#THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING ILYSM
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hoshiina · 1 year ago
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pairing: akatsuki hyoga x gn!reader (no prns)
summary: hyoga thinks very poorly of being in love, but he's in love with you
warnings: hyoga is a little sweet at the end
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Hyoga did not like the idea of love— it was only natural for someone who thought like he did. It was illogical and people acted irrationally because of it. If anything, he looked down on those in love because he genuinely thought they were losing their minds to some silly feelings. To him, love was always something for the weak, not for the strong who had things to be doing. Important things.
Which is why he thought you were so horribly stupid to be confessing to him. If one thing wasn't going to work, it was that. Yet, no matter how many times he told you that you were being silly and he wouldn't return your feelings, you just wouldn't back down. Almost daily, you'd find a way to tell him your feelings again.
He hated it so much, everything about it upset him, but somehow he wasn't able to push you away. Your daily greetings and conversations made him far happier than he would like to admit, and that annoyed him greatly. He was not supposed to be feeling joy from someone else, and definitely not supposed to be looking forward to seeing you. Illogical, irrational, thoughts.
These thoughts alone already annoyed him— he hadn't even dared to think he was in love. Never would he be in love, and definitely not with you. Yet, deep inside he knew. He knew that if you were to stop one day he'd probably give in and blurt out these emotions he's been hiding from even himself. He wasn't ready for that, but more importantly, he wasn't ready to see you give up on him. He knew he was being illogical and annoying, not wanting to admit his feelings to return yours, but also not wanting you to move on to someone else. He knew he was being hopelessly selfish, but he just didn't know what to do. He had never been in love before.
The next day when you confessed your love for him all over again, like it was the first and this hadn't been going on for weeks now, the thought alone that he might harbour feelings for you flustered him to no extent. He didn't mean to act so cold and push you away, but he just didn't know how to act. He had no idea what to do, but he knew he'd rather die than show it on his face.
"Hey, Hyoga?" you asked, voice serious.
He stopped to listen and turned his head your way.
"I know you're not fond of me doing this every day, but is it really a nuisance to you? If it is, I'll stop..." you said carefully.
You were trying not to cry, he could tell. He's heard you every day so he knew you well enough to know that much. But this was exactly what he was dreading and he brought it upon himself. Why couldn't he act like he normally did? Why were you affecting the way he acted? Everything irritated him until it made so much sense.
He was in love with you, and there was no denying it anymore.
"Please be blunt about it, I'll feel better that way," you said, but then smiled immediately after. "I guess I don't have to worry about that with you, though. You don't know how to sugarcoat your words anyway."
He didn't know what to say and how to tell you how he felt, so it came out blunt and honest, just like you had asked for it to be. It wasn't the kind that he liked— it came out far too uncollected and in a fluster, but it was his genuine thoughts.
"I think I'm in love with you, and that scares me to death," he said.
"What?" you ask, not believing your ears.
"I will not be repeating that," Hyoga said and turned away. He genuinely believed you were going to run after him and squeal like you always do, but you didn't.
"You won't take it back, though?" You said quietly and he immediately turned around. He knew you were crying. He didn't mean to make you cry— that was the last thing he wanted to do.
"You just said to be blunt, so I was," he said. "Please don't cry."
"I am so in love with you," you said, looking straight into his eyes.
"Even after I made you cry?"
"These are the happiest tears I will ever cry."
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milkywayes · 1 month ago
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so darling dearest beloved @hephaestn made me the best bookmark in existence
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robin-buckleys · 6 months ago
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𖤓˚𓅆𓇢𓆸 navigation ⋆.˚𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋⋆☾
☼𓋼𓍊 𓆏𖧧 hi I'm caitlyn! ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ -ོ 𓅰
☆ tracking: #usercaitlyns
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☆ links:
my blogs
my creations
navigation
series by episode/character/etc
blogroll
tagged in
media tracker (still working on this)
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☆ castlegc:
my most absolute beloveds who changed my life forever and mean the entire world to me (genuinely can't thank you all enough for being the best people in my life ILYILYILY !!!):
♡ @charliexspring ♡ @ellaxlopez ♡ @elliewlliams ♡ @gaygentdanvrs ♡ @jemmaasimmons ♡ @laffertys ♡ @laurenxgerman ♡ @leojfitz ♡ @mauraeyk ♡ @mazykeen ♡ @richcrdcastle ♡ @salvatoreselena ♡ @trixiedeckerstar ♡ @twelverriver ♡ @useragarfield ♡ @useryoumna ♡ @violet-bridgerton ♡ @youkilledpetunia ♡
☆ mutuals: also here
If we’re moots, ILY (even if we’ve never talked!!) p.s please don’t be scared to message me whenever, I don’t bite. We can be awkward together akdjfjjd!!! I wanna hear about the things you love or whatever you wanna scream/fan girl about or how your day’s going or literally anything you want to tell me!! I care and I want to listen !! ♡ anyways thanks so much for following me and I’m glad we somehow found each other on this hellsite! Muah!! Sending a big hug your way besties!!!
@28goldens @amalgamads-aneacc @ashleyyroses @bestofcastle @biathecreature @chippythedog @calia-lynn @charliexspring @daomaikeng @delphines @dreamersdivingheadfirst @dxnny-art @esmealux @elliewlliams @evenasyoungastheyare @greenforestworshipper @ghost-roads @haroldsmoon @huggieshalo @holyshit @horancover @harrysmaison @handgf @harrysputa @icarusinterlude @justthinkingaboutlouis @lululawrence @lebesyej @laurenxgerman @lassos-welton @leojfitz @laffertys @laurens-german @lavenderberries @larriescompass @lucy-mclean @mauraeyk @mayasbishop @morningstaraurora @mazykeen @moon-sun-thyme @niallonlyknows @pearlblue2 @pocketsized-healer @pop-punklouis @sason-judeikis @suesheroll @salvatoreselena @stedelasso @sneaky-salty-bitch @stayprettyandsmile @starrynightniall @sunshineysprinkles @sharpesjoy @softcherubhips @seeleybooth @sunmoonandrainbows @sthabit @sunsmile-lou @tomlinshires @thelarrielouie @trixiedeckerstar @toherlover @useryoumna @useragarfield @violet-bridgerton @welllbeafineline @wecantalktomorrow @wendersfive @youkilledpetunia @zourried
*if you're on this list and confused why I tagged you it's bc you follow one of my sideblogs lmao
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☆ about me:
pronouns: she/her
animal & nature lover, directioner since 2011 (ot5), biologist and photographer by day - fangirl blogger at all other times, scorpio
music: love pop, rock, lofi, really just anything tbh, I'm literally always listening to music ALWAYS
shows: castle, lucifer, obx, ted lasso, young royals, virgin river, sex education, psych, adow, heartstopper, bridgerton, & sooo many more
movies: the little mermaid, anyone but you, pride & prejudice, sleeping with other people, la la land, the greatest showman, shazam, narnia, barbie & a ton more
watch list/to read list: NEVER ENDING (but listen...I am always open to suggestions...honestly please send me reccs I would absolutely love to hear what you guys have to say/what you're currently into)
drafts/queue: also never ending (the struggle is soooo real being in so many fandoms afsjjgk)
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I’d love to make more friends on here, please say hi! I'd love to talk & make new friends (although I suck at replying quickly akjdfl but I def still wanna chat w you)
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archituck · 4 months ago
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literally had the most amazing time of my life seeing KGLW live w/ @arrowmntic in Portland tonight. i love them so much they are so funny and cool it was a true dream :,) :,)
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smoments · 1 year ago
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✧ part 16 (final part): memories of a stranger // a satosugu reincarnation au
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❝ let's meet again, for the first time. ❞
╰┈➤ in which 19-year old gojo satoru happens upon a stranger at a cafe who speaks his name with a kind of softness and familiarity that satoru’s sure he’s heard before.
chapter 1
ao3 link
➽ chapter 16: my one and only
That morning begins the same way that it has every year prior; Satoru, who apparently has an inner alarm clock that only works on one out of every three hundred sixty-five days, shoots up in bed as if on cue and stretches out his arms, appreciating his surroundings on a deeper level now that he’s viewing them with a new maturity. He stays silent for as long as he can before the anticipation overtakes him, and then he rolls over to the other side of the bed and grabs Suguru by the shoulder, shaking him urgently. 
“Wake up! Guess whose birthday it is?”
Suguru could honestly just set his alarm for earlier on Satoru’s birthday so he wouldn’t have to be awoken so abruptly. Unfortunately, he insists that it’s about the principle of the thing, which Satoru thinks is dumb- especially because it also means that the first expression he usually makes on this day is disgruntled, not reverent.
As usual, he groans, stretching out and gazing up at Satoru through bleary eyes. 
“Satoru, we’ve talked about this… I assure you that I’d be far more enthusiastic about your birthday if you didn’t wake me up at an ungodly hour every year.”
Satoru nods, trying to look sympathetic since he doesn’t particularly feel like switching up what has now become such a sentimental part of their routine. “Maybe you’ll get lucky the fourth time around?”
“Considering it’s you, I highly doubt that.”
He throws himself onto Suguru’s half-awake form in starfish fashion, his limbs stretching easily from the headboard to the foot of the bed, and Suguru catches him with little effort.
“Well. I guess you’ll just have to break up with me, then.” He goads, tracing little stars on Suguru’s upper arm with the tips of his fingers. 
“You know that won’t happen.” 
“Yeah, ‘cause I wouldn’t let you out easy. Ever tried canceling a gym membership?” 
Suguru rolls his eyes, resting a light hand on Satoru’s upper back.
“No, I meant that you were worth keeping around.” 
He groans, suddenly bashful, and rolls to the other side of the bed, smothering his face with a pillow to hide his embarrassment - badly, since he’s also kicking his feet and rolling around in the sheets. 
“You’re cheesy, Suguru.”
Suguru rolls his eyes, extending his arm to the mahogany nightstand next to the bed and spinning the digital alarm clock atop it toward himself.  
“Most of the time, at least.”
He stops fanboying and throws the pillow onto his lap, sitting up again with a new indignance in his voice. 
“How dare you! On my birthday, of all days!” “You’re the one who called me cheesy,” he protests, but turns to press his lips briefly to the crown of Satoru’s mess of hair, a place with which he’s grown rather well-acquainted. “Happy birthday, Satoru.”
Satoru grins, relaxing at his touch, and speaks again with a new thoughtfulness in his voice. “I feel so old. But, like, in a cool way. You think I’ll start going gray soon?”
“It’ll be hard to tell if you do.”
“My hair is white, not gray!”
“Yeah, so it’ll be, like… highlights? Me, on the other hand, with all this stress…” He sighs remorsefully, reaching up to run a hand through his mussed hair and inclining his head towards the apparent cause of his agony. “I’ll be lucky to have anything left by twenty-five.”
“Oh, you wanna see stress? I’ll show you stress!” He flings the pillow at Suguru’s smirking face, groaning when he catches it and sets it gently down at the headboard before swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
“Come back! Didn’t you wanna go back to sleep?”
Suguru scoffs at him, flicking on the bathroom light and grabbing his toothbrush from the sink.
”After all this commotion? Even if I could, you never let me sleep on your birthday.” 
“It’s one of the most important days of the year, Suguru, so you should enjoy it for as long as you can.”
“You don’t let me sleep in on my own birthday either.” 
“Exactly?”
“It’s my birthday, so shouldn’t the whole point be that I can do whatever I want?” 
“No.”
“Okay.” 
Suguru is rather difficult to argue with. Not that Satoru makes much of an effort. 
“Are the kids awake yet?”
“Have you woken them up yet?”
“Huh. Good point.” 
Deciding to move in together was hardly a question; it became necessary at that point in their relationship when they started spending enough nights together that more of his belongings were at Suguru’s house than his- forgotten articles of clothing tucked away in a drawer that Suguru silently reserved for him, sketchbooks flipped to open pages scrawled with doodles and haphazard, half-formed ideas for paintings strewn across his living room, a fridge stocked with Satoru’s favorite kind of apples and all the sweets that Suguru tolerated but never went out of his way to buy for himself; his presence lingered in the corners of the small apartment even when he wasn’t there, and both of them were acutely aware of it. At some point, he grew fed up with never being able to find his toothbrush and brought the issue up to Suguru.
“Why don’t you just buy another toothbrush?”
“Are you trying to ignore the callings of fate?”
So they moved in together. That would have happened eventually either way, but Satoru deemed sooner better than later. He hoped that he and Suguru would have all the time in the world together, but he hardly intended to rely on that notion. Why wait at all, right? 
The children were a different story. Megumi and Tsumiki were both young- far too young to be faring for themselves, even with their frequent visits and check-ins. They’d grown close enough over the past two years that Satoru felt comfortable bringing up a change in living arrangements - and Megumi wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about most anything, so the glimmer of joy in his eyes upon Satoru’s suggestion was more than enough for Suguru to get on board too. 
Even if they couldn’t yet officially adopt given their age, having them close was comforting. Tsumiki and Megumi had essentially raised themselves until that point, and while Satoru mourned the childhood that had already been taken from them, he wanted them to enjoy the rest of it to the fullest. 
And besides- the place they’d chosen was larger than they could justify for just the two of them, like they’d known they would end up needing the extra space.
Satoru heads to the nearest bedroom first, his socked feet padding softly against the wooden floor. The kids love to tease them about how they can tell who’s at the door from the sound of their footsteps, or how they knock; apparently, Suguru taps lightly at the door and then waits, while he raps his fist against the wood, his other hand already at the knob and ready to turn.
He pokes his head through the second one of the girls calls out in assent, gracing the twins with a playfully charming grin. 
“Hellooo? We’re sleeping in today, are we?”
“He’s been waiting to say that all year.” 
“Yeah, because he usually doesn’t wake up early enough.” 
They dissolve into a fit of giggles, and he rolls his eyes, holding out his arms expectantly. 
“So? Where’s my birthday gift?”
“We’ll give it to you later. At the party.”
Mimiko nods vehemently, and he shakes his head, but relents. He doesn’t quite get why they prefer to share a bedroom when they have the extra space, but Suguru says it’s how they feel most comfortable, so he doesn’t inquire. 
Suguru has always been more intuitive between the two of them when it comes to stuff like that, and, of course, it was he who took them in just a few years ago. Satoru was happy for him when he began the non-profit, but he only truly understood why Suguru felt so strongly about his choice of career when he showed up at their front door one day with two little girls at his side, his expression just as resolved as it was apologetic. His line of work meant that he occasionally came into contact with victims of abuse or abandonment, but most of the time he was just an intermediary. From the look on his face, this time was different. 
Satoru didn’t miss a beat; if Suguru loved them, then he was sure it would come just as easily to him. And that it did. 
He never understood when people said you had to be related by blood to truly know a parental connection- he loved all of the children like they were his own. Besides, if that was the case, then wouldn’t you have to be related to your spouse to truly love them, too? He shudders at the thought, deciding that maybe that isn’t such a great analogy, and Nanako asks him, word for word, ‘why he looks like that’. 
“How rude! This is literally just my face.”
”Well, it’s weird.”
And because he loves her like his own, instead of being mature and letting it go like he probably should, he narrows his eyes, stepping into the room with a menacing air about him, and tickles her relentlessly until she, gasping for breath between bursts of laughter, finally takes it back. 
-
Ironically, they end up being a few minutes late to Satoru’s birthday dinner; Tsumiki had asked Megumi to do her hair, which was not unusual in and of itself, but tonight he went for a french braid as opposed to the simple three-section one he was inclined to - despite having only just mastered the latter during their most recent outing a week ago. Suguru gently suggested that it might be a lot to take on in just half an hour, especially given Nanako’s claim that she tried doing it on herself once and ended up having to ask Suguru to brush it out for her because of how tangled it became, but he was adamant. He did get it in the end, at least, in large part thanks to Suguru’s own knowledge surrounding hair. 
“What can I say? I’m a girl dad.” He’d winked at Megumi, and Satoru laughed, running his fingers across Suguru’s effortless half-bun. 
“No, you’ve gotta exclusively have girls to be a girl dad. You’re just gay.”
Suguru’s expression turned serious, and he looked over at Megumi, who looked like he found Satoru’s jab amusing but didn’t want to admit it.
”Megumi, remember what I told you the other day about microaggressions?”
“Suguruu! I’m allowed to say that!”
He snorts at the memory as they pull into the parking lot of their destination, looking out at the warm, soft-yellow bulbs that dangle below the overhang of the building and illuminate the entrance.
It’s one of his favorite restaurants, perhaps because of the way it toes the line between casual and classy, and therefore works for most any occasion. It’s where he and Suguru went to celebrate just the two of them after moving in together, but ended up just sitting across from each other with untouched plates of food in front of them, unable to keep down the giddiness that arose from the prospect of finally being together for as long as they wanted on a daily basis. Suguru eventually broke from his haze, murmuring something about how they should eat since they were here anyways, and Satoru nodded in agreement. Neither made any move to unwrap the cloth napkin folded neatly around their utensils, and they ended up taking their dinner to go and having it a day later in their new home , going out of their way to say the words over and over just to hear them, just to feel them linger in the open air - as if anybody was listening. Suguru, can you get the placemats from that drawer? Wow, doesn’t this place have so many more cabinets? Satoru, look at the view out this window. I’m glad we chose a house in such a nice spot. I wonder if the kids would like it here, Suguru. In our new home. And they’d look at each other like some secret had just passed between them, like they’d just spoken in a language unbeknownst to anybody else, and they’d grin like idiots.
“Did you guys order without us?” Satoru inquires in place of a greeting when they arrive at their booth, swinging around the table and flopping down into the seat across from Shoko, who shakes her head, smiling.  
”We wanted to, but Nanami wouldn’t let us.” Utahime elaborates matter-of-factly. Yuuji, who is seated right between Nanami and his older brother and seems to be the true cause of the delay, nods emphatically.
”You’re not supposed to eat until everyone’s at the table!”
“You always have your plate wiped clean by the time I sit down.” Sukuna points out, and he shrugs noncommittally. “That’s because you always take too long. And plus, Nanamin has been teaching me about efficiency.” He pats his stomach to emphasize his point.  
“He helps me out at the bakery.” Nanami looks over at Yuuji, a faint smile playing at his lips, and he nods enthusiastically.
”Yeah! He says I’m his most valuable employee.” 
“All you do is smile pretty for the customers.” His brother replies, slightly bemused.
“Um, yes, which helps get people in the store! Look, would you rather get a snack from somewhere with that face staring at you through the window? Or this one?” 
He gestures between Sukuna’s scowling countenance and his own comparatively angelic face, and the former rewards him with an offended glower.
“Look here now, you little brat-“
“Woah, let’s lighten the mood a little, guys!”
“That’s not how that works, Satoru.” Shoko remarks. “You can’t just talk about lightening the mood. You have to, like, actually lighten it.” 
“Maybe that’s how it is for most people, but I’m different.” 
“Tell him that.” She gestures to Sukuna, whose mood does not appear to have lightened in the slightest, and puts a mild amount of effort toward stifling a laugh.
Satoru sighs deeply, and then claps, an idea occurring to him. “Maybe if you get some food in you, you’ll be less grumpy?” 
The rest of them murmur their agreement, but Sukuna only redirects his glare to Satoru, who levels him with a thoughtful stare. 
”Down, boy.” He tries, and hears Suguru choke on his water. Fortunately for him, even Yuuji’s strong-tempered brother doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, and Haibara, clueless, nudges Nanami to ask whether he prefers the shrimp or vegetable tempura, effectively setting off new surges of conversation from each corner of the comfortably crowded booth. 
-
Their food comes out quickly, that familiarly irresistible deep-fried aroma drifting from the kitchen in the minutes before the server herself makes it out to set their vast assortment of dishes on the table. 
Suguru responds to inquiries about the quality of his meal, which he’s hardly tasted despite being a third of the way through, with quick nods and a vague smile, clearing his throat too often and stealing occasional glances at Satoru like a lovestruck teenager. He wipes his palms against the thin fabric of his pants, giving another nod when Satoru asks him a question and only registering that it may not have called for a yes-or-no answer when he receives a furrowed brow in response. 
“What?”
“I was asking what time you wanted to go back to the house.” 
“Oh. Sorry. Uh, maybe half an hour?” 
“Okay, cool.” He turns to their friends, cupping his hands over his mouth to call out to them. “You guys have fifteen minutes to finish eating, and then we’re ordering dessert!”
Yuuji joins him in cheering, throwing his arms into the air and nearly knocking over a glass of water that Nanami rights just in time. Megumi rolls his eyes, unfolding the menu resting in front of him and burying his face in it. 
Apparently curious as to what he’s so absorbed in all of a sudden, Satoru peeks over his head and catches a flash of pale pink on the page Megumi is carefully examining. He grins knowingly. 
“So you’re scoping out the cakes, I see.” 
“I’m looking at the mochi. That’s what you like, isn’t it?” He responds flatly, injecting a hint of annoyance into his voice so as not to sound too gentle. 
“Aww! Suguru, did you hear that?”
Suguru looks over at them, a mild grin on his face. “Very sweet,” he agrees, wondering if Satoru can hear his heart pounding in his chest. They know each other so well at this point that he wouldn’t be particularly surprised. 
As expected, Satoru’s eyes linger on his face, a flicker of surprise passing over his face.
“You look nervous. Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to give a speech about me or anything.”
It’s meant as a comfort, but instead it sends his pulse skyrocketing. He forces a nervous laugh. 
“Right. Of course. No speeches.” 
Satoru gives him a strange look and reaches over to rest his hand on Suguru’s and give it a gentle pat, not noticing- or perhaps ignoring - the clamminess of his palm. “What’s up?” 
God, Satoru’s gotten so much better at communication. He’d be proud on any other day, but at the moment, having to express himself verbally sounds absolutely dreadful. It’s like he’s worried that if he uses up all his mental energy now, he’ll be lost for words when he truly needs them. Still, the feeling of Satoru’s skin on his - warm, comforting, and so familiar - calms him down, if imperceptibly. He takes a deep breath, forcing his muddled thoughts into order, and meets Satoru’s eyes with a confidence that he absolutely does not feel.
“Satoru, did you know? You can get free dessert here.”
“What? When did they tell you that?” Satoru gasps, scandalized. “Did you come here without me?!” He turns away, waving their server over frantically - presumably to haggle her about said deal -  and the tension drains from Suguru’s body as he watches, his lips curving into a half smile.
The waitress stops halfway to their table, the bemusement on her face slipping into shock, and brings a hand up to her open mouth. Satoru, who’s wrapped up in gesturing to the menu that he’s just borrowed from Megumi, doesn’t notice anything amiss until the rest of their table goes quiet. 
“And I was wondering about - hey, why does it always go silent when I’m talking? Guys-“
He spins around to address them, but the words catch in his throat when he registers Suguru’s absence and shifts his gaze downward. His lips part, and he releases a shaky breath.
”Oh. Oh my god.” 
Suguru lifts his head from the ground, trying without success to steady his trembling hands, and offers him a crooked smile, laying an elbow on the knee that rests on the tile floor of the restaurant. 
“Satoru,” he murmurs, and all the agonizing over this moment, all his attempts to memorize the perfect speech, all the hours he spent scouring his brain for the exact words he wanted to say to Satoru - it seems silly, all of a sudden. Because the feel of that name on his lips brings everything, in a dizzying rush, to the forefront of his mind. He swallows, and then he begins to speak, slowly, deliberately, his voice trembling.
”I…I’ve known since I first laid my eyes on you. I never thought… that love at first sight existed. Until I saw you in that cafe. But that wasn’t love at first sight, was it, Satoru? Even at the first glance, it was like I’d seen you a thousand times before. And…” the corner of his mouth tugs upward. “I hope to see you at least that many times more. I hope that you’ll grant me the honor of waking up next to you every morning for the rest of this life, and for the entirety of any lives that follow. I’ll treasure every second, every little happiness, Satoru. If you’ll… if you’ll marry me?”
He holds his breath, the complete silence closing in around him, the pressure suffocating. The thumping of his heart has died down to a quiet, barely discernible vibration in his chest. 
And then Satoru speaks, and the restaurant explodes into the most beautiful wave of sound he’s ever heard. 
“Yes. Yes, of course. God, I didn’t know I had to respond… I thought it was, like, rhetorical. H-how could I say no? Suguru! Suguru, finally!” 
He gets to his feet, smiling so wide his cheeks ache, and staggers when Satoru throws his arms around his neck without warning, but quickly steadies himself and returns the warm embrace. 
“I wanted to give you a speech, too!” Satoru chokes out through the tears that have begun to roll down his cheeks and onto Suguru’s shoulder, soaking through his dress shirt. Suguru nudges his nose against his neck, inhaling the slightly sweet scent of his skin, and finds himself smiling again, even as he blinks back tears of his own. 
“There’s always the vows, right?”
As soon as he says the words, he almost regrets it, because Satoru immediately begins crying what seems like ten times harder. He eventually composes himself just enough to separate himself from Suguru and settle back down in his chair, beaming at each and every ‘congratulations’ and begrudging wish directed towards them. 
“Shoko! Shoko, can you believe it?” He cries, raising his voice to be heard over the commotion. 
Shoko nods, a mildly concerned expression on her face, and he blinks, his tone turning panicky within the space of a second. 
“What? What happened?”
“Guys, you know that was…” She murmurs, her eyes flicking hesitantly from their faces to the table. After a second of reluctant deliberation, she lowers her voice to a whisper, leaning forward discreetly. “That was kind of gay.” 
She and Satoru burst out laughing in perfect unison, and he reaches across the table to wrap her in a tight hug as Suguru looks on, slightly bewildered, but smiling nevertheless. They only pull apart at the soft clatter of ceramic against wood, Satoru’s wide-eyed gaze almost immediately fixing itself to the platter of cream-filled mochi now in front of him. The waitress smiles down at them graciously, dipping her head in a short bow. 
”Congratulations! It’s on us.” 
Suguru had made up the free dessert line on the spot, but the astonished look that Satoru rests upon him as the woman returns to the kitchen after being assaulted by words of appreciation from both he and Yuuji is so lovely, so adoring, that he doesn’t have the heart to say so. 
So instead, he shakes his head, watching as Satoru asks Megumi whether he wants matcha or strawberry, then stuffs the answer (matcha) into his own mouth as Megumi looks on resignedly. “Megs! You’re supposed to get mad!” Satoru then complains, taking a replacement piece of mochi off the plate and handing it to their son, who still looks like he wouldn’t have particularly cared either way. 
-
“So?” 
Suguru tears his gaze away from the slowly darkening sky, glancing back at the children seated behind them in the minivan. Mimiko, her chin resting atop the soft head of her favorite stuffed animal, seems to understand what he’s asking before he elaborates, and turns to grin knowingly at her sisters. 
“How’d I do?” He inquires, squeezing Satoru’s hand where their fingers lay intertwined on the smooth center console of the car. 
“You did pretty good!” Nanako announces proudly; and he replies with all the seriousness necessary in accepting a compliment from an ever-honest child, giving her a sincerely grateful nod. His former anxiety seems so far away now- in fact, everything does. 
He thinks back to his worst days, when even getting out of bed felt like a monumental task and he could barely find it in himself to go through the motions of his everyday life. When he couldn’t understand what could possibly be wanted of him, how he was supposed to search for glimmers of meaning in what seemed like an endless expanse of defeat.
It wasn’t necessarily that Satoru pulled him out of the darkness; it was more like he’d stepped just an inch closer, prodded him in the shoulder, and gestured in the distance to a speck of light that Suguru had been previously blind to. And as soon as he laid his eyes upon it, his surroundings lit up entirely, set aglow by a thousand flickers of warm, bright luminescence that dimmed and intensified in time with the rising and falling of his chest. All the little beauties of life, suddenly laid out before him. Everything was the same; everything was different. 
Now, an easy smile graces his lips, and as Megumi flashes him a thumbs up and Tsumiki claps quietly, beaming in her characteristically affectionate fashion, he wonders to himself what he’s done to deserve such a life. 
-
“Suguru?!”
They’re curled up on their couch of choice, tucked away into a far corner of the living room close enough to the fireplace that the heat emanating from the gentle flames rises straight from its enclosure and into his skin. A shiver passes through him despite the warmth, and he sits up urgently, his pulse soaring. 
“I think I lost the ring!” He cries, his eyes locked on the notably empty skin of his ring finger as he searches frantically through his memory, trying to piece together everything he’s done in the short time since the proposal. But right now, he can’t even remember the color of the jewel, whether the band was silver or gold - and he certainly can’t think clearly back to those hazy, dream-like minutes immediately following the event. It all passed by so quickly, in a lustrously airbrushed sort of blur- much like those paintings turned out in the landscape lessons he led last week, which Nobara, Yuuji and Megumi recently joined in on. 
“You did?” Suguru’s voice takes on an unusually panicked note as he runs his hands over the plush cushions beneath them, hoping his fingers will close around the small, polished metal of the ring, which (he prays) has only just now slipped off Satoru’s hand. He makes a mental note to exchange it for a smaller size as soon as possible.
“Shoko! The ring is gone!” Satoru cries as she and Nobara set two cups of coffee on the round oak table next to a plate of biscuits Suguru put out for their guests. She straightens up, her brow slightly furrowed.
”What?!” She exclaims, bewildered. “How-“ Her face relaxes, and a laugh that’s equally dazed and relieved escapes her lips. “Are you guys dumb? You never gave him the ring.” 
“…What?” Suguru reaches into his pocket, digging out the small, navy-blue box and clicking it open with his thumb. “Ah.” 
He feels Satoru’s body sag in relief at his side. “Haha. I knew it.” 
“We would have made it to the wedding before you noticed.” Suguru replies, still in the process of bringing his heart rate back down to a reasonable level. 
“Men.” Utahime, who has just appeared at Shoko’s side, shakes her head exasperatedly, tilting it against the other’s shoulder and relaxing into her side. Shoko grins, shooting a meaningful look at Nobara, who nods sagely, having already arrived at the same one-word conclusion all on her own in spite of her age. Men.
“Thanks for your help the other day, guys.” Suguru adds. 
His original plan had been to keep his intentions to himself; Satoru could be unnervingly perceptive, and so he wanted to steer clear of anything that might ruin the surprise, but he’d been such a mess in the days leading up to Satoru’s birthday that he ended up spilling everything to Shoko and Utahime in hopes that they might be able to offer him some advice. Their answers were sound: Keep it simple. Don’t plan it out too much; all that stuff will go to hell when it’s finally time, anyway. Tell him exactly what you’re feeling. And make it quick, okay? We don’t want to sit through too much sappiness. (The last one was Utahime).
“No problem. You know I’ve been on board since day one.” 
A faint flush comes over Suguru’s face as he recalls that day at the gallery and the words Shoko whispered in his ear that left him frozen to his spot in the center of the nearly-empty building, shock and disbelief coursing through him. 
“Why don’t you try for that kiss now?”
As it turned out, he would take her advice just a couple days later. 
“How’d you know it was because of… that?” He asks carefully, clearing his throat and hoping Satoru won’t inquire as to the cause of his sudden embarrassment. 
“Oh, please. Wasn’t it, like, a week later that you guys got together?”
“Well, I suppose…” 
“Guys! It’s snowing!” 
Yuuji waves exaggeratedly at them from the window, his small hands pressed up against the frosted glass, and nudges Megumi at his side in case he didn’t hear his initial cry of delight. Nobara hurries over to see, her eyes bright with delight, and tells Yuuji to move back a little because he’s apparently ruining the aesthetic by smushing his face against the glass. Nanami sips from his mug of coffee, leaning his elbows on the kitchen island and watching contently as Yuuji and Nobara shove each other back and forth until Megumi gets sick of being jostled in the crossfire and plants himself firmly between them. Suguru shakes his head. 
“The first snow. It’s late this year.” He murmurs, the coolness of metal against his palm reminding him of the ring in his hand. He wraps his fingers around Satoru’s wrist, taking a moment to admire their delicate beauty like he doesn’t already know every crevice of his palm, couldn’t map out each individual joint of his fingers. Then, he slides the silver band down his ring finger, marveling at how smoothly it goes on. Satoru slowly turns his hand over, admiring the jewel. 
”Pretty. You chose perfectly, Suguru.” 
He thinks so, too; it’s a slim-bodied ring, subtly lovely, with a small circular indent carved out at the top that houses two interconnected jewels- opal and onyx, the display said. He had the inside engraved, too, but he decides to wait for Satoru to discover that detail for himself. His eyes travel to the tree next to the fireplace, still faintly smelling of pine and glittering with yellow-white lights. The gifts piled at its base vary in shape and neatness of packaging; the messiest are the ones wrapped by the children and Satoru, with a sizable amount from today alone- he was adamant about receiving separate gifts for his birthday and the holidays. 
“I love you.” He says quietly in lieu of a reply, the words almost unconscious with how little effort it takes them to leave his lips.
”S-Suguru! I.. would sure hope so, after you did all this.”
“I just wanted to tell you. Again.” 
A moment of silence, and then Satoru leans over and presses his lips to Suguru’s, soft and warm and tasting of sweet cream and matcha. 
“I love you too,” he says within the second he pulls away, like he couldn’t get the words out quickly enough. Like he’d overflow with the intensity of his emotions if he kept them in for a moment longer. It’s an eagerness that brings yet another gentle smile to Suguru’s lips, and they gaze at each other for a second longer, giddy on the beauty of the evening. 
“Wait ‘til after the honeymoon to start acting like newlyweds, will you?” 
Shoko suggests as she pulls a board game out of some closet Satoru didn’t know they had and the twins crowd her in their excitement. 
“That’s too predictable. We should’ve started before we were even dating.” Satoru replies regretfully, and Suguru casts him an odd look. 
”How would that even work?”
Satoru leans forward to pick his drink up off the table, its warmth impossibly permeating in a way that would soothe him from the inside out if he weren’t already so content in his spot next to Suguru on the couch.
“I’d… have to think about that.” He replies, tilting the mug upward and allowing some of the smooth liquid to flow into his mouth- and then nearly spitting it out the second it hits his tongue. He coughs into his elbow, the dark bitterness of the drink taking him by surprise.
“This isn’t hot chocolate?”
“Hot chocolate isn’t as good with cake.” Nanami explains, and then Satoru remembers the blue-and-white birthday cake sitting patiently on the counter and nods suspiciously- though he’d personally beg to differ. The word ‘cake’ steals the attention of every previously occupied child in that room except Megumi (who follows Yuuji and Nobara anyway), and Satoru barely suppresses the urge to get caught up in the excitement and rush to the counter himself. He turns to look at Suguru, who meets his gaze immediately, and a rush of affection flows through him.
He hasn’t had any more of those nightmares since that day at the lake. The existing memories of what he likes to think of as their past life have slipped to the very back of his consciousness, causing him not the slightest bit of trouble on most days unless he opts to rifle through them himself. And… they were nice, those little inklings of knowledge that he possessed about Suguru without having personally discovered them, but he much prefers how it feels to collect them himself amid the days they spend together. 
What Satoru knows about him now is not something that can be given to someone in bits and scattered pieces; it’s a complete view, he thinks, an accumulation of hours spent by his side, of nights during which the sound of Suguru’s slow, even breathing lulls him to sleep. 
His hand tightens around the mug of coffee as Suguru smiles at him, his eyes flashing with amusement. He gestures to the drink with a gentle incline of his head.
“Just like you remember?” He inquires, and Satoru’s heart stutters in his chest. He tries to convince himself that the question is about the coffee, regarding which he doesn’t think he’ll be changing his mind anytime soon, but something about the knowing look in Suguru’s eyes makes him think it’s far more than that. The snow continues falling steadily outside the window, painting their yard white; the fireplace flickers with warmth, a fiery blend of oranges and yellows; having collected around the cake, their friends call out to them, waving Satoru over so that he can blow out the candles and then they can tease him about how he must be the only person in the world who genuinely enjoys standing there while people sing ‘happy birthday’ to him.
He pauses, holding on to the moment and secretly hoping it stretches out beyond him forever, an infinitely wondrous thread of existence. 
“No. Better, actually,” he whispers, a smile tracing his lips. “So much better.” 
the end :)
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seaweedstarshine · 1 year ago
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*Poll inspired by typical ambiguity in the new audio story Victory of the Doctor, which on an unrelated note is amazing!
Evidence for each argument beneath the cut!
Open marriage
The Doctor's wedding to Marilyn Monroe occurs in A Christmas Carol, when he storms off to a chapel with lipstick marks on his face. “I’ll just go and get married then, shall I? See how you like that. Marilyn? Get your coat!”
While he wasn't yet with River then, he maintains this relationship afterwards, apparently with River involved. In the mini-episode Good Night, the Doctor enters the TARDIS with a euphonium, calling over his shoulder, “River! I’ll see you later! Tell Marilyn she’s too late, she’ll have to use the biplane. Take care!”
Another piece of evidence comes from The Wedding of River Song, when they're passive-aggressively flirting.
“Hallucinogenic lipstick. Works wonders on President Kennedy. And Cleopatra was a real pushover.” “I always thought so.” “She mentioned you.” “What did she say?” “Put down that gun.” “Did you?” “Eventually.” “Oh, they're flirting. Do I have to watch this?” (from Kovarian)
I've never understood the innuendo (please tell me what I'm missing), but Kovarian does, and as we know from The Husbands of River Song, the Doctor and River are both married to Cleopatra, so… it's definitely something.
There's also that diary page in The Eternity Clock game that suggests the Doctor, River, and Jim the Fish got blackout drunk at karaoke night and started “some sort of religion of love” which went on to last for centuries.
Serial cheaters
“How can you be engaged, in a manner of speaking?” The Doctor is jealous in Flesh and Stone before he's even kissed her, which doesn't set him up as a person who'd be interested in an open marriage.
“No, wait. That's your husband? That's who you're married to? Not anybody else?” In The Husbands of River Song, the Doctor is clearly not expecting the other husbands. Culminating in the same episode…
“So, King Hydroflax?” “Oh, how many times? I married the diamond!” “So you say.” “Elizabeth the First!” “Ramone!” “Marilyn Monroe!” “Stephen Fry!” “Cleopatra!” “Same thing!”
It appears he is well aware of her other spouses (and that she's aware of his); so perhaps his surprise was more that didn't expect her to be so flagrant about them. It makes him insecure (“I posed as his nurse. Took me a week.” “To fall in love?” “It's the easiest lie you can tell a man. They'll automatically believe any story they're the hero of.”) enough to start an argument about it.
River also expresses her jealousy as an obvious fact, as seen in The Day of the Doctor Novelization (written by Moffat who (along with Alex!!) knows the character best):
“Ow!” “Madame de Pompadour?” “Jealous?” “Of course I’m jealous. Keep your hands off her.”
In The Name of the Doctor, we learn that the Doctor, who has had a number of... sexually-charged moments with Clara (including, but not limited to, Victorian Clara), has avoided telling her that River is his wife. Vastra is uncomfortable with having to introduce them, having “gone a darker shade of green.”
“The Doctor might have mentioned me?” “Oh, yeah. Oh yeah, of course he has. Professor Song! Sorry, it's just I never realized you were a woman.” (from Clara)
Actually both
This could mean many things (i.e. open marriage with boundaries which are violated), but potentially, all the same evidence from prior arguments! With a shade of “Our lives are back to front.”
In the mini-episodes First Night/Last Night, when River, having burst into the TARDIS and pretended to faint, mistakes her past self for another woman the Doctor's hiding from her, she openly expresses jealousy.
“Doctor. Have you brought someone else here? Does anyone agree to wear that dress? Where is she!” “River, think it through!” “This happened the last time we were here. You brought someone else!” “No I didn’t!” “Yes you did, I heard you talking to her!”
However, when a third and significantly older version of River makes the same mistake, she no longer expresses jealousy, but rather curiosity, which could at least signal a shift in how she sees their marriage.
Maybe there was a conversation that happened. Maybe it slipped the Doctor's mind when he forgot Clara.
Actually neither
This could also mean multiple things, but one of those things is this. The Doctor is a widower from the start. Likewise, River is well aware of Doctor's death on Trenzalore, “of course River would know, she's always known,” having been raised to prevent those events, and having refused to be bound by that destiny.
How can fidelity be defined the same way for time travelers? Everyone's spouses are dead somewhen. River understands the paradox of her husband's existence better than anyone. To quote The Day of the Doctor Novelization yet again…
‘Because you live in a time machine. All of history is still happening outside those doors. On a good night that means everyone you ever met is still alive and you can’t wait to see them again. On a bad night, it means everyone’s dead, and you want to charge around the universe, pretending you can do something about that.’ She looked up at me. ‘I know which version of you I prefer.’ 
And there she was, so alive again. I remembered her, twisted, burnt and dead, in the depths of The Library. ‘What if there are people who died because of me?’ I asked. ‘What if there are people I should have saved?’
‘People die. All people, everywhere. We grieve and we move on. That is how we respect the dead. That is how we forgive ourselves in their presence and their absence.’
Please feel free to add anything I missed!
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seumyo · 4 months ago
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eeuuummyy just wanna tell you that i heart heart hearttt you sm. you tried your best and that's all it matters. love you lots, don't forget to drink water n get lots of rest!! bakugo loves u
Senniee 🥹
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moonstruckme · 11 months ago
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Just read all your marauders fics in a row and I could kiss you on the mouth you are so good at writing them both with the reader and with eachother ♥️♥️
c'mere babe :3
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teddybeartoji · 6 months ago
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your smut isn't bland babes dont worry, I only recently found your blog but I'm glad I did because I enjoy reading all your work and I value the effort you put in🫶🫶
don't shoot yourself in the leg because then you'll be in pain😔 and you don't deserve to be in pain
AAAAAAAAAAAAA THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOUUUU!!!!!!!!!! YOU'RE SOSO SWEET WAHHHHH🥺🥺🥺🥺 also.. well abt that pain.............. lip bite emoji... i'm kinda into that idk why i said that in the first place that sound very exciting actually damn..
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crescentfool · 10 months ago
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Hi 👉👈 I don’t have a lot to say, I just wanted to hi give you from across the room because I followed you for P3 but it turns out you and I share a ton of fandoms and I just think that’s really super neat.
You get a good grade in fandom taste 💖
WAVES HI!! thank you for the follow and message, it makes me happy to hear that you've enjoyed seeing the other media i've reblogged stuff of! P3 is definitely something i hold close to my heart, but i have lots of media i'm full of love for too! so thank you for appreciating it, i hope you enjoy your stay! 🥺💙
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strawberrisoulmate · 11 months ago
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ah... hey, darlin'.
i know i ain't the best with words, but i still wanted to send you somethin' since it's valentine's day an' all.
first off... i guess i should say that ya make me happy — real happy. i actually used to think that i would never... well— it's just... been a long time since i felt like that. bein' with you makes it easy to forget all the bad times i've been through and to just be myself again, and i really appreciate that. nobody else has ever done that for me — nobody else has ever wanted to, either. most people only see the stuff i've been through when they look at me, but you're... the only one that just sees me. and that's... it means a lot to me.
you mean a lot to me, actually. i might not say it all the time, an' i might not be the best at showin' it, but you mean the whole world to me. i don't know what i'd do or what i'd be like if it weren't for you. and... hopefully i never have to find out. i'd like to never know.
so, ah... i guess what i'm tryin' to say is that... i love ya, hannah. more than you probably know.
happy valentine's day. i love you.
flynn ❤️
ahhh flynn, oh my gosh… this is so unbelievably sweet. i love you so much, too ♡
i know i can get really moody and i cry a lot and there are times when i’m probably a major pain in the ass to deal with. but i can’t tell you how much it means to me that i have you here with me. really, it makes me so happy. you make me so happy.
happy valentine’s day, sweetie. i love you so so much.
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headaching · 2 years ago
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hiiiii beck i miss you <3
hiiiii bella 🥺 thank you so much for this, i miss you too 😭 i miss all of you!! i’ve been going through some weird mental stuff lately (not bad, but different) and i needed a break but im gonna post again asap, promise <3
i know i don’t have to explain myself but y’all really do mean the world to me even if im a little absent 🫶
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decembermoonskz · 2 years ago
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gold and silver pt1: a summary (jk ofc ik this isnt accurate but---)
KAT I AM GOING TO LOSE MY MIND ALKSHFALKFHAFKH THIS MADE ME LAUGH SO HARD
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tetzoro · 3 hours ago
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You're halfway through folding laundry when two familiar hands cover over your eyes. The smell of sweat, metal and sake washes over you and you can't help but roll your eyes behind the hands as you drawl out,
“Goodness, who could it be?”
There's a slight rumble from the chest behind your head as it pulls you to it, though the hands don't move from their spot.
You give an over-exaggerated sigh before snickering out, “Okay Franky, you got-”
“Franky?! You kiddin’ me?!”
You laugh outright at the outburst, knowing it confused and infuriated your poor green haired lover all the same. Your hands drop the shirt you were folding and gently cover over the larger ones, pulling them from your eyes as you lean back into Zoros broad chest properly.
“Why the surprise?” You question, curiosity in your eyes as his steel grey one stares back down at you. An annoying tint of pink covers his cheeks as he mutters, “Can't surprise my pretty girl? Damn.” He then smirks slightly, a joking tone dancing on his lips as he presses a quick kiss to your temple as he murmurs against your skin, “Learn somethin’ new about you every damn day.”
You chuckle again, though you press a kiss of your own to each of his palms. “You trying to surprise me because it's my birthday?”
There's a chilling silence from your lover and you look up at him with wide eyes as you ask softly, “... you know it's my birthday, right?”
Zoro blinks once, twice, before he mutters in confusion, “It's your birthday?”
You gasp and swat at him, only for his laughter to break you out of your shock as his hands grip your wrist gently. “Don't be stupid, of course I know it's your birthday.” He's quick to press a few chaste kisses to your wrist before holding your palm to his cheek.
“I got somethin’ for you. You gonna come open your gift or you gonna fold laundry all damn day?”
You grin and roll your eyes again before giving another sigh, this time with a wide shrug as you tease back, “Well, I guess your gift is more important than some laundry…”
Zoro chuckles lowly at your joking tone, pulling you up as he stands straight, though he keeps his hand in yours the whole time.
“Good, because I worked damn hard pickin’ out something you'd actually like.”
You grin and slyly ask,
“And how much do you owe Nami for asking for her help?”
Zoro pretends to be wounded, holding his free hand over his heart as he snarks back, “Not a damn thing, thank you very much.”
You both stare at each other for a moment, your gaze disbelieving to the point it pulls a deep sigh from him a few moments later as he hangs his head slightly.
“... too much, Aims. Too damn much.”
You laugh again and pull him closer before getting on your tippy toes to press a few kisses to his jawline and the corner of his lips. “Zo, you could have got me a bottle of sake and I'd have cried. You didn't need to go all out.”
He grins slightly before snatching your lips up with his own, humming against them for a moment before he pulls away with a muttered,
“Just wait till you see. Promise you'll like it, no matter what it is?”
You grin in response with a slight nod, gushing in earnest, “Of course, Zo. You picked it out, how could I not love it?”
Zoro hums in agreement before pulling you into his arms, pressing another quick kiss to the top of your head before he jokes,
“Then stop wasting time and come open my gift.”
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HAPPY BIRTHDAY AIMS LOVELY !!!!! I hope you don't mind the lil blurb, I saw it was your birthday and just had to write some soft Zoro for you 🥺🥺🥺💖💖💖💖 I hope your day has been as wonderful, kind and warm as you are 💖💖💖💖💖💖 ALL MY LOVE TO YOUUU !!! 💖💖💖💖💖💖🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉
mandie .. MANDIE !! you did NOT just leave me the most beautiful and wonderful gif on my little doorstep ! i can not tell you how many times i’ve read this :( i am going to give you my unhinged reactions in the tags ofc but firstly !! thank you for doing this for me, i feel so incredibly touched that you put in the time to create this for me 🥺🥺 you’re so thoughtful and i am giving you the biggest hug in existence !!!! THANK YOU !! SENDING YOU SO MUCH LOVE !!! and giving you as many smooches as you want ^___^ !
now . for the fic . rubbing my hands together like a little fly hehe. let’s see if i can keep this coherent enough, shall we ? (<- said moments before i incoherently express everything)
ft. my moodboard of emotions i felt during reading btw
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#RIGHT OFF THE BAT IM GIGGLING AND KICKING MY FEET !! i loooove love love that zoro smells like metal sake and sweat (yeah im down bad bye)#idk stinky men irl ?? no. stinky zoro? i can’t get enough.#i feel like that combo on him would be heavenly and i probably weird him out everytime i inhale it >_< OKAY WAIT IM RAMBLING#thinking he’s franky bye i know his ego hurt LOL ill kiss it better <3 mwah mwah mwah three kiss style#‘can’t surprise my pretty girl?’ <- ENOUGH. I LOVE THAT PET NAME WITH HIM IM GOING FERAL . INSANE . VISIBILY TREMBLING !!!!#damn him joking around that he forgot my bday hurt my ego now /j LMFAO guess we are even#he says that and i’d start to pout and he’d immediately backtrack before i kick off#BUT WAIT ! the kiss to the wrist :( i feel so soft and mushy :( best way to shut me up tbh#WHEN HE SAID MY NAMEEEEEE OH MANNNNN IM SHSKSJDJD YOU NEVER SEE THAT IN FICS YK SO WHEN I READ IT IM LIKE OH MY GOD HE SAID MY NAME LMFAOOO#(im delusional thank u for feeding me that was such a nice touch LOL)#‘Zo you could have got me a bottle of sake and I'd have cried.#<- this is actually so me i feel so seen rn . anytime someone does even the smallest act of kindness toward me i get all weepy#OOP THE KISS EVERYONE STOP !!!!! . . . carry on. i needed a moment thank youu#oh man :( mandie :( this gift is so special to me thank you so much for taking the time to do this :(#you have a heart of gold and i cannot even express how much this made me smile and continues to make me smile when i reread it#ILYSM !!!!!!!#⌕ — spotted .ᐟ#ᰔ 𓂃 mandie .ᐟ#(づ ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈ )づ 🎂 (∩˃ ᵕ ˂∩ ྀི)#◟˚. ꫂ ၴႅၴ ⋆ 𝓉𝓇ℯ𝒶𝓈𝓊𝓇ℯ𝓈.#🪷 ⊹ ₊ ⋆ ᴀᴍᴏʀᴏ .
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paul-ster · 7 months ago
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I really like your fic 'You're my sign to wake up', probably one of my favourite outsiders fics I've read ♡
I JUST WANNA-
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But like seriously you're such a good writer :D
AHHHH THANK YOU!!!! :D that means so much to me!!!!! You’re so sweet 🥲 <333
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nereidprinc3ss · 7 months ago
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do you believe me now? | 7
in which spencer reid and inexperienced!fem reader sleep together for the first time
series masterlist
18+ (smut) warnings/tags: loss of virginity, oral f/m receiving, so much praise, pain during sex, unprotected sex, cr**mp**, bit of overstim, soft dom spence, if u don't like that freak shit (love and intimacy) this is not for u, spencer is a nerd, they're both nerds actually and that factors in heavily, you may get more from this part by FIRST reading how they met in this bonus chapter a/n: thank you all for being patient, ilysm, this was the most laborious thing i've ever done for no reason and also this part changed so many times and is not what i expected it to be so pls go in with tempered expectations and keep in mind that this story is more about the characters and their specific relationship dynamic than just being porn. i truly have no idea how you guys will react to this but i sincerely hope you love it and them like i do<3 also it's twice as long as the other parts so feedback would be very very appreciated! again i love u all and enjoy the penultimate part!
Spencer’s lips are on yours, and you weren’t expecting it—hell, you weren’t expecting him to be in your apartment. After all, he’d wished you goodnight and walked out only a moment ago.
“Spencer—wh—” 
But he’s insistent with his lips, kissing you bruisingly over and over like there’s nectar on your tongue and he’s parched for you. Still, he has enough decency to not completely ignore you, exhaling a quick excuse over your flushed lips. 
“I missed you.”
This time, though, you dodge his hungry kiss. Part of you thinks, as he watches you, eyes alight and breathing heavily, that he sort of likes your playing hard to get. It’s not something you do very often, admittedly. 
“We’ve been apart for like, maybe a minute.”
“I didn’t even make it to the parking lot.”
Your face heats.  
“Well you can’t just—you can’t just walk in like that! And I thought you said we weren’t supposed to mix fighting with pleasure.”
“Then start locking your door. And I thought you said we weren’t fighting.”
You roll your eyes in response, though your heart is still pittering in your chest. 
At least his hands move to your arms, stroking up and down relatively chastely—although he has this way of making everything seem intimate. Especially when paired with those amber eyes of his—glowing like a candlelight beacon in the window guiding you home. He speaks in low, appeasing tones and darts his tongue over his lips. 
“I originally said it’s a bad idea for couples to sleep together after an argument. But you know—makeup sex is ubiquitous across culture and time because it works. Anger and arousal trigger a lot of the same hormones, specifically norepinephrine which is involved in feelings of longing and—”
“Spencer.”
“You know what else?” He mutters in a way that feels dangerous. “It tends to feel better than regular sex.”
That earns a shaky exhale from you. Whether from irritation or arousal is anyone’s guess—probably a combination of both. 
“So you came back to fuck me?”
It’s probably evident to Spencer from your choice of language that this already isn’t going exactly as he’d planned. He doesn’t answer right away—just regards you, gaze bouncing between your two eyes like he’s trying to calculate your level of anger. 
“Is that what we’re calling it now?”
You push him away and move to walk down the hall. 
“Maybe your window of opportunity has passed.”
A warm hand wraps around your wrist in the dark of the hallway and he pulls you back until you’re falling against something tall and warm and lean. The smell of polished amber and sandalwood overwhelms your senses. 
“What’s wrong, angel? What happened in the minute I was gone to change your mind?” His voice is scratchy like a favorite record. It’s the voice he could hold you captive with. The one you have a very difficult time saying no to. 
“I don’t know,” you mutter, unintentionally leaning back against him. “What happened to change yours?”
His response comes pressed against your ear, half-lost in your hair. 
“You’re upset that I changed my mind. I thought you wanted this, honey.”
“I do,” you admit, letting your head fall back against his shoulder and bringing his arm to wrap around you. “And if you hadn’t walked out earlier I would’ve done it. But… I’m tired of us doing everything on your timeline. You just… you expect me to be amenable to what you want, constantly.” His nose and lips press into your shoulder. 
“What do you mean?”
“Like… I’ve been begging you to sleep with me for I don’t even know how long. And you keep changing your mind, and I feel like you’re being really confusing about it. Obviously you don’t have to sleep with me, you never did, but I just feel kind of… jerked around. And you did it again tonight.”
A beat of silence. 
“I understand your frustration,” he appeases, securing both his arms around you. You cling weakly to his wrist, to his warmth, like he’s a tether in a storm. “Would you prefer to wait until you initiate it?”
“No. Yes! I don’t know,” you huff, disentangling yourself from his arms and continuing toward your bedroom. “Now I’m annoyed at you again.”
He follows you right through the door. 
“Just tell me what to do! I don’t want to be annoying.”
“I can’t. I’m being unreasonable.” You flick on your adjoining bathroom light and examine yourself in the mirror. Yeesh. The eye makeup situation is abysmal after all the crying that has taken place over the course of the evening. 
“So choose to be reasonable and tell me what you want from me. I’ll give it to you.”
You frown at your reflection, pushing your hair back and rubbing at some excess mascara. 
“No, you’re not understanding me. I’m not choosing to be unreasonable. My thought process regarding the situation is inherently unreasonable and there’s nothing I can do about it because it’s just the way I feel.”
“The feeling being that I’ve been too domineering over how our sexual relationship has unfolded?”
Spencer watches you in the bathroom mirror, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed as you tip some makeup remover onto a reusable cotton pad. You try not to check him out as you nod, but it’s impossible—with his sleeves rolled up to show defined forearms cradled in capable hands, and his hair all messy. 
When he pushes off the wall you freeze, unsure of his next move—until he’s gently spinning you around and taking the bottle and cloth from your hands. 
“Maybe it would help,” he begins, soft as he focuses on the new task, carefully bringing the round to your right eye so he can remove the bleeding mascara. You allow your eyes to flutter shut. “If I remind you why I’ve been so hesitant.”
“Because you hate giving me joy.”
He laughs, nothing more than one huff from his nose. 
“You’re spoiled and we both know it.”
Point taken, as he gently wipes your makeup away for you. Your silence is his cue to continue. 
“Everything I said about worrying that you would regret choosing me is true. It was especially true when I thought you felt lukewarm toward me. And all of that confusing stuff I said in the phone is true too—having sex for the first time is incredibly intimate and weird and sometimes scary. If you’re not 100% sure about your partner, or if you think your feelings are unrequited, it’s hard to be completely comfortable in such a vulnerable situation and your likelihood of getting hurt or having regrets skyrockets. I know that from experience. I wanted better for you than what I got. Still, I know it was wrong to project my feelings about the significance of sex onto you. In that regard, you’re right. I was being domineering, and I guess… I guess to an extent I’m still deflecting. I shouldn’t be trying to pretend like it’s about you when in reality I mostly just didn’t want to get hurt again. I didn’t want to go through that again, and that’s okay, but I shouldn’t have made you feel like it was something you could have changed.”
You try to process that. 
“Go through what?” You whisper hoarsely. Something about having him at such close range while he takes such care with you feels whisper-y. 
“Sleeping with someone who didn’t love me back.”
Your reply is small. 
“Oh. Right.”
How could anyone not love him back?
Spencer’s reply is simple and kind, without a hint of, obviously you dumb bitch—which is pretty much what you’re thinking to yourself. 
“Does that make sense, lovely? Do you understand why I wanted to wait?”
He lets you ponder for a while in comfortable-enough silence as he finishes removing your eye makeup with a characteristically gentle hand. When you open your eyes, he looks genuinely content, screwing the lid back on the bottle as if he’s got an eternity to wait for your answer. 
“Yeah. That part makes sense. But why did you seem so… I don’t know, like, wishy-washy about it?”
Spencer’s eyes dart up to meet yours, brows slightly raised. Then a small laugh bubbles up from somewhere inside him. 
“Because I’m obsessed with you. I thought about you like that constantly. I still do.”
Your breath catches at the casual admission. 
“Oh.”
Spencer hums, setting the bottle down before tenderly thumbing away some excess mascara that he must have missed from under your eye. 
“You didn’t think it was easy for me, did you?”
“Well… kind of,” you admit, tracking his eyes until they meet yours. 
“Not sleeping with you has been among the hardest things I’ve ever done. Especially when you started begging me. That first time, when I picked you up from Penelope’s and you asked me why we hadn’t had sex yet…”
He trails off, still rubbing at your cheek as he loses himself in thought. 
Eventually, you grow impatient, prompting, “what?”
“It’s not a nice thought.”
“Well, you have to tell me now,” you insist. 
He half smiles, thumb straying to your lips. 
“It was just… you had no idea what you were talking about, and you were ready to throw a tantrum in my living room until I gave you what you thought you wanted. Part of me was imagining bending you over the couch right then, since you thought you were so ready.”
It feels like someone has snipped the pulley that keeps your stomach in place. 
“Spencer,” you splutter, convinced your cheek is tangibly heating under his touch as your head reels at the revelation that he could have such a deeply dirty and mildly sinister mind. 
“I told you it wasn’t nice.”
You swallow. 
“Is that… is that still what you want?”
His brows flicker again and he tucks hair behind your ear. 
“To bend you over my couch? No.”
Your face warms even more and you turn to leave the bathroom, sick of his teasing. 
“Okay, goodni—”
“Hold on.” Spencer catches you by your waist and pulls you back into him for the second time tonight. A dangerous smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “I know what you meant. And no, I don’t want to bend you over my couch.” He laughs, slipping a hand under your shirt to rub your back. “You know what I want. I’m more interested in learning what you want.”
“I want…” Your eyes dance between his, and your heart flutters against the confines of your chest as you realize what you’ve wanted for so long is finally yours for the taking. “I want to stop talking about it.”
His expression neutralizes and you know it’s probably intentional to stop whatever feelings you assume him to be having color your decision. 
“Oh?”
“I just think we’ve talked about it enough.”
Before he can say another word, or ask you another question, you kiss him with such passion there’s no way he can doubt how much you want this. 
Only a moment passes before he allows himself to lean into it, cupping your face between reverent hands and taking control of the pace of the kiss, slowing it down until you can hardly breathe. Your little noise of want has him quickening the process, pressing against you until you’re walking backward out of the bathroom. It’s like the first crack in a dam. After that, everything becomes inevitable. 
Your knees hit the back of the bed and you sit down hard on the mattress, smiling up at him. You skim the front of his thighs with your palms as he smooths your hair.
Spencer groans, leaning down and kissing you til you’re on your back. 
“Don’t make that face.”
An affronted huff from you breaks the kiss up and he pulls back to study your expression. 
“What do you mean don’t make that face? I was just smiling at you.”
“I know you were. And you have such a pretty smile it makes me feel guilty about… defiling you.”
Your brows flicker up and your mouth drops open with an affronted scoff.
“Watch yourself. I’ll defile you.”
“You already have,” he admits with a half-laugh as he kisses you again. “My mind was never this dirty before we met.”
“Hm. Tell me you like my smile.”
He pauses and then chuckles dryly against your mouth. 
“I love your smile. You’re gorgeous. Any more demands?”
Pleased, you shake your head and pull him closer, wrapping your legs around his waist. 
“Not currently.”
“Really?” he murmurs, trailing kisses over your cheek and down your jaw, “I’d do just about anything you asked me right now. You don’t want to take advantage of that?”
The sensation of his lips just below your ear threatens all rational thought in your brain, but you manage a reply with only a slight delay and a hint of a waver coloring your tone. 
“I shouldn’t have to demand things. You should just know to do them.”
His kisses drag lower, warm and unhurried and you’re trying not to let your hyper-sensitivity from going a week completely untouched show—but you doubt he misses the way your breath catches, or the barely audible squeaks, or the arch of your back or the tightening grip on his shirt. 
“Well, for future reference—” he nips at a sensitive spot and you gasp quietly, even as you tilt your head to offer him more access. More room to bite, if he so chooses. “—I happen to enjoy it when you make demands of me. Especially when those demands entail letting me call you pretty.”
“I’ve never not let you call me pretty before,” you huff. It’s a touchy subject, and Spencer can probably sense your hackles rising, but he has you right where he wants you and so he pushes anyway. 
“No. But you never believe me. We’ve had this conversation. You always act like I’m walking you to the gallows when I compliment you.” 
It’s hard to make a defense when he’s leaning his weight onto one arm so he can unbutton your jeans, when he’s looking down at you with sparkling onyx and scorched-earth eyes like you’re something to be consumed. But not violently, no—ardently. Like fruit heavy on the vine. Like you’re a religious rite to the devout and deluded. A sacrament.
But it’s not a blind passion. Spencer knows you; every inch of you and every loose thread on your soul begging to be pulled. He knows you and he still wants you like this. To be perfectly honest, you’d never thought you’d feel comfortable handing yourself over to someone like this—vulnerable and all your layers of armor shed. Never in your life would you have thought you could trust a person so implicitly that you’d hand them a knife and show them exactly where to press, that you’d say, I know once you open me and you see me you’ll not want to change a thing.
You adore him. Cosmically. Enormously. In every dimension. He’s lodged so deep in your heart you have no choice but to love him eternally. 
It’s deep in the midst of all these very profound revelations that you realize Spencer has stalled with your zipper undone. His hand has strayed to your hip, to sweetly push your shirt up and trace love letters into warmed and downy skin with his thumb. 
“I just wish you could see yourself how I see you,” he says softly, the weight of the truth a strain on his vocal cords. 
Sometimes, he is so kind it’s like a punch to your stomach. You’ve never been quite as kind as him. And nobody’s ever been as kind to you as he is. You’ve done nothing to deserve his kindness, but you know he needs a place for it, and you’re here with open arms. 
He studies you a moment longer, swallowing as his eyes trail over your face and lower. You want to reach out and brush strands of caramel hair out of his face, but he seems to be thinking so hard you’re hesitant to distract him. 
“I’ve never told you this, because I know you’d just shoot it down, but… you are genuinely the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met in my life.”
Something twinges in the depths of your stomach—the darker shades who live there and exist solely to whisper not enough not enough not enough to you every minute of every day. 
But they’re simply not a match for the softness you find when you do reach out for his hair, or the way he looks at you. Spencer loosely wraps his fingers around your wrist—not a cuff, but an affectionate hold. 
“Do you believe me?”
There’s so much earnest hope in his voice it almost jars you. He so badly wants you to understand how feels about you—he’s been trying to tell you for months and all you know how to do is refute his praise and insist on your worthlessness. 
Ever since Spencer, you don’t see the faces on magazine covers or in superhero movies, no matter how mathematically flawless they are. Nobody gets close to being as beautiful as he is in your eyes. He’s in an entirely different echelon, and despite how you feel about yourself, you have to accept that he might feel the same about you. 
“I do,” you say, equally soft, and 100% honest. You believe that he believes it, and that’s enough. It’s all that matters. 
The shallow knit of his brow loosens. His lips ease into a suggestion of a smile. But it’s most visible in his eyes—the way smoldering coals reignite, melting the amber glass of his irises until they’re molten. 
The way he kisses you then, you’d think you’d lassoed the moon and pulled it down from the sky for him. But apparently all it takes to make him incandescently, contagiously happy, is to accept a compliment.
There’s a renewed sense of urgency on his breath as he kisses you deeply and quick enough your heart is racing. It only goes faster when he remembers his previous task and begins tugging your jeans down, but he doesn’t even bother to pull them past your knees before his hand is creeping up your thigh. Goosebumps race each other across your body as you try to remember what it feels like—what he feels like. But you can’t, even as his thumb fans over your inner thigh and pushes it open, gently encouraging you to give him more access to you. 
“You’re not wasting any time,” you breathe against him while he traces the edge of your underwear.
“Do you want me to slow down?”
Judging by the way the tips of his fingers only barely shy away from the fabric, he really wants the answer to be no. But you know in his searching gaze that he’d never push you. 
“No, it’s fine. As long as we… don’t go this fast the whole time.”
“We won’t.” The hasty words are of lower priority than the next kiss he plants to your swollen lips. “We won’t. I just missed you so much.”
“Yeah?” You giggle airily as he drags his fingers over your clit through the material, trying to ignore the way it makes your head spin. 
“Yes. Yeah.”
You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him like this, so… desperate for you, as he drops his lips to your neck and presses barely-there kisses everywhere he knows you’re sensitive. Just the feeling of his breath against your skin has you shivering. His hand between your legs only brushes your most nerve-dense spot, but a few touches in and you’re already wound up, like if Spencer doesn’t give you more soon you’ll burst. And not in the good way. 
When he finally commits to actually kissing your neck, you squeak, warmth emanating from that spot just below your jaw all the way to your toes. The frantic energy of earlier is slowly melting away, and he loses focus with his hand, as it begins straying wider, stroking your hip, your inner thigh, your stomach. It’s like your nerve endings are on overdrive, delivering twice as much feedback to your brain as they normally would. Each touch feels like he’s conducting electricity over your body, like you’re a plasma ball. He’d probably like that analogy—you, a core of alternating voltage, and him, the conductor, tracing a path and giving all those electrons an easy release. If you weren’t so distracted, you’d tell Spencer you found a way to work Nikola Tesla into your mutual sex life, and he’d probably propose on the spot. 
But that electricity is building fast—even more so when he drags his lips down just above your collarbone. Your breath hitches, simultaneously trying to crane your neck to give him more room, and curl into him so as to escape the stimulation. Finally he pulls away, and losing the softness of his mouth while the air feels so cold against the places he’d kissed almost hurts. 
“You’re a mess,” he chuckles affectionately, raising his hand to brush hair away from your face before stroking the heated high point of your cheek. “What am I going to do with you?”
It’s teasing, but so low and gentle and honeyed it swirls your stomach. 
“Whatever you want,” you admit quietly. It’s a shy confession more than it is a salacious flirtation because he already has you. And you want nothing more than for him to act on that in any way he so pleases. Whatever he does, it will be careful, and kind, and because he loves you. You know that no matter how he takes you apart—he’ll put you back together again. 
“I don’t know if I can. You’re all jumpy.”
God, he has the prettiest smile—even when it’s twisted with sarcasm and a thin veneer of guilt, like he knows he shouldn’t be teasing and just can’t help himself. 
“I’m not,” you defend, face heating further. “I’m not nervous. I don’t know what it is.”
That sticky sweet tone is back, pooling in his eyes and dripping all over you like nectar as he languidly looks you over. 
“I didn’t say you were nervous. Just a little bit jumpy.”
It’s not accusatory—he’s simply stating a fact. Easy, gentle, designed to soothe. 
You shrug helplessly and chew on your lip, unsure of how he wants you to respond. It’s definitely true that excited as you are, you’re slightly on edge. You feel taut as a string on a guitar, tense and waiting to be yanked at any second. 
His expression is serene, and his thoughts inscrutable as he continues lavishing you with his eyes, down to where he’s lying over you and back up. His lips part, but he doesn’t speak for a moment as he formulates his words. 
“Can we try something? There’s this tantric exercise that might help you relax.”
Your brows draw earnestly and you nod up at him, not requiring any convincing even though you have no idea what he’s talking about. 
Spencer directs you to sit up, and you do—kicking your jeans all the way off so you can sit criss-cross with your hands braced on your ankles. 
He’s next to you on the bed, at a slight angle, one of your knees in his lap. You blink at him. 
“Now what?”
“Now you give me one of your hands,” he says, tone tinted with a hint of an amused smile, as if your impatience is funny to him. Of course it probably is. 
Frowning only a little, you unlock your left arm and hold it out for him, watching curiously as he takes your one hand between his and flips it palm-up. 
“Did you know,” Spencer begins, voice low and confidential, “that the fingertips are the second most sensitive part of the human body?”
“What’s the first?”
“Lips,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on your hand where he’s brushing the tips of your fingers light enough it almost tickles. “They’re both incredibly important for keeping you alive, which is why they’re one and two. But you’ll be particularly sensitive anywhere you’re vulnerable.” His words are trailing off as he brushes his thumb over your palm and to the delicate skin of your wrist. “Like here.”
His knuckles skim up your forearm, to the crook of your elbow. 
“And especially here.”
You’re fascinated as he traces back down the length of your arm and over your inner-wrist, feather light. Then up once more, with the blunted edges of his nails, and your breath catches. You’ve never noticed how sensitive such an innocuous part of your body could be, but it has your stomach flipping—more so when he looses a breathy laugh. “You know, some people are actually able to reach orgasm just by light stimulation to this area.”
Your response is just as airy—you don’t recognize your voice when it comes out like that, hanging in the pitch black between you. 
“Really?” 
An affirmative hum from him, as he lifts your hand and places an intentional kiss over your pulse at the bend of your wrist. Your chest aches and heat is pooling in your stomach as his gently trails them up the delicate skin of your arm. Maybe you should be embarrassed by the reaction you’re having—after all, it’s just your arm. But he treats every part of you like it warrants love and attention and intimacy. Even the parts you typically ignore. Certainly parts you never considered to be sexually or romantically relevant. It’s dizzying. It’s like magic. 
“Arms up,” Spencer finally directs, just as sweetly as he’s doing everything else, and helps you tug your shirt over your head. Every brush of fabric, every seam against your skin registers more than it normally would. Everything is heightened, and despite your state of undress you’re still warm. “Your neck is really sensitive, too. It’s the most commonly acknowledged erogenous zone.”
Erogenous zone. Of course this all comes back to biology. 
“Tilt your head for me, honey.”
Utterly entranced and useless to not abide by him, you do so. Spencer brushes your hair over your shoulder, and if the slip of it down your back weren’t enough, the graze of his fingertips against the nape of your neck has you shivering. 
The warmth of him at your throat feels completely brand new, despite having already had his lips there only minutes before. But now they ghost over your skin with a kind of novelty, and your own lips part in silent pleasure, head lolling to allow him greater access.
“Lie back.”
Without hesitation (but perhaps a bit sluggishly in your stupor) you obey, sliding down until you’re propped up only by pillows once more. Spencer takes his place propped above you once more, thighs slotted with yours as he quickly picks up where he left off. 
The sweet kisses are perfect and feel so much better than you’d ever thought to notice before—but at the same time your core aches and there’s that pressure building again that’s starting to get to you. 
“Spencer,” you try, and it comes out hoarse but you don’t care at all. “More.”
“You want me to leave marks?” 
And the offer is so tempting you’ll wait a few more minutes to ask for what you really need, nodding semi-frantically and ‘mhm’-ing desperately. 
As he gently latches onto a spot that will require concealer later but feels fantastic for now, one of his hands slips down your side, just barely letting his nails skim, and your back actually arches. It’s a shocking amount of stimulation for being nowhere near any sexual hotspots. That tiny caught breath dissolves as his fingers continue down just as lightly over your hip and thigh. Your muscles tense as you chase and run away from the feeling. It’s ridiculous.
There’s no point in trying to keep your eyes open now—they grow heavy and you let them fall shut as he sucks another love bite to your throat. 
“Feels good, doesn’t it? It’s kind of weird.” He says, voicing your thoughts as he eventually decides the mark will be sufficiently dark. 
“Yeah,” you agree, lacking all eloquence as he caresses every sensitive place you didn’t know you had and your hips writhe minutely in a little desperate dance of your own creation. 
“Most people aren’t aware of the potential of the erogenous zones that aren’t actual sex organs. They don’t pay attention to them. You know what else is an interesting function of erotic stimulation to areas that aren’t directly involved in reproduction?”
“Hm,” you hum as his hand skims to your back. You lean into it and he promptly undoes your bra with a single hand—a skill you’re not even sure you have. 
“It releases not quite as much oxytocin as an orgasm but more than sexual pleasure alone. So you’re less tense before sex than you usually would be, and you’re primed to build more trust and feel more connected with your partner during.”
God, he’s a nerd. And it’s so, so hot. 
You roll over on your back again and look up at him through half-lidded eyes. The corner of his mouth flickers as he takes in your expression, before trailing downward, following the path his fingertips make over your skin as they tug the straps over your shoulders. Trying to stop him, to be shy, would be a pointless venture. He’s seen you like this and you want him to see you again. 
A shaky exhale of his own brings a little smile to your face as he pulls your bra away and observes the newly bared skin with a hunger that you can feel. 
“I missed you,” he murmurs, eyes cast pointedly down and thumb brushing over the side of your right breast. 
“You mentioned.”
“I’m not allowed to say it again?” He teases, leaning down to kiss you soft. Your lips curve against his. 
“You can say it as many times as you want.”
Spencer hums, finally thumbing over your breast’s sensitive peak. It sends a chill down your back and seeing as you’re already worked up to the point of near insanity, the pleasure from such a simple touch is much stronger than it would be otherwise. 
“Good. Because I missed you a lot.”
After that, he doesn’t waste much time—only toying with your flesh for another minute as he kisses you before his hand is skimming down your abdomen and dipping below the waistband of your underwear. 
“Please,” you whisper, tilting your hips toward him when he doesn’t move to touch you anymore. 
“Please what?”
“Spencer, don’t.”
He smiles at this, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth as his hand travels lower. Fingers slip between wet folds and he begins making the lightest of circles over your clit. 
“You’ve probably been waiting long enough, huh? I should be nicer.”
Your answer is a breathy almost-whine as you seek more friction against his hand. 
“Yeah.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, pressing down harder. The sensation sends sparks down to your toes and you attempt to clamp your legs shut around his wrist. “These need to stay open,” Spencer chuckles, “or else I can’t help you.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” The words are a sweet sing-song against your cheek as he kisses you there, before hooking his fingers into the fabric of your underwear and pulling down. You try to help wiggle out of them as best you can, gasping when he tosses them away and immediately returns his hand between your legs. He dips his head down, tongue lathing over your breast, and teases you with the tip of one finger circling around your entrance. 
“I need—”
“Shh. Let me worry about it.”
With that, he’s dipping his ring and middle fingers just barely inside of you to the first knuckle, then back out, before pushing a bit deeper, and repeating the cycle until they’re as far as they’ll go. When he slowly starts fucking you with them, still mouthing sweetly at your breast, you’re ready to melt. 
The room is quiet except for your breathy mewls, the lewd, wet sound of his fingers inside of you, and the blood rushing in your ears. Soon your breast pops from between his lips and he finds somewhere else to leave his mark. Spencer is turning you into a work of art, with his fingers, with his mouth. You don’t mind at all. You’d let him sign his name, if he could—but you doubt he’d let you get his name tattooed. 
Soon you stop fighting the perpetual tug of your lids down and let them flutter shut, loosing a freer moan as he brushes over that sweet spot inside you. Even when he’d told you how to find it over the phone, it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t like this—maddening enough to have your hips twisting again and that hot bed of coals in your tummy sparking. 
“Spencer,” you warn, leg twitching as he stokes the fire beyond the point where you can passively enjoy it. Either he’s got to slow down or he’s got to let you burn all the way up. You practically jump when you feel his tongue flick over your clit—you hadn’t even been aware of his shifting positions. Maybe you’re more out of it than you’d previously thought. Your eyes shoot open and he does it again. “Oh, fuck.”
The words are simple, quiet, and apparently that’s not enough. Before you can even process the sensation of the tip of his tongue on you he’s latching onto your clit, suckling in a way that has your vision momentarily going out. You cry out and kick involuntarily, hips jumping up, but he captures your leg and presses you down into the mattress so no matter how much you squirm and squeak you can’t get away. 
“Fuckfuckfuck, Spencer I wa—ah—sn’t ready—oh my god.”
He remembers his fingers deep inside you and begins rutting them and you hiss, inhaling sharply through your teeth before letting it all out in a tremulous moan. The orgasm is building up so quickly it almost feels like an attack on your poor body as you try to process it all to no avail. Every sound you make is a vulnerable mess of pleasure and pain, a clear fear of surrendering to something inevitable. Of course, it doesn’t really hurt at all. As usual, he’s blindsided you. Found you unprepared. You rake your fingers through Spencer’s hair, continuing on with your shaky moans that sound half-worried. 
“Oh, please.” Really, you’re just pleading to be put out of your misery. It’s in moments like this, as the black is creeping in around the edges of your vision and your thoughts become threads in the tangle of an existence knotting in on itself with no discernible end or beginning in your mind until everything is completely abstract, that you’re reminded why the French refer to orgasm as the little death.  
Your fingers lace tight enough in the wilds of his hair to pull, and he groans against you, and those vibrations are your undoing. You succumb to the dark momentarily but he continues a loving assault of gentle kisses to your clit—careful enough so as to be inoffensive even after the euphoria abates and you’re hypersensitive, still relishing soft strands of hair between your knuckles. 
You’re breathing hard as you blink your vision back, looking down at him as he looks up at you from his place between your legs and rubs the top of your thigh.
“I wasn’t ready,” you pant, lips flashing into a tired smile that doesn’t hold a candle to his own livelier one. 
“Took it like a champ.”
If you weren’t already so warm his sarcastic comment would inspire more heat in the apples of your cheeks. 
“Dr. Spencer Reid using sports idioms?” You smile as he climbs back up your body. 
“It’s unreasonably sexy that you said idiom and not simile.” He kisses you, grin mirroring yours, and you don’t complain about the slick still on his lips. “And look at that. Not afraid to kiss me when I taste like you anymore.”
“I remember what you said,” you whisper, eyes bouncing between his, glowing amber pools in the low light. The words echo in your head from the first time he’d gone down on you and you’d been hesitant to taste yourself. 
One day, I’ll make you come just like that again, and then I’m going to fuck you, and you’re really going to want me to kiss you then, angel.
“So do I,” he points out needlessly. “Eerily prophetic, hm?”
“I think you just like going down on me,” you laugh. 
Without the light on, his smile is just as brilliant as usual.  
“You might be right about that.”
Another interlude of quiet begins, but you don’t mind it. Taking this slow, as desperate as you’ve been for it, feels nice. Easy. Waves of burning need ebb and flow, but for now, it feels nice to be bathed in his candlelight gaze, know you’re loved, and nothing else. 
“What next?” You whisper after a long moment, lifting your hand to trace the line of his jaw. He leans into it slightly, lips brushing your palm. 
“That’s up to you, angel. What’s going to make you feel most comfortable?” 
Your bottom lip rolls between your teeth as you think and he tracks the movement, corner of his mouth twitching fondly. 
“It might help if you weren’t fully clothed.”
“I think we could probably do something about that.”
He pecks the tip of your nose playfully and then he’s pushing off the bed. Your brow wrinkles as you follow suit only partially, sitting up with your legs folded under you and pulling the sheets over your body to combat the chill and the vulnerability of being completely naked. 
“Oh, my god. You had your shoes on that whole time?”
“I got distracted,” Spencer defends, almost tripping over himself in his hurry to slip the loafers off. 
You clutch the sheet to your chest, watching the adorable way he pushes his hair out of his face as he rushes. He’s so clearly excited—it shows in the flush of his cheek and his even worse than usual coordination. 
“But on my bed?”
“I’m sorry,” he says without seeming very apologetic, leaning down to catch your chin between his thumb and forefinger and pressing his lips to yours. “I’ll pay to have your comforter dry cleaned. I’ll buy you a new one. I don’t care.”
“How chivalrous.”
“I am,” he insists against your lips, shaped by what is surely a boyish smirk. 
Unsurprisingly, you get lost in the kiss, dropping the sheet to hang onto his shoulders. Spencer takes advantage of the once-more revealed skin, rubbing your thigh with slow passes in a way that has you all lit up again already. It doesn’t help that his tie is skimming right over the recess between your folded thighs as he leans over your seated form, kissing you deeper as the moments pass. 
“You’re distracting me now,” you scold, but your voice is quiet and smiley as your noses brush. 
“Do you want to help me with my clothes?”
You nod, heart hatching like a cocoon and already slipping a finger into the knot of his tie so you can tug perhaps not gently enough. He chuckles, bracing himself with his fists on either side of your lap as you pull and yank until the fabric comes loose and you slip it from around his neck, flinging it blindly for dramatic effect. Then he slowly draws back to his full height, until you’re about eye-level with his chest. His gaze fixes on you, feverish and intent as he finds the buckle of his belt without looking. The slide of leather on leather, the jingle of the metal has the hairs on the back of your neck rising and you fight a chill as he pins you with his stare—feeling rather powerless as he towers over you, still essentially fully clothed while you’re completely naked. 
You probably shouldn’t be as thrilled by it as you are. 
Spencer tosses the belt on the floor and watches on, utterly charmed as you rise to your knees. His hands find your waist, steadying you as you begin unbuttoning his shirt with slow, careful fingers. 
“See?” You murmur bashfully. “Helping.”
His voice is equally as soft. 
“Very helpful. Thank you.”
The tension in the quiet room gets to be too much and you have to focus hard on the task at hand, failing to bite back a twisty smile. For once, he keeps his stupid perfect mouth shut and lets you push the fabric of his open shirt from his shoulders in humid silence. 
Your fingers skate down his torso and you watch the muscles tense. You wonder if he notices the way he pulls you slightly closer or if it’s subconscious as you both track the path of your hands. 
“Your button is on the wrong side,” you note, voice wavering slightly, once your fingers stall at the waistband of his pants.
Spencer chuckles. You feel silly. 
“Men and women’s clothing tend to have the buttons on different sides, if that’s what you mean.”
“Oh.” A beat of silence, before the words come pouring out. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I’m still a little bit nervous, I think.”
“That’s okay,” Spencer assures you, hands gliding up and down the soft lines of your waist. “It’s okay that you’re nervous. But I’m going to take really good care of you, okay?”
You nod, not looking away from the exposed skin of his torso. 
“And if at any point you need to take a break or stop, you’ll tell me.”
“I will, but… I don’t need to stop right now.”
“Then you can go as slow as you want.”
You swallow and take a moment to gather yourself before continuing on undoing his pants. With his assistance, you pull them down, and with them his boxers tug an inch or two lower, exposing a subtle v-shape before it disappears beneath the waistband. The fabric is obviously tented. A ball of nervous anticipation spins faster in your stomach, drawing all the heat in your body down between your legs. He’s pretty everywhere. You’d nearly forgotten. 
Spencer’s stomach tenses under your light touch as you drag your fingers down, down, just to the waistband. It’s then that you look up at him for permission to continue, and find his eyes already on you, heated and intense. 
“Go ahead, honey.”
Again you find yourself quite excited to touch him, but you start cautiously, simply letting your hand fall over the shape of him through the fabric. Even that has his chest rising and falling at a slightly quickened rate, and one of his hands finds your unoccupied one, twining them together. That small gesture inspires you to bolden your explorations, becoming more insistent in the way you palm at him. He feels big, which is a concern of yours. But you try not to let that intimidate you.  
Already he’s quite hard, you suspect from going down on you earlier (which is flattering as much as it embarrasses you) and your fingers graze a small wet patch of fabric. You fixate on the shaky little breath he releases as you push down his boxers with new fervor, and his cock springs up. 
He’s still perfect. 
You smear beads of precum down his tip, and he sighs, letting his head fall against yours as you both watch. A few coquettish pumps and he’s humming, kissing your face and dragging his lips down your neck where he makes a home for himself. Apparently the sight of your hand wrapped around him had been too much to bear. 
“So good. Missed this.”
“It’s just my hand,” you whisper, a little insecure that he’s maybe playing it up for your benefit. 
“It’s you.”
His voice is so breathy, you sort of have to believe him. 
“Can I…?”
Too nervous to voice what you really mean, you trail off, but it apparently doesn’t matter to Spencer. He lifts his head like he’s in a stupor but you’ve said something urgent. 
“Anything you want. You can do whatever you want.”
“Okay. Um…”
You let go of his hand (and his dick). Spencer automatically rotates to accommodate you as you end up on your knees on the wooden floor in front of him. 
“This is what you want?” He breathes, already pushing his fingers through your hair and gathering it back as you look up at him and nod. 
Very quickly you have him back in your hand, trying to remember what you learned from the few times you’ve done this. You start perhaps a bit softer, less eager to prove yourself than you have in the past—simply dragging him over your tongue before enveloping his tip in your mouth, and releasing with a pop. Despite being overtly, explicitly, and undeniably sexual, there’s something almost chaste about the way you handle him. It’s a (dirty) expression of love, and you think he understands that as he rubs at your cheek affectionately. 
Eventually, however, you get too excited, and you take him into your mouth in earnest, bobbing your head slowly and seeing how much of him you can take without gagging. 
Spencer makes the prettiest noises—they’re breathy, and not ostentatious, but he’s got such a nice speaking voice it’s like his gasps are bars in a song. You whine around him, wriggling your hips in a rather pathetic display, and then all too quickly he’s tugging your hair so you can’t keep him in your mouth. 
“What?” You ask, closer to pouting than you’d care to admit and voice slightly hoarse. “You said I could do anything I want.”
“Not if you’re that good at it. Come here.”
He helps you up and catches you in a deep, messy kiss before you’ve fully regained your footing, swaying against him, but he holds you fast, pulling away slow like strings of honey trail between your mouths. 
Spencer’s eyes are fixed on yours, lips parted in a sort of wonder before he glances down to your own mouth, wiping the shine from your bottom lip. Any moment you’re expecting him to say something, to tell you you’re beautiful or perfect or that he’s in love with you—but instead he just meets your eyes again, that same wonder-struck look on his pretty face. A tiny, breathy laugh forces itself from his chest like you’re a genuine miracle. 
You feel so observed—seen in a way you’ve never been seen, looked at closer than anyone has ever looked at you before. And he still looks at you like you’re the human embodiment of love, the closest mortal manifestation of the divine, Galatea come down from her marble pedestal. The way he looks at you has your heart pounding and your breathing hastened. Adoration has never been something so physical, so tangible, ever before in your life. Your blood hums at the frequency of his electromagnetic field—an energetic aura that surrounds each person and can be detected from several feet away, as he’d explained it to you. It originates from the heart and if you spend enough time close to  someone, syncs up the beating of your most vital organ with theirs until it’s a perfect match. Maybe that’s why, almost as quickly as your heart had begun to pound, it slows again, and you feel any reservation flush from your body like a fever. 
“Okay,” you breathe, cataloguing every angle and curve of his face to store with all the rest, all the moments that feel important. Of course, you’ll never remember them like he does yours. But you’ll be damned if you don’t try your hardest. 
“Okay?” Spencer asks. He understands the confirmation for what it is, and searches for signs of hesitation on your face while rubbing reassuring circles into your hip. You nod resolutely. 
As he lays you down on your bed, it feels like you’re entering some kind of altered state. Everything is muted and glowing with a watercolor aura in the dark and you really only care about the man on top of you and the way moonlight dances on his skin and the way he smells like smoky amber and rain. He makes sure the pillows are fluffed under you, before sweeping your hair from beneath your shoulders into a corona around your head. All the while his eyes are so soft on you, just like his hands, and his lips when he leans down to touch them to yours. 
One of said hands finds its way to your jaw, trailing down over your neck and collarbone, before settling over your breast where he swipes a thumb over your nipple, lightly, slowly, several times. 
Once again you’re struck with the odd feeling, even with his hand on you like this, that the situation isn’t sexual in the way you’d anticipated. It’s not pornographic, or even very dirty. Everything Spencer does, even as his hand sneaks down between your legs, he does because he loves you. 
“One more like this,” he mutters against your jaw after a moment. 
“Why?”
Your impatience yields a smile you can only feel against your skin. 
“Just want you relaxed and feeling good. That’s all.”
When you assent, his fingers are already slowly pushing inside you. 
It seems you’ve entered some sort of time warp as well, because you reach a gentle peak in what feels like record time, aided by his easy murmurings and saccharine praise.
“Perfect. That was perfect,” Spencer says with a kiss to your shoulder as he slides his fingers from you and you feel yourself literally dripping onto the sheets. “Can I ask you something before we get carried away?”
“Mhm,” you hum, sweet and compliant as pleasure dulls your inhibitions for the second time tonight and your head lolls into the pillows. 
“Baby,” he croons, voice soft as worn paper as your lids flutter and lashes brush febrile cheeks, thumbing over the heated skin. “Need you a little more alert, sweet girl.”
“’M trying,” you whine, though it’s half self-effacing laugh. Spencer chuckles too as you shake your head and take a deep breath, trying to reinvigorate yourself. “Okay. Go.”
“Well… we don’t have any protection.” Before you can groan, loudly, he hurries on. “And that’s… I’m okay with that, if it’s what you still want. I trust you. But there will come… a moment of reckoning. And I need to know where I should… reckon. So you don’t end up surprised.”
Now you’re really laughing—a giggly mess beneath him as your arms loop over his shoulders. 
“Stop it,” he whines, pressing his nose to your cheek as you turn your head in an effort to not snort at your boyfriend to his face. “That was for your benefit, you know. You get squeamish.”
“I’m sorry, I just can’t take you seriously when you refer to it as reckoning.”
“Fine. I’ll rephrase. When I come, you essentially have two options. Inside, or on your stomach. Tell me where you want it.”
Your breath catches and your stomach does that tripping-over-itself thing again. 
“Um…”
Another fond half laugh, at your expense, is pressed against your skin. It’s enough to prompt you into answering—he doesn’t have to say anything to make his point about your being squeamish. 
“Inside,” you mutter, shy as you attempt to bring him closer so he won’t be able to look at you quite so closely. You wonder if he’s remembering the conversation you’d had over the phone last week—before he’d accidentally kind of broken up with you—about this very subject. You certainly are. 
“Okay. I want you to have everything that you want.” A few kisses to your neck later, between nips, he speaks again. “Just need to hear that you want this one more time.”
“I want this,” you repeat, obedient and honest, plain and simple. “Now, please.”
Spencer responds by first kissing you, firm and loving. It soothes you, and he punctuates it with a kiss to your cheek, before he’s reaching down and guiding himself between your legs. You feel surprisingly calm, more overcome with love and the light pleasure rolling down your back as he drags himself over your clit than you are by nerves. Still, you pointedly hold his gaze, not looking down in case you psych yourself out. He slots himself in place, tip resting against your entrance. 
“Remember, if you need to stop at any point—”
“I remember,” you cut him off hurriedly. 
Okay. So perhaps you’re still slightly nervous. 
He watches you, sympathetic though you’re not sure what for. 
“I need you as relaxed as possible, okay? I want this to be easy on you.”
You take a moment, scanning your whole body for tense muscles. When you feel sufficiently relaxed, you offer Spencer a small nod, and at that, he begins pushing into you ever so slightly. 
At first, it just feels foreign. He’s going so slowly, so carefully, you’re not sure he’s moving at all—until he finds resistance and the odd full feeling changes to a hint of burning stretch. Your hips jump and your breath catches, and Spencer stops immediately, relieving the pressure with a tiny shift in position. 
“It’s gonna hurt,” you realize, eyes darting between his like he might be able to tell you otherwise. You’d always been aware of the possibility, but you were holding out hope that you’d be one of those people who didn’t experience any pain their first time. 
“Just for a minute. Then it’ll feel good, angel.”
You swallow and nod. At the end of the day, you trust him completely. You trust him enough to let him hurt you. 
“Super deep breaths for me.”
He watches intently as you follow his directions, taking several deep breaths in succession, before he begins pushing into you once more. The pressure builds and builds until he pushes past that point of resistance, and it’s like he’s breaking you in two. 
“Ah,” you gasp, abs twisting as your body tries to escape the sensation without any input from you. 
“I know. I know, baby, that was the hardest part. Breathe.”
He drops his thumb to your clit, rubbing circles with light pressure to distract from the pain.
You nod, lips pressed together tight as the deep ache muddles your brain. It’s an insistent pressure against something does not seem to want to budge. It burns and stretches and is laced with sour, flirtatious pleasure so that you can hardly tell what it is you’re feeling. Mostly, you’re dizzy and hot.
“Relax, just like that,” he strains, looking down. “My good girl. We’re almost there, baby.”
Cries spill unbidden from your mouth and your eyes shut as he continues to open you up deeper, until finally, finally, his hips settle into the cradle of yours. 
Spencer sighs a curse under his breath, so quiet you don’t think it was meant for you. 
He’s inside of you. It’s bizarre. 
You whimper, and he snaps out of whatever revery he’d been in. 
“You okay? How does that feel?”
You take a shuddering breath, closing your eyes and trying to clear your head to no avail—your thoughts are like TV static. 
“I’m good. I need… I need a minute.”
“You can have as much time as you need. It’s a lot, huh?”
“Yeah,” you admit, voice small and weak. 
“I bet,” he agrees, peppering soft kisses all over your face. “But you’re doing so well. Proud of you, brave girl. You’re doing so well and we’re gonna make sure it feels good soon, okay? Whenever you’re ready.”
“Will you please kiss me again?” you whisper, and Spencer’s brow knits with concern. 
“Of course, angel. Of course I’ll kiss you,” he says, and makes good on his promise with his lips on yours. It sweetens the ache. “I’ll do whatever you want. You can have anything. You’re so perfect.”
He kisses you again, just as lovingly, and soft, like you’re delicate. All the praise is only contributing to your lightheadedness, but you don’t mind at all. It feels good. 
“You can… you can move.”
“Okay. We’ll go really slow, yeah?”
He waits for your nod before his hips are pulling back and you arch at the odd sensation. When he pushes back in, eyes carefully locked on yours the whole time, you keen slightly, frowning and brain shorting out as it tries and fails to process this new feeling. 
“Uh-huh. You’re okay, I promise.”
At first it doesn’t feel good. It mostly hurts. But slowly, the pain begins to abate as you acclimate to having him inside of you, and he’s careful the whole time. 
“Spence?” 
“Hm?”
He sounds concentrated on the task at hand—you’re entranced by the sight of him above you, the parted lips, the unkempt hair over the brow furrowed in pleasure and focus. But he’s never too busy for you. 
“Does it… um—” you pause to hold back a whine—“what does it feel like for you?”
At this, he slows even further and chuckles—it’s a strained, slightly breathy sound. 
“For me?”
“Mhm.”
“You feel perfect, baby. You feel so fucking good.”
The slight fry in Spencer’s voice as he curses, which is a rare event in and of itself, flips your stomach, turns you on immensely. The idea that you’re giving him pleasure too—it’s almost overwhelming. That’s when it starts feeling good. 
“Oh—” you squeak, jaw dropping and bucking your hips inadvertently as the first bolt of true pleasure shocks deep in your core. He hums. 
“Yeah, is that it, sweet girl?”
But you can’t answer for a long moment. Your brain is melting as your legs lock around him. 
“Mm—it’s—it feels…”
“I know it does,” Spencer murmurs.
You whine and press your face into the curve of his shoulder as each thrust gently rocks your body. As the pace picks up bit by bit, you feel yourself clenching hard around him. His hips stutter and he hisses. 
“Ah. Can’t do that, lovely.”
“What? Did I hurt you?”
He laughs breathily. 
“No, you didn’t hurt me. You almost pushed me out. You have to relax.”
“Sorry,” you whisper. “’M trying.”
“You don’t need to be sorry. I know you’re trying, baby, you’re being so good for me.”
Your nails skim his back—a small expression of a much larger desperation. Once he’s sure you’re relaxed around him, begins going faster. 
Your gasps and soft moans come more often now as he finds a steady rhythm and it feels so different when he’s actually fucking you. It feels like he’s everywhere. Every time your hips meet you feel the sweet shock of it in your teeth, your toes, the back of your neck. In the best way, you feel consumed by him. It’s not at all like you’d imagined, and it’s perfect. 
“Wait, Spencer,” you breathe, struggling to form the words. Immediately he stops again, lifting his head from your shoulder to examine your face. 
“What is it?”
He sounds just as wrecked as you feel, panting and strained and it feels good to hear. 
“I wanna watch.”
For a moment his eyes dart between yours like he’s trying to determine what you really mean—but you said exactly what you meant. Then he laughs, a huff of air from his nose as he presses his head to yours and gives you a quick kiss.
Your toes curl as he readjusts his position, holding himself a little higher and resting your heads together so you can both look between your bodies. 
“There,” he murmurs as he slowly begins to withdraw again. “Like that?”
But you can’t answer, because you’re too busy whimpering at the sight of him pushing into you. The feeling seems to increase tenfold as you watch it happen. Distantly you wonder how the fuck it fits. 
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Like that.”
Spencer takes this as a blessing to find a pace again, slower now as he seems to be just as enthralled by the sight as you are. 
“Give me your leg,” he rasps after a few moments like that, and you don’t know what he means exactly but you lift your right leg slightly only for him to press his hand to the back of your knee and push toward your chest, effectively opening you up and giving him more range of motion. It also enables him to fuck you even deeper. Again he slows, apparently savoring the feel of you yielding around him all the way down to the hilt. 
Black spots dance in your eyes as he settles at your deepest point—not pain, necessarily, just overwhelming sensation. Your jaw drops and you choke out a moan as he presses into recesses you didn’t know you had, as he shows you a part that you might have gone the rest of your life without knowing existed. He stops there, like that. Everything stops there, like that. If the cars on the road below ceased to drive, if the airplanes froze in the sky, you’d not be the least bit surprised. Somehow, you’ve unlocked a small eternity. There’s no sound but your joint heavy breathing and your heart pounding in your ears. The words just come bubbling up out of you in a little whine. 
“I love you.”
Spencer’s breath pauses for a moment before he’s letting it all out at once, brushing his lips up the ridge of your nose before they settle on your forehead in what seems like a permanent kiss. A few breaths in, you allow your eyes to flutter shut. Your heart rate slows down a touch, and you settle into the moment, never having been quite so content as you are like this—never having felt quite so adored and safe. 
“I love you,” he finally echoes, voice rasping, lips still pressed to your skin, still breathing against your hair. When he starts to move again, drawing back ever so slowly, you hiss softly. He raises his head from yours, and you look away from where he’s pulling out, meeting his eyes just in time for him to push back in, just as deep. They shine in the mostly-dark room and you moan unabashedly. It’s a high-pitched, sweet thing, nothing that will have the neighbors complaining—but so clearly true, from the depths of your soul, an expression of everything you’re feeling—not just the pleasure. 
Although that’s good, too, as Spencer shapes you to him again and again, the head of his cock kissing places nobody’s ever been and places you hope nobody else will ever venture to. This is all you need. Him. 
“Jesus,” Spencer groans, eyes fixed on your face as he fucks you slowly. But you can’t bring yourself to talk, too new to this kind of pleasure to find it anything other than mind-boggling and world altering. Your lips are still parted, allowing each sound to pass without filter. “Listen to you, beautiful.”
When he stops again, just to look down and marvel at you, you’re conflicted. On the one hand, you can taste the pleasure on the back of your tongue and he keeps taking it away when it’s so close. But on the other—you’re just as overwhelmed as he said you’d be. Your body has never had to process this kind of sensory information before, and you’re exhausted, but it’s so good. 
“Spencer,” you manage. He looks up, pupils blown and eyes lidded where they’d normally be wide. “Please don’t stop.”
He swallows, spurred into action again as soon as you say it. 
“Good?”
You nod and whine again as he picks up the pace bit by bit, remembering to push your leg back once more so he can get as deep as you need him. 
“So good,” you exhale at the top pitch of your voice. Your brows pinch and you release a fuller moan as Spencer finds a speed that’s fast enough to constantly feel good no matter where he is. You’re gasping for breath, back arching—and he finds a new angle, catching against the spot inside you that renders all those years of human evolution that gave you sentience and intelligence a waste. He chuckles airily at your series of series of affronted moans and halted gasps. 
“Right there? That's a good spot, isn’t it?”
“Oh, go—fuck, fuck!”
It feels so good it almost hurts, and your eyes are stinging to prove it. Your legs clamp tighter around him and you realize there’s a very lewd wet sound and you can’t believe that’s you. 
“Spencer, you’re—oh my god, I love you,” you whine, and it sounds like you’re pleading for your life. At this makes his own sound of pleasure, and hastens his messy circles on your clit as if in reward. 
But it’s too much all combined. 
Your hand claps to your mouth to obscure the loud, licentious moan that comes out—but Spencer immediately moves his hand from between your legs to grab your wrist and pin it gently to the bed, intertwining your fingers. 
“Don’t do that. Let me hear.”
You nod, and he lets go of your hand to return his fingers to your clit. If possible you get wetter around his cock—you can feel yourself gushing. 
“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you whine as if pained. 
“Yeah? Gonna finally let me feel you cumming, angel?”
He has a filthy mouth when he wants to. The words hit like high voltage to your core and the very pit of your stomach. You can’t even respond beyond a desperate sob. 
“Show me, baby. I’m right here. Let go.”
You cum around his cock with a broken cry and it’s like a purge of every drop of angst you’d felt over the past week or so—hell, it’s a purge of all the insecurities that had bubbled to the surface since you started dating him. None of it matters anymore. How could it matter when you have him? When you have this?
The orgasm washes you out like a tidal wave, taking everything with it. It’s strong, and it’s so good, so intense, your body is overwrought with sensation and it’s too much even though it’s perfect. Your brain is drawing a blank as it tries to react to the feeling, and it’s like every button on the damn panel has been hit. 
“Fuck, I’m close,” Spencer grits, and you feel it in the way he adjusts his position, shifting as he grips at the edge of the mattress for leverage and the thrusts become messier, needier. You gasp as his other hand tangles in your hair, turning your head to ghost your lips over his forearm. It’s not entirely surprising when his own lips find your shoulder—but the feeling of him finding his release just as his teeth sink into your skin does come as quite a shock. It doesn’t hurt, and you’re sure there’s no skin broken, but it’s an undeniable fact that he has grounded himself in the throes of passion by biting down on you.
Inside you, he feels hot. Searing, almost, as his spend tries to fill space that doesn’t exist. There is absolutely no room for anything else inside of you. Stars dance in your eyes at the overstimulation, but long after he’s finished he’s still fucking into you—albeit much slower and with far less technique. Spencer moans like a two bit whore, like he’s reached pain to a point of ecstasy, and to you it’s as good, as special as the singing of the planets. If he’s as sensitive as you are now, it’s no small feat for him to keep going on like this. It’s a testament to how much he doesn’t want it to be over. The pleasure is carrying him away, but you’re beginning to feel how soft you must be and how if he continues on like this you may bruise like an overripe peach. 
“Spencer,” you manage, skating your hand up and down his back in what you hope are soothing lines. “Baby.”
He whines as his lips detach from your shoulder, but his hips finally slow to a stop, nestled inside you. 
“Jesus, fuck, I'm sorry,” he breathes, opting now to bury his face in your neck (with significantly less biting this time).
You’re still reeling, toes still curled, still struggling to breathe as your head spins and spins and spins. His chest pushes against yours with every heaving breath, hot and heavy on your skin, and that’s the only sign he’s still alive until his hand eventually reanimates in your hair, scratching your head tenderly. 
For a span of minutes, you stay like that—silent, twined together like caducean serpents. His weight on top of you is perfect. This, the lack of differentiation between your body and his, is perfect. You don’t know where he ends and you begin and you don’t need to. It’s a blissful moment. 
“Hey.”
Spencer’s voice is hoarse when he finally speaks, lifting his head to look at you with flushed cheeks and messy hair and sparkly eyes. 
“Hi.”
He smiles. 
“You’re so pretty.”
“You too,” you murmur, moving your hand from his back and pressing your thumb into the hollow of his cheek. His eyes map the curves of your face as he pushes your surely askew hair back. 
“How do you feel?”
It takes you a moment to seriously consider his question, scanning your body for any undue pains, but for the moment, you find none, beyond a dull aching throb that you can manage. 
“Good. Tired.”
You wince at the uncomfortable feeling of him pulling out. Spencer hums sympathetically and presses a sticky kiss to your lips which makes it a little better, though you can’t ignore how uncomfortable all the previously pleasant wetness has become between your legs. 
“Here—stay here, I’ll get a wash cloth and—”
“It’s fine,” you insist, holding on even as he tries to roll off of you. “I just need… will you stay here for a little bit?”
“Of course,” he promises, now pressed close to your side and propped up on an elbow, “whatever you want.”
You lavish in his gaze, warm like a spotlight, as he strokes your cheek and plays with your hair. Very quickly you’re lulled into a doze, eyes fluttering shut. Minutes stretch. You feel drunk on waking dreams, and perfectly at peace. Safe. 
“Angel girl,” he christens you fondly. More than anything, it’s an observation, so lovely it sinks into your skin like a balm, soothing every tired muscle and little mark he’d made. Even half-asleep, it makes you smile. 
“You’re an angel,” you slur, reaching blindly for him, and he chuckles, catching your wrist and helpfully settling your hand on his cheek. 
“I thought you were asleep.”
You hum, “mm-mm,” looking up at him with just as much adoration as he has for you. Those cuddle hormones must be kicking in because soon you’re attempting to pull him back on top of you. He doesn’t quite comply, probably for fear of crushing you—rather he settles next to you, gathering you in his arms. 
Silence blankets the two of you, but it’s not unpleasant as you just watch each other with barely-there smiles curling your mouths. This kind of intimacy still manages to give you butterflies, even after everything else you’ve done. This kind of satisfaction, reverie in the sound of each other’s blood flowing and lungs filling. Setting aside words because you don’t need conversation as a pretense for wanting to be around each other anymore. You don’t need an excuse to look at him like this. You don’t need words any more than you need clothes. It’s enough to just be. 
“I love you,” he says, a soft reminder, and entirely redundant with the way he’d already been looking at you, touching you. 
“I know. I love you too.”
The smile flickers brighter on his face. 
“And thank you.”
Your eyes narrow minutely as you consider what he could possibly be thanking you for. 
“For what?”
“For loving me. And trusting me. It’s…” your heart squeezes as you realizes tears are pooling in his eyes. He takes a moment and clears his throat. It’s incredibly endearing. “It means a lot to me. You mean a lot to me.”
You look down, thumbing at the sheets where you’ve hoisted them over your bodies. 
“You do realize how lame we are if we have sex and both immediately start crying, right?”
At this he laughs loudly but not loud enough to pop the little bubble you’re in, and you look up just in time to catch the brilliance of his smile, the way it changes his whole face and he becomes superhuman in his beauty, the lines that form by his eyes and the way they narrow and crystalline tears bead his lashes like precious gems. 
“Don’t cry,” he requests gently, hypocritically as your own eyes sting. The way his smile fades is like the sun setting. Gorgeous, like everything else he does. “You’ve cried so much, honey. Please don’t cry.”
You sniffle, gathering yourself. 
“I’m not. That would be pathetic.”
Spender leans forward to kiss you tenderly a few more times. Ordinarily you’d worry about coming across as clingy when you hold onto him so closely and so insistently like this, but for now you don’t care. Neither does he, it seems, as he seems unable to get you close enough. Eventually, you end up curled against him, head tucked under his chin and dozing on and off as he traces shapes into your skin. 
“What are you writing?” You mumble some time later, cheek smushed against his shoulder. He only responds with a soft hm, like he was lost deep in thought. You clarify, “it feels like you were writing something.”
“She Walks in Beauty.”
Your lips pull into a sleepy smile. 
“The Lord Byron poem?”
The first time you’d met Spencer, he’d inadvertently caused your painstakingly annotated copy of Lord Byron’s works to go flying all over a cafe, and then kindly helped clean up the pages and reorder them for you in record time. Among the poems had been She Walks in Beauty. 
“Yeah. I was trying to figure out when exactly I fell in love with you, and as someone who is deeply skeptical about love at first sight, I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I keep coming back to our first conversation. I mean, I believe in genetic compatibility, and how that contributes to attraction and what we think of as chemistry, but—”
“Wait, what about our first conversation did it?” Your cheeks ache from smiling as you speak. “As I recall I was being a bitch and I was covered in coffee.”
He laughs dreamily, still tracing letters over the small of your back. You wonder what part of the poem he’s at now. 
“Yeah, mean to me and covered in coffee is pretty much exactly my type. But I think it was actually the annotations on that copy of Lord Byron’s works. They were so insightful, and personal, I—it kind of took my breath away, and I know I shouldn’t have read them all but I couldn’t stop. You were compelling, and charming, and funny and wildly intelligent and beautiful and… and I didn’t stand a chance.”
Everything aches. It’s a good ache. Despite being seconds from tearing up all over again, you snort. He never told you about that first day.
“You thought me writing ‘sister fucker’ in all caps every time he mentioned Augusta was charming?”
“Oh, obscenely so. But now that I’m looking back, I feel like… I feel like I can’t remember not being in love with you. I mean, I remember when I realized I was, and that was later. But it was like I met you, and then I was just… waiting for you to catch up.”
You grab his hand and interlace your fingers, watching the way the ambient nighttime light from the window and the bathroom dips them half in color. 
“We were pretty much on the same page. I was debating courthouse versus small intimate ceremony as soon as you left.”
You watch him watching your joined hands, features soft and relaxed, fiddling with your fingers absentmindedly as he speaks. 
“Definitely small intimate ceremony. I have too many friends who would kill me if they weren’t invited to the wedding.”
You giggle and pretend the thought doesn’t give you butterflies. You imagine a ring on your finger, the one he’s got between his own. Marriage had never been something you’d considered. Not when you had no reason to. It seemed like something for other people. But maybe one day, it will be for you, too. 
“Did you know Lord Byron had a daughter who is regarded by many as the first computer programmer? She wrote the first algorithm for a theoretical machine that was so complex it couldn’t be built with the technology available at the time. It was called an Analytical Engine.”
He sounds almost wistful as he gives you the utterly unprompted, but still welcome, abridged version of her life. The description is ringing a bell—but you can’t quite place her, sleepy as you are.  
“What was her name?”
“Ada Lovelace. She was exceptionally gifted. The odds of parent and child being so extraordinary in their respective fields are incalculable, but from a purely theoretical perspective, negligible. I mean, they’re both massive historical figureheads. That’s extremely uncommon.”
You adore it when he goes off on these tangents—the passion that stains his voice, the ardor that grips him until he has no choice but to tell you exactly what’s got him so excited. You could listen to him talk for hours. It means he’s here with you, and he wants you to love what he loves. 
Since he met you, that’s all Spencer has wanted—for you to love what he loves. 
You want the same. 
“Pretty name,” you murmur, eyes fluttering shut. “Tell me more.” 
-
part eight
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