepared yourself for anger, maybe even disappointment, but this quiet acceptance made it so much harder.

“I really am sorry,” you whispered.

He offered you a small, bittersweet smile. “Don’t be. Just… be happy, alright?” He reached across the table and gave your hand a small squeeze before pulling away. “And if he ever messes up, I’ll be right here to say ‘I told you so,’” he smirked.

You let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head. “Noted.” Then, hesitating for a moment, you asked, “Would it be stupid of me to ask if we can still be friends?”

Jaemin blinked, then huffed a small laugh. “No, of course not,” he said, his voice softer now. “I’d love that.”

You felt a weight lift off your shoulders at his words, though the guilt still lingered. You had expected this conversation to go much worse—maybe some resentment, maybe some bitterness—but Jaemin was handling it with the same grace and kindness he had always shown you.

“Thank you,” you said sincerely. “For understanding. For everything, really.”

Jaemin leaned back, a fond but slightly teasing smile playing on his lips. “Well, I can’t say I’m thrilled about the outcome, but I meant what I said. I want you to be happy.” He tilted his head, eyes twinkling just a little. “Even if it’s with him.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re making it sound like I chose the worst possible person.”

Jaemin shrugged. “I don’t hate the guy. But let’s just say he’s not exactly my first pick for you.”

“Fair enough,” you admitted, biting back another chuckle.

A comfortable silence settled between you two, and you felt grateful that, despite everything, Jaemin was still Jaemin—kind, understanding, and someone you truly wanted to keep in your life.

Donghyuck jolted in his seat when he glanced at the rearview mirror and saw you saying goodbye to his number one enemy. He clicked his tongue, muttering something under his breath, before quickly looking away as you slid into the car. He tried to act nonchalant, though the urge to have his hands all over you was undeniable.

“So?” He raised his brows, his voice thick with curiosity as he glanced at your smiling face. His mind cursed Jaemin a thousand times over, though he tried to hide it behind a playful demeanor.

“Well, he was very lovely the whole time,” you said, pulling your seatbelt across your body. “And we agreed to stay friends.”

The words hit him like a breath of fresh air, and he let out a relieved sigh, not bothering to hide it this time. For a moment there, he thought you might change your mind, and he’d be left in misery forever.

"Good," he muttered, his grip on the wheel loosening, his gaze softening as he glanced over at you. “So, I behaved as you said and I patiently waited for you here, do I deserve my reward now?”

You shot him a teasing smile, leaning back in your seat. “Oh? You think you deserve a reward just for waiting?”

He pouted, though it only made him look more endearing. “Come on, you can’t leave me hanging like this. I’ve been a perfect gentleman,” he said, his voice playful yet sincere.

You couldn't help but roll your eyes, but the smile that tugged at your lips betrayed you. “Alright, alright. You did alright, I guess.”

By now, he was already leaning closer, his breath brushing against your lips. Without missing a beat, you cupped his face in your hands and pulled him in for a deep, searing kiss. Haechan couldn't help but smile into it, feeling his heart race.

He must admit, he really like it this way.

↝ taglist: @yizhrt, @sinisxtea, @peterm4rker.

[monogamia]

੭⠀ Some short scenarios of them seeing you wearing “someone else’s” jacket.

⋆⠀AUTHOR'S NOTES: Caleb’s part can be a little ooc since I still don’t know much about how he is after the accident.

⋆⠀FEATURING: Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus, Caleb.

⋆⠀WARNING: English is not my first language, so it may contain some mistakes.

Linkon isn’t exactly a cold city, especially not in the spring. Maybe it was the wind or the rain that always threatened to fall but never came, but you felt as if even your bones were freezing. And precisely because it wasn’t a cold season, you hadn’t brought any coat to layer over your uniform.

Your only option was to wear the winter uniform jacket provided by the Hunter Association. They were ugly, made from fabric not as good as the uniform itself, and certainly oversized, given they came in a single, standard size for everyone. And so, you did just that—grabbed it from your locker and went outside to wait for your ride.

If you had waited inside, you might not have had to wear that jacket, but you didn’t want to be more inconvenient than you already felt by having someone drive you home. You wanted to delay them as little as possible.

𝜗ৎ ⠀⠀XAVIER

For someone so calm, he got pretty temperamental when he saw you wearing a coat that was definitely not yours—or so he thought, at least. It was almost funny how he didn’t realize it was just the standard Hunter jacket for cold days.

As soon as you walked out of the building, Xavier was already in front of it, scrolling through his phone. When he heard the click of your heels, he looked up and opened his mouth to speak, but his brows furrowed as his eyes fell on the jacket you were wearing. You found it odd that he didn’t smile when he saw you.

“It’s not that cold.” he said, though he quickly realized he had sounded rude. “That jacket doesn’t look comfortable. Where’s yours?”

You blinked, giving him a smile to mask your confusion. “This one is mine.” Xavier didn’t seem convinced, his hands moving to unzip his jacket. “I forgot my favorite one at home, so I had to wear the uniform jacket.” He paused for a moment, nodded, and then proceeded to take off his own and hand it to you.

𝜗ৎ ⠀⠀RAFAYEL

He’s so obvious about how he feels—it’s as if the mere sight of the coat is a personal offense to his existence. Rafayel wants you out of that crime against fashion as soon as possible. His eye even twitched when he saw you walking out wearing that thing.

“Very kind of whoever lent you this… thing, but what poor taste. We can’t exactly call it pretty, can we?” he said, letting out a dry laugh as he opened the car door for you to get in.

He didn’t even wait for you to explain, simply getting in and closing the door as soon as you sat down. As the driver began the route, Rafayel turned toward you. “Do me a favor?” His hand took yours and guided it to the hem of his shirt, making you hold it while he pulled off his sweater.

You raised an eyebrow, but he ignored you, holding the sweater out for you to take. “It’s definitely more comfortable than what you’re wearing.”

Although you accepted and removed the jacket to slip on his sweater, you couldn’t resist poking fun at him. “You do know this is mine, right?”

“That atrocity?” He glanced at the jacket now sitting in his lap and smiled. “Then I must say, I thought you had better taste than this.”

𝜗ৎ ⠀⠀ZAYNE

Zayne was checking his watch when he heard you greet him, and his response came two seconds late as his eyes landed on what you were wearing. But he didn’t say anything. And he didn’t plan to, either. After all, why would he be upset about you trying to avoid catching a cold…? That was the excuse he used to sweep away the hint of jealousy stirring inside him.

He opened the car door for you to get in, then walked around to the driver’s seat. Meanwhile, you kept chatting away. You knew there were times when he preferred listening to speaking, but he was even quieter than usual.

“Are you cold?” he asked, his hand moving instinctively toward the car’s heater, but you shook your head. Once again, Zayne took a deep breath and nodded, though the unease lingered.

Halfway through the ride, you took off the jacket, folded it, and placed it on your lap, as the temperature inside the car wasn’t chilly—even though the heater remained off.

When you arrived at your house, he got out first to open the door for you, and as soon as you stepped out, you felt something being draped over your shoulders—his overcoat.

“You don’t need to bother, Zayne. I’m already almost inside—” you tried to argue, but he only gave a barely perceptible smile and ignored your words.

𝜗ৎ ⠀⠀SYLUS

He almost burst out laughing when he saw you approaching, completely ignoring how embarrassed you looked. “Whose thing is that—?”

“I told you to wait at the end of the street, not right in front of the building. Are you trying to get arrested…?” you muttered, while he just bit his lip, trying to hold back the grin already spreading across his face. Still, a flicker of irritation crossed his mind at the thought that someone else might’ve had the chance to offer you a jacket before he did. “And stop laughing! It’s getting cold.”

You reached out for the helmet, but he didn’t hand it over. Instead, he placed it on the seat of the bike and turned around. Taking off his own jacket, he held it out to you. “I’m sure mine’s better than that one.” As much as it hurt your pride, he was right, and you didn’t refuse the offer. “Seriously, to lend someone something of such poor quality…”

“Lend?” you raised an eyebrow as you slipped on his jacket. “Oh. It wasn’t lent—this jacket’s mine.” Sylus smirked, finally handing you the helmet.

“Guess the hunter salary isn’t paying much these days, huh?” he quipped. “I’ve got an opening for a secretary if you’re interested.”

𝜗ৎ ⠀⠀CALEB

“Who?” was the first thing he asked, his eyes locking with yours before dropping down to the piece of clothing. He uncrossed his arms, his hand reaching out to pinch the fabric.

“It’s mine. Part of the winter uniform,” you said with a smile. Caleb mirrored it, the corners of his lips lifting just slightly.

He draped an arm over your shoulder as he guided you to where he had parked the car. “It’s way too big for you.” His tone was friendly, though you couldn’t help but sense a hint of bitterness in his words.

“It’s one-size-fits-all. I forgot mine at home, so I had to use this one.” Caleb nodded, and the two of you continued chatting as usual.

“This isn’t the right street,” you pointed out when he passed the turn that would lead to your house.

“We’re shopping first,” he said, giving you a quick glance before focusing back on the road. “We need to buy you some new clothes.”

[moonstruckme]

hi lovely I was wondering if you could do a fic about a touch starved reader where she’s just really needy and wants to be held but is nervous to ask? and it’s just very fluffy and sweet, thank you so much!!

Hi sweetheart, thanks for requesting!

modern au

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

Sirius is cozied up between James’ legs on the couch, tuned into his phone while James watches the football match on TV, and you’re oozing a jealousy so tender it hurts. 

It’s silly, but you can’t help thinking about how warm they must both be. James has one of his forearms draped over Sirius’ chest, their hands linked casually. Sirius’ bony, pale fingers intertwined with James’ thicker ones. They look comfortable and at ease with each other in a way that feels so out of reach. You wish you could join them, but they look too happy like this. You couldn’t ask them to move. 

“Dove?” 

You blink, focussing back on Remus. “Sorry?” 

“I asked how your meeting went.” A bit of concern digs into the space between his brows as he continues stirring the pot of soup on the stove. You give him a little smile, and it melts away. 

“Oh, not bad at all.” Today you had your first team meeting at your new job. You’d been nervous leading up to it, worried your boss would ask you to introduce yourself or present something, but it had blown over smoothly. “I was stressed for nothing, I didn’t even have to talk.” 

“Mm, good for you.” Your boyfriend gives you a knowing look, well aware that your shyness can sometimes get in the way of you sharing your ideas. “I’m glad it went well. I hope you start to feel comfortable enough to talk soon, though.” 

“Maybe,” you say agreeably, moving closer to him so you can rest the side of your head on his bicep. It’s an awkward sort of lean, but the most you’ll allow yourself. 

You can sense Remus’ confusion even without him making a sound. You know that if you pulled back to look, you’d find a familiar little indent hovering above his nose. “Tired?” he asks. 

Your heart gives a pitiful throb. Remus isn’t the most tactile of your boyfriends, but it would take so little for him to reach up with his free hand, wrap it around your shoulders. That’s all you want.

“No,” you reply, though you do sound tired, voice soft and breathy, “just love you.” 

“Sweetheart.” His voice is sticky with affection, and your heart balloons with hope. You feel his arm shift underneath you. His hand comes up to hold your cheek, keeping you steady while he presses a brief kiss to the top of your head. The hand falls away. “I love you too.” 

It feels ungrateful and a bit traitorous to feel so dejected after hearing those words, but you do. You leave your head where it is, heavy with a loneliness that’s completely invalid, while Remus continues stirring the soup, humming now. 

“Look at them.” Sirius’ voice gets your attention from the living room, dripping with faux rancor. He’s glowering at you over the top of the couch. James begrudgingly turns from the match to look at him, half curious what he’s on about. “They’re being all ooey gooey in the kitchen without us, can you believe it?” 

You sort of want to laugh at the irony. 

“You were given the opportunity to join,” Remus reminds him mildly. “I said I needed help chopping, and only y/n came to my aid.” 

“Yes, well I didn’t know there’d be declarations of love involved,” says Sirius, never one to be made to feel guilty. 

James, on the other hand, looks a tad penitent. 

“I didn’t hear you,” he says helplessly, climbing out from under Sirius. “Do you still need an extra pair of hands?”

“No, almost done now,” Remus says, but James comes anyway. He peers over Remus’ other shoulder, pecking him apologetically on the cheek. 

“Smells great,” he notes appreciatively. He leans across Remus to see your face, grinning in that way of his that makes it seem like someone’s brought the sun inside. “Thanks for taking up the mantle.” 

You make a quiet sound of amusement, and James’ smile fades. You hate yourself for doing it to him, even though it wasn’t intentional.

“You alright, lovie?” He scrutinizes your expression. You’re reminded that James is often more perceptive than you give him credit for. “You look a bit sad.” 

“No, I’m good.” You give him a smile. Remus’ shoulder shifts under your head as he looks down, trying to see you. 

James appears unconvinced. He moves behind Remus, over to where you stand. “Hug?” he offers. 

God, you feel like you could cry. That wouldn’t be good.

“Sure,” you say, as if it isn’t the deepest, most desperate desire of your heart. 

You turn into his arms, and he wastes no time in enveloping you. James gives the best hugs. Somehow, intuitively, he always knows just the amount of pressure you need, when to squeeze your back and when to rub it, exactly the right time to let go. It feels like he’s pouring love into you through his touch. He sets his chin on top of your head, and you swallow a happy sigh. 

“I can tell something’s bothering you,” he says quietly. He sweeps a hand up and down your spine, and you shiver, pressing your palms into his back. He does it again. “Talk to me, angel.” 

“I’m good,” you promise him. It’s a lot more truthful now. 

Still, you can feel James’ dissatisfaction. He cups the back of your neck, thumb brushing the baby hairs at your nape. “Anything I can do?” 

You clutch him to you, the fabric of his sweatshirt bunching in your hands. It smells like laundry detergent. “Just this, please.” 

“Aww,” Sirius croons, and it’s not until then that you realize the other two boys have been silent. Probably worried about you. You feel instantly sheepish. “I get it. You just wanted some love, didn’t you babydoll?” You look at him over James' shoulder, and predictably, he’s insufferably smug. He sees you watching and pats the top of the couch invitingly. “Come here, sweet thing, let me fix you up.” 

“I think I’m doing just fine,” James teases, but his grip loosens, one hand remaining on the small of your back as he walks you over to the couch. 

“Yeah, but we can share.” Sirius rolls his eyes. He grabs for you the second you’re close enough, hauling you up against him while James flops down on your other side. “What game are you playing, standing over there and looking all forlorn?” he asks you, peppering your cheek with kisses. A startled giggle spurts out of you, but he remains completely serious. “If you wanted a cuddle, all you had to do was ask.”

“It seemed dramatic,” you admit, though now that Sirius has got your face squished in his hand and James’ arm is draped around your shoulder, your silence feels a bit dramatic too. “And kind of needy.” 

“Babe.” Sirius is heartbroken, pulling back to give you a horrified look. “Being needy is my thing. I hardly think asking for a hug could challenge my hard-earned reputation.”

“You’re not needy,” you say warmly, but Sirius only rolls his eyes as if you’re being difficult.

“Anyway, wanting a hug is hardly needy,” James chimes in. “I’m always happy to give you one.” 

“Same here,” Remus says from the kitchen, sounding a bit apologetic. “Though I wish you would have asked, dove. I can’t read minds like Jamie can.” 

Your chest tightens guiltily. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” he says easily. “Listen, dinner’s almost done, but want to put on a film to watch while we eat? I could make it up to you with a cuddle.” 

“That sounds great,” you reply thankfully, and James grabs the remote to begin going through the movies while Sirius gets comfy against the side of the couch. He lifts your legs to drape them over his. 

“Good luck getting you away from me,” he murmurs conspiratorially. James chuckles, arm a welcome weight around your shoulders. “I’m not giving you up.” 

It seems like there was room for you after all.

[divinesangel]

— why people are jealous of you [detailed]

pm me for an affordable, in-depth personal reading! — 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐚 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞!

— 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟏

people see you and they don’t always understand. they are jealous of you, not because of what you have, but because of how you carry yourself. there’s a quiet strength in the way you move, in how you know what you want, how you’ve always been so sure, so grounded. you’ve always known what you want, clear and unwavering, standing firm in your choices. there’s a steadiness in you, a calm certainty that others struggle to find in themselves.

it unnerves them, because where they doubt, you are grounded. when they question, you are sure. you seem so complete, like you’ve mapped out your life and found your way, while they’re still wandering. and instead of looking inside themselves, they project their envy onto you, as if your certainty reflects their own uncertainty. they feel the pull of you—how others are drawn to you without even trying. they see the way you move through the world, pulling people in without effort, and it stirs something in them. envy. insecurity. they can’t quite explain it, but they feel it.

there’s something in your warmth, hidden at first beneath that cool surface. when people first meet you, they might mistake you for someone cold, distant. but as time passes, and you let your guard down just a little, they see what others have already seen—that warmth, that care that runs deep in you. it’s rare, the way you care so deeply, so genuinely. and that, too, makes them jealous. you are genuine in a way that’s hard to find, and that makes you stand out even more. the ones who already feel insecure around you, they feel this too, and it only fuels their envy. they see you as someone who can draw opportunities toward you without trying, someone who doesn’t need to push so hard. you just are. you follow your instincts, and things seem to fall into place. it’s like they’re in competition with you, even though you’ve never played that game.

they think things come easy for you, that you don’t have to try as hard, but they don’t see the work behind the ease, the quiet effort. they battle within themselves. part of them knows you’re not their enemy, that you’ve worked for everything, and that maybe, you’re even on their side, trying to help. but the other part, the envious part, pulls them back, makes them feel small in comparison to you. they know, deep down, that you’re going to succeed, and it terrifies them. that you are destined for something bigger. and while they fight their own feelings, they can’t help but see you as someone complete, someone who has figured it all out. they feel the weight of their own uncertainty when they look at you, because you remind them of what they’re still searching for. and it’s not your fault, but it makes them feel like they’re not enough. in their eyes, you’re already living the life they wish they could have, and that’s what tears them apart. but it’s their own doubts they’re really wrestling with, not you. you’re just the mirror they don’t want to look into.

— 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟐

many people feel it, the quiet envy, watching the way you’ve come to treat yourself, like someone worth tending to, someone who knows their worth. you’ve been through it—transformations that have left you raw, broken open. maybe you come from a troubled past, maybe it was love or friendships that drained you, left you wrecked and empty. but you took that wreckage and rebuilt. you changed, over and over, until you became someone new. and it shows now, that transformation, it rises to the surface like light breaking through.

they see it, that shift, and there’s jealousy in how you've moved through things they can't fathom. they wonder how you’ve managed to endure so much and still come out strong, still doing well. they watch, but they don’t understand it—how you’re always changing, always moving forward. it’s like change is part of your blood now. when life turns, when things don’t go your way, you shift. you redirect yourself, finding the better path. and this ability of yours bothers them. they feel stuck, caught in places you’ve long outgrown. the distance between you widens, and they feel the emptiness in themselves more deeply because of it. they watch you keep moving, eyes always on the horizon, while they hesitate, afraid of what lies beyond their small view.

despite your past, despite the weight of what you’ve been through, you still hold hope for what’s to come. your vision, who you want to be, who you’ll allow into your life, it’s all clear now. instead of breaking, you’ve taken your wounds and made them into armor. you wear your scars with strength, but still so soft, never pretending to be more than you are. you are honest about your journey, open about what it’s taken to get here.

and this is what unsettles them. they can’t face their own cracks, their own unhealed wounds. they watch from a distance, filled with a passive longing, a quiet bitterness. your heart is full, and they see that. they see how you’re not afraid of the unknown, how you’re building a life that reflects what you want, even if it’s still in pieces. and they can’t grasp how you find contentment in the progress, how you’ve taken nothing and built it into something beautiful. you’re getting what you wished for, piece by piece, and that stirs something in them, something they can’t quite name. they want that strength, that quiet power, but they haven’t healed enough to claim it for themselves. so they watch, unsettled, as you thrive.

— 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝟑

there's a sense of peace in your life that unsettles others, a peace that runs deeper than happiness. it's not just contentment, it's a kind of emotional depth they can’t touch, can’t understand. you’ve built something solid—your own home, your own space, a belonging so sure of itself, it shakes them. while they skim the surface, jumping from moment to moment, you’re grounded. you know how to build connections that last, that matter. it’s that steadiness, that contentment, that upsets them the most. you don’t boast about it, don’t need to. but they see it. they see you living in a place they can’t reach, and it leaves them feeling empty, like something inside them is missing.

sometimes, this feels less like a general crowd and more like one person, someone who feels unsettled just by how you move through the world. you have this way about you, this ability to create connections and tend to them, to take care of the people who choose you. and when a friendship goes wrong, when something turns nasty, it’s not your fault. you know how to hold onto people, how to keep that peace around you. so when things fall apart, it’s not a reflection of you. they see your calm, your balance, the way you move forward without rushing, without crumbling, and it makes them uneasy.

you’ve found a middle ground, where you can grow and stay strong, without falling apart. and that community you’ve built, the people around you—it’s strong. or maybe you just know how to get along with everyone. there’s something approachable in you, something that draws people in, makes them want to know you. but that can make others jealous. it’s a double-edged sword, meeting so many people and letting them in. but you see through it all. you don’t let your emotions cloud your judgment, and you’re not cold either. you have a clarity, a way of seeing people and situations for what they are.

you’ve learned to protect yourself, to keep out those who don’t belong. you know your worth, your value. you’ve built this, and you protect it fiercely. you only want healthy, nurturing relationships, and you’re careful about who you let in. that makes people uneasy, too. you don’t let strange energies into your space, because you’ve worked hard to protect your peace. in the past, there were friendships that hurt, that didn’t understand you, that crossed your boundaries. but now, you guard yourself, and not everyone can handle that. they can’t handle how sure you are, how much you’ve grown, how much you’ve learned to care for yourself. you’ve come a long way, and not everyone can keep up.

𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 !

hi! it's daphne here.

i'm currently offering personal readings for €7 and soulmate readings for €14 so don't hesitate to send me a private message if you're interested!

thank you for being here!

[dramagodesss]

fifteen : lights, camera, action!

playin' the players

rafe's phone

the bar is (obviously) empty due to the fact that it was four p.m. lisa's brother owned it and had let your team film during non- working hours.

you’re leaning against the side of a fake-brick wall, script in hand, trying not to overthink literally everything—your lines, your outfit, your co-star, your entire night with rafe.

the jeans are low-rise. like dangerously low-rise. your top? cropped. slouchy. perfect for the role. you look hot. and jj looks wrecked about it.

he’s wearing a white tank, chain glinting at his collarbone, cigarette (as a 'prop', eventhough everyone knows he'll probably smoke it when he gets the chance) tucked behind his ear. he looks like a problem you’ve already forgiven three times too many.

but today, you're two strangers that meet at a bar. it’s messy, electric, maybe a little too personal too fast. they fall. or start to.

the bar’s a perfect location. warm wood, sticky floors, dusty neon lights overhead. your friends are everywhere—sarah’s at the booth pretending to flirt with johnb. pope and kelce b are nursing fake beers in the back. lisa and shannon are behind the bar pretending to work, topper (attempting) to get shannon's attention. it's kinda working. kiara and Cary are talking, the last girl shyly giggling at your friends words. but no rafe.

why the fuck are you thinking about him??

jj sits beside you, script in hand but not reading it.

“you ready?” he asks, voice low, tone unreadable.

you glance at him, heart annoyingly present in your chest. suddenly, you remember how he came up to your room after litteraly flashing him with your tits. the way he devoured you with his lips afterwords.

fuck.

like you didn't have enough with rafe.

fucking blonde cunts.

“i should be asking you that. you good?”

he looks at you. really looks at you. eyes drop to your stomach, to the waistband of your jeans, to the exposed skin there. back up. he swallows.

“yeah,” he says. “just… surprised by the costume.”

you smirk.

“this? wardrobe said ‘sexy disaster,’ i delivered.”

he’s about to reply when liam calls out.

“places! scene one—first bar meet-cute. let’s go!”

you and jj slide into position at the bar. your cue: you’re nursing a drink, clearly annoyed, just broke up for like the hundreth time. his cue: he notices you. sits beside you. starts something he won’t be able to stop.

the lighting is a mix of orange and an ugly green. attraction and jealousy. a perfect match. at least that's what shannon said. and shannon was usually right.

and—action.

jj walks over. sits. turns to you.

“rough night?”

you sigh, stir your fake drink.

“something like that.”

he watches you for a beat. leans closer.

“you wanna make your ex jealous or something?”

you glance at him. slow. assessing.

“you offering?”

he grins.

“i could be.”

the camera rolls. the lights shifts a bit warmer. isaac slowly sways the camera on his shoulder. jj’s hand brushes yours on the bar.

“what’s your name?” he asks.

you hesitate.

“depends. you always this forward?”

“only when it works.”

you laugh, and it’s not acting. not really.

cut.

liam cheers.

“beautiful! let’s reset for the slow dance scene.”

you blink.

“the what now?”

yeah, you had forgotten about that scene.

jj smirks.

“told you this was a rom-com.”

you chuckle. minutes later you’re pulling down your top, adjusting your low-rise jeans, trying to shake off the nerves.

your hands freeze when the bar door swings open.

him.

rafe.

dark hoodie. jeans. a black baseball cap he probably thinks makes him look unbothered. he walks in like he owns the place — and he kinda does.

jj notices him too — you feel the tension snap through his shoulders like a rubber band.

“no fucking way,” he mutters under his breath.

“i invited him” you mutter, trying to sound breezy. you fail.

jj doesn’t say anything, but his jaw ticks.

out on the dance floor, kie’s already swaying with cary — arms loose around her shoulders, grinning. cary’s whispering something in kie’s ear and they’re both laughing.

and it’s soft. and it's gay. and it’s kind of beautiful.

you stare for a second, then the isaac’s voice cuts through.

“jj, y/n— center floor. you’re two strangers falling in love. let’s make it believable— oh! and don't forget about the kiss.”

you shoot jj a look. he offers his hand. you take it.

your fingers brush. his palm’s warm.

“you okay?” jj murmurs.

“depends. you gonna step on my foot again?”

“not if you stop looking at rafe like he’s about to crash the shoot.”

you scoff but he’s not wrong.

you’re in jj’s arms now, swaying slow to the beat. your hands loop around his shoulders, his rest just above your hips. it’s... weirdly easy. like your bodies already know the rhythm.

across the bar, rafe leans against the wall near props, arms crossed. he’s not even pretending not to watch.

you ignore the way your skin warms.

“this scene’s fake,” you whisper.

“doesn’t feel fake,” jj whispers back.

you glance up. he’s looking at your mouth. again.

and the cameras are rolling.

and rafe is watching.

and your heart is a traitor.

colors switch a bit. orange, a bit of green and the newest addition : red. which is, of course, for lust.

your arms are still around jj’s shoulders and his hands haven’t moved from your waist.

you’re both still swaying, your brain is not even paying attention to the music, the cameras still rolling.

your heart’s hammering.

because of him.

because of the both of them.

you glance up at jj.

he’s already looking at you.

and then— he leans in.

and kisses you.

soft. searching. like he’s been waiting. like he doesn’t care that the whole crew is standing ten feet away or that you’re technically acting.

it's on the script. of course he's kissing you.

and you kiss him back.

because that's also on the script.

not because you were dying to have a excuse to kiss him.

and for a second, there’s no rafe. no bet. no lies. no guilt.

just jj.

just this.

“cut!” liam yells, voice cracking. “cutcutcut! holy shit, that was good—ohmygod amazing!—but wait—where the fuck is sean?!”

he’s pacing in circles now, headset askew, clipboard flailing.

“his call time was five! five! isaac, did he confirm? did he text?!”

“i don’t know!” isaac calls, checking his phone again. “he said he was coming, i—he’s probably just late—”

“he’s two hours late! this is chaos! this is a disaster—we can’t shoot the jealousy scene without the ex! we literally cannot function without a-piece-of-shit ex!”

and just like that, someone steps forward.

slow. deliberate.

his cap’s turned backwards now, hoodie sleeves shoved up. he looks vaguely annoyed and vaguely gorgeous and it’s a problem.

“i’ll do it,” he says.

silence.

liam blinks.

“you’ll what?”

“i’ll play the ex.” his voice is calm. confident. just a little cocky. “what’s the scene? i show up, try to win her back? beg? be a dick?”

no please don't beg, i can't handle that.

you stare at him. your mouth parts slightly.

he doesn’t look at you.

liam looks like he might cry. from relief or fear, hard to say.

“i mean. you’re not even cast, but—sean’s a no-show, and you’re here—and fuck it, we’re losing time—yes. fine. yes. rafe, you’re the ex.”

jj stiffens beside you. his hands drop from your waist.

rafe finally glances your way.

his eyes are unreadable. his mouth — that tiny smirk he knows drives you insane.

“let’s make it believable.”

taglist : @beewritess @davinashifts333 @lanasangelsz @littlefreak-liz @drewstarkeyswife0 @lalaloopsieparty @ethanthequeefqueen @wtfisastiles @angelicameron @moth-feeet @drewstarkeyswife-7 @hiphopstar @cokewithcameron @cameronsbabydoll @chillgal135 @ayy1234567 @pogueprincesa @isinpfortvdmen @iheartrosalia @luvrclub @yesshewrites1 @sideboobrry11 @espressh0e @mysticbby2009 @arianagreenblattfanxx10 @hwaaholic @aves05 @thecolorpearl05 @dreamybabbyy @wintercrows @lesbiana2 @chillgal135 @verycherryblossomhideout @daddyrafeslittleslut @pillowprincess4him @xoxobellamy @dylsdaily @at-todds-heart @nonbeliever1 @rafes-honey

[rikosseen]

Dad!Gun x Reader: Fatherly failures

Ft. Uncle Goo Kim | @locomoqo Gun making a fruit cake with his flower apron, because— well, he’s just so wifey

Tension thickly coats the air, and at this, Goo is trying his absolute hardest to stifle a cackle.

“Go apologise,” you shoot your husband a glare, motioning to your son’s bedroom.

Gun is quick to return your attitude with a judging look of his own. His head whips around, and the man child silently mutters to himself in defiance.

It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault—

“Jonggun,” you hiss, slapping the back of his head.

The man sits unmoving, adamant on facing you. Milk splurts out from Goo’s nose when he can’t hold in his laughter anymore.

“How could you throw away his school project?!” You smack Gun again.

This time, he stirs a little bit as an itty bitty ounce of guilt gnaws at his chest.

It’s maybe his fault. But not entirely! The pile of tissue on the living room table had no resemblance to a volcano whatsoever.

It looked like a hazard.

Papa Gun only wanted to keep the household safe and clean!

“Jonggun-”

“Yes, yes. I’m on it. I’ll get to it,” he grits out, making his way to the kitchen.

.

Goo squints his eyes to look at the disheveled cake, scrunching his face up in slight disgust.

“Is that meant to be… edible?”

Smack.

With a grunt, the blonde glares at Gun. Slinging his arm around his partner’s shoulder, he points down the hallway, signature smirk returning to his face.

“That’s not gonna help. He’ll still hate you,” Goo puckers his lips.

Gun looks over to his Son’s bedroom, and for once, doesn’t deny his fault. Fuck. He hates when Goo’s right.

“Make him laugh. Joke— but I doubt you’d be able to—“

Smack.

And Gun marches off, leaving goo to snicker by himself.

.

When Gun’s knocks aren’t answered, he slowly invites himself in with a heavy heart. Seeing his Son not acknowledge him, Gun feels like the most horrendous person in the world. Reluctantly, and silently, he sits on the bed, shoving the cake in the kid’s face. The young boy gives him a dirty look before glancing away.

Gun scratches his head, and sighs, licking his dry lips in an effort to do something. As the silence stretches, the child is the first to talk. Because when it comes to his own family, Jonggun Park is the biggest fa’in coward out there.

“There’s something missing,” the little boy murmurs, waving a hand at the sloppy cake.

“Your teeth?”

Jonggun’s son looks at him incredulously as tears well up in his eyes. In a panic, the black haired man looks over at the bedroom door.

“It’s a joke-” Goo fucking Kim.

The wailing begins, and in an instant, you rush in, scolding, and shoo-ing Gun out of the room. Goo’s howls can be heard, and as the door slams shut, Mr Park stands quietly in defeat. What happened to fatherhood being a blessing?

.

“Awww, it’s okay!” Goo coos.

Jonggun’s eyes narrow as he watches his only son getting coddled by the one person he blatantly abhors.

Goo pats the little boy’s head, and quickly sticks his tongue out at Gun.

Truly. What happened to fatherhood being a blessing? Is he experiencing jealousy? Toward Goo Kim?

[targaryenluvs]

BOOTS / TIM BRADFORD & LUCY CHEN

PAIRINGS: Dark!Tim Bradford & Dark!Lucy Chen x Fem!Rookie!Reader

SUMMARY: You never noticed just how dedicated your two best friends were to keeping you safe, and theirs.

WARNINGS: Overprotectiveness, fighting/violence jealousy, flirting, forced relationship, suggestive behaviour (makeouts, sub r, dom!Tim & soft dom!Lucy, fingering, handcuffs, p in v, threeway)

WORD COUNT: 5.2K Words

A/N: Dark!Chenford is a must have 🤭I had to turn to my roots for some smut cause who wouldn’t want to be in between these two?? I may have gotten carried away at 5k words 😭 (for the sake of this pretend pto’s can have two rookies) NOT PROOFREAD special order for my girl @lady-ashfade

Gif not mine, credits to the owner!

They always had your back, which you found comfort in.

Whether it be standing up for you, or tearing in a new one to the woman who got your order wrong after you’d already given a smile and taken what was served. (It may or may not have been Tim yelling whilst Lucy fiddled with her nails.)

You were so close to them, since your day one on the job Lucy had been nothing but a sweetheart. Fixing your hair for you, ordering your food for you or just giving you a smile when your day was particularly gruelling. She, along with Nolan and West were your best friends. But Lucy went above and beyond when it came to you, even if you didn’t notice at times.

And Tim, was a special case. Of course at first all Rookies got the roughest side of him. But overtime Tim noticed the little things about you. And at first he figured it was you trying your hardest to kiss up to your T.O and everyone else. But he soon came to realise that you were naturally this nice. Always helping anyone where you could when they asked, even with out ask at times.

But that was the problem.

Tim found you to be in need of him, someone to properly guide you rather than your idiot of a T.O who couldn’t care less about you. You were nice, too nice for your own good. He could help in that department.

You entered the break room in the mood for about a million cups of coffee. As you reached for a cup another Rookie cut in front of you before grabbing the pot. You took a step back allowing him to fill his cup up, he was probably tired and lacking manners, so you let him continue. But if there was one person who wouldn’t?

“Hey, you cut in front of her. Pass your cup over to her and move to the back of the line.” Tim startled the Rookie in question so much that he spilled it all over himself. He’d been here for about two days in a trial week. Lucy had a feeling he wouldn’t be here much longer.

You, being you, jumped straight in to help the ass, “Here’s a napkin, you should go change. Maybe take a shower and see a doctor if there are any burns okay?” He nodded before rushing out the door, but not before shoving a cup into your hands.

You couldn’t believe what had just happened, you put the cup down, ready to reprimand the two but when you turned around you realised you couldn’t exactly reprimand two officers above you.

“Thanks for standing up for me but—,”

“No problem sweetheart, how’s your paperwork going?” Tim asked as he poured a cup for himself and his girlfriend. You always noticed him doing stuff like that for her so she didn’t have to, as if it was second nature for him. But he also did the same for you, not that you noticed. “Uhm… it’s going well.” You tried to continue on but the two of them interrupted you every time.

You sighed in defeat as you stirred in sugar, Tim and Lucy sat on either side of you, personal space be damned. You hadn’t realised how often Tim and Lucy used nicknames with you, or sat close to you, or defended you.

Was this normal?

“What’s going on in that little head of yours?” Lucy smiled at you as your cheeks flushed, “I— uhm,” You heard Tim’s laughter from your right, “You’ve got her blushing Chen.” Your head snapped his way before shaking your head, “No! It’s just, warm.” You fiddled with the cuff of your long sleeve as Tim and Lucy admired.

You were so adorable, always with a smile on your face. You could never handle it when they flirted with you, and they took every chance they could get to see you go red. They loved to do it, and they did it so often that you’d basically become accustomed to it. That didn’t mean it was easier to handle with two gorgeous people, especially when they’re older and in charge.

Tim loved talking to you. Just hearing your voice was enough to bring a rare smile to his face. When you were truly impassioned in a topic he could tell, so could she. You’d sit up straighter in your seat, your hand movements increased and so did your eye contact.

But with him and Lucy? You never could keep eye contact. Again, adorable aren’t you?

But what Lucy hated was when you were interrupted. It’d been a few minutes of you talking at them about a call of yours from the day before, in which your T.O had made you answer a call on your own whilst on the phone with his wife. You never noticed, but Lucy’s firsts curled up, and Tim’s hand rested on his gun.

The anger that surged through their bodies at your T.O’s irresponsible behaviour was unmatched. How dare he send someone so fragile on their own? Did he understand how special you were?

Tim’s hand moved from his gun to his radio as you continued. You’d ended up in an altercation with two armed suspects, but you’d managed to subdue them both by bursting a nearby pipe which then sprayed the pair. By the time you had both cuffed to a dumpster your T.O, Jim, waltzed in and smiled.

“And then he just, smiled. He told me he was surprised I could get the job done and that maybe I did deserve my short sleeves. It seemed so targeted and sexist. As if he couldn’t believe that a woman could handle herself. But he apologised later.” Tims brow rose as Lucy titled her head, “He apologised to you?”

Your head turned to Lucy as you crinkled your nose, “Well, not outright. But he did pay for our lunch and ordered me extra. He let me drive too. That’s his way of saying thanks.” Someone was going to have to hold Tim back from beating the life out of this dickhead.

First, he leaves you alone against two armed suspects to see what’s for dinner, then, after you did an amazing job on your own, he underestimates you.

With the worst timing in the world, in walks Jim, “Ah there you are boot. Finished the work have you? Good girl.” You and Lucy visibly cringed at his words as Tim had had enough, “The hell did you just call her?” Your T.O frowned as Tim stood in front of him menacingly, hand on his holster.

“None of your business, she’s my boot.” Jim turned back to his coffee as Tim inhaled, “Leave the room you two.” Jim scoffed as you both got up, “Yes, let the men speak huh?” Lucy rolled her eyes as she guided you out, she and Tim shared a moment and a look that screamed ‘Fuck him up.’ Jim smiled before reaching for the creamer, but it was snatched up by Tim.

“You think you’re funny? Being a sexist dick to your Rookie?” Tim prayed that Jim would try something, anything. As long as it allowed him to beat him into the floor. “Again Timmy, she’s my rookie. That’s the whole point of us Trainers, to toughen them up. You don’t question my methods and I won’t yours. Pretty little thing like that’s probably glided through here.” Tim grabbed him by the shoulder before pushing him against the wall.

“Testy are we? You and Chen have a thing for her?”

“Don’t fucking call me that. And I’ll question whatever I want, when I want. And don’t talk about them like that.” The mention of you and Lucy was more than enough to set him off, and he wasn’t sure if he could stop himself.

Lucy ushered you into her Tim’s shop as you kept asking her questions, “Why am I in here?” Lucy sighed as she rested her hands on her belt, “I don’t exactly think you’ll be riding with him today. Best if you ride with us, I’ll go alert Grey to whats happening, just stay safe in here.” And just like that, she was leaving for the door.

“Messing with me is one thing, with her? Bad idea.” Tim shoved him against the wall again before whispering into his ear.

Tim, Lucy, you and Jim all stood in Grey’s office.

He stood with his hands on his belt, trying to process what he’d been told. “Sergeant, Officer Bradford attacked me in the break room when all I did was simply address my rookie.” Tim and Lucy’s faces simultaneously contorted in disgust at his accentuation on ‘my’.

“Save it Jim. I heard what actually happened through Officer Bradfords radio. Officer Bradford, you’re not yet excused for inciting violence with a fellow officer. Your overtime is cancelled for over a month, you’ll be having a reprimand as well as a month of anger management training courtesy of the department. The rest of your punishment will be applied later. Officer Chen, Officer L/N, you may both go.”

Lucy and you smiled and acknowledged him before glancing at Tim, ‘I’ll be fine.’ he mouthed at the two of you. The door closed behind you as you looked back into the office to see Greys hands waving around. He was pissed and so was Tim. He had to stand next to this guy.

“Hey are you okay Y/n/n?” The two of you were currently filling out paperwork together to kill time whilst you waited for Tim, you glanced back up at her with a smile, “Yeah I’m fine, just glad Bradford stood up for me. But I feel bad now, he’s in there with Grey whilst I’m here.” Lucy’s hand covered yours as she offered her comfort.

“Baby none of this is your fault, Jim is a moron and stuck in the 70’s. You’re an amazing cop and you’ll be even better as the years pass and you learn. But you’ll learn a lot more from another T.O than him. And T— Officer Bradford,” she corrected herself, “He stuck up for you because you don’t deserve to be disrespected like that. No one will ever say those things, we promise.”

You couldn’t help but smile at her words, never having someone who cared about you so much that they’d hurt someone else.

Hypothetically of course. Right?

Tim came back grumpy, which wasn’t a new thing. But he couldn’t help but feel something at the view he has. You and Lucy, shoulder to shoulder, giggling away. At his desk nonetheless. You really were meant for them.

“Alright, you’re sticking with us for the next few weeks L/N. Until you’re reassigned to a new T.O.” Tim stood in front of you as you glanced to him, “What’s happening to Jim?” Tim scoffed as he turned to the side before shaking his head and staring at his shoes, “What he deserves. He’s out of here, don’t worry about him. Not while we’re here.” Lucy nodded in agreement as she picked up your paperwork and hers, “We’re done here.”

“Good, get to our gear, boots.”

And for the next few weeks you found yourself closer to Lucy and Tim than ever. In the physical sense being you and them in the same car for every shift. In the mental and emotional sense of having more time together, on calls together, eating together at times and clocking out together. Usually to go to one of their apartments to wind down and have dinner. So close to them to the point where you found yourself in the middle of them.

The tension was thick, whenever you three were alone.

Lucy and Tim were undeniably hot, and you knew that. And so did they. The two of them were absolute menaces when it came to teasing you. Whether it be Tim or Lucy, both or alone. They wanted you all for themselves, and they will have you.

You prided yourself on making a mean cup of coffee.

Before joining the force, coffee was a once in a whole situation but since? It’s your saving grace and addiction. Your body would probably stop functioning without. Another thing you couldn’t survive without would be music. It’s why you stood in the breakroom with your airpods in.

“Boo.” You jumped at the whisper in your ear only to bump right into your new T.O. “Tim!” You jolted as he laughed at your reaction, “You should be more aware of your surroundings L/N.” Taking a napkin you quickly cleaned the mess on the table before putting a lid on your coffee. “Sorry Sir, I’ll pay more attention.”

His lips involuntarily twitched at the notion of you calling him ‘sir’. It was usually Officer Bradford or when you were pissed off, Bradford. Not much of a change but for you it was the equivalent of flipping him the bird. Tim found it cute.

“You’re good.” He spoke before leaning behind you to grab a cup of his own. Your breath hitched as you felt his broad chest pressed against your back. As he poured his cup, he glanced at you, “You okay there Boot?” Your eyes darted around the room, looking anywhere that wasn’t at him. “Fine, I’ll be in the— somewhere.”

He leaned against the table as you shuffled out of the room as quick as possible. God you were cute.

Lucy leaned against the doorway with a smile, “You’re gonna have her malfunctioning at this point Bradford.” Tim grinned as she approached him, taking a sip of his coffee, “Then maybe we can fix her Chen.” He whispered before taking a sip of his own.

“And how would we do that?”

“Might need to lay her down, undress—,”

“Tim!” Lucy yelped as she covered his mouth as a muffled “What?” came out. “You can’t stay stuff like that here!” He rolled his eyes before peeling the palm of her hand away from his mouth. “Did you not talk for about twenty minutes about how badly you wanted to kiss—,” For the second time Lucy shut him up.

“Shh!”

It had been a long shift for all three of you.

You’d barely gotten time to catch your breath with how many calls were coming through. There was a concert on in town and apparently that resulted in all hell breaking loose. Merch trucks had been highjacked, fake tickets and scams everywhere resulting in fights.

Tim didn’t personally understand the reason for all the chaos, “It’s like your favourite team coming to play in L.A and there are also a bunch of fake fans wanting to go. Along with scammers waiting to make money. People go crazy over the things they love Tim.”

He knew that, he had you.

“Yeah but actual sports? That I understand. Some singer who’s going to walk around a stage? Boring.” You and Lucy rolled your eyes as you gave up on explaining it to him. You were currently out at dinner for once, suggested by Lucy.

“I like it better when we stay home.” Tim muttered as he surveyed the restaurants terrace. There were currently three other couples surrounding them. “Me too honestly.” Lucy was surprised by your agreement as Tim was overjoyed, “See? Two against one.” Lucy shrugged before returning to the drinks menu, “We need to get out once in a while.”

We. Not you and I, we. It was those word choices that made you wonder, did they consider you apart of their relationship?

Lucy’s hand rested over Tim’s as the waiter approached, “My names Jack and I’ll be serving you tonight. What will you be having miss?” He waited for you whilst you sorted through the menu, “I’m going to go very simple, can I get the chicken fettuccine and garlic bread?”

He quickly jotted your order down with a smile, “Great choice.” You smiled at the praise, “Thanks Jack.” His smile was wide and sweet as his gaze lingered, a sharp cough caused the two of you to break away.

Tim’s hold on the menu was tight, shaping crescent indents into the leather exterior as he watched the waiter, Jake was it? Who cares, he should stop eyeing you up and do his job. But why were you responding to him? Keeping eye contact and laughing.

His cough caused you to finally stop ogling him as Tim barked his order at him, whilst Lucy hid her laugh behind the menu. She hated how this random guy thought he could come up to her girl and charm her. Maybe if she showed her gun off he would—

“And drinks?” Tim scanned over the variety of wines as you got up, “I’m going to head to the restroom.” Tim and Lucy nodded as you placed your purse on the table, “Uhh, where is it?” Jack smiled, “I’ll take you there.” He tucked the menus under his arm, “Lead the way!”

Lucy’s hold on Tim’s hand was deadly as the two of them stared daggers into Jacks head. Who did this guy think he was? “Why the hell is she still taking to him? What happened to the restroom?” Lucy complained as Tim straightened in his chair. “I don’t know, but we have to let her know it’s not allowed.”

And that came in the form of coming back to the table to find your food packaged for take away.

You crossed your arms as you stopped in front of your chair, “First of all, I love those bathrooms. Second, how the hell is the food here so quickly? And third, why is it for takeaway?” Tim abruptly stood as his chair slid back, bumping into the railing, his hand in Lucy’s whilst she grabbed the bag.

“We’re leaving, now.” His voice was stern and Lucy’s face seemed to be void of the smile from moments ago. “Wait what?” Tim’s hand wrapped around your wrist as he led you into the elevator.

“Why are we leaving? Also, I can walk myself, no offence.” His grip on you only tightened as you winced, you quickly contracted your wrist from his hand. Soothing it by running your hands over it, the pain was low but the mark sure as hell would show soon.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Eyebrows furrowed slightly, you pulled your lips into a line, “Nothing Lucy. What’re you two doing? Are you okay?”

“Do you find it fun? Flirting in front of us?” Tim sounded genuinely angry, which was never a good sign. The elevator opened as you followed the two of them, eventually ending up with one behind and in front. Tim silently opened the back door for you, climbing in to turn towards him you were met with a slamming door.

Flirting? They were angry because you flirted? Do they expect you to never talk to anyone that wasn’t them? Yes the waiter was cute, but you only talked him about the Marvel Captain America necklace he had on. If they were angry, then did this mean you were in a relationship?

You turned to view the two of them behind the car, they were plotting intently. As Tim’s hands drew her closer in, and his lips landed on hers you couldn’t help but watch and have no idea who you wanted to be in the scenario. When Tim’s eyes flicked up, you turned to the front of the car. This was going to be an awkward ride home.

You were right, the ride home was dead silent.

Tim’s hand was interlaced with Lucy’s, right infront of you and you couldn’t help but feel as if they were rubbing their relationship in your face. So instead of sitting in the middle as per usual, you shifted over to the window. At least the night was nice.

Lucy couldn’t help but smile as she noticed your jealousy. Tim was right, this showed just how much you wanted to be with them. When they kissed you couldn’t look away until looked at, and their holding hands pissed you off to the point where you switched seats. When you were with them, you were always in the middle.

When you reached Tim’s place you were the first to get out of the car, not bothering to wait for the couple. “You think we went too far?” Lucy asked Tim, as much as she loved riling you up, she felt sad by your annoyance. She wanted nothing more than to kiss and hold you.

Tim on the other hand, was pissed off beyond relief. He had to refrain from beating the shit out of the waiter and kissing you at the restaurant. But he figured, your first time should be special.

“No, we haven’t. She needs to learn.”

As you entered his apartment you couldn’t deny the fact that it did indeed feel like home. You shook your heels off in the doorway, as Lucy and Tim removed their shoes. They’d told you to dress nicely but they were both dressed normally. You being in a dress felt out of place when they weren’t done up like you were for the night.

Tim’s bed was practically calling your name, “Where do you think you’re going?” His voice was stern and unwavering. You internally groaned, what the hell had you done wrong? “To bed, what else Tim?” You rolled your eyes, bad idea.

He pushed you against the wall, towering over you. “You think you’re funny?” He was overwhelming, his cologne lingered and Lucy watched on amused. Was she rubbing her legs—

“Don’t look at her, look at me. Answer the question.” His hands were placed on either side of your head, “No, I don’t think I’m funny. I’m sorry.” Tim narrowed his eyes as you squirmed under his gaze, “Sorry for what baby?” You stared down at your feet before he grabbed your chin, “For flirting.”

“So you know what you did wrong?” You nodded meekly at Lucy’s question. “You know, a Rookie has to be taught lessons right?” You nodded again, “And whose Rookie are you?” The bottom of your dress was smooth between your fingertips as you nervously fidgeted.

“Yours.”

“I’m sorry but you have to be taught baby.” His hand slowly moved up your thigh, and under your dress. Tim never looked away from you, even as his hand grazed over your panties. Your breath hitched as his hand slipped past the elastic band, “Tim!” You moaned out as you held onto his shoulders.

“What’s wrong? Use your words baby.” Lucy spoke as she tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. She moved your hair away, allowing herself free roam of your neck as she surged forwards. “Please.”

“Let’s take you to the bed huh?” You nodded vehemently at Tim’s suggestion as he picked you up bridal style. He laid you down on the bed as you shuffled back. Tim and Lucy stood side by side, the grins never leaving their faces. “What do you think Lucy? How’d you feel when Y/n was talking to Jack?”

At the mention of his name your heart began to race, you were nervous, why were they talking about him?

“Angry, and jealous. You?”

Tim nodded, “I did too. I think we should teach you a lesson. And if you’re good then, maybe, we’ll let you go.” You swallowed air before nodding. “Words baby.” Lucy’s voice was soft as she came to sit behind you, laying your head in her lap. “Y-yes.”

“If you feel uncomfortable then say so.” She whispered into your ear as you nodded. “You’re so cute, you know that right?” You shook your head, “No, you’re just being sweet.” Lucy frowned at your low confidence, “You are. Okay? Never let anyone tell you any different. You’re so gorgeous, and kind and sweet. I love you.” Lucy smiled as your wide eyes looked up at her, full of love.

“I— I love you too.” She closed the distance between the two of you quickly, you’d been wanting to kiss her for so long. Her hands trailed along the neckline of your dress, cold hands brushing over your chest as you gasped, allowing her to slip her tongue in.

“Having fun without me?” Tim joked as Lucy withdrew, “Maybe, why? Jealous?” She teased as he shook his head, “That’s her job.” Tim alluded to you as you rolled your eyes, “Is not.” Lucy chuckled at your words.

“Keep rolling your eyes and I’ll give you a reason to.” Tim’s hands were on your thighs again, following the same route as last time and ending up in the same place. You turned your head, trying to bury your face into Lucy’s thighs as Tim removed your underwear. He trailed his hand up and down, collecting your slick.

“So wet, you know how long we’ve wanted to see this?” Tim’s lips met yours as he pushed a finger in, causing you to groan. “There we go, let it out for me.” You wrapped your arms around Tim’s neck, trying to pull him closer. Lucy’s hands slowly removed her own top, then her jeans.

You tugged at Tim’s shirt as he laughed, “Want me to take it off?” Your eager nod was more than enough for him to slide his finger out of you, but not before Lucy took it into her mouth.

You were going to explode. Lucy stared into Tim’s eyes as she detatached from his finger with a ‘pop’. Lucy worked on his belt buckle as Tim removed his shirt before chucking it behind him. “Take your dress off.” You did not need to be told twice.

As you lifted your dress you were met with helping hands, their eyes raked over you eagerly. Tim leaned in again, and as you closed your eyes you heard something.

Click!

Fucking handcuffs. “Wait— are you kidding me?” You tugged at the handcuffs as Tim spoke, “You didn’t think we forgot did you?” You rolled your eyes, “I was being good.” You muttered. Tim was not a fan.

He smushed your face in his hands, “You’re being a brat, now sit and watch.” Tim kissed Lucy’s neck as she raked her hands through his hair, “Oh god.” He made his way down to her chest as she laid down onto the bed. Tim unhooked her bra as he took one of her tits into his mouth. You wanted nothing more than to touch.

But you were forced to sit and listen.

Even as he pounded into her and you writhed against the cuffs. “You feel so good.” Tim groaned, his fingertips were digging into her hips as she clutched onto the sheets. “Fuck Lucy.” He muttered between clenched teeth, trying his best not to moan out.

You couldn’t help but rub your thighs together for the smallest ounce of relief. But Tim never made it easy for you. He slid out of her pussy, as she whined, “So close.” Tim stroked her cheek, “I know baby, I know.” He lifted her up easily with one arm, making her face you before laying her down. “Y/n’s gonna watch.” Lucy lifted her back from the bed as she felt herself peak.

“F-fuck Tim!” She shouted as Tim fastened his pace, “You feel so good.” He groaned before releasing into her. He slowly pulled out, letting Lucy catch her breath as she laid down on the pillows. “You okay?” He muttered as he kissed her cheek, she nodded. “Wanna see you and her.”

Your eyes glistened with excitement, “Please, take the cuffs off.” Tim was feeling nice, so he reached for the key and unlocked you. You first soothed your wrist before Tim dragged you by your ankles.

“Open your legs.” You slowly opened them for him. His hands immediately found your waist, mimicking circles along them. He never strayed too close, only trailing up and down, “Please Tim.”You wanted to cry. “Please what?” He responded calmly.

Tim loved seeing you like this, a whiny mess for him. The tears welled up in your eyes as you clenched them shut, allowing a few to fall down. “Use your words sweetie, just like I taught you.” You shook your head in embarrassment, you didn’t want to say it out loud. It felt, dirty. His calm demeanour was gone in an instant as his finger slipped back into you, “Please touch me.”

Lucy couldn’t help to admire you, they finally had you.

“There we go.” He praised as he moved swiftly up your slit; gathering your slick to spread around your clit. "Yeah, there's my girl, you feel good?” Your high pitched moan was more than enough of an indication, “S-so good Tim.” As if his fingers weren’t enough, he pumped his cock a few times before teasing your hole.

You arched off the bed as soon as he pushed himself in, fat tip bullying its way into you whilst your nails dug into Lucy’s arm, “I got you baby.” She spoke as her hand came up to your breast, teasing it before bringing it into her mouth. “Oh fuck!” You screeched as you felt her tongue drag along your nipple.

Tim eased himself out, and back in as his hand trailed up to your neck, squeezing it as your hand held onto his wrist, “You like that huh?” You nodded in agreement, tears were flowing freely from the overstimulation. This was literally straight out of dream. He grinned at you when your eyes rolled back, encouraging, "Go for it, feels good baby. You feel so good.” Lucy captured your lips as you groaned into her mouth.

The pressure was so intense, you kept writhing on the bed. “I-I’m so close Tim.” He took it as a personal mission to make you cum, grabbing one of your legs and angling it up, his hand in the crevice behind your leg. With the new angle he was able to meet new parts, your babbles were incoherent as he laughed, “Fucked you so good you can’t even talk.” He taunted you as he thrusted his cock in between your drenched folds.

Lucy’s hand trailed down, a sticky mess waiting in between her legs, seeing Tim manhandle you was more than enough. “Bet you dreamed of this, of me.” Tim continued to pound into you harshly, cock gliding easily against your inner walls.“Yes! Yes! Harder!” you cried out.

“Baby found her words huh?”

You nodded as you steadied yourself by holding onto his biceps, Tim was nothing but fit. You’d always wanted to see him under the uniform, his large arms always looked incredible in short sleeves. Tim’s hand moved from your neck to your clit as he sent you over the edge, following closely. Your hand reached up to caress his neck. Thank yous spilled out from you.

You laid in the middle of Tim and Lucy, fast asleep as they watched on.

“She’s so sweet and peaceful when she’s sleeping.” Lucy cooed as she stroked your cheek lovingly, “She tired herself out, of course she’s gonna sleep well afterwards.” Tim’s hand was on your hip under the sheets, caressing the soft skin absentmindedly. “She did so well.”

“She did, knew she could take it.”

“So what are we?” Lucy waited for Tim’s response.

“Whatever we want to be.”