#Can I make a living with object heads

[s1lv3rp4w3dc4t]

shout out object shows with canon queer ships. I'm talking on screen kiss or even just verbal confirmation. all things considered it's a bit strange you don't really see them that much when you think about how gay everyone here is. I love you ii but c2bc did what you didn't and I think that's actually really nice.

[doodlejoltik]

grass knot

[~4.5k words, read it here or on Ao3. tagged with Volo and Lance since they appear as prominent characters; Rei-centric]

Why is it that even the thought of confiding in Akari, his closest friend, makes something constrict in his chest, choking out the words?

Rei, caught in the stirrings of a new arc, tries to rise to its call, but trips over the past at every turn.

A full rewrite of that Mysterious Stones chapter where Volo first shows up, from Rei’s POV, plus a bit more. Written mostly before the Arceus Arc began.

(Setting expectations: a lot of this fic is just Rei Thinking About Stuff haha. Love getting into his head! His characterisation is a little bit different/more nuanced compared to the other Rei oneshot I wrote; hopefully you'll still be along for the ride if you've read that one!)

-

“Show me thy bond.” It echoes inside Rei’s skull, down to the very bone, the same as in his earliest memories. He nearly buckles under its weight, but it's a welcome feeling.

After so long without direction, this is a relief. Arceus has finally spoken.

The words fit perfectly with the half-remembered fragments Rei had received some weeks ago in the middle of the night. Why hadn't they been intelligible then? What makes now different? The sync stones ultimate are one factor, of course. Maybe Arceus draws power from them, which is strange to say of a deity, but from what he knows of the Plates, it might not be so far-fetched.

Prince Lear disperses the murmuring crowd; so, the audience all heard it too, not just those on the arena floor. Professor Bellis congratulates Bettie. Cynthia, Lance and Steven whisper among themselves. And his mind still whirls with new theories as they gather together.

What does Arceus want? 

‘Seek out all Pokemon’ had meant completing the Pokedex. At least, that’s what he’d assumed. Now, this time, Arceus likely means for them to showcase bonds with their Pokemon, given the context. But what does that actually entail?

Cynthia’s words cut above everyone else's. “Rei. Was that voice…?”

All eyes are on him. He breathes deeply, steeling himself, as the familiar weight of it settles in. Things are moving, now. 

“Yes. I'm certain. That was —”

“Indeed! That was a message from Arceus!”

His words catch in his throat. Off-balance, suddenly, as all his thoughts fall away, replaced by a swooping feeling he can't quite identify —

He whirls around.

Volo is here.

He takes a few steps back, an involuntary half-stumble, before remembering himself. 

Those flashes of movement he's been seeing, the feeling of being watched, a Togepi, unattended: they’re all now terrifyingly validated. He'd half thought them a product of his overactive mind.

“Excuse-moi, pardon me… but who are you?” Professor Bellis ventures. 

“I'm Volo — a humble merchant who loves history and mythology!” With that, he flashes a winning smile. Rei could laugh at the sheer audacity of it all, but his thoughts are still strewn across the dusty ground, scattered, and they slip from his grasp as he tries to gather them up. Whatever sense of gravity he’d felt upon hearing Arceus’ voice has completely lifted.

“But more importantly!” Volo continues. “When the arena shone brightly, I also heard that voice.” He brings his hand up to point at the air with enthusiastic emphasis, a gesture still so terribly familiar. Rei clenches his fists, feeling the nails dig into his skin. Not really out of anger. More as a reminder.

The last time he’d seen Volo had been. Well. Memorable. But that isn’t the image that smiles back at him now, tripping him up. He's in Gingko uniform again, complete with ridiculous oversized backpack, which Rei had thought discarded, up there on the peak. Apparently not. Had Volo returned later, still seething, to collect his things? The concept is strangely hilarious.

“I wonder… these sync stones ultimate… might they be some sort of test from Arceus? If we could show him that ‘bond’ he desires —”

“Sorry, test? Arceus?” Cynthia interrupts with a frown, holding a hand out. “What makes you say that?”

“Why, it's quite simple. Arceus' presence was summoned by these stones, in this exhibition, and he requests us to further show our bond. What else could he desire?” Volo says, gesturing widely. 

Rei finally pulls himself upright — scrapes his thoughts together into something resembling coherence. The initial shock has drained away, settling into a distant sort of apprehension. He watches silently. Volo’s not really saying anything too unreasonable, but where is this leading? 

There’s so much he doesn’t know. What has Volo been doing, all this time? How long has he been on Pasio? What does he hope to gain, approaching them like this?

He’ll let Volo continue, then. It's an opportunity for some of those questions to be answered.

(And it gives Rei time to think of what to say.)

“Well, put that way, that does make sense,” Steven nods along. “Should we organise for more trainers to try the stones, then?” 

“Oui, I would love to gather more data!” Professor Bellis answers. “However, the stones are still quite volatile. There is progress on this, yes, but for now, I would like to limit their use, capisci?” 

At this, Bettie speaks up. “Yeah, it was weird.” She runs a hand through her Pikachu’s fur, the mouse curled up lazily in her arms. Nobody in Hisui was quite that affectionate with their Pokemon. Certainly not Akari, though she'd grown closer with her own Pikachu over time. As for himself, Decidueye had been standoffish, averse to being carried even as a baby Rowlet. Well, actually — as his distracted mind digs deeper into memory, he recalls — there had been Volo and his Togepi. 

He casts that errant thought away, buries it deep once again. Bettie is still speaking.

“And it was like nothing was there, at first, and Pikachu and I had to concentrate really hard. And then — whoosh! Wow! Overwhelming,” she shifts Pikachu’s weight to one arm to gesture with emphasis, “and all at once.”

“And this is when Arceus spoke,” Lance asks. 

Bettie nods, now subdued. “It was a rush! I think you guys could handle it, but I dunno if everyone could.”

“If I may,” and all attention returns to Volo. “It seems the stones can currently be used by trainers with particularly powerful convictions, and bonds with their Pokemon,” he gestures with a smile to Bettie. She blushes. 

At the casual flattery, Rei can't help the small frown that twists onto his face. It seems innocent enough, but compliments and niceties can so easily mask true intent. 

Especially with Volo.

Volo continues. “Perhaps we might solve this by way of a tournament, of sorts. Allowing Arceus to witness our talent and dedication, with the victor bestowed the honour of using the stones! Of course, the winner of such a competition would have the fortitude necessary to handle such power.”

Well, taking that to its logical end… Volo wants to win, and be granted this ‘honour’ he so conveniently proposed. But why go to all this trouble? The stones appear out in the streets quite often — apparently, found even by preschoolers. Volo should have no trouble obtaining them.

Does he know something they don't?

“Bettie here led the first winning PML team, did she not?” At this, the girl in question smiles Mareepishly. “And that is why she was the one to demonstrate the stones, I presume,” Volo inclines his head towards the Champions.

Informed guess, or something more? He thinks back on half-seen, furtive movements, and wonders. 

“That's right,” Steven confirms. “Bettie is a shining example to us: a leader of the next generation. We decided there was no better choice.” 

“So you suggest we hold another tournament,” Lance says thoughtfully. “Well, there is precedent. Prince Lear,” he turns to the Prince, whom Rei had honestly half forgotten was there. “What do you think?”

Before Lear can reply, Volo reinserts himself into the conversation. “It would be a grand tournament, truly fitting of Pasio's reputation. Why, perhaps, the deity Arceus might even be compelled to descend —”

Ah. So that’s what he intends. “Aren't you getting ahead of yourself there?” Rei interrupts. He means to sound stern, but it comes out sounding more incredulous. Not at the idea itself, but at how brazenly it’s admitted.

“Perhaps,” Volo says with a careless shrug. He doesn’t acknowledge Rei any differently than the others, still maintaining their inadvertently shared ruse. “It's only speculation, of course, but it is exciting to think about!”

“Hmph! I believe I was the one being addressed,” Prince Lear declares, arms crossed. His red shades flash dangerously, eyes hidden under their glint. Directed at him, it's almost like the full glare of an Alpha Pokemon.

Rei’s face flushes with heat to the tips of his ears. Great time he picked to enter the discussion. He quietly ducks his head down; the Prince is in charge, here, after all. He'd rather not test his patience. 

Meanwhile, Volo just smiles, seemingly unfazed. 

There's a part of him that really wants to know how Volo does that. It's just — he's so confident. How can he be so sure that everything will work out in his favour?

“A grand tournament,” Prince Lear ponders, tapping his foot. “And what could be grander than the second Pokemon Masters League?”

“Indeed!” Volo beams. “I'm sure the audience would love to see the clash between a king and a deity, would they not?”

Lear's tapping stills. His guarded stance loosens; he's taken aback. Volo emphasised king, and oh, Lear's official title is Prince. Hm.

There's something more deliberate about it beyond just casual flattery. 

Lear uncrosses his arms and seems at a loss, for a moment, on where to put them before straightening up with his hands on hips. “Is that so?” He laughs. “I like the sound of that!” A pause, unnecessarily dramatic. Nobody breaks the silence, not even Volo. 

The Prince looks around with some satisfaction and continues. “Very well, then. The winning team of the second PML will be granted the honour of using the sync stones ultimate.” He grins, sharply, red shades flashing once again. “Which will include me, of course. Hahahahaha!”

“You have a real gift for making quick decisions!” Volo says cheerfully. The tension breaks. Chuckles arise from the rest of the group, and Rei can only stare in disbelief. That — that has to be mockery, right? But everyone else seems to take it as light teasing, even the quick-tempered Prince himself. 

Against his better judgement, his gaze catches Volo’s. 

He doesn't know what he expects to see: amusement? Satisfaction? Triumph? And there's some of that, but it's a wry, knowing sort of look, like a joke shared only between the two of them. 

Already the others are starting to animatedly discuss between themselves. Bettie makes a teasing comment to Lear, who scoffs. Professor Bellis says something about checking in on the sync stone technology. Cynthia, Lance and Steven form their own little group again, speaking in low tones, and he can't quite follow their discussion. 

It seems like he's the only one who notices Volo quietly slipping away, and he's got half a mind to do the same. 

Would it be incredibly ill-advised to follow him? Probably. But he still has questions. And it’s possible that Volo will let his guard down when they're alone. 

(Even to him, that seems incredibly optimistic. But there’s things between them that he himself would rather only unearth in private. Maybe Volo feels the same way. And even if not, perhaps he'll gloat, or tease playfully, and let on something of use hidden in the thorned barbs.)

It's not like he has much left to contribute here. Tournaments and competitions and organised displays are foreign to him. The Neo Champion Stadium had felt so different from the kind of battles he’s used to… which, in part, could be why he lost. 

He needs to train. If everything rests on the result of this tournament, he has to be ready. 

The group seems to be naturally dispersing, at least — Professor Bellis just excused herself — so he won't be missed. With some quick words, he, too, turns to leave. They can handle this part, and Rei will do his. 

Prince Lear had mentioned a winning team, and Pasio battles are generally three on three, from what he's seen. Who could he ask? There's Akari, of course. And the clan leaders, but it would feel strange to team up with only one and not the other. A little bit too reminiscent of another time. 

His steps carry him nearly to the edge of the arena.

Besides, he's getting ahead of himself. He still has to… well, he should explain everything to them. About Volo.

Even all these months later, it still aches. He had buried it all, hoping to let it rot away, to be free of that thorny mass of contradictory feelings that arose every time he dwelled on it. 

But the longer he waits, the more impossible it seems to explain — to explain not only the events of that fateful day, but also his own, confusing silence on the matter. Though he’s tried to plough the field, turn it all over and start anew, it still lies just beyond the surface, and a single misstep is all it takes to snarl him all over again. Why is it that even the thought of confiding in Akari, his closest friend, makes something constrict in his chest, choking out the words?

(Akari is unquestionably the one person he's closest to. But there was a time when that singular title wasn't so clear cut.)

There’s a sort of tunnel that leads out of the stadium, a long darkened archway that passes under the audience stands. He's about halfway through when he hears footsteps from behind, swift and purposeful strides. 

His breath catches, for a moment. But Volo left first, and the arena had been flat and wide, with no corners to lurk in. Besides, it's too loud. Clearly telegraphed.

Cynthia, maybe? 

He turns. The face that greets Rei is slightly less familiar. “Lance,” he acknowledges the Champion. 

“Rei,” Lance greets in turn, stopping a few paces away. Arms crossed, silhouetted against the light of the arena and framed by the tunnel’s dark, arching walls, his tall figure is — intimidating. 

He can’t help but wonder whether that's deliberate. 

“You left before I could ask,” Lance says, and there's a pause. “As someone who has prior experience with Arceus, what do you think of all this?”

A fair enough question. But the way it's said… sounds a little too carefully worded. Casual, but purposefully so.

What sort of answer does Lance expect? 

“It sounds reasonable enough,” he decides to say. As much as he hates to lend credence to Volo’s proposal, he can't think of anything better. It somehow seems to suit their needs perfectly, which he's sure is no accident. “Back in Hisui, I was told to seek out all Pokemon, so I helped with the Pokedex. In the same way, I guess this could help fulfil Arceus' new request.”

Lance nods along, but his brows furrow. “You sounded more sceptical, earlier,” he points out. 

Ah. Not really his intent, but… “That was about the more…” he casts about for the right word, “speculative part of it. I don't know if it would really call Arceus down, or anything like that.” Though honestly, he doesn't know that it won't.

“What do you think will happen, then?” Lance asks, with clear curiosity, and, well. He doesn't really have a good answer to that. 

“... I don't know,” he admits. “I never actually completed the Pokedex, so I'm not sure what happens after Arceus’ request is fulfilled.” He had been close, but there had still been so many minor tasks that needed finishing, things to busy himself with, to arrange and get in order before he had to face Giratina again. 

He hadn't been ready, yet. Maybe Arceus had grown impatient, and brought him here to confront his problems directly. Maybe it cared. Maybe it didn't. 

(Seeing Giratina with Cynthia had felt a little like he was the punchline of some divine comedy.)

Lance purses his lips and looks off into the distance, out of the stadium, past Rei. He wishes he could read the man’s expressions better; as it is, the set of his brows calls to mind Kamado, and everything else tangled up with it. 

Finally, Lance’s gaze turns directly to Rei once again, and he speaks. “That Volo… you two know each other.” 

It’s not a question, but even then, the expression of unguarded surprise he can’t hold back might be answer enough.

Lance has one hand on his hip, the other, at rest, is framed by the drape of his cape. He looks down at Rei as he states plainly, “His clothes aren’t of modern make, so the logical assumption would be that he’s from Hisui. Cynthia confirmed my suspicion. And, historically, Hisuian communities were few and quite tightly knit. It’s more likely than not.” 

He tries to keep his expression carefully neutral, as logic digs deeper, dangerously close to things unexplainable. And the earth is already recently disturbed, soft, friable. He can’t offer much resistance. “I've seen him around,” he concedes.

“But why did neither of you acknowledge the other?” Lance looks confused; frustrated, even. “Even a passing acquaintance would be notable, with both of you being here in the future.”

And here — this is familiar. The accusations. The questions he can’t answer. But it’s different; it’s not that he doesn’t know the answers. He just can’t seem to put them in an order that would make sense, to anyone else.

(Does he really understand, himself?)

But eyes are on him, and he needs to explain, in whatever unsatisfactory way he can. “Volo and I… it's complicated,” he laughs weakly, tugging at his scarf. “He genuinely does love history and mythology, you know. I guess I wouldn't be that surprised if he was right about Arceus.” All those times they’d pored over ruins together, Volo excitedly babbling on about whatever legend this one related to — there had to have been the seed of something real, something genuine, in that. 

It’s not really an answer. Lance can obviously tell, because he crosses his arms. 

“Is he bad news?” he asks bluntly. 

There’s no twisting his way out of this one.

Some of the panic he’s feeling must bubble up onto his face, because Lance’s expression softens, just a bit. The man sighs. “Look, Rei, I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but us Champions need to have all the relevant information. This tournament, the stones,” he gestures around them, “affect everyone here on Pasio. So I’m sorry about involving myself in your business, but it's necessary. Should we be keeping an eye on Volo?” 

It’s obvious what the correct answer is. And every second he delays responding makes him seem all the more untrustworthy. He questions, a little hysterically, why this of all things is what he stubbornly roots himself for, risking this place he’s made for himself in another unfamiliar land. 

But his jaw works, and all that slips out of his throat, past the thorny tangle, is a “Maybe.” The most ground he can concede. “Volo’s… passionate about Arceus.” Which is perhaps the biggest understatement of both this century and the last. 

There's an expectant pause. He almost leaves it at that, but it seems it's too unfinished a sentiment for Lance. “He wants to be seen by it.”

“The same way you are?” Lance says sharply. Arceus, he picked up on that fast. Rei hopes he leaves it at that. A rivalry fallen apart, twisted into bitterness and jealousy, nothing more.

Nothing world-ending. 

It’s not like he doesn’t trust Cynthia, and by extension the other Champions. It’s just… he can deal with it himself. It’s what he was probably brought here to do, anyway. The thought of someone else turning him over, and finding him lacking — fighting his battles for him — makes him uneasy. 

“Yeah, something like that,” he answers, with a painful swallow. 

Besides, he hopes he can resolve this peacefully. He’d beaten Volo before, even after he’d flipped the rules of battle on their head. And this time Volo can’t upend the script; one good thing about tournaments, he supposes, is that the rules are rigorously upheld. A different sort of battleground.

He wants to laugh at that. Suppositions and wildly optimistic thoughts are his only foundation, and yet it’s enough for him to reject all possibility of outside help.

Then again, if he can’t even bring himself to tell Akari, what chance does he have of breaking that self-imposed silence, here, on less familiar ground?

Lance hums, assessing this. He uncrosses his arms. “If that friend of yours does anything drastic, tell us, alright?” he says. It’s said warmly, but there's something serious to it. An undertone. “Our job is to help out wherever we can, so don’t hesitate to reach out.”

Rei tries for a smile. “Understood.”  

Lance nods, and looks Rei up and down, though it's only a subtle flicker of his eyes. His gaze lingers on the scarf at Rei’s neck, which Rei realises he’s been fidgeting with unconsciously. He lets go with faint embarrassment, feeling caught out. 

The other man sighs. “You can go, you know?” There’s resignation in his voice. Maybe even something apologetic. In that moment, he seems more like Kamado than ever.

Rei doesn’t want to turn his back to him, but he wants to be here even less. So he nods, stiffly, and turns himself around, continuing the dark walk through the tunnel and out the stadium at a steady pace.

He doesn’t run.  

(But his hand hovers by his satchel, where Decidueye's Pokeball rests.)

It’s only when he’s walked for a good while, out into the harsh sunlight, through the town outskirts and to a more forested spot, that the tension drains from him. He sits at the base of a large tree, feeling a little lightheaded.

That was… an interrogation, to put it bluntly. And he can’t really fault Lance for it. To anyone, he's sure, his actions are confusing at best.

Unfortunately, he’s found that he’s less than clear headed when it comes to Volo. He turns over Lance’s final words. That friend of yours. It’s not surprising Lance phrased it that way; everything Rei had said had been carefully woven to lead him to that conclusion.

Except it hadn’t been misdirection, not fully. He does still think of Volo as his friend, despite everything.

He slumps backwards, against the trunk of the tree, feeling the rough bark dig against the base of his skull. 

What is he supposed to do with that?

Apparently, one of the worst days of his life isn’t enough to uproot over a year of growing camaraderie and budding friendship. Too many memories knot together, a stubborn tangle impossible to pick apart. He’s tried not to think about them too hard, but they tighten their hold once again, from where they lay dormant and buried.

Many of them have been forcibly recontextualised. He’s second guessed every helpful gift, every directly admiring word, every coincidental and fortunate appearance, as something deliberate and cultivated. But some of it, it seems, doesn't fit so neatly with that singular goal.

One day, they’d watched Togepi use Metronome for an hour, ostensibly for Rei’s surveying purposes. Important documentation of a seemingly random phenomenon, and all that. In actuality, they laughed the entire time, with no useful or coherent records to speak of, as the results became all the more improbable. 

They’d camped together, those last months, as the search for the Plates got wilder and more exciting. He knows Volo’s favoured way to build a camp-fire, and how he wakes up unreasonably early in the morning, and that he prefers sweet foods over savoury, unlike Rei himself. A hundred mundane familiarities shared, taking root in fallow ground.

Once, Volo had been his only friend in the entire world.

Is it surprising, then, that he can’t lay this friendship to rest so easily?

He wonders what it means, that the hand offered to him at his lowest point was the same one that always meant to drag him back down. And what it means that he still wants to reach for it.

Had any real feelings been sowed there, on Volo’s part? Or was the entire thing a carefully constructed weaving, an intricate field of grass knots laid around Rei, ready to catch him in their snare? 

He can’t quite strangle the hope that something of their friendship still exists, even if neglected and overgrown. And that’s the part that scares him.

He has Akari, and Adaman, and Irida. He has Professor Laventon and the Captain, though they’re far away. Then there’s the Wardens, more friendly faces: Mai, Sabi, Ingo, and all the others; there's Zisu and Pesselle and Beauregard and everyone else in Jubilife. New friends here on Pasio, too. 

He pulls out Decidueye’s Pokeball from his satchel, and rolls it around in his right hand. He has his beloved Starter.

He has friends. He has bonds.

Why can’t that be enough?

The Pokeball he’s holding isn't the original. He'd had to break that well-loved possession in two, and recapture Decidueye in this modern device. It's a distant echo of its predecessor, wooden grooves and clunky iron replaced by smooth metal and near imperceptible seams. The weight of it is all wrong. 

But despite that, it's still his partner, and that's what matters.

(The two broken halves sit in his satchel, too, carried on his person at all times. It's yet another thing he can't bring himself to let go of.)

He sighs, tracing formless shapes in the dirt. His hand finds one of the sparse clumps of grass that grow here, directly under this wide and mighty tree. Deprived of proper sun, it’s a miracle that there’s any at all. 

It seems more and more likely that he’ll end up looking for Volo on his own. To get answers: not only about the stones, and the tournament, and Volo’s intentions with Arceus, but also for his own ends. 

Maybe there’s still something there. A single glimpse of life in this scorched earth between them.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do then.

Where he sits, what little grass there is has grown long and ragged, as their leaves stretch and reach for the sun. He sets Decidueye’s ball down and plucks two long blades. With a few simple loops and twists, they’re deftly woven together into a knot. He considers it, looping it around his fingers; tightens it, pulling on both ends, until he can feel the entire construct threaten to snap from the force. He stops. 

The thing is, no matter if it was never meant to be real, deliberately sowed, intended ultimately for harvest — it’s all the same, to Rei. He wants to keep it alive. He’s hopeful. Naive. Selfish.

For a single, impossible moment, he wonders whether this is what Arceus meant by bonds all along. 

The knot goes in his satchel, where it will turn dry and brittle with time. But kept safe, unbroken, regardless. Maybe his future self will laugh at his sentimentality. Maybe, he won't remember why it’s there. 

Wouldn't that be for the best?

He tucks Decidueye’s ball away, with care, then hauls himself up, both hands braced against the dusty ground. There’s dirt under his fingernails. From under the tree’s darkened canopy, he squints into the afternoon sunlight.

There’s a lot that needs to be done. He needs to train for this tournament, for one. Learn more about modern battling. Pull together a team. With that, ask Akari, and perhaps Adaman or Irida. Confront Volo, somewhere in all of this. 

After that? Only Arceus knows.

One step at a time. 

He finds his footing, around gnarled roots. The grass crunches underfoot. And he steps into the light.

(So maybe I was just snared by the grass knots you laid in my path. But if I wove my own, would you fall for it too?)

[yourgamemasterthewhiterabbit]

Both my parents actually suffer from HORRID emotional dysregulation and are prone to snapping and going into rages. My sister is the same way tbh. I am now realizing this is why they are constantly baffled by the question of whether or not I am mad at them.

I don't have external meltdowns.

I could. I don't let it happen.

I keep my rage on the inside and stay pretty quiet about it. It's just as strong as theirs [physically shaking nose bleed from high blood pressure kind of bad], but like as a kid I saw how terrifying it was to be around [dad breaking dishes, mom putting our lawn chairs into walls] and I just internalized that I wasn't going to wear that anger on the outside.

So my mother genuinely cannot tell if I am just being quiet or if I am silently hearing the dial-up noises of pure rage. This has lead her to both making strong and confident statements like "You are a pacifist who would never hurt a fly U.U" but also acting like I am secretly dangerous maybe... It's because she has never seen me snap.

She knows what her temper is like [throwing chairs through walls], she knows what my father's temper is like [pick up child and toss out door], and she can tell I am being tested, but she doesn't know what happens when I snap or where that breaking point is.

Her -perhaps unhinged- solution to this, my whole life, has been to do things that should obviously enrage me or shut me down completely, like ignoring important boundaries, repeatedly, punishing me for expressing emotions or needs at all, etc... And then to constantly ask me if I am angry with her when I get too quiet [right after near directly telling me to shut up].

It has occurred to me now, they have never once seen me lose my temper, so they literally just can't tell if I am angry at them. My sister is easy, my mother fights and screams with my sister constantly, my mother understands this. My mother doesn't have any grasp of feelings or boundaries that are not screamed at her [apparently, and I fear my sister is the same way]. Her and my sister are close despite constant fucking fighting because they understand each other.

They are trying to get me to engage the same way and it is not working. I realize now that this has been hard for them.

I was so successfully taught to suppress my emotions, by being punished for any outburst, that rage quiet looks the same as any other kind of quiet from the outside. To them anyway.

I did tell her. For the record. I used my words. I did tell her very calmly that my response to rage, in order to avoid doing the things that terrified me as a child, was to simply leave [the autistic urge to GTFO]. When a situation or person causes too much of the dial-up rage noise, I simply extract myself from that situation, up to and including never speaking to a person again. I explained this calmly. I explained it calmly 100 times and I explained that I explain myself calmly as my rage response 1-5 [also pretty much every other negative emotion tbh], and I told her that what came next was me simply opting out and fucking off. I told her this. I couldn't understand why she never took me seriously, or why she never fucking understood.

I couldn't understand what made her like this.

But it's the same problem I have with everyone else multiplied by a factor of 10.

If I am explaining myself calmly, they can't understand that it's actually serious or that I am actually upset. ESPECIALLY because they read me as "female" and women "aren't that rational" so if I am not screaming and crying about something, which I never do, people assume I can't be upset and it isn't serious.

And then after having my boundaries ignored too many times despite having calmly explained how and why it's a problem [shaking inside or not]... I leave. I leave and everyone gets upset like this is unexpected behaviour, even though I told them 50 times that is how I would respond if they kept doing *the thing.*

And for neurotypical people especially, they are expecting there to be a disconnect between what someone says they need or feel and what their actually boundaries and feelings are, and they expect the latter to be demonstrated with emotions. Telling them bluntly you do not function that way somehow never helps?

My mother isn't just looking for normal yelling or a few tears to know I am serious, whether or not I do those either [I don't], she's looking for an explosion to know there's a problem at all.

Fucked if I know how she proceeds through life this way in general or if this is just her expectation of her own kids???

And I couldn't get why my mother couldn't read my emotions and didn't seem to think I have any. It's because she's testing for the rage limit to see where my 'actual' limit is instead of taking my word for it. Never the fuck mind that she could simply *not* test at my boundaries instead of letting me have them. Separate issue.

I couldn't figure out what made her *like this*

She's expecting me to throw a giant meltdown violent tantrum at people when I have 'actually' had enough. Maybe she got away with those being like 5'4" in another time, but I am the size of the average man, I do not get to have giant screaming rages, whether or not people perceive me consciously as a woman, and least of all because a lot of people -at least unconsciously- read me as 'masculine' or at least always "they guy" of the situation compared to all other women and some men [bigger stronger and more rational, more able to just absorb the damage and let it go so the less rational screaming/crying one doesn't have to be dealt with]. Even if it was in me to be willing to terrify people [usually never], there are such limited instances where it wouldn't just blow back on me. Potentially very dangerously.

I am going to be the quiet calm one. You are going to have to let me use my words, bitch.

So she kept ignoring my boundaries until I had to cut her out of my life, and she probably doesn't understand and probably thinks it feels sudden -after 36 long years of bullshit- abrupt and unfair.

But I told her hundreds of times.

I probably should have just screamed at her.

[hopeinthebox]

tagged by the exceptional @cordiallyfuturedwight and @cosmicdreamgrl thanks ever so much my loves <33

now tagging some heroes @aprylynn @thvinyl @visionsofgideontheninth @hoseeok @btscontentenjoyer @jihopesjoint @monismochi @raplinenthusiasts <333 and everyone else

[fountainpenguin]

I can't express how badly I need Dale Dimmadome and Augustus Crumhorn IV to be fancy tech college roommates and that's why they both like robots and Dale says "Innit?" like a Brit despite having a Southern father.

I feel like the running gag of lightbulbs going out when Augustus is near them is in such extreme conflict with Dale's love for slapping his branding everywhere and flashing his boots that if they had to walk anywhere together, Dale would strangle him and/or run away from him at top speeds while Augustus's dog instincts kick in and he just chases him down the hall barking his head off. The billionaires are fighting...

They can be terrible rich single parent friends together... although I don't think it will go well between Dale stomping all over Dev and Augustus shrinking in terror from his radioactive daughter who can shoot laser beams from her eyes... Local traumatized lemonade stand employee and some yippy ankle-biter Doberman against the world, which they will buy and destroy if left unattended for 6 minutes.

I don't take constructive criticism btw.

[roguemonsterfucker]

don't mind me i'm just watching some monsterfucker movies for 'research' purposes

[autistic-shaiapouf]

Will yall help me ease the autism for a moment bc I was looking at 2 cars and am very settled on the first one but in the back of my mind I'm like. the other car will be so sad if I don't also transfer it in to test drive it

[realkaijuhavecurves]

The conclusion

Depends in its entirety

On the story you tell:

The rise and fall of a species

Or

The joy of a little life, the only one you get, lived and enjoyed, no matter its historical backdrop

The comfort and warmth of connection,

Subjective experiences like

Loving and being loved

Accepting yourself and living in the now,

Cherishing only what is here at this moment

Every life must end, after all

And so, perhaps, must every civilisation

Is it a story entirely of arrogance, greed and hubris?

No; it is a story, also, of people devoting themselves to finding a solution, risking their careers, livelihoods, even their own lives

Forgoing easy answers and complacent vicissitudes

Whatever happens, know that it was not about one single thing;

It all depends on the story you tell

[yousaytomato]

Current phone: £200, has lasted 4 years

Phone I'm considering: £800, so logically will last 16 years

[aurosoul]

I had a dream that I got my Magic Leap headset and then took it to a forest to create magical crystals and rainbows in the streams there and then I took it to the beach to decorate the sand with glowing shells and stars!!!!!!! and then woke up to realize I’ll soon be able to do these things FOR REAL!!!!!!!

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[fadetouchedsilk]

both delighted & irritated to announce im slowly becoming mentally ill about camellia & lucanis

yes i still have many many mixed emotions about the game itself, no this does Not stop the hamsters in my brain from latching onto certain things with the single-minded determination of a cribbing horse.

[satoruxx]

normally toji prides himself on being the perfect guard dog—not that he would ever tell you that. but you never have to worry about guys coming up to you when your hulking monster of a boyfriend remains at your side, continuously glaring down his nose at everyone he sees.

this usually works pretty well.

on adults.

but now, as you and him wait in line at the counter of the grocery store, he can only let out a huff of irritation as he watches the little brat in front of you both stare over his mother’s shoulder—big wide eyes locked on you.

at first you don’t really notice, too busy blabbering about something silly as you look around the store. but when you finally lock eyes with the child, you notice the way he seems to go shy, pressing his cheek deeper into his mom’s shoulder. his eyes flick away from your face for just a second, before timidly looking back. as soon as he does, you break into the sweetest, most giddy smile.

(toji would move mountains for a glimpse of that smile—and yet here this kid is just getting it without a shred of work.)

you tilt your head, raising a hand to gently wave at the boy, who flushes further under your attention, but lifts his cheek a little more. chubby fingers come up to meekly wave back, and you hold back a silent coo of affection, eyes filled with honey-like sweetness. with every little giggle and silly face you make at the boy, he seems to get more and more comfortable—toji watches you melt.

the unlucky little brat then quickly peeks at the giant man looming beside you, and toji can’t resist. his face pulls into a evil smile, teeth on full display as he wiggles his fingers sinisterly. the expression has its desired effect—the kid recoils, eyes going wide before burying his face into his mother’s neck. in a few minutes, the boy and his mom are heading out the store and you and toji start loading the groceries onto the belt.

“i saw that, you know?”

toji glances up, seeing your semi disapproving frown, and he cocks his head in faux innocence. “saw what?”

“you’re mean,” you shake your head, crossing your arms. “scaring little kids like that. quite literally the object of their nightmares.”

“ah, he’ll be alright,” toji grunts, taking the bags from the cashier in one hand and reaching for your palm with the other. “it’ll build his character.”

you snort. “he’ll have trauma.”

“like i said,” he grins, a canine display. “character.”

you roll your eyes as he tugs you out of the store—your grip on him unwilling to falter.

toji lives just like this, successful in scaring off any other person who considers giving you attention, whether that’s an adult or a little kid. and despite your exasperated complaints to at least lay off the children (they’re harmless), toji has known for a long time that he can be nothing but selfish when it comes to you.

so forgive him, if he quickly turns to this evil little tactic to scare away kids—it’s all he can really do. besides, it always works.

until now.

you’re sitting under a tree at a small park, working on some dumb assignment for one of your lectures. toji lays on his back next to you, arm draped over his eyes in a momentary respite from the normal danger of his life—eerily content.

the peace is broken by the rustling of tiny footsteps in the grass.

“here you go.”

toji pulls his arm away to peer at the owner of the voice. a boy stands there, hair tousled as he waits in front of you with his arm outstretched—in between his chubby fingers is a singular dandelion.

your eyes widen, cheeks splitting into a wide smile as you coo out your affection. “aw for me?”

the boy nods mutely, cheeks flushed as he thrusts the flower further into your view. you delicately pluck it from his hands, inhaling the fragrance with a grateful smile. “well thank you. it’s beautiful.”

he shyly kicks at a spot of grass, lips pulling up into a giddy smile under your sweet praise. “just like you,” he mumbles under his breath and you squeal softly, giggling at how adorable this kid truly is.

toji sits up before you can say anything else, lips pulled into a displeased frown as he crosses his bulky arms across his chest. “hey.” his voice comes out low and tense, even as he stares down his nose at the boy. “what are you doing?”

you turn to look at your boyfriend, at the exaggerated sneer that normally works wonders in scaring kids away, and you hold back an exasperated sigh. “toji—“

“who are you?” the boy frowns, sass appearing out of thin air as he looks toji up and down like he’s nothing but dirt under his colorful sneakers. you gape at him, eyes darting back and forth between the two as a smile threatens to make its way into your face. toji’s lips part in surprise, a tingle of heat crawling up his neck as he hears your hushed gasp of held back laughter.

“her boyfriend,” he grunts back, eyes narrowed in a way that’s oddly similar to the expression on the kid’s face.

“no way!” the boy huffs, pouting indignantly. his cheeks flush as he glares at toji—unfazed.

“uh, yes way.” toji realizes how petty he sounds, but he’s adamant—unwilling to stand down in anything that involves you.

the boy crosses his arms, mirroring toji’s pose. he rolls his eyes emphatically, lip curling as he sneers down his nose.

“isn’t she too pretty for you?” he asks bluntly. you smother another disbelieving gasp, and toji suddenly feels an unfamiliar thrill rush through his veins—this kid had guts.

“what do you know, brat?” there’s a smirk evident in toji’s voice now, and he uncrosses his arms to lean back on his palms, eyes shining with feral mirth.

“i have eyes,” the boy snaps back, putting both hands on his hips to appear more intimidating—it doesn’t work, he just looks cuter. “i can see her.”

“well quit it,” toji huffs in return. “not yours to look at.”

the kid narrows his eyes. “you’re mean!”

“and you’re nosy!”

“how am i nosy?”

“you’re comin’ over here and givin’ my girl flowers!”

“she deserves flowers!”

“of course she does! from me, you little brat!”

“you suck, old man!”

“what did you just call me?!”

a shout from across the park disrupts the heated bickering, and you all turn to see an older woman waving the boy over. he looks down at you, a sweet smile washing over his face as he tilts his head innocently. “that’s my mom. i have to go home now.”

“heh, sure thing. get home safe, okay?” you shoot toji an amused glance as you speak, and he sends a displeased glare back as he stubbornly crosses his arms again.

the boy nods, beaming at you. “okay! see you later!” he chirps. but just as he’s about to leave he turns back, eyes fixated on toji. “i hope your boyfriend learns how to be nice!”

and then he runs off.

you snort out another laugh, which only gets louder when you catch a glimpse of the way toji is practically sulking in the corner—scowling at the kid’s back with narrowed eyes.

the whole thing is so unbelievably endearing, and you can’t stop grinning as you pack up your things and stand up.

“let’s go home, toji.” you hold your palm out for him, and you’re rewarded with a pointed glance—he takes your hand anyway. even as you both exit the park, toji has an unamused pout on his face, glaring ahead.

you can’t resist.

“don’t tell me you actually feel threatened now,” you giggle, grabbing his bicep and pressing close. toji glances at you from the corner of his eyes, unamused—which only seems to make you laugh harder. “oh come on! he was so cute!”

“little brat,” he grumbles in return. “couldn’t take a hint.”

“you’re mad because the eight year old kid at the park didn’t want to believe you were my boyfriend?”

“the fuck do you think? of course i am. what do i look like if not your fucking boyfriend?”

you chortle, practically falling on him with the weight of your amusement. he sighs, disgruntled.

“it’s not funny, kid.” toji rolls his eyes at you—internally, he’s trying not to grin.

“it’s so funny, toji.” you straighten up, smiling at him with stars in your eyes. “you’re ridiculous and it’s so cute.”

he scoffs, giving you a sidelong glance before reaching up to tug at your cheek. “i’m definitely not the cute one.” he murmurs offhandedly before internally smirking at the way you seem to be caught off guard by his statement.

“whatever,” you mumble, holding his arm as you both continue walking home in relative silence. from the corner of your eye you can see toji’s expression as he mutely stares ahead, deep in thought. you decide not to disturb him, content on just feeling his warmth bleeding into your palm—always at your side.

toji replays the incident in his head multiple times as you head home. the bickering, the sass, and the unfiltered adoration that little brat seemed to have for you.

something clicks.

as you’re pushing open the door of your apartment, you hear toji quietly chuckle from behind you, and you turn to look at him over you shoulder. “what?”

he shakes his head slowly, eyes shut even as an uncharacteristically soft smile tugs at his lips. “just thinking…”

“about what?” you ask curiously.

toji grins at you, cocking his head fondly. “when we have a kid, i want the little brat to be just like that.”

[zincbot]

i use more drawing references than anyone alive

[incognit0slut]

Champagne Kisses

A night involving champagne gives you the perfect excuse to end up naked after weeks of harmless flirting. Spencer thinks one night isn’t enough.

category: smut, fluff word count: around 8k content: softdom!spencer, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v (but no creampie he’s testing his pull-out game), alcohol consumption, food play (more like drink play), and i wanna say spit kink but they’re using champagne instead so does that count? a/n: merry 2025 please tell me you remember me or else i might actually cry

You’re doing it again.

You’ve been clawing at his face for the past hour, stealing fleeting glances and looking away just as quickly, because every time you do, you find the same thing.

Brown eyes. Chocolate, marbled in hazel with tiny golden speckles. Pinning you in place. Dismantling you layer by layer. And somewhere in the quiet heat behind them, in the barely-there twitch of his jaw, you’re pretty sure he’s already mapping out the fastest way to get you out of your clothes.

It’s nerve-racking. Smart Spencer you can handle, awkward Spencer you can charm. But flirtatious Spencer? Flirtatious Spencer is dangerous.

Even more so when you’re squashed between Penelope and Luke at the overcrowded booth of O'Keefe's, who are mid-argument over something you can’t even muster the energy to care. Not when long legs stretch in front of you, and strips of neon lights slice across the table in a glow that crosses his form, curving around handsome features that make him look far too inviting.

Because that’s what your mind keeps drifting to. Taking him back to your place, where the only thing glowing would be the dim light of your bedroom.

Or maybe the pale light from the hallway.

Perhaps the soft flicker of the lamp in your living room.

Either way, your mind is already drawing images of him doing whatever it is he’s picturing in his own head. The location doesn’t matter.

“Don’t you agree?”

Your gaze fall over him once more before you force yourself to look away, catching Penelope staring at you expectantly. “Agree to what?”

“That margaritas are objectively the most fun drink and clearly better than boring beer.”

This is the argument they’ve been debating for the last five minutes?

Luke scoffs from your left. He doesn’t look angry though, his expression is more amused than irritated, lips formed in a cheeky smirk. “I can tolerate margaritas if we’re on a beach. But beers are solid all year round, pop a cap and you're good to go."

“You’re such a guy."

“I'm telling you, you don't need fancy ingredients or a blender. No little umbrellas."

“Literally proving my point. Beer has no personality.”

“Are you saying I have no personality?”

Bright pink-framed glasses shift as Penelope tips her head. “If the shoe fits.”

You’re at the point where you’re no longer surprised by their arguments. Loud and pointless, is how you'd describe them. You suspect Luke does it to get a reaction, and normally you’d add fuel to the fire, because Penelope is a pretty fire-cracker when her nostrils flare in absolute indignation. But your attention is elsewhere tonight.

Knees brushing yours under the table. A small smile curled at the corner of his lips. Deep set of eyes dragging over your face, your neck, the spot between your collarbone and shoulder where the pulse of your heartbeat seems to echo louder each second.

You slide with your back against the chair, thighs clamping shut. 

You feel him imprinted on you, heated gaze traveling beneath your skin. You wonder if he realizes what he’s doing, if he’s even aware of the effect all the time his eyes fall on you. Since the moment he walked in the room, since he took that seat directly across from you, and if you’re being completely honest, that glint in his eyes has been there probably for weeks now. The when of it all is a bit fuzzy.

Tonight feels adamantly different though, and you feel like you might just need a little extra something to quiet the nervous hum beneath your ribs.

But you’re not entirely sure whether it’s nerves or something far more indulgent that has your mind secretly leading you to a very unholy place. A place where you wonder if the rough, scruffy drag of his jaw feels the same below his navel.

You’re a hundred percent certain that it does.

“You know what’s a better drink?” your voice cracks, desperately needing that extra little something. “Champagne.”

Penelope’s head whips toward you. “Champagne? Here?”

You glance around the bar and raise a hand, trying to flag down the bartender.

The wood-paneled walls are covered with vintage beer advertisements, and the sticky floor is dotted with peanut shells from the complimentary bowls on every table. It’s the kind of place where the closest thing to champagne is probably prosecco poured into a plastic flute for a wedding after-party.

“What’s wrong with champagne? It’s a classic drink, great for celebration.” You order a bottle and four tall glasses before fixing her with a look. “It’s the New Year.”

She snorts. “We’re already halfway through January.”

“Penelope, we had to work on Christmas and New Year’s. We finally have this night to breathe, let me have this.”

There’s a beat of silence before she sighs dramatically. “Fine. But it still feels weird drinking champagne in a bar where the most sophisticated cocktail is a rum and coke.”

“Which is exactly why we’re elevating the night,” you reply, watching as the bartender sets the bottle down with (thank god) proper crystal flutes. You pour the first glass, the golden bubbles racing upward like tiny fireworks as you pass it to her.

Luke accepts the next glass without the same hesitation, but when you offer one to Spencer, the curly-haired man shakes his head.

“Right. I forgot you don’t really drink alcohol.”

The faintest smile tugs at his lips. “I don’t have anything against alcohol, just not in large amounts.” His gaze shifts to the bottle on the table. “I also happen not to like champagne.”

Penelope looks mildly offended. “Why not?”

“Because the carbonation overpowers the flavor. It’s hard to enjoy a drink when it’s constantly popping on your tongue.” You stifle a laugh before you can stop yourself. He looks at you. “What?”

“I think you’re overthinking it,” you reply with a grin. “Here, maybe this will change your mind.”

You pour him a glass and nudge it toward him. He simply looks from the glass to you.

“Come on,” you coax. “We’re celebrating the New Year.”

“Seventeen days late."

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes.

"Do not ruin the fun. We’re still celebrating, and you can’t toast with water. That’s practically begging for bad luck.”

He exhales sharply, lips twitching in what might be defeat or mild amusement, before reaching across the table. Everyone raises their glasses. The instant the bubbles hit his tongue, his nose scrunches in subtle distaste, and the sound of your laughter flies through the small space.

“It’s not that bad,” you insist.

“I still don’t understand the appeal.”

Champagne isn’t exactly your first choice either. You’ve always been more of a wine person. A good wine. A rich Burgundy that makes you close your eyes on the first sip to taste the faint of autumn in a glass. But champagne feels right for the occasion.

This taste blooms on your tongue, crisp and bright with hints of green apple and citrus and that faint yeasty richness at back of your throat. They dance across your palate, leaving a lingering sweetness through your veins that doesn’t soothe your nerves so much as ignite something beneath them, something warmer, deeper, curling into your bloodstream.

It makes you very bold.

Bold enough to hold his gaze without flinching. Bold enough to let your tongue flick across your lips. Bold enough to let your foot glide slowly up the length of his long, long leg.

You’ll have him taste his own medicine.

You, too, can play with fire.

“Maybe you’re drinking it wrong,” you hum, feeling him tense for the briefest, tiniest moment before he relaxes. “There’s another way to make champagne better.”

He grips the stem of his glass. “Something tells me you have a suggestion.”

“I do.”

He tilts his head. The din of conversation around you slowly fades into a muffled hum, the clinking of glasses and Penelope’s laughter barely registering as you notice the curve of his smile, the question lingering in his eyes.

Will you show me?

And that’s how you find yourself naked between his thighs two hours later.

It started innocently enough—or at least that’s the lie you fed yourself when you watched Penelope and Luke stumble their way to the dance floor, giggling as they poured yet another round of sparkling wine. But the champagne didn’t keep your attention for long. A few more stolen glances later, you found your hand wrapping around his arm, the other clutching a half-full bottle of champagne like some reckless lifeline.

It is reckless. Even you can’t deny that. You’ve always been cautious when it comes to bringing a man home. But this isn’t just anyone. This is Spencer. Someone who already knows too many pieces of you, someone who doesn’t need to be deciphered or explained.

And maybe that’s why you couldn’t stop yourself from dragging him out of the bar.

The ride in the stuffy cab felt like an eternity and a blink at the same time that the moment your apartment door clicked shut behind you, his mouth was already on yours. You barely had time to process how surprisingly good he tasted before your clothes started to disappear.

It’s a dizzying rush of hands and heat, and you’re now standing over him, knees brushing his as he sinks into your couch.

Yes, your couch. The soft, slate-blue one you’ve spent countless evenings curled up on, legs tucked under a blanket, flipping through books or half-watching shows you never finish. But now it cradles a completely different weight—the heavy heat of him radiating with tension-laced curiosity and a barely contained lust that seems to bleed right into the fabric.

“I can’t believe I’m kissing you,” he mutters dazedly, trailing his lips along your jaw with a hand resting on your naked back.

“I can’t believe you can unhook my bra that fast.”

He catches the sheer black fabric now hanging haphazardly over your lamp where he’d tossed it aside moments ago. “It wasn’t that hard.”

“Should I be concerned about how much practice you’ve had?”

“Not really. I’m a fast learner.”

That, you believe. But you’re not entirely sure if it’s his innate skill or the way your body seems to respond to him so effortlessly that leaves your lungs feeling like they’ve forgotten how to work. Breathing is no longer instinctive now. It’s a function you have to remind yourself to do as his tongue dances along the curve of your breast, and by the time he takes the achingly hard tip into his mouth, your chest tightens.

You suck in a desperate need of oxygen while he sucks the last thread of composure from you.

“Sweet.”

“Huh?”

“You—” He pulls back just enough to let his teeth graze the delicate skin before soothing it with a slow drag of his tongue, “taste sweet.”

Your hand slides to the back of his neck with a sigh. “You’re exaggerating.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bodies don’t taste like anything, it’s skin.”

Spencer shakes his head as he cups the weight of your other breast with the same care you’ve come to expect from him. Taut nipple rolls under his thumb. “How do you explain this then?”

You don’t respond. Not with words, anyway. Your body speaks first as you arch into his touch, chasing the warmth of his hands before you can form any thoughts.

“How do you explain,” he continues, his lips trailing down the slope of your stomach, “why I can’t get enough of how sweet you taste?”

Your mind finally catches up, and the words settle over you like honey itself.

“You think so?”

“It’s not a thought, it’s a fact.” He presses a kiss to the soft skin just below your navel. “I don’t know how you can taste better than this.”

Your laugh is breathless, barely steady enough to be called one. “You’re laying it on thick now.”

“I’m just being honest.”

It’s cute how he says it with such conviction, like it’s the simplest truth in the world and not a line that’s turning your legs to liquid. Your knees threaten to buckle as you step away, reaching for the half-empty champagne bottle perched on the coffee table. The glass feels cool against your overheated skin as you twist the cork free.

“What are you doing?”

“Considering your words.” You hold up the bottle, the champagne fizzing invitingly at its neck. “What do you say we make this even sweeter?”

His eyes light up with interest. “Is this where you show me the right way to drink champagne?”

You nod and sink back between his thighs. “I know you’re not big on sharing food, but I think you’re gonna like this.”

“You do realize I’ll share anything with you.”

Your lips curl into a soft smile. You’ve already learned that kissing Spencer feels deliciously messy. It’s sloppy in the way passion tends to be when control is the last thing on either of your minds, with tongues and teeth colliding in an unpolished rhythm that’s as raw as it is consuming. Adding champagne to the equation doesn’t feel like much of a stretch.

You step forward at the same time his hands fall to your hips. “There’s a trick to drinking champagne.”

“I’m listening.”

The bottle’s rim grazes your lips as you take in his appearance. His shirt is wrinkled, hanging just a little more loosely around his chest with two buttons undone. He’s the very definition of disheveled that’s entirely your doing. He looks absolutely irresistible.

“You need to linger on the taste,” you start, your voice dipping into something softer as your eyes meet his again. “Be patient. Let it sit and overwhelm your senses before you swallow.”

“You mean marinate it in my mouth?”

A giggle burst out of you. “Exactly. The longer you let it linger, the more it softens, and the sweeter it gets.”

You tilt the bottle to your lips. The sweetness starts to bloom on your tongue, subtle at first, but then richer, fuller against the roof of your mouth. There's a flicker of recognition in his eyes when you pull him closer by the nape of his neck, the exact moment he realizes what you’re about to do.

Your lips meld seamlessly with his as the Champagne slips from your mouth.

His lashes flutter briefly. There’s a soft flush spreading across his pale cheeks, and you feel the faint hum of pleasure, vibrating against the delicate curve of his skin as a liquid thread drips down your chin.

And then you’re kissing him. Or he’s kissing you. It’s hard to tell who moved first, but it doesn’t matter. His lips part further, and you swear you can taste every nuance of the champagne in a way you've never experienced before. Sharp citrus, a whisper of honeyed sweetness, and beneath it all, something clean and cool that reminds you of first snowfalls.

His lips are swollen and wet and perfectly shiny when you finally pull back.

“What do you think?”

“I think we should drink champagne every day.”

Your hand drifts to the side of his neck with a smile, thumb brushing lightly against his pulse. “Even when we’re working?”

“Especially when we’re working,” he counters, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, tasting what’s left of you. His gaze flickers to the bottle in your hand. “Can I try it?”

You pass it to him, your eyes fixed on the way he tilts it to his mouth. You’re sure the bubbles in your system aren’t the reason your pulse races as he sets the bottle aside and rises to his feet. You’re also sure that no amount of champagne is responsible for the way your lips part eagerly when his hands cradle your cheeks.

There it is again—that sweetness. It hits you the moment his mouth captures yours, but it fully overwhelms you when he tilts his head and gently coaxes the champagne from his lips to yours.

You’re not surprised at how quickly he picks this up. It’s common knowledge that he’s a very diligent person, but it’s still a bit astonishing how he’s taken to playing with a drink he supposedly doesn’t even like. This is nothing like solving cases or flexing his impossibly sharp brain, nor the crosswords you’re used to seeing him hunched over at his desk at lunch.

This requires a different kind of finesse that involves his lips and tongue rather than a pen and paper.

It also seems like he might be enjoying this even more. He leans back just enough to let his tongue sweep across the seam of your lips, collecting the last trace of sweetness clinging to you.

A thumb swipes over the wet trail under chin. “I could get used to this.”

“Champagne or me?”

“Both.”

Satisfied with his answer, your fingers trail down to undo the last few buttons of his shirt. “Do you wanna try something else?”

He quirks an eyebrow as you push down the fabric down his shoulders. You don’t say anything all the while you start to unbuckle his belt, peeling every layer of his clothing until you’ve stripped him completely bare—and would you look at that? The faint trail of hair down his belly matches the scruff shadowing his jaw.

There’s a brief pause as your eyes travel down his body, lingering on his surprisingly impressive size, and a comment sits at the edge of your tongue. You decide to let your actions speak for you.

Your delicate fingers wrap around his delicious thickness. You swipe the first signs of precum glistening over his tip with your thumb, and a low sound of pleasure rumbles in his chest.

“Is this what you had in mind?”

He sounds like he’s in pain, and you shake your head with a playful smile curling at your lips. “Sit back on the couch.”

Spencer sinks into the cushion.

“This might get a little messy.”

His brow furrows slightly, and for a moment, he looks genuinely intrigued. What he doesn’t expect is the way you slowly pour the remaining liquid down your chest. His mouth parts in surprise, and then his gaze follows every single drop like it’s gravity itself pulling him in.

You’re mesmerizing. Always have been, actually. There is no doubt in Spencer’s mind that you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever met in his life. Your mind is brilliant. Your heart is kind. But watching the champagne mix with the sheen of sweat on your skin, you’re something else entirely. You look lethal. A different kind of captivating.

He’s already pulling you by the waist, and you’re a mass of giggles as you twist out of his grip to set the bottle safely aside. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Can you blame me?”

Honestly, you can’t. If the roles were reversed, you’d probably look at him the same way.

When his hands finally find your hips again, there’s no point in pretending you don’t want to be caught. You bend your knees and shift on the couch. He helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap.

Desperate is a good enough word to depict for him because as soon as you're close enough, he’s tasting you all over again. His tongue drags slow over the curve of your shoulder, across the hollow of your throat, and down to the soft swell of your breasts. Goosebumps ripple across your skin with every pass, every flick of his tongue, his touch leaving a trail of heat that you swear you can feel seeping into your bones.

You don’t even realize when you start to move until you feel the slow, unintentional rock of your hips into him. His cock fits snugly between your folds that you start grinding as the words fall from your lips without much thought, “What do you think of sex without a condom?”

His pupils dilated, lips parting, but no sound comes out right away.

"Spence?"

His gaze flickers to where your wet bodies are pressed together. Damp moisture from his tip smeared erotically between puffy lips, clear liquid coating his hard length.

“I think… it’s very intimate."

“Too intimate?”

"No." His fingers trail along your skin before his thumb settles just under your breast, in the delicate curve where your rib meets, and finally looks at you. "Is that what you want?"

You're bobbing your head up and down.

“Then I'd really, really like that.”

You shift your weight on your knees. “So you trust me?"

"More than anyone."

“I trust you too,” you say, your voice dipping low as your fingers wrap around his cock, guiding him to your entrance. “Can I request something, though?"

"Anything."

You pause just long enough for your words to land. “I don’t want you to come inside me.”

He exhales a soft laugh. “That can be arranged.”

His answer makes your lips twitch, but as you start to sink down, your body seems to have other ideas. There’s a resistance you didn’t expect, a sudden tautness that refuses to give.

Your eyes widen in surprise.

Oh my.

“What’s wrong?”

When you first wrapped your hand around him and took in the full reality of his size, you’d been impressed. Now you wonder if maybe you underestimated just how much he has to offer.

You bite the insides of your cheeks and try again.

“It’s been a while,” you confess quietly. You can’t even recall the last time you were this intimate with someone that the hesitation feels foreign, like a hiccup in a moment you’ve been eagerly anticipating.

And you are eager. Maybe a little too much. It feels almost ironic, considering how much you’ve thought about this, how your imagination has filled in the blanks a hundred times over. Now that it’s real, your body seems to be having second thoughts your mind absolutely isn’t entertaining.

You shift your hips, determination flaring as you take a slow breath. Left, right, up, down. But then a sharp sting shoots through you. Your face quickly twists into a grimace.

"Hey,” he calls gently, thumbs brushing gentle circles against your hip. “We can stop. You don’t have to push yourself.”

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? You want him to push past whatever invisible barrier your body is putting up. The idea of stopping now feels more unbearable than the sting itself.

Your lips press into a stubborn frown. “No,” you say firmly. “We are not stopping.”

"Are you sure?"

"Mhm. I think my body's just being weird. I'm sorry."

His brows knits together almost immediately. “I should be the one apologizing.”

Frustration suddenly wells up in your chest, and this time your teeth sinks into your lip, unsure whether it’s the tension in the muscles between your legs or the ache of wanting him that feels stronger.

And you want him. So fucking bad.

“You need to relax,” he soothes, running his hands up your waist, past your ribs, across your back.

“I am relaxed,” you huff.

“I don’t think you’re relaxed enough.”

Before you can respond, he carefully lifts you from his lap and settles you back onto the couch. The cushions dips under your weight, and you barely have time to process the change before he gracefully drops to the floor.

“Should we move to your bed?”

He grips one of your ankles, his thumb brushing along the soft curve of your bone before he leans down, pressing warm lips to the skin above it.

“After this,” you reply, glancing at the sticky champagne trail still glistening faintly on your skin. “Don’t want my sheets getting sticky.”

There’s a flicker of amusement on his handsome face. “After this?”

“Did you think we’d be stopping after one round?”

His laughter vibrates against your calf. “How many times are we talking then?”

“Until I can’t feel my legs.”

The smile he gives you is slow and warm. It curves one corner of his mouth first, almost shy, before spreading fully, lighting up his face in a way that steals the breath right from your lungs.

“You’d let me have my way with you all night?”

“I’d probably let you have me anytime you want.”

His grin is almost blinding that you can’t help but give him a pleased smile of your own.

“Let’s focus on tonight first.” He moves to your other the leg. Delicate bone and tendon brushes against his lips. “I need to get you ready for me. Would you let me do that?"

Words fail you as his mouth moves closer, and the heat of his breath against your skin makes your entire body tense in anticipation. He presses another open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

"You're still tense."

Kiss. Kiss.

“Really need you to relax.”

You try, but then again, it's impossible when his lips are so close, yet still not where you need them the most.

His name slips in a desperate whisper.

"Hm?"

"Stop teasing."

His lips quirk in response, but he doesn't argue.

He dips his head and finally— finally! —drags his tongue along your achingly wet folds. Your eyes almost roll to the back of your head.

"Better?"

The question is entirely rhetorical.

You don’t bother answering. Words seem sparse when his actions are spelling out everything you need to know in bold, underlined strokes. His touch is distinctly different from the playful, champagne-dampened kisses he had gifted your skin.

Now he’s utterly focused. He’s researching, and it appears his diligence isn’t confined to his academic when the same focus he applies to his studies is translated so flawlessly into reading your body like a favorite book. One he’s intent on memorizing every line of, delighting in every pause and whisper between the chapters of your sighs.

It’s this thought that tickles the back of your mind when he slips a finger in. He’s always been about comprehensive understanding, and well, you’re all about empirical evidence. Right now is proof of a hypothesis you’re too pleased to confirm that Spencer Reid might just be a genius in more ways than one.

Especially in how his steady thrust of his finger syncs perfectly with the hot, wet pull of his mouth, scratching such a carnal itch that it resonates deep in your brain. You sigh in pleasure when he adds another finger, and he lifts his head then, lips shiny and pink from his ministration.

"Do you think you can take a third?"

Your heart gives a few extra thuds in your chest cavity. “Please, please.”

Look at you, reducing yourself into begging, but really, how could you resist? Who could withstand the intensity of his gaze, the way his voice dips low like velvet wrapping around your senses?

Your head tips back against the couch, a soft whimper lashing out as he adds that third finger. The stretch is almost overwhelming but oh so good.

"Does it hurt?"

You let out a loud exhale. "No."

"Tell me if it hurts."

"Feels good." Your legs fall apart even further. "Don't stop."

He smiles, and then he's doing things to your body that have you questioning how you're even still breathing. The wet, sticky slosh of your arousal fills the room, a sound so explicit it should mortify you. But then three knuckles press deeper, stroking against that rougher patch of nerves and all rational thought dissolves.

A sound you didn't even know you could make escapes your throat. You're gasping, moaning, a little bit squealing as his free hand slides up your plush thigh before finding your puffy clit. And dear god, you’re choking on the breath that lodges in your throat. You're so close it's almost unbearable. A hand shoots out, and you’re gripping his forearm with a desperation you can't even pretend to hide.

You need him inside you.

“I'm ready," you gasp harshly, your lips parting in quick, desperate puffs. "I'm ready. I’m ready.”

He has the audacity to shake his head.

"I'll decide when you're ready."

Your breath stutters even more.

Why does that sound so hot? Why does that simple, infuriatingly calm statement make your thighs clench, your pulse race, and a fresh wave of heat roll through your body?

Before you know it, he’s coaxing your orgasm from you with just the right pressure, and every movement feels like it’s designed to bring you right to the edge. You’re not surprised by how wet you are, you’ve been dripping for what feels like hours. But what does surprise you is just how much your body can take. The intensity that doesn’t wane, that keeps pushing you higher, drawing out gasp after gasp until hot syrup gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his fingers, down to the couch.

It’s endless, relentless, and you can’t even tell where one orgasm ends and the next begins. Your hand claw at his wrist.

“Spencer,” you whine, your voice breaking on the syllables. “Sensitive.”

He stops immediately, his fingers still inside you, his other hand slipping from your clit to rest on your thigh. “Too much?”

“A little,” you smile breathlessly. “C’mere.”

He crawls towards you as you lay on your back, relaxing your thighs.

His eyes trail over you, scanning your sweat-slicked skin, lingering on your perky breasts, moving down to where your legs are fallen apart, waiting for him. The sight is so overwhelmingly enticing that he finds himself wrapping a hand around his cock, muttering a low praise under his breath, “I don’t think I’ve told you how beautiful you are.”

Your eyes flick downward, and a spark of confidence—or maybe pure desperation—pushes your reply out without hesitation.

“Tell me again while you fuck me.”

You’re so blunt and shameless that a part of you might have blushed if you weren’t so far gone. Spencer doesn’t seem fazed, though. If anything, his eyes flash with a knowing sparkle that only deepens as he presses his bulbous head right at the shy of your entrance.

“I think I’m going to enjoy telling you,” he muses.

And Spencer is one to keep his promises.

He thinks you’re devastatingly pretty when he’s sinking into you. There’s a dazed look in your glossy eyes, and the sweetest sound coming from your lips as he stretches you in a way that leaves no part of you untouched.

He sings praises under his breath when the heavy weight of him finally settles deep inside your body. He patiently waits as your walls flutter around him, all the while his lips brushes the delicate curve of your collarbone, between low, broken whispers of how perfect you are.

Although perfection might not even capture the essence of what he sees in you at this moment. You’re a breathtaking array of contradictions. Powerful and vulnerable, fierce yet tender. You’re nothing short of divine as he gives another smooth, long thrust that pulls a sound from your lips that he knows will echo in his mind long after.

The heat of you surrounds him completely, and he swears he feels every pulse of your body welcoming him deeper. You’re slathering his entire cock with your slippery slick, and the dampness imprinting against his pelvis only seems to spur him on. He moves in steady, languid strokes, and your toes curl at the sensation burning in your belly.

He’s hitting you so good your ankles find themselves running down his back.

“Spence,” your voice is raspy and wet. “Fuck me harder.”

His quiet groan harmonizes with the rhythm of your heart. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t—”

You stop, and he looks through the mist of bliss you've shrouded him in. Your face twists, eyes going wide, lips parted to take in sharp breaths. He panics for a moment.

“You’re in pain,” he decides, reading the way your brows knit together, the way your breath stutters in your chest. It seems the most logical conclusion—until he realizes how wrong he is.

Because you’re writhing under his weight when he pushes in deeper, and your mouth trembles, not with discomfort, but with something devastatingly good.

“Oh,” he exhales. His smile is uncharacteristically smug. “It’s not pain, is it?”

You shake your head.

“You want it rough.”

It’s more of a statement than it is a question, but you’re nodding vigorously.

His restraint snaps like a frayed thread.

The next thrust is sharper, it pounds into you with enough force to shift your body slightly back against the cushions. Your lips mouth around another shaky breath he drinks dry with a wet kiss.

Still. Not. Enough.

“Harder,” you slur against his tongue.

What’s a hot-blooded man to do when asked so sweetly? He answers in the only way he can.

A hand curls around the back of your knee to pull you open just enough for him to drive deeper. The angle makes you feel impossibly full, how the folds of your vulva hugs around his shaft greedily, letting him claim all the space you didn’t even know existed. You can even feel the wet drag of his cock against your swollen clit with each hard thrust, a sensation so piercing it rips a gasp from your throat and a plethora of groans wailing from the couch.

“Like this?”

The relentless thwack-thwack-thwack of skins colliding is making you delirious.

“Yes,” you cry out. “Fuck—Yes. Yes.”

Your vision blurs as you blink, and—god, you think you might actually cry. And honestly, with how full you feel, with how every nerve is sparking to life under his loud rhythm, it wouldn’t even surprise you.

Your lashes feel wet as you squeeze your eyes shut, but you force them back open, unwilling to miss the way he looks above you. Jaw tight, sweat beading at his temples, eyes locked on you like nothing else exists.

Nothing probably does, not when he moves with a rhythm that feels both gentle and crude, like he’s savoring every second so sweetly while simultaneously chasing the most carnal kind of pleasure known to mankind.

Pleasure that has you melting, pleasure that has your body fully acclimating to his size. And now you’re teetering on the edge of another intense orgasm that begins its ascent from the tips of your toes and fingertips, spiraling a tingling rush up through your legs and arms, gathering force at the pit of your stomach, and exploding into the point where you’re intimately connected.

It happens all at once.

You’re trembling.

You’re shattering.

You’re pathetically whining.

Euphoria floods every inch of your body until you’re drowning in it. A liquid fire in your veins. Your cunt clenches around him, so tight you swear you feel every ridge and vein of his cock as keeps pressing you into the couch. Again and again and again, until you’re nothing but an incoherent mess, your words blabbered in a breathless rush of pleasure-induced nonsense.

One heartbeat stretches into two, then the muscles in his arms flexes as his pace falters. He’s shaking now, his pelvis moving in hurried, shallow thrusts as though he’s chasing something he can’t quite reach before the heat of him presses into you one last time.

He abruptly pulls out, his cock visibly pulsing in his hand and strokes himself with a stuttering groan as thick, pearly ropes splutters across your stomach. His fingers dig deeper into the back of your thigh while he continues to paint your skin in messy streaks, and you watch in fascination the moment his head tilts back in pure, unfiltered pleasure.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him quite this beautiful.

His brows pinches in concentration for a few more seconds before his gaze slowly meets yours again, and a faint, blissful pink colors his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly, looking a little out of breath. Devastatingly handsome and sweaty. Flustered in the best way.

You brush the damp hair sticking to his skin with a small, satisfied smile. “Are you kidding? That was extremely hot.”

His laughter fills every corner in the room. Then his hand drift down a comforting path down your thigh as he leans to capture the giggle tumbling from your lips with his own. It’s then you realize that kissing Spencer isn’t just enjoyable, it’s downright addictive.

You’re beginning to think he’s just as addicted to you too, because when he pulls away, it’s reluctant, his lips leaving yours with a faint, wet sound that lingers as sweetly as the kiss itself.

“Will you really let me have my way with you all night?” he asks gently, and you can’t help but wonder why he even feels the need to ask.

“Was I not obvious enough?”

You feel his smile before you see it. “Bedroom now?”

To tangle your naked limbs with his again sounds pretty close to heaven. Absolute, indulgent heaven, except for the distinct stickiness of champagne, sweat, and a cocktail of other body fluids clinging to your skin. The thought of sinking into cool clean sheets in this state makes your nose scrunch.

“We need to make a stop to the bathroom first,” you say, running a hand up his arm to squeeze his bicep. “Have you ever tried shower sex?”

“Can’t say that I have,” he admits truthfully.

You make a sound of disapproval.

“We definitely need to change that.”

-

Spencer realizes a lot of things can change in one night.

He also discovers how much he’s capable of learning in such a short period of time. Granted, he’s always been a quick study, but this is different. The hours between midnight and sunrise completely upend his understanding of things he’d only ever read about—sex, intimacy, the intricacies of how touch can feel as much like a language as words.

But beyond the newfound knowledge (and let’s face it, an entirely new appreciation for his muscles), there’s something else. Something that surprises him even more.

He likes waking up with another warm body beside him. More than likes it. There’s a strange kind of peace in the way your leg drapes over his, your hair a tousled mess against the pillow. Peace that makes him wonder if this, too, is something he could get used to.

Even if you’re hogging the blanket. He can feel the cool air on his back while you’re wrapped in most of the covers, leaving him to soak up whatever body heat he can steal by staying pressed against you. Not that he’s complaining. He’d happily stay like this for hours, but the sun is already creeping higher through your window, and your phone has been vibrating nonstop ever since he opened his eyes.

The sheets rustle as he shifts closer, mouth puffing warmly on your cheek with a breath of your name folding into your skin. You blink through heavy eyelids, and Spencer thinks you look adorable all wrapped up like a cocoon in the tangled linens.

“Hey," you croak, then clear your throat. “Morning.”

The soft rasp of your voice is even as endearing as the sight of you.

“I think we’ve already passed morning,” he says, slipping a hand under the covers, finding the goosebumps prickling on your upper arm.

“We slept in?”

“My guess is it’s almost noon.” There’s another buzz vibrating from the bedside table that stops him from pressing you against his chest. “Someone keeps calling you.”

He wonders if you can sense the slight annoyance in his voice. He wonders if he even has the right to be annoyed. It's Saturday. You clearly have plans—or at least someone thinks you do based on how persistent they've been.

If you catch the flicker of irritation in his voice, you don’t acknowledge it. You stretch lazily for your phone instead, and his attention is momentarily snagged by the way the sheet slips down your shoulder, revealing the constellation of freckles and moles he’s spent the entire night memorizing with his lips.

"Nobody’s calling.” Your thumb scrolls through the notifications. "Penelope just doesn't understand the concept of personal space when she texts."

Spencer feels the tightness in his shoulders ease, though he doesn't miss the way your eyes narrow into sleepy slits at the screen.

"Oh."

That one syllable is enough to set his mind buzzing.

"What?"

"Um."

It’s the subtle crack in your voice that hooks him. He’s never been good at sitting with unanswered questions, especially not when your expression shifts just enough to make him wonder what could possibly warrant that little noise.

He finally curls an arm around your waist, and the faint trace of your scent fills his lungs as he gently draws you back against his chest. A relentless stream of messages glares up at him over your shoulder.

Penelope [Sent 23:37]: Where are you?? Penelope [Sent 23:45]: Is reid with you? Penelope [Sent 00:05]: Did you leave? WITH HIM?? Penelope [Sent 00:17]: You did, didn't you? Penelope [Sent 00:33]: You can’t just vanish like this, you know I have questions!!!

Spencer barely registers the way his hand drifts down to rest against your stomach. He pulls you in unconsciously as his eyes scan over the flood of texts that started piling up this morning.

Penelope [Sent 09:19]: Good morning. Penelope [Sent 09:25]: Answer me. Penelope [Sent 10:24]: Seriously, are you alive? Penelope [Sent 10:39]: YOU OWE ME DETAILS. Penelope [Sent 10:48]: Last chance. Calling you in ten.

"I think she's onto us."

It’s not so much a matter of thought as it is a fact. Your words are less a theory and more a confirmation of reality, as undeniable as the relentless stream of texts lighting up your phone.

"What should I tell her?"

Spencer leans in closer. The soft scent of your shampoo drifts up, clean and faintly sweet, wrapping itself around him in a way that makes his chest ache, though he’s not sure why. He’s inhaling everything—your warmth, the curve of your shoulder brushing his chest, the way your voice carries an edge of hesitation that feels so out of place for someone like you.

And that’s what truly catches him off guard. Not the fact that Penelope is practically banging on a metaphorical door with her texts, but that you’re hesitating. You, who rarely second-guess yourself, now unsure about sharing the details of last night with one of closest people in your life.

Or maybe the surprise lies closer to home. How easily the words form in his own mind, bypassing the overthinking that usually rules him.

He has ten minutes to think before Penelope supposedly calls, but he doesn’t need ten minutes, or even ten seconds, because the answer is already there, so obvious it practically tumbles out of him.

"The truth," he hums against the crown of your hair. "You should tell her the truth."

You’re quiet for a while.

“Are you sure?"

For someone who invited him into your home, who let him press you into the couch cushions, spread you out on the cool tiles of the bathroom, and pull every sound he wanted from you on the soft give of your mattress—on your back, your front, even sideways—you seem awfully uncertain now. Very out of character.

So what’s changed this morning? Is it the stale morning breath he’s sure he hasn’t fixed yet? The mess of his curls sticking up in every direction from a night spent pressed into your pillows?

Or is it something much deeper that he hasn’t quite put his finger on?

The thought clings to him as his thumb brushes your stomach. "I’m sure," he says. "Are you?"

You hesitate for a beat too long, and that tiny pause lands heavy on his chest.

"This is going to change everything," you finally say, sounding somewhat like a warning.

He frowns. "Didn’t you want it to?"

"I did. I do." You pull in a breath that shakes on the way out. "Maybe we should discuss this before we say anything to anyone."

Your phone slips quietly onto the bed as you twist in his arms. Face to face.

"Do you like me?"

What kind of question is that?

"Did I seem not to like you last night?"

"No, Spencer, I need to hear it. Do you like me?"

He studies the delicate fold between your brows. He watches the quiver on your parted lips. And your eyes—watery and glossy and wide. Soft lashes framing the quiet expanse of irises that shimmer like glass.

He knows what you need. Spencer has spent most of his entire life reading people, pulling truths out of their silences and decoding what they can’t (or won’t) say. And even though he hates applying that skill to you, he knows this isn’t just about reassurance. You’re not only questioning what happened between you last night. You’re questioning what comes next.

The time glares from your phone over your shoulder: six minutes. That’s all he has to convince you that his feelings go far beyond fleeting lust or the heady haze of alcohol. Six minutes before Penelope inevitably interrupts.

But he’s not the greatest with words, is he?

Sure, he’s read more books than most people will touch in a lifetime. He can recite Edgar Allan Poe by heart and dissect layers of meaning in Dostoevsky’s prose like it’s second nature. But his own feelings don’t come wrapped in poetic declarations. That’s not who he is.

What he can do, though, is tell you the truth.

“You know how you told me I could have you anytime I want?”

A strand of hair brushes against your cheek as you nod.

“You’ve already had me from the very beginning.”

Your gaze softens, then you sigh sweetly, and he knows without a doubt that the truth is exactly what you need. “Before all the sex?”

“Before we even kissed.”

The distance between you slowly becomes nonexistent. You slot your knee between his thighs, a lick of smile curling at the corner of your lips.

“So… when I ran my foot up your leg?”

His lopsided smile is no different from yours. “No.”

“Last week when I wore your cardigan because the AC got too cold?”

“You looked really pretty in it, but no.”

“Last month?”

“Even before that.”

You click your tongue. “Give me a clue. A hint.”

But you don’t need clues. Clues are for puzzles, for cases that demand solving. This has never been a mystery. He’s known it for longer than he cares to admit, and he wonders if you’re asking because you genuinely don’t see it or because you just want to hear him say it.

Either way, he’ll happily say the truth as plainly as it exists in his mind.

“From the moment you joined the team.” You pause for just a heartbeat, and he reaches out to brush away the stray of hair slipping down into your eyes. “You probably didn't notice, but I couldn't stop staring at you.”

“You’re lying,” you accuse softly.

“I’m a terrible liar.”

He watches as you mull over his words. He knows you’re trying to decide whether to believe him, though he doesn’t think it’s really a question of if. You already know he’s telling the truth.

Your voice is awfully quiet that he has to perk his ears for it.

“What took you so long then?”

Because while he’s a terrible liar, he’s always been painfully good at keeping his heart to himself. Years of compartmentalizing, of burying emotions under layers of logic and detachment, have made it almost second nature. And maybe that’s why it took him so long.

That, and bad timing.

Countless abductions.

A never-ending chase after unsubs.

Death of a team mate.

And prison.

God, prison.

He wonders if these are valid reasons or just excuses. Had there ever been a perfect moment? Or had he let his fears and the chaotic nature of his job push his personal happiness to the sidelines too often?

The words knot in his throat, and in the end, all he can muster is an apology.

“I’m sorry.”

For waiting so long.

For not saying this sooner.

For only finding the courage to make a move under the guise of flirtation and champagne.

He’s selfish. He is. Because he's reaching for you based on his time, his terms, waiting until he was ready to fit you neatly into his schedule. But you simply shake your head. Because that's what you are, isn't it?

You’re selfless, and so profoundly lovely that you offered yourself to him last night without reservation. And now you’re even more radiant, wrapped in the soft light of vulnerability, tinged with doubt, yet always so giving. Pulling him closer to your chest with a hand on his back. Fingers splay across his skin, nails dragging idly along his spine.

“Don’t be,” you reply, feeling his body expand and deflate under your palm when he breathes. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

See? Selfless. The least he can do now is give you back the words you need to hear, the assurance you deserve to hear. Your foreheads press together, and he reverently lays his hand on your cheek, spreading lean fingers into your hair.

“If you must know, I do like you.”

But the word feels so inadequate for what he’s finally trying to tell you. Like doesn't even scratch the surface of how much space you take up in his mind.

"I more than like you,” he decides to add.

It doesn’t take long before you kiss him. Soft petals bloom warmly against his mouth, puffing humid breath he tastes on his tongue. A blissful moan he swallows greedily, lets it settle deep in his chest, his bones, his veins, filling every corner of him with the sweetest weight of you.

A flutter of lashes skims against his cheekbone when you tilt your head, pulling back by the barest inch. “You’ve made a huge mistake, by the way.”

The pad of his fingers presses gently on your scalp. “Why?”

“You’re never getting rid of me now.”

His thumb moves against your hairline as he takes in your words. For a moment, all he can do is absorb them, replay them, savor them. Then his eyes soften, the corners crinkling with genuine delight, and he lets out a soft huff of laughter that melts right into the narrow space between you.

He scoots impossibly closer, hoping your skin will somehow mold with his. Because after all the surprisingly creative positions he discovered with you last night, it’s the only conclusion he can come to: you fit into him. Perfectly. Soft curves finding their place against the lines of his frame, every piece of you adhering like glue to his skin.

Chest to chest, nose to nose, and lips so maddeningly close to yours that he can still taste the warmth of your breath, sweet and intoxicating in its nearness. It’s enough to drive him a little insane, though he’d argue he’s always been slightly off-center where you’re concerned.

His fingers twitch, ready to close that infinitesimal gap when the sharp buzz of your phone suddenly slices through the moment.

Six minutes.

That’s all the time the universe has granted him, and it’s woefully too short.

"Might need to block her number," you mutter under your breath as you shift slightly to reach for your phone. He watches the way your fingers fly over the screen rapidly before placing the device back on the side table.

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth." Then you drop on him like a dead weight, limbs tangling in the most inconvenient ways until your head is tucked in the crook of his neck. "Also sent her an eggplant and water emoji.”

A crease forms between his brows. “What does that mean?”

You fail to keep in your laughter. “You don’t want to know.”

He’s fairly certain he does want to know. In fact, he’s starting to realize he wants to know everything about you now that you’ve given him the chance. Beyond the pull of bodies and the way they slot together so seamlessly, beyond the electricity of skin against skin.

Though he can’t deny his curiosity at one precise moment, the way you’d slightly gasped when his fingers accidentally brush around the base of your throat. He wouldn’t mind knowing what that meant for you, and, surprisingly, what that even implied for himself.

But as intriguing as that is, it’s not what lingers the most. It’s the subtleties he wants to unravel, the pieces of you he hadn’t even realized he’d been aching to explore.

Your wit, your thoughts, your mind—that lovely, intricate thing he’s admired for so long. Full of nuances and depths he hadn’t even realized he’d only been skimming the surface of. He’s sure there’s something far greater than even his endless mind could have imagined that ties to the beautiful shape of you.

And you’re so beautiful. He’s known that for years, but mere hours ago, he learned it in an entirely new language. Even when he understands seven different ways the world chooses to communicate and speaks four fluently, yours is his favorite.

Yours doesn’t need words or perfect pronunciation. It’s instinctive and warm, written in every sigh, every glance, every unspoken verse that linger in the subtle shift of your body. In every nuance of your taste.

God, your taste.

He knows you’re right, skin can’t be sweet. The dichotomy isn’t lost in him. Yet it doesn’t matter, because not even the crisp, effervescent bite of champagne compares to the warmth of you. Not even sugar, and he basically lives on sugar. In chocolate-sprinkled donuts that he grabs on the way to work, in the endless cups of coffee that fuel his day.

You’re something else entirely, beyond comprehension.

And if one night was enough to saccharine his senses with you, he can only imagine what forever could do.

[fictionstudent]

How to pull off descriptions

New authors always describe the scene and place every object on the stage before they press the play button of their novels. And I feel that it happens because we live in a world filled with visual media like comics and films, which heavily influence our prose.

In visual media, it’s really easy to set the scene—you just show where every object is, doesn’t matter if they’re a part of the action about to come or not. But prose is quite different from comics and films. You can’t just set the scene and expect the reader to wait for you to start action of the novel. You just begin the scene with action, making sure your reader is glued to the page.

And now that begs the question—if not at the beginning, where do you describe the scene? Am I saying you should not use descriptions and details at all? Hell naw! I’m just saying the way you’re doing it is wrong—there’s a smarter way to pull off descriptions. And I’m here to teach that to you.

***

#01 - What are descriptions?

Let’s start with the basics—what are descriptions? How do you define descriptions? Or details, for that matter? And what do the words include?

Descriptions refer to… descriptions. It’s that part of your prose where you’re not describing something—the appearance of an object, perhaps. Mostly, we mean scene-descriptions when we use the term, but descriptions are more than just scene-descriptions.

Descriptions include appearances of characters too. Let’s call that character-descriptions.

Both scene-descriptions and character-descriptions are forms of descriptions that we regularly use in our prose. We mostly use them at the beginning of the scene—just out of habit.

Authors, especially the newer ones, feel that they need to describe each and every nook and cranny of the place or character so they can be visualized clearly by their readers, right as the authors themselves visualized them. And they do that at the start of the scene because how can you visualize a scene when you don’t know how the scene looks first.

And that’s why your prose is filled with how the clouds look or what lights are on the room before you even start with the dialogues and action. But the first paragraph doesn’t need to be a simple scene-description—it makes your prose formulaic and predictable. And boring. Let me help you with this.

***

#02 - Get in your narrator’s head

The prose may have many MCs, but a piece of prose only has a single narrator. And these days, that’s mostly one of the characters of your story. Who uses third-person omniscient narrator these days anyway? If that’s you, change your habits.

Anyway, know your narrator. Flesh out their character. And then internalize them—their speech and stuff like that. Internalize your narrator to such an extent that you can write prose from their point-of-view.

Now, I don’t mean to say that only your narrator should be at the center of the scene—far from it. What I mean is you should get into your narrator’s head.

You do not describe a scene from the eyes of the author—you—but from the eyes of the narrator. You see from their eyes, and understand what they’re noticing. And then you write that.

Start your scene with what the narrator is looking at.

For example,

The dark clouds had covered the sky that day. The whole classroom was in shades of gray—quite unusual for someone like Sara who was used to the sun. She felt the gloom the day had brought with it—the gloom that no one else in her class knew of.

She never had happy times under the clouds like that. Rain made her sad. Rain made her yearn for something she couldn’t put into words. What was it that she was living for? Money? Happiness?

As she stared at the sky through the window, she was lost in her own quiet little corner. Both money and happiness—and even everything else—were temporary. All of it would leave her one day, then come back, then leave, then come back, like the waves of an ocean far away from any human civilization in sight.

All of it would come and go—like rain, it’d fall on her, like rain, it’d evaporate without proof.

And suddenly, drops of water began hitting the window.

You know it was a cloudy day, where it could rain anytime soon. You know that for other students, it didn’t really matter, but Sara felt really depressed because of the weather that day. You know Sara was at the corner, dealing with her emotions alone.

It’s far better than this,

The dark clouds covered the sky that day. It could rain anytime soon.

From her seat at the corner of the room, Sara stared at the sky that made everything gray that day. She…

The main reason it doesn’t work is that you describe the scene in the first paragraph, but it’s devoid of any emotions. Of any flavor. It’s like a factual weather report of the day. That’s what you don’t want to do—write descriptions in a factual tone.

If you want to pull off the prior one, get to your narrator’s head. See from their eyes, think from their brain. Understand what they’re experiencing, and then write that experience from their POV.

Sara didn’t care what everyone was wearing—they were all probably in their school uniforms, obviously, so I didn’t describe that. Sara didn’t focus on how big the classroom was, or how filled, or what everybody was doing. Sara was just looking at the clouds and the clouds alone, hearing everybody just living their normal days, so I mentioned just those things.

As the author, you need to understand that only you, the author are the know-it-all about the scene, not your narrator. And that you’re different from your narrator.

Write as a narrator, not as an author.

***

#03 - Filler Words

This brings me to filler words. Now, hearing my advice, you might start writing something like this,

Sarah noticed the dark clouds through the window. She saw that they’d saturated the place gray.

Fillers words like “see”, “notice”, “stare”, “hear” should be ignored. But many authors who begin writing from the POV of the characters start using these verbs to describe what the character is experiencing.

But remember, the character is not cognizant of the fact that they’re seeing a dark cloud, just that it’s a dark cloud. You don’t need these filler words—straight up describe what the character is seeing, instead of describing that the character is seeing.

Just write,

There were dark clouds on the other end of the window, which saturated the place gray.

Sarah is still seeing the clouds, yeah. But we’re looking from her eyes, and her eyes ain’t noticing that she’s noticing the clouds.

It’s kinda confusing, but it’s an important mistake to avoid. Filler words can really make your writing sound more amateurish than before and take away the experience of the reader, because the reader wants to see through the narrator’s eyes, not that the narrator is seeing.

***

#04 - Characters

Character-descriptions are a lot harder to pull off than scene-descriptions. Because it’s really confusing to know when to describe them, their clothing, their appearances, and what to tell and what not to.

For characters, you can give a full description of their looks. Keep it concise and clear, so that your readers can get a pretty good idea of the character with so few words that they don’t notice you’ve stopped action for a while.

Or can show your narrator scanning the character, and what they noticed about them.

Both these two tricks only work when a character is shown first time to the readers. After that, you don’t really talk about their clothing or face anymore.

Until there’s something out of the ordinary about your character.

What do I mean by that? See, you’ve described the face and clothes of the character, and the next time they appear, the reader is gonna imagine the character in a similar set of clothes, with the same face and appearance that they had the first time. Therefore, any time other than the first, you don’t go into detail about the character again. But, if something about your character is out of ordinary—there are bruises on their face, scars, or a change in the way they dress—describe it to the reader. That’s because your narrator may notice these little changes.

***

#05 - Clothing

Clothing is a special case. Some new authors describe the clothes of the characters when they’re describing the character every time the reader sees them. So, I wanna help you with this.

Clothing can be a way to show something about your character—a character with a well-ironed business suit is gonna be different from a character with tight jeans and baggy t-shirt. Therefore, only use clothing to tell something unique about the character.

Refrain from describing the clothing of characters that dress like most others. Like, in a school, it’s obvious that all characters are wearing school uniforms. Also, a normal teenage boy may wear t-shirts and denim jeans. If your character is this, no need to describe their clothing—anything the reader would be imagining is fine.

Refrain from describing the clothing of one-dimensional side-characters—there’s a high chance you’ve not really created them well enough that they have clothing that differs from the expectations of the readers. We all know what waiters wear, or what a college guy who was just passing by in the scene would be wearing.

You may describe the clothing of the important character in the story, but only in the first appearance. After that, describe their clothes only if the clothes seem really, really different from the first time. And stop describing their clothes if you’ve set your character well enough in the story that your readers know what to expect from them in normal circumstances—then, describe clothes only when they’re really, really different from their usual forms of clothing.

***

#06 - Conclusion

I think there was so much I had to say in this article, but I didn’t do a good job. However, I said all that I wanted to say. I hope you guys liked the article and it helps you in one way or the other.

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