#and i think about it more than i care to admit

[arkaiveofurown]

he was harsh to you

Pairings: Crocodile x Reader, Ace x Reader, Law x Reader, Mihawk x Reader

Word Count: ~1,000 - 2,000 words each

tags: hurt/comfort, fluff

my masterlist here ♡

----

Crocodile

The tension between you and Crocodile had been building for days. He had been aloof, and his sharp, biting remarks were starting to wear on you. It wasn’t like you couldn’t handle his bluntness—hell, you were used to it by now—but today, it felt different. It felt personal.

You had just come from a successful mission for the Cross Guild, but the celebration was overshadowed by Crocodile’s attitude. You were standing near the map room, reviewing your next move, when he stormed in with that familiar scowl on his face.

“Don’t you have something better to do than stand around wasting time?” Crocodile snapped, his tone cold and dismissive. “I don’t need a babysitter. Get your act together.”

You felt your blood boil at his words. “Excuse me?” you shot back, unable to hide the irritation in your voice. “I’m doing my job just fine, thank you very much. Maybe you should stop trying to belittle everyone around you.”

Crocodile’s eyes narrowed, his gaze sharpening as he stepped closer. “Belittle? I’m trying to get through to you. You’re so damn distracted, it’s pathetic. You’re wasting your potential.”

“Wasting my potential?” You clenched your fists, holding back the sting of his words. “How about you stop trying to micromanage everyone around here? I’m getting things done, but you just don’t want to see it, do you?”

“Getting things done?” Crocodile scoffed, walking over to the table and slamming his hand on the map. “You’re dragging your feet. We’ve got a Guild to build, and you’re too busy pretending everything’s fine. If you think this is going anywhere, you’re living in a fantasy.”

His words stung more than you cared to admit. “I’m not pretending anything. I’m doing exactly what needs to be done. But if you think I’m just here to be your damn soldier, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Crocodile’s eyes flashed with something darker. “Soldier? Don’t flatter yourself. You’re part of the team—if you can manage to act like it. But from what I’m seeing, you’re more of a liability than an asset.”

You felt your chest tighten at his words, the anger bubbling up in your throat. “A liability? I’ve been working harder than anyone on this ship, and you can’t even see it. Maybe it’s easier for you to blame everyone else for your own failures.”

He leaned in, his voice dropping low. “What failure? I’m not the one who’s failing here. It’s you, with all your whining, trying to act like this is a charity. This is a Guild, not a damn playground.”

You could feel the heat rising in your face, but you stood your ground. “You’re impossible. You always think you’re right and that the world revolves around you. Maybe you need to take a long look in the mirror and realize that you’re the one who’s out of line.”

Crocodile didn’t flinch. “I don’t need to explain myself to you. You either get in line or get out of my way.”

That was the breaking point. You took a deep breath, fighting back the urge to lash out. “I’m done with this,” you said, your voice shaking with frustration. Without another word, you turned and stormed out of the room, the slam of the door echoing in your wake.

----

The silence in the ship’s quarters felt suffocating. Crocodile’s harsh words echoed in your mind, replaying over and over, and the weight of the argument was crushing. You hadn’t expected it to escalate like that, but there was no denying it now—you were hurt, and you couldn’t pretend otherwise.

You hadn’t bothered to leave your room, locked in your thoughts, lying on the bed with your back to the door. The sting of Crocodile’s words felt like a constant pressure on your chest. You’d been part of the Cross Guild for so long, fought alongside the others, but why did it feel like Crocodile just saw you as a tool? A tool that he could discard when it suited him.

You hated the feeling of weakness that crept in with the tears you’d been trying to hold back. But when it all became too much, they finally fell. Quietly at first, then in desperate, broken sobs.

You hadn’t realized how much you needed to cry until you did.

Hours passed, and you thought you’d hear the sounds of Crocodile’s usual cold demeanor at your door. But it never came. No knock, no footsteps—nothing.

You sat up from your bed, wiping your tears with the back of your hand. Crocodile might not have said anything more, but his absence was almost worse. It felt like he didn’t care enough to even check if you were okay.

----

The next day, things were still quiet between you and Crocodile. He wasn’t avoiding you, but he wasn’t making any overt moves either. The silence felt heavy, like there was more left unsaid, but you couldn’t quite bring yourself to approach him first.

It wasn’t until you were sitting alone in the ship’s main hall, watching the crew go about their usual duties, that you saw him again. He was standing near the door, scanning the room as though he was looking for something—or someone. His gaze fell on you, and for a moment, you thought about getting up and leaving.

But then, something unexpected happened.

He walked toward you, his steps deliberate, his usual air of command unmistakable. But there was no arrogance, no cold indifference. Instead, there was something almost… hesitant, as though he was unsure how to approach.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his voice lower than usual. Not demanding, but more… tentative.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak just yet. Crocodile sat down beside you, but there was a clear distance between you two. Still, he didn’t break the silence. Instead, his eyes flickered to the floor and back to you, unsure of how to even start.

“I’ve been thinking,” Crocodile began, his voice unusually soft. “I don’t do ‘soft’ well. I never have. I push people away because it’s easier than getting close. But with you… I shouldn’t have done that.”

You stayed quiet, listening. This wasn’t the Crocodile you were used to, and it threw you off. But you could hear the sincerity in his voice.

“I treated you like you were disposable. Like I could just push you aside because I don’t know how to handle emotions,” he continued, his words laced with the rare honesty he usually kept buried. “I’m not saying I can change overnight, but I… I can try. I can do better. For you.”

For a moment, the room felt too quiet, too heavy with the weight of his confession. You weren’t sure what to say, but you couldn’t deny the effort he was showing. It wasn’t just words. It was him trying—genuinely trying—to be someone better for you.

“I’m not asking for your forgiveness,” he added, his gaze meeting yours directly. “But if you’ll let me, I want to show you that I’m not just some heartless bastard.”

You exhaled slowly, feeling a strange mix of emotions—relief, confusion, and something else you couldn’t quite name. Crocodile wasn’t the type to offer grand gestures, but this... this was different.

He shifted in his seat, as if he was fighting the urge to stand up and walk away. His usual confidence was tempered by something more vulnerable, and it made the tension between you two feel palpable. Still, there was something unspoken in the air, something you both knew needed to be addressed.

After a moment, Crocodile pulled something from his pocket, a small, worn notebook. He placed it between you two with a rare hesitance, as though it was heavier than it appeared.

“I don’t usually carry things like this,” he started, his voice rough but not harsh. “But... I thought you might find it useful.” He tapped the notebook once. “It’s full of notes—things I’ve learned, strategies, things about our crew that could be useful. Not much, but it’s something I’ve kept for myself. Thought it might help you... since we’ve been working together.”

There was no flashy gesture, no grand promises—just this small act of vulnerability. Crocodile wasn’t one to share his notes or insights with just anyone, much less someone he had been pushing away. It was his way of showing he trusted you more than he had before.

You stared at it for a moment, processing what he’d done. It wasn’t grand, it wasn’t over-the-top, but it was honest. It was him offering something personal, a piece of his world that he didn’t usually share.

“I know I’m not great with words,” Crocodile continued, looking away, his usual guarded expression back in place. “But I can do this. I’ll show you I’m not just some cold bastard.”

You let the silence stretch between you as you reached for the notebook, running your fingers over the pages. It was simple, but it meant something—he was trying. And that was enough for now.

"Thank you," you said softly, glancing up at him. "This is... more than I expected."

His eyes flickered to yours for a moment, something unreadable in them. "It's just a start," he muttered, standing up. "I’ll keep trying. But you’ve got to meet me halfway, too."

You nodded, feeling a strange sense of relief. It wasn’t perfect, and there were no sweeping gestures, but this... this felt real. And that was a good place to begin.

---

Ace

The sun was setting on the horizon, casting golden hues across the ship. You and the rest of the Whitebeard Pirates were enjoying a rare moment of calm as the ship slowly drifted across the sea. The deck was lively with the crew, but you found yourself chatting with Thatch, who was always kind and welcoming.

The conversation was lighthearted, the two of you laughing over some silly story. But through the corner of your eye, you noticed Ace’s figure standing by the mast. His eyes were fixed on you and Thatch. You didn’t think much of it, assuming Ace was just being his usual quiet self. But then, you saw his expression—dark, his jaw clenched, fists tightly gripping the railing. His eyes narrowed as he watched you, and it felt like a cold gust had suddenly blown through the deck.

Before you could finish your conversation with Thatch, Ace stormed over. You barely registered his approach before he grabbed your wrist, pulling you away from Thatch.

“Hey! What the hell, Ace? What’s going on?” you said, trying to pull your arm from his grasp.

“Don’t hey me,” Ace snapped, his voice low and seething. He was angry, and it was obvious. “What the hell was that about?”

“What are you talking about?” you asked, confused. You looked back toward Thatch, who was watching the exchange, a slight frown on his face.

“Don’t play dumb,” Ace growled. “You’ve been all over Thatch today. Laughing, touching him, flirting like it’s some fucking game. What, am I not enough for you?”

Your heart dropped at his words. “Flirting? Ace, we were just talking. It’s nothing like that. You’re making it into something it’s not.”

“Really?” Ace scoffed, his eyes darkening. “Don’t act like I’m blind. I’ve been watching you. The way you’re acting with him, it’s obvious. You think I wouldn’t notice? You think I wouldn’t see it?”

You felt the heat rise in your chest. “Are you seriously accusing me of something right now? You’ve known Thatch for years, and now you’re acting like this over nothing?”

Ace’s grip tightened on your wrist, his face flushed with anger. “Nothing? You think this is nothing? You think I’m stupid? You’ve been laughing with him, leaning into him, all damn day! It’s like I’m invisible to you when he’s around!”

“Ace, calm down!” you snapped, pulling your arm from his grip. “You’re overreacting. This isn’t about Thatch! I’m not doing anything wrong!”

Ace stepped closer, his voice growing colder. “Don’t tell me to calm down. You don’t get it, do you? I’m standing here, and I’m watching you smile at him, touch him, like I don’t fucking matter. And what the hell am I supposed to think?”

You couldn’t believe it. “You’re acting insane. You know I love you, right? You’re my partner. But you can’t just jump to conclusions like this—this isn’t jealousy, this is possessiveness. It’s not fair to me.”

“I don’t give a damn what you call it,” Ace sneered, crossing his arms. “It’s not just a little joke anymore. It’s like you’re fucking ignoring me every time he shows up, and I’m tired of it.”

You clenched your fists, feeling your frustration boil over. “How many times do I have to tell you? You’re the one I want. Not him, not anyone else. I’m not some fucking flirt, I don’t need your jealousy getting in the way of everything. You’re acting like a child.”

“A child?” Ace barked out a laugh, the sound bitter and hollow. “Look at you. You’re so fucking perfect with everyone else. But when it comes to me, I’m the one left questioning if I even matter to you.”

“Ace, you’re being ridiculous!” you yelled, your anger flaring. “This isn’t how you should be acting. You’re pushing me away with this shit!”

“I don’t care if you think I’m ridiculous!” Ace shot back, his face turning red with fury. “I can’t fucking help it. It just hurts to see you giving attention to someone else when you’re supposed to be mine. What am I supposed to do with that? Just ignore it like you’re not doing anything wrong?”

Your chest tightened at his words, and you couldn’t even find a response. You stared at him in disbelief. The person you knew, the Ace you loved, wouldn’t talk to you like this. He wouldn’t accuse you, wouldn’t twist everything into something ugly. “I can’t believe you’re saying this to me,” you muttered, shaking your head in disbelief.

Ace ran a hand through his hair, his expression shifting from anger to frustration, but his tone was still harsh. “I’m just saying what I feel, alright? Maybe I should just stop caring. Maybe I should just let you do whatever the hell you want without giving a damn.”

You felt a sting in your heart at that, but you didn’t let him see it. “Fine. If that’s how you want to be, then go ahead. Push me away. Make me feel like I don’t matter. Do what you need to do.”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you!” Ace snapped, his voice getting louder. “I’m just tired of feeling like I’m not enough for you! Like you don’t need me anymore!”

“Ace, stop acting like I’m the one who’s wrong here,” you said, stepping back from him. “This is about you—your insecurities. You need to figure this shit out before you start blaming me.”

“I don’t need your lectures right now,” Ace spat, his eyes wild with frustration. “I don’t need you to tell me I’m the one with a problem. You’re the one making me feel like this!”

The silence that followed was deafening. You could feel the tension between you two, thick as smoke. You didn’t know what to say anymore. His words hurt more than anything, and you could feel the emotional distance growing between you.

“Ace,” you began, your voice quieter now, though still edged with anger. “I’m not going to keep fighting with you like this. If you want to think that I’m the problem here, then fine. Do whatever you want. But I won’t be dragged down by your jealousy. I won’t.”

You turned to walk away, but Ace’s harsh voice stopped you. “Where the hell do you think you’re going? Don’t you dare walk away from me when I’m trying to make sense of this! Don’t pretend like you’re innocent in all of this!”

You didn’t stop. You kept walking, not giving him another glance. If he couldn’t see how much you loved him, if he couldn’t get over his own jealousy, there was nothing more you could say.

And in that moment, the distance between you and Ace felt wider than it ever had.

----

The moment Ace walked away, everything felt cold. You didn’t know how long you stood there, just staring at the spot where he had left you. Your hand was still aching from his grip, but it was the sting in your chest that hurt more. He didn’t trust you, and it felt like a punch to the gut.

You didn’t want to cry, but the tears started anyway. It wasn’t just that he’d been angry—it was the way he’d accused you, made you feel like you weren’t good enough for him. His words burned like fire in your mind, and they refused to go away. You rubbed your eyes furiously, wishing it would stop, but it didn’t.

You made your way below deck, avoiding anyone’s eyes. But even in the silence, the weight of Ace’s accusations pressed against your chest.

The sound of footsteps on the wooden floor interrupted your thoughts, but you didn’t look up.

“Ace…” you whispered, voice barely audible, as you heard him stand in front of you. His figure towered over you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. You wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come.

He stood there for a long moment before letting out a long sigh.

“I messed up.” His voice was quieter now, filled with regret.

You didn’t answer right away, the hurt still raw. He continued, as if to reassure you.

“I know I was harsh,” he said softly. “I don’t know why I reacted like that. I don’t… I don’t want to hurt you.”

You finally looked up, his face full of guilt. It wasn’t the same anger you had seen earlier, but it didn’t make it better.

“Ace, I don’t deserve that,” you said, your voice shaking. “You’ve been treating me like… like I’m the one doing something wrong. You don’t trust me.”

“I know,” Ace muttered. “I was jealous, and it made me stupid. I didn’t think. I just… acted.”

“You can’t just accuse me like that, Ace. I thought you knew me better than anyone.”

“I do,” he said quickly, kneeling in front of you. His voice cracked slightly. “I do know you. And I’m sorry. I… I don’t know why I overreacted like that. It’s just…” He paused, staring down at the floor, lost in thought. “I get scared sometimes, you know? That you’ll leave me. Or that I’m not good enough.”

His words were quieter now, as if speaking them made the weight of them hit him too.

You swallowed hard, still trying to hold yourself together. “It’s not about you not being good enough, Ace. But you made me feel like I was the problem.”

“I didn’t mean to do that. I promise. I don’t want to hurt you. I’ll make it right, I swear.”

He reached out then, carefully pulling you into a hug. His arms were warm around you, and despite everything, it felt like home.

“I’ll prove it to you,” Ace whispered against your ear. “Just... please don’t leave me.”

----

Later that evening, Ace approached you once again. He wasn’t going to let this slide with just words. This time, he was determined to show you how much you meant to him.

He found you on the deck, staring out at the sea. The sunset had painted the sky in shades of orange and pink. He hesitated for a moment, but then walked up to you, standing still for a few seconds before quietly sitting beside you.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said. About how I’ve treated you,” Ace started, his voice calm but serious. He wasn’t going to let this be a quick fix. He had to prove he was serious. “I was an idiot before.”

You didn’t respond right away, but you didn’t pull away either, so he took that as his sign to continue.

“You deserve better than me just saying ‘sorry,’” Ace continued, looking at you with those soft, apologetic eyes. “I want to show you, not just tell you.”

Without waiting for a response, Ace stood up and reached into his jacket, pulling out something small wrapped in cloth. He unwrapped it carefully, revealing a beautiful hand-carved wooden pendant—one shaped like a flame, a piece of his own soul carved into it. He placed it in your hand, his palm warm against yours.

“I made this for you,” Ace explained, his voice low. “It’s not much, but it’s a reminder. Every time you look at it, I want you to remember that I’m here. I’m trying to be better. For you.”

You stared at the pendant, surprised that Ace had gone this far. He wasn’t known for his sentimental side, and seeing him take the time to make something so personal was a first.

But that wasn’t all.

Ace lowered himself to one knee, taking your hands in his, his usual cocky grin gone, replaced by something deeper. “I’m not perfect. Hell, I’m far from it. But I’m gonna fight for you, every damn day, if it means showing you that you’re mine and that I don’t take you for granted.”

His eyes held sincerity, not just for a moment but for what felt like eternity. He wasn’t asking for immediate forgiveness; he was showing you that he understood the weight of what he’d done, and he was willing to carry that burden.

“I’ll be better. I’ll prove it to you, one step at a time,” Ace added, squeezing your hands gently. “I’m not gonna run from it. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

You felt the weight of his words settle between you, but it was the actions—the carving, the kneeling, the rawness of his apology—that made the difference.

And in that moment, something shifted. His effort wasn’t just in the words, but in the way he had approached everything differently. The care, the vulnerability, the openness—it was something you hadn’t seen from Ace in this way before.

“Thank you,” you whispered, finally meeting his gaze.

Ace’s face softened, and he pulled you into his arms gently. “I’ll never stop showing you, okay? I’ll never stop trying.”

You could feel the warmth of his embrace, but it was different now—sincere, unwavering, and full of effort. He wasn’t perfect, but this was the Ace you had always known, the one who, when he cared, gave everything he had.

“I know you won’t,” you murmured, resting your head against his chest, knowing that even in his flaws, Ace’s heart was real and his effort was exactly what you needed.

----

Law

You were in the medical bay, carefully organizing the supplies, running through the routine tasks that kept you busy and, for the moment, kept your mind off the chaos of being aboard the Polar Tang. The quiet buzz of the ship’s engine was a subtle backdrop, almost soothing, but it wasn’t long before Law entered, his heavy boots echoing in the small space.

“Are you seriously doing this now?” His voice cut through the silence like a blade.

You turned, surprised to see him standing there with his arms crossed, a frustrated look on his face. "What? I’m just getting the medical supplies organized," you said, trying to keep your tone neutral. You had been with him long enough to know when something was off, and you could feel the tension in the air.

Law didn’t even spare a glance at the supplies. Instead, his eyes were fixed on you, sharp as ever. “It’s a waste of time. Don’t you have something more important to do?”

You blinked, taken aback. “What’s wrong with organizing the medical supplies? We can’t afford to let things get disorganized—especially if someone gets hurt. You should know that.”

His lips curled into a sneer. “This again? All you ever seem to do is waste time in here. We have real problems going on, and here you are, playing nursemaid.”

Your chest tightened at his words, but you tried to stay calm. “I’m not just playing nursemaid, Law. This is a crucial part of the crew’s well-being. You might not see it, but when someone gets injured, we need everything in place.”

Law snorted, walking further into the room with no regard for the way his presence weighed on you. “You think I don’t know that? I’ve been the one patching up the crew for years. I don’t need some reminder of how ‘important’ this is.”

His eyes glinted with something cold, making you feel like you were the one being irrational. “And yet, every time I come in here, I see you fiddling with bandages and vials like it’s some hobby. Maybe if you spent more time actually being useful, we wouldn’t be in half the mess we’re in now.”

You felt a rush of heat flood your face, your patience wearing thin. “Useful? I’m always useful, Law! You’ve never seen me just sit around and do nothing. I’ve been with you through thick and thin. What the hell is your problem today?”

Law didn’t flinch, his gaze cold and hard. “You’ve been off lately, not getting your hands dirty, avoiding the real work. Every time I turn around, you’re in here with your head buried in paperwork or fiddling with stuff that doesn’t matter. Are you even trying to help anymore, or is this your way of slacking off?”

You felt your pulse quicken, the sharpness of his words stinging like a slap across the face. “You know what? I don’t need this right now. I’m trying to do my best, but I guess that’s never good enough for you, huh?” You crossed your arms, pushing back the feeling of betrayal that crept up your throat.

“I don’t need your excuses,” Law replied, his voice colder than before. “You know what this crew is like, and you know what’s at stake. The sooner you stop pretending like this is all a game, the better.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “I’m done here.”

With that, he turned and walked out, leaving you standing in the middle of the room, stunned. You stood there for a moment, trying to process what had just happened.

You sat alone in your room, staring at the wooden floorboards, your mind replaying the harsh words from earlier. His anger had caught you off guard, and it stung in ways you didn’t expect. You’d never seen him like that—so cold, so dismissive. What had you done wrong?

You hadn’t meant to upset him, not at all. You were only trying to help, to get through to him, but it seemed like he didn’t want to hear it. The more you thought about it, the more it hurt. Was this how he really saw you? Was everything you did so easily misinterpreted?

The tears came, slowly at first, then in a rush, spilling down your cheeks as the weight of the argument settled in. You wiped at your face, trying to push back the emotions, but it was useless. His words lingered in your chest, heavy and suffocating.

You felt small in that moment. Small and insignificant. He wasn’t the kind of man who wore his feelings openly, but you thought—no, you hoped—that maybe, just maybe, he’d let you in. Now, all you had were the fragments of a conversation that had broken everything apart.

You stood up abruptly, wiping your eyes and trying to pull yourself together. There was no point in crying, not now. But the silence in the room felt like a weight you couldn’t escape, and your heart ached in a way it never had before.

----

The next morning, the air between you and Law was thick with silence. It felt like a weight neither of you wanted to lift, but both of you knew it needed to be addressed.

You walked down the corridor of the ship, your mind replaying everything that had happened last night. His words, his cold tone, and how they made you feel—like an afterthought, like your feelings didn’t matter. You needed to shake it off, but it lingered.

As you neared the deck, you saw Law standing near the railing, staring out at the horizon. His usual composure was gone. There was something about the way he stood there—quiet, almost brooding—that made your chest tighten.

You stopped a few paces away, unsure whether you should approach or just walk by. But you didn't want this hanging over you any longer. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, and made your way toward him.

Law didn’t acknowledge you at first. His gaze remained on the horizon, but there was a noticeable shift in the air as you got closer.

“You were right to be angry last night,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. The words caught you off guard.

You blinked, surprised by his bluntness. “What do you mean?”

He exhaled slowly, his hands gripping the railing a little tighter. “I shouldn’t have said those things. I was out of line. I made you feel like your feelings didn’t matter, and I… I don’t want to make you feel that way again.”

There was no excuse, no deflection. He didn’t try to rationalize it. The rawness of his admission made something in your chest loosen.

“You fucked up,” you said, voice low but steady. “It wasn’t just about the words, it’s about how it made me feel. Like I wasn’t… important to you.”

“I know,” Law replied quietly, his voice carrying more regret than you had ever heard. “And I don’t want you to feel like that, not ever. I don’t want to make excuses… but I’ve been so caught up in my own shit that I couldn’t see what I was doing to you.”

You shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to respond. His words were hard to process, but there was something in them that felt different—something that wasn’t typical of Law.

He met your gaze, and for a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of the waves. “I won’t pretend I know how to do this right, but I will try. And I’ll show you through my actions, not just words.”

You hesitated, still feeling the weight of everything. “Actions? Like what?”

Law's gaze softened, and he stepped away from the railing, facing you fully. “Tonight… let’s take a break from the ship. No work. Just us. We can go somewhere quiet, somewhere we don’t have to worry about anything else. I’ll listen, I’ll be present. You deserve that, and I want to show you I can do better.”

The sincerity in his voice made you pause, the hesitation in your chest slowly melting away.

He didn’t need to explain it further; you could see the change in his expression, the way his eyes weren’t as guarded. The rawness of his apology spoke volumes, and his willingness to make an effort, to actually show you, made you feel something different—hope, maybe.

The night came, and as promised, Law took you somewhere away from the hustle of the ship. The moment felt intimate, unspoken, and just… peaceful. You didn’t have to say much; the quiet between you two now felt like understanding, not tension. No grand gestures. Just time spent together, away from the chaos, showing each other what words sometimes couldn’t express.

----

Mihawk

The moon hung high in the sky, casting its pale light across the castle grounds as the night stretched on. You stood near the balcony, overlooking the vast, quiet expanse of Kuraigana Island, trying to ease the tension that had been building between you and Mihawk for days. You didn’t understand it. He had always been quiet, always withdrawn, but this... this was different.

You had tried to speak to him earlier, but each time, he shut you down.

You walked up to him now, your voice breaking the silence of the night. “Mihawk,” you started softly, “we need to talk.”

Mihawk didn’t even look up from his sword. His posture was perfect, as always, but his eyes were distant. “I’m not in the mood for a conversation.”

Your stomach twisted. “You’ve been like this for days. I don’t even know what’s going on with you anymore.”

“I told you, nothing is wrong.” Mihawk’s tone was clipped, cold.

You stepped closer, frustration rising. “That’s not true. You’ve been shutting me out. You barely say anything when I’m around. It’s like you don’t even want me here.”

He sighed, setting the sword down on the stone table, the movement deliberate, almost as though he was choosing his next words with care. “I’ve been thinking.”

You crossed your arms, taking a step toward him. “About?”

Mihawk’s eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze dark and contemplative. “About this whole… situation.” He gestured vaguely toward the castle, as if the whole life they led was part of the problem. “About us.”

You frowned, stepping closer still. “Us?”

He hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with where this conversation was headed, but he kept going. “I’m not the kind of person who… needs company. I don’t need someone hovering over me, asking questions all the time.”

Your chest tightened, and you could feel the sting of those words more than you cared to admit. You’d always known Mihawk was a man of few words, but hearing him say it like this hit harder than expected. “So, what? You’re saying I’m annoying?”

Mihawk’s gaze flickered briefly to your face before he looked away, uncomfortable. “That’s not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean, Mihawk?” you pressed, trying to keep your voice steady. “Because that sure as hell sounds like you’re pushing me away.”

He stood up straighter, his eyes hardening for a moment, but there was a flicker of something beneath the surface—something raw, something almost vulnerable. “I’m not pushing you away,” he muttered, though the words sounded like they were meant more for himself than for you. “I just… don’t know how to let people in.”

You stepped back, a sharp breath leaving your lips. His words were a dagger in your chest. “You don’t have to be perfect, Mihawk. But this… this is just too much.”

His face hardened again, the vulnerability disappearing behind that familiar, cold mask. “I didn’t ask for your sympathy.”

You recoiled, shaking your head. “It’s not sympathy, Mihawk. I’m trying to be here for you, but you won’t let me. You keep pushing me away.”

There was a long silence between you, the kind that stretched out too long, too thick to ignore. Mihawk stared at the floor, visibly struggling with something you couldn’t quite understand.

Finally, he sighed, his voice barely a whisper. “Maybe I’m better off alone.”

Your heart shattered with those words. The finality of them, the coldness, the impossibility of it, made it harder to breathe. You turned quickly, not wanting him to see the sting of his words on your face.

Without another word, you walked off, your steps heavy and purposeful.

----

You didn’t wait for him to speak. You didn’t need to. Mihawk’s words hung in the air like a heavy fog, suffocating everything between you. “Maybe I’m better off alone.”

You walked away before the sting of his words could settle, the sharp edge of them cutting through your chest. You didn’t care that he was still standing there, staring after you.

Your feet took you to your room in the castle, but even as you closed the door behind you, the world outside seemed to close in. You sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at your hands, trying to push the burn behind your eyes. But it was useless. The tears came, slow at first, then faster. You pressed your palms against your face, desperate to stop them, but they kept coming.

Why? Why did he say that?

Your heart ached, and you couldn’t figure out what hurt more—the words themselves or the realization that he didn’t want you around. Mihawk. The man who had kept everyone at a distance. The one who had never once asked for anything. And you—you—had thought maybe you could be the one person to change that. But you were wrong.

----

Meanwhile, Mihawk sat in his study, his mind tangled in his own thoughts. He stared out at the night sky, trying to drown out the regret gnawing at him. What have I done?

He had never been good with people, never good with emotions. I didn’t mean it. She shouldn’t have to feel like that.

His words had come out too easily, without thinking. He had pushed you away when all you had done was show him care, patience... love.

He let out a frustrated breath, the weight of his mistake pressing harder on him. She doesn’t deserve this.

He rose from his seat, walking to the window, gripping the ledge with clenched fists. What now? He had always been alone, but the thought of you not being there, of losing what little connection he had with you, hurt more than he could admit. He wasn’t sure how to fix it. He never knew how to fix things.

She’s not going to forgive me easily, is she? He sighed, the silence in the air heavier than the night sky before him. I have to make this right... somehow.

----

The following morning, Mihawk woke with a single thought in mind. He couldn’t stand the tension, the silence between you two. The words from the night before echoed in his head, but now all he could focus on was the idea of making things right.

You were still distant, and he knew he couldn’t just speak his way out of it. He had to show you, to prove that he cared, even if he had never learned how to express it properly.

He moved to the kitchen of his castle early that morning, preparing a quiet breakfast, his hands methodical as he selected fresh ingredients from his garden. He was no stranger to cooking—having lived alone for so many years meant he’d developed the skill, even if he didn’t often share it with anyone. But this time, it wasn’t about the food. It was about showing you, in his own way, that he didn’t want to lose you.

Mihawk worked in silence, chopping vegetables and herbs, carefully preparing a dish that, though simple, was made with genuine effort. He took his time—something rare for him, but he knew it was necessary.

Once everything was ready, he set the table, the soft clink of porcelain and silverware the only sound in the otherwise quiet room.

After a long moment, he took a breath, walked down the hall, and knocked on your door.

“Y/N,” Mihawk’s voice was quieter than usual, almost tentative. “I’ve made something. For you.”

You were sitting at the small desk by the window when you heard him. You turned slowly, your expression unreadable, and saw him standing there with a plate of food in his hands.

For a moment, there was silence between you, and Mihawk seemed to hesitate, unsure how to approach you. Then, finally, he stepped forward, setting the plate down on the small table beside you.

“I... I don’t know if this is what you wanted, but it’s what I could do,” Mihawk said, his voice steady but softer than usual. “I’m not good with words, but I wanted to show you I’m sorry.”

You stared at the plate for a moment, then back at him. You could see the subtle shift in his demeanor—his posture was less rigid, his expression more vulnerable than you’d ever seen before. You hadn’t expected this. He was never one to cook, and yet, here he was—offering you something he had prepared himself.

Tentatively, you reached for the fork, your fingers brushing against his as you took a bite. The taste was simple—fresh vegetables, some herbs—but it was good. Better than you expected, considering Mihawk's usual reliance on swords rather than culinary skills.

“It’s... really good,” you said softly, your gaze lifting to meet his.

Mihawk’s features softened, and for the first time, a small smile played at the corners of his lips. “I wanted to do something... something more than just apologizing. Words aren’t enough.”

You set the fork down, your hand resting on the table between you. “Mihawk,” you began, your voice barely a whisper, “I know you don’t always know how to show it. But you don’t have to shut me out. I just... I want to be here for you.”

Mihawk stood still for a moment, looking at you, taking in your words. It wasn’t easy for him to admit his feelings, but here, now, in the quiet of his castle, he finally let his guard down, even if just a little.

“I... don’t know how to do this,” he said slowly, his voice low. “But I don’t want to lose you. Not like this.”

You smiled, reaching out to touch his hand gently. “You don’t have to be perfect. Just be honest with me. That’s all I want.”

For the first time, Mihawk let out a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing as he sat down beside you. It was a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes.

“I will,” Mihawk said, his voice steady now. “I will try, Y/N. I’ll try harder.”

And in that quiet moment, surrounded by the warmth of a simple meal and the weight of unspoken promises, you both knew that this was just the beginning—Mihawk, for the first time, letting someone in, and you, ready to stay by his side, no matter how hard the journey ahead might be.

[jarofstyles]

Picture blurb time! I take a photo someone submits or I find myself and write based off of whatever inspo the picture gives me.

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—-

“I hate to say it!” He yelled over the sound of the rain. “I don’t think my jacket is doing shit to keep us dry!”

Y/N couldn’t help her laugh, the buzz from the wine making her much more agreeable than she had been when they’d first gone out. She would admit she could be a little grumpy when she was rushed and Harry had been hounding her about getting there in time, but he also knew a little red wine and a good serving of bread with the garlic and oil combination would calm her down. It always did.

“No shit!” She cackled, though made no attempt to remove it from their heads. Her entire body was soaked. Dress dripping, droplets over her hair as it bunched together in sopping strands. Her sandals were useless to protect her feet from the wet, cool rain and their traction was shit. Thankfully the cobblestones had some sort of grit.

When she'd agreed to take a spur of the moment trip with her boyfriend, she hadn't expected to be walking back to the apartment he owned in the small coastal town in Italy in pouring rain- but it was something she knew she would probably remember forever.

"It's not that bad though!" He spoke loudly so she could hear him over the rain. "At least it isn't freezing. Got caught in a downpour in London a while back n'I got that nasty cold. Remember?" Y/N did remember. He was a big baby when he was sick and it had been the first time she had taken care of him. It was only when she called his mum for her soup recipe that she filled her in on how Harry milked it for attention. She still indulged regardless.

"Okay, true, but I want to get back so can you walk a little faster?" He was a little too slow for the pace they should be going. "Having those long giraffe legs should help you out!"

"Giraffe legs?" He sputtered, stopping in the middle of the street. Y/N yelped as he pulled the jacket down and the rain drops began splashing directly on her head and face. They were big, bouncing off her skin as she lifted her hand over her forehead to try to keep her eyes clear.

"Harry! What is wrong with you?"

"You said I had giraffe legs! We're on a romantic walk back in the rain during the Italian summer n'you're going around calling me an animal."

"I never said you were an animal, you pest! I said you had the legs of one-" Y/N couldn't finish her sentence. Slightly cool, soft and most definitely wet lips found hers, the hand protecting her eyes pulled down by his hand as he tugged her body into his own.

It was like everything she was saying left her brain. Getting a kiss from him as the rain poured down over them seemed to reset her, body melting like the wicked witch into his body. Arms wrapping around his shoulders, she lifted up on her tip toes and kept the kiss going regardless of how soaked her face was getting. Tasting the wine on his tongue was far more important.

A whimper left her throat as he pulled back from her with a smile, nose nudging against hers. "Shush. Just let me be romantic, yeah? Can tell me all about what animals I remind you of tomorrow. Just want to kiss you for a minute."

[spencersmopbucket]

Behind the Ribcage | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader Summary: You're Spencer's best friend & his case partner — but things get weirdly distant after you begin dating a local cop. Themes & Warnings: jealous!Spence, violence, angst with happy ending really. This is very self indulgent tbh, theres a reference to Toby Cavanaugh from PLL bc he's my favorite hot cop

When you'd joined the BAU, you'd taken the place by storm. You were a new agent — smart, strong, calculating, charismatic, feisty — everything that the ideal agent had. You were immediately wrapped into the crazy world that was profiling, fitting in like the missing puzzle piece.

Despite being a lot different than him, you clicked almost instantly with the BAU's Spencer Reid, boy genius.

You were fire, and he was water — fast mouth and fast fists when needed, where he was all statistics and careful dissection. But somehow, it worked. You’d been paired together almost from the start, assigned as partners on cases, and over the months it became second nature. If he moved, you moved. If you spoke, he listened. And you always had his six.

Hotch had done it perfectly, just as he'd figured. When he paired you together, he'd created an unstoppable duo. Someone to ground Spencer, to make him stronger, and someone to rationalize you and introduce you more to critical thinking and less to impulse.

Spencer would never admit to how much he’d grown dependent on that rhythm — on you. On knowing you’d be at his side in every hotel, briefing, and takedown. On the way you’d toss him a protein bar when he forgot to eat or let your fingers linger on his wrist a little too long after passing him a file.

And you would never acknowledge how right Aaron Hotchner had been. Spencer taught you not to always rush in, not to fight fire with fire. Sometimes it took calculation, plotting, manipulation. He was also just a comforting presence, someone to run cold water over a wound or to have your back when talking down an unsub. He was your constant. Consistently there for you. You never had to guess if you'd have Spencer.

When you met Cavanaugh, it was almost as if the feelings of comfort amplified. But they weren't about just Spencer anymore.

Toby Cavanaugh was a local cop the team had partnered with during a particularly brutal serial assault case in Pennsylvania. Handsome in a carved-from-stone kind of way, quiet but not shy, with this protective edge that felt so familiar to you — like an echo of everything you thought you wanted.

He was solid. Calm. Confident in a way that didn’t feel arrogant. He treated you like an equal, didn’t flinch when you challenged him in a briefing, and didn’t blink when you barked orders during a takedown. You respected him immediately — and, more dangerously, you liked him too. You liked him so much.

He had these blue eyes that could read right through you. He was broad and muscular. Any woman had to admit that Detective Cavanaugh was easy on the eyes.

You liked the way his hand always brushed your lower back when he walked past. The way he called you “agent” like it was some sort of nickname. You liked that he offered to drive you to the hotel when the case wrapped, and you liked the way his voice dropped when he asked, “Can I see you again?”

And you didn’t think twice about saying yes.

From there on out, Toby, not Cavanaugh, was showing up everywhere for you. On the job, he protected you ruthlessly, shoving back any threat that came within 10 feet. Outside of the job, he picked you up from work if he wasn't on shift. He cooked you dinner and ran you baths to relax you. He held you while you slept, warding off nightmares about awful cases you'd seen.

It was good. Maybe too good. The universe probably sensed that you were too happy and too content.

Because slowly — almost imperceptibly — the patterns began to change.

Spencer changed.

At first, it was small things. He stopped joining you at the coffee machine in the mornings, where you'd usually trade quiet smiles and inside jokes while everyone else wiped sleep from their eyes. He stopped waiting for you after briefings, letting you catch up instead of walking with you in perfect sync like he always had.

Then it got worse.

He started volunteering for assignments without you — walking into Hotch’s office before you had a chance to speak. He’d take files from JJ without passing them to you first. On one occasion, he even snapped at you during a suspect interview, interrupting mid-question to redirect.

You blinked at him across the table, stunned.

He didn’t even look at you after.

That night, you got home late. Your body ached, your brain burned, and as you stepped into the familiar warmth of your apartment, you saw Toby in the kitchen with his sleeves rolled up, plating pasta and pouring wine like he was some domestic god.

He took one look at your face and said, “Rough day?”

You wanted to say Spencer.

Instead, you said, “Yeah. Long.”

But Spencer was the undercurrent of it all. The constant ringing tension in your ribs.

You weren’t blind. You’d seen the way his jaw clenched when you answered your phone and smiled at the sound of your boyfriend’s voice. You noticed the way he walked away now instead of waiting for you to finish calls. You noticed the way he didn’t laugh anymore — not when you teased him, not when Morgan did. He was quiet. Sharp-edged.

And cold.

Cold in a way you never thought he could be — not with you.

Toby hummed, walking around the island in the kitchen to press a soft kiss to your cheek.

"Wanna talk about it? I'm no stranger to long days, you know."

You knew you could be honest with Toby. You always could. So you did.

You let out a long breath and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed tightly over your chest like it would hold the frustration in. Toby stepped closer, waiting — patient and steady, like always.

“It’s Spencer,” you said finally, the name heavy on your tongue.

Toby raised his brows slightly, but didn’t interrupt.

“He’s been… off. Ever since we got together. It’s like he’s trying to distance himself. I mean, we’ve always been a team, Toby. He’s my partner, my best friend. But now? He won’t even look at me. Won’t talk unless it’s strictly case-related.”

Toby nodded slowly, processing. “You think it’s about me?”

“I don’t want it to be,” you admitted. “But yeah. I think it is.”

You expected a flicker of jealousy, maybe defensiveness. But Toby just tilted his head, giving you a knowing look.

“Sometimes guys don’t realize what they have until they think they’re losing it,” he said, gently. “And it sounds like, for Spencer, you’ve always been… his partner. Maybe in more ways than what you realize.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the kindness in his tone.

“That doesn’t make it okay,” he added. “You don’t deserve to be iced out because someone else can’t deal with their feelings.”

You nodded, and for a moment, the silence was thick with unspoken things. Guilt. Confusion. Hurt.

Toby reached for your hand.

“You want me to talk to him?”

Your eyes widened slightly. “No. God, no. That’d make it worse.”

He chuckled lightly. “Fair enough.”

And you appreciated that — how he didn’t press, didn’t push. Just stood beside you, solid as ever.

But even as you sat across from him at dinner and tried to focus on the warmth of his hand over yours and the smell of garlic and basil, your mind wandered.

To Spencer.

To the way he used to look at you when he thought you weren’t watching. To how he always sat beside you on the plane, even when the seat was cramped. To how his fingers would brush yours when you passed him notes during briefings. How his voice would soften when he said your name.

You chewed slowly, heart too full and too confused.

Because it was good with Toby. Safe. Easy. Healthy.

But Spencer Reid was a different kind of ache. A different kind of want.

And the way he was pulling away was starting to feel like losing a part of yourself.

The next case was local. Joint operation. Which meant — of course — local cops. Which meant Toby.

You hadn’t seen Spencer’s jaw lock that hard since the last time he got shot.

It started subtly. Spencer barely acknowledged Toby’s greeting at the precinct, opting instead for a clipped nod and a murmured “Detective.” No handshake. No eye contact. No warmth.

Toby had noticed.

So had Morgan.

“You wanna tell me what’s got pretty boy wound so tight?” Morgan murmured as you prepped in the conference room.

You only shrugged, feeling the storm brewing before the first thunder cracked.

Things really started to spiral when the team and local PD were combing through suspect profiles — a list of men matching a violent pattern across multiple counties. Spencer sat at one end of the table, you next to him, and Toby leaned over your other side, reading over your shoulder. His hand lightly rested on the back of your chair.

“Your unsub’s MO escalated recently,” Toby said. “Blunt force trauma now, not strangulation. Means he’s getting sloppy, impulsive.”

Spencer scoffed — an uncharacteristic, biting sound.

“Or it means he’s adapting,” he cut in, not looking up. “You’re assuming he’s losing control when there’s nothing to suggest that yet. Impulsivity is a subjective label when you don’t understand the baseline pattern.”

The air in the room shifted.

Toby raised a brow. “Pretty sure I’m allowed to draw from experience here, Doctor.”

“I’m sure you are,” Spencer said coolly, flipping a page in the file. “Though we tend to prefer evidence-based analysis over gut feelings.”

You blinked between them. “Okay, let’s just—”

“Right. Because feelings aren’t useful in profiling?” Toby asked, standing straighter. “That’s rich coming from someone who clearly can’t separate his own from the job.”

Silence.

A beat.

Then Morgan muttered under his breath, “Damn.”

“Toby,” you warned quietly, heart lurching.

But Spencer didn’t back down. His tone dropped a note colder.

“I’m not the one who started dating a federal agent while assisting on a case.”

That hit.

You stood so fast your chair screeched back. “Enough. Both of you.”

Spencer finally looked at you, and it was the worst part — his eyes were hard, yes, but underneath? They looked hurt. Like he hated everything he’d just said but didn’t know how to stop himself.

You excused yourself quickly and walked out into the hallway, needing space to breathe. Toby followed first, hand brushing your arm.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag it out like that. He just — he gets under my skin.”

You turned to him. “He’s always under your skin, Toby. And you’re always in his. And I’m stuck in the middle of it.”

He frowned. “You’re not stuck.”

You hesitated. “Aren’t I?”

Toby stepped closer. “Are you telling me you’d rather be on his side?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. The answer came slower than you expected.

“No, Toby, but—”

The door opened behind you both. Spencer walked past without a word, his shoulder brushing yours like static.

He didn’t look back.

And suddenly, for the first time since meeting Toby Cavanaugh, your heart wasn’t where it used to be.

The rest of the case went slowly. You slowly got closer to leads, but the tension between Spencer and Toby made everything feel ten times heavier.

Every time they were in the same room, it was a minefield. Spencer was clinical, detached — he didn't so much as glance at you unless it was absolutely necessary. Toby, on the other hand, stayed close. Too close. Like he was trying to claim territory Spencer had already been silently living in.

You and Toby laid side by side in a hotel room the night before confronting the unsub. The bed was cold, different than normal. The tension had escalated from just between Spencer and Toby.

Now, it affected Toby and you.

You heard him sigh, shifting slightly. He had turned towards you, his blue eyes analyzing you. You couldn't bare to look at them.

"I know what you're thinking. And I'm not mad at you, Name." He said, a hand coming over to rest comfortingly on your knee.

You didn’t respond right away. You stared at the ceiling, the cheap fan clicking above you like a metronome, keeping time with the awkward silence stretching between you.

“I’m not mad,” Toby repeated, softer this time. “But I know you’re thinking about him.”

Your stomach twisted.

You turned your head slowly to meet his eyes — those same gentle, ocean-colored eyes that had once made you feel calm and sure. But now, all they did was make you feel guilty.

“I’m trying not to,” you admitted. Your voice was quiet, honest and shaky. “But it’s like I don’t even know how to not think about him. He’s just... always there.”

Toby gave you a sad smile, thumb brushing gently over your knee. “That’s what makes it harder. He was there first.”

Your throat tightened. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“I know,” he said. “I didn’t plan on falling for you either. But I did. And maybe I’m just now realizing that I’ve been fighting a losing battle since day one.”

You sat up then, wrapping your arms around your legs. “Toby…”

“I love you,” he said, steady and sure. “But I’m not going to ask you to choose between us. Because that's not fair.. And I think that your heart chose before your head did.”

Your eyes began to well up with tears, lip wobbling.

"I love you too. So much."

"I know you do. But you love him too."

"I don't know--"

Toby smiled sadly, shushing you.

"You do know, baby. You just aren't ready to admit it."

He kissed your forehead softly, like he was sealing a memory more than showing affection. “You’re going to be okay,” he said gently. “Even if it’s not with me. It's a choice you need to make. I'm here if you want me — and if its not me you want, that's okay too.”

You closed your eyes at his words, tears slipping down your cheeks. The finality in his voice wasn’t cruel — it was kind, too kind, and it made it hurt worse.

Toby didn’t leave. He just laid back down beside you, quiet, respectful of your silence. He wrapped his arms around you tightly, like he was trying to convince you that he was the right decision. He stayed — like someone waiting for the scenes that come on after the credits roll.

The next morning, you didn’t speak much. Toby offered you coffee with a soft “Here,” but nothing more. When you entered the precinct for the takedown briefing, the air between you and Spencer was as taut as a wire. He glanced at you — not coldly this time, but cautiously, like he didn’t trust himself to look too long.

When Garcia patched in the last lead, you split up into the new normal pairs: you with Toby, Spencer with Morgan.

The tension never left. Not during the briefing. Not during the gear-up. Not even when you were sliding into the passenger seat of the SUV beside Toby, your eyes catching Spencer’s just once across the lot.

And then the operation started.

The unsub had gone mobile — a panicked attempt to flee the pressure closing in. Garcia’s last location ping had led your team to an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the city. Cold. Echoing. Smelling of rust and dust and adrenaline.

You and Toby cleared the left wing. Morgan and Spencer swept right. Everyone moved with precision — voices low, steps practiced, hearts pounding just beneath Kevlar and clipped radios.

The unsub came out of nowhere.

One moment you were rounding the corner with your weapon raised, the next you were on the ground, a white-hot pain ripping through your side as the knife wedged between your ribcage and your heart. You choked, panicked, your fingers immediately reaching for where you felt pain. You pulled them back, thick crimson covering them.

Toby was screaming your name. You couldn’t answer.

Your hand pressed instinctively to your side again, feeling the sticky warmth bloom beneath your fingers. You tried to stay upright, to aim, to breathe, but your body folded against the concrete floor.

Everything was muffled after that — shouts, more gunfire, boots pounding, someone yelling “SUSPECT DOWN!”

And then —

“Name!” Spencer’s voice, panicked. Raw.

He was kneeling beside you before you could process it, gloved hands replacing yours on your wound. Blood soaked through them anyway.

“Stay with me,” he said, voice cracking. “Come on, stay with me, look at me.”

Your vision blurred. You blinked slowly, heavy, dazed. “Spence…?”

“I’ve got you. Okay? Just — just don’t close your eyes. You’re going to be fine. You’re going to be fine.” He kept pressure on your side, his hands trembling as he did it. “Why weren’t you behind cover — god, I should’ve—” He shook his head. “I should've been there.”

Toby dropped to your other side, face pale and stricken. “She’s losing too much—Spencer, we need an ambulance now.”

“I already called it!” Spencer snapped. Not at Toby — not really — just at the situation, at the horror of watching someone you love bleed out in front of you. “She’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay, do you hear me?”

You wanted to nod. Instead, your eyes fluttered.

Spencer leaned closer, forehead nearly touching yours, voice breaking. “Don’t you dare give up. Not now. Stay awake.” He begged, breath hitching. “You can't leave me alone. Not when I haven't—” he cut himself off, tears welling up in his eyes.

Your blood was warm against his hands, soaking through the sleeves of his FBI jacket. Spencer barely noticed. His world had narrowed to you — your paling face, your shallow breaths, your barely-there grip on consciousness.

Toby hovered just as close, voice cracking. “Come on, baby. Just hold on, okay? The ambulance is close. You just gotta hold on a little longer.”

Your lips moved. No sound came at first — then, the faintest whisper: “I’m… I’m trying.”

Spencer broke. A sob escaped him as he leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours. “That’s it. Just keep fighting. For me. For us. Please.”

Red and blue lights strobed faintly from outside the warehouse windows. Sirens howled in the distance, drawing closer.

Toby reached out and gripped Spencer’s forearm tightly, grounding them both. “We’ve got her. We’ve got her.”

Spencer nodded shakily, eyes locked to yours, never once looking away. “I’m right here,” he promised. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And when the EMTs burst in moments later, rushing toward you, it took two agents to pull Spencer away. He didn’t stop talking to you the entire time — even as they lifted you onto the stretcher, even as your eyes finally slid shut from the blood loss.

In the waiting room, there was pacing, crying, panicked phone calls. Toby sat in a chair with his head in his hands. Spencer paced back and forth. Garcia and Morgan sat side by side, Garcia's manicured hand held tightly by Derek.

The hospital’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, far too bright for the weight of what hung in the air. Spencer’s footsteps echoed through the near-empty waiting room — back and forth, back and forth, like if he stopped moving, the fear would crush him.

Toby hadn’t moved in nearly fifteen minutes. He sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, his hands tangled in his hair. His shoulders trembled every so often, silently, like the grief and helplessness were leaking out in waves too heavy to contain.

Garcia whispered something to Morgan, who just shook his head, his grip on her hand tightening. This was a pain even he couldn’t fix.

Finally, Spencer stopped moving.

He stared at Toby, chest heaving with the force of his unshed emotion. “She didn’t have to be out there. She wasn’t supposed to be in that position.”

Toby looked up slowly. His face was blotchy, raw, but his voice was steady when he said, “Don’t you think I know that?”

“She was my partner,” Spencer snapped, not out of cruelty — just exhaustion and pain. “She was my partner before she was yours. I should’ve—” He cut himself off, fists clenching. “I should’ve been there.”

Toby stood, eyes flaring. “And what? You think I didn’t want to switch places with her the second I saw her go down? You think I haven’t been dying inside knowing I couldn’t stop it?”

Spencer stepped closer, voice sharp. “Then why the hell didn’t you keep her behind cover?”

Toby surged forward, their chests nearly brushing. “Because she’s not a goddamn pawn, Spencer! She made the call. And if you knew her like you think you do, you’d know she’d never let someone else go in alone.”

That hit too close. Spencer’s jaw flexed, his breathing uneven. “Don’t talk to me like I don’t know her.”

“Then maybe act like it,” Toby hissed. “This isn’t about who’s hurting more. It’s about her.”

Spencer’s voice broke. “Everything is about her.”

And just like that, the fight drained out of both of them. The fire turned to ash. Toby sank back into the chair, elbows on his knees again, but this time he looked up.

“I love her, man,” he said hoarsely. "She's the easiest woman in the world to love."

Spencer swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. She is.”

The two men sat in the quiet aftermath of their clash — the rawness between them not hatred, but shared devastation. The truth had stripped them both down to nothing but the ache they carried for the same person.

“She used to talk about you,” Spencer added after a moment, eyes distant. “Back when you first joined the team. I’d ask her how it was going, and she’d smile — that kind of smile that’s more in her eyes than her mouth — and say you were ‘solid.’ That’s what she called you. Solid.”

Toby let out a soft, broken laugh. “She said that to me once, too. I thought it meant she didn’t really like me. Turns out, it meant I mattered.”

Spencer nodded slowly. “She’s careful with her words. When she says something like that... it sticks.”

Toby let out a shaky breath, a few tears slipping from his bloodshot blue eyes.

"She loves me, yeah. I know she does. But she really, really loves you, Reid. And all I want is for her to be happy."

Spencer’s throat tightened at the words. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had said that about him — or rather, about them. Toby’s words weren’t laced with jealousy, but a raw truth that broke Spencer’s heart more than anything.

Spencer laughed humorlessly, his voice tinged with frustration.

"I might be the smartest man in the world, but with her, all I do is screw up. It's like trying to solve a Riemann Hypothesis without knowing the fundamental theorem of algebra — I keep missing the point, no matter how hard I try."

Toby raised an eyebrow, clearly lost. "A... Riemann Hypothesis?"

Spencer shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "Never mind," he muttered. "It’s just a math thing. The point is, I screwed up. I hate seeing her with you, no offense."

Toby's eyes softened, but his posture remained guarded. "None taken," he said quietly, his voice rough with understanding. He sat back in the chair, arms crossed, looking down at his hands for a moment before meeting Spencer's gaze. "I know who she's going to choose. And if she's happy, I'll gladly walk away knowing that the woman I love is being taken care of. Even if it isn't me taking care of her."

Spencer stared at his feet, going silent for a few moments before speaking.

"That's the most unselfish thing I've ever heard. Somehow it just makes me hate you more, Cavanaugh."

Toby chuckled softly, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. The tension between them remained, but there was something in his eyes — a softness, a recognition that this wasn’t just about rivalry or competition. It was about something bigger than both of them.

"You really know how to throw a compliment, don’t you?" Toby teased, the bitterness in his voice softened by a hint of humor.

"And you know how to make a man feel appreciated. You showed me up at my job, which is what I'm known for, and then stole the girl I love."

Toby’s grin faded into something more genuine, a tinge of sadness behind his eyes. He looked at Spencer for a moment, his fingers tapping absently on his knee.

"Sorry."

Spencer rolled his eyes, crossing his arms.

"You're not. But it's alright."

The nurse stepped into the quiet room, her crisp white uniform a stark contrast to the tension that still hung in the air between Spencer and Toby. She looked at them both with a professional yet empathetic expression, taking in their somber faces.

"Gentlemen," she said gently, "you can see her now. She's stable, but still unconscious. We're monitoring her closely, but... it's a good sign. One at a time, please."

Toby stands, wiping his hands on his knees.

"Reid.. You can go ahead. When she wakes up, tell her I was here. And tell her I love her. Please. I gotta go."

Spencer noted the look in Toby's eyes. Glazed with tears, with a tint of 'goodbye.' Toby was letting go.

Spencer stood frozen for a moment, taking in the sincerity in Toby's words, the weight of them settling in his chest. He had expected bitterness, resentment — anything but the quiet acceptance that hung in the air now. Toby wasn’t fighting anymore.

The silence between them stretched, thick with the unspoken understanding that neither man was going to win this. The tension had been replaced by something far heavier, a grief that mirrored the one in Spencer’s heart.

Toby’s shoulders sagged slightly, his eyes avoiding Spencer’s gaze. But before Spencer could respond, Toby turned and made his way toward the door, not looking back.

Spencer watched him go, a flicker of guilt catching in his chest, but he pushed it down. Toby’s selflessness had made it all the more complicated. He didn't know what was right, what he could offer you that would make things better. What if he wasn’t enough?

Shaking his head, Spencer exhaled sharply, trying to push the thoughts aside.

Taking a step forward, he walked into the room where you lay, the sterile hospital smell overwhelming as he approached your bedside. The sound of the heart monitor was steady, the beeping a reminder of the fragility of life.

You were still unconscious, pale, and bruised, the faintest of scrapes lining your skin, but at least you were breathing.

Spencer sat beside you, his hand hovering above yours before he finally reached out, gently resting it on top of your cold fingers.

His lips wobbled. A tear fell.

"Still beautiful, somehow."

Spencer's gaze lingered on your face, the familiar features now shadowed by the bruises and cuts, the signs of the struggle you’d endured. The world seemed so fragile in moments like this, everything around him holding its breath as he did. His heart ached with the weight of what had happened, with the fear that he'd lost you before he could ever make things right.

His fingers tightened gently around yours, grounding him in the present. It felt surreal, sitting there next to you, waiting for a sign that you would wake up, that you would open your eyes and return to him.

"I’m sorry," Spencer whispered hoarsely, his voice breaking slightly as the tears continued to fall, betraying the stoic facade he tried so hard to maintain. "I don’t know how I let it get this far... but I’ll fix this. I swear, I’ll fix it."

He plopped down in the chair beside you, leaning over the railing of the bed and hiding his head in his arms. He tried to fight it, he really did. But he wept. Sniffles filled the room, silent cries. His shoulders shook, but he made no sound, as if the tears were the only release he could allow himself.

He almost didn't notice the gentle weight on his head, fingers threading through his tousled hair.

Spencer tensed at the touch, unsure if it was real or if his mind was playing tricks on him in the haze of exhaustion and grief. But then, a soft, familiar voice broke through the fog, like a beacon pulling him back to reality.

"Spence..." Your voice was barely a whisper, hoarse and fragile, but it was enough to make his heart skip a beat. The warmth of your fingers in his hair was unmistakable. It was you. You were awake.

His head snapped up, eyes wide with disbelief, his breath caught in his throat. He looked down at your face, still marked by the violence you’d endured, but the flicker of recognition in your eyes made everything else fade into the background.

"You’re awake," Spencer stammered, his voice thick with emotion, barely able to grasp the reality of it. "I thought... Oh my god." His hand reached for yours again, holding it more firmly this time, like he never wanted to let go.

You blinked up at him, your gaze swimming in confusion, but there was something reassuring in your touch, something grounding.

"Of course I'm awake." you murmured weakly, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. "But... you’re really going to have to stop crying, Reid. You’ll ruin that genius face of yours. Make it all snotty."

Spencer’s breath caught in his throat, the lump in his chest threatening to choke him as he laughed softly, his smile breaking through the tension for the first time in what felt like forever.

"I’m... I’m just glad you're okay," he choked out, his voice trembling. "I don’t care about my face."

You squeezed his hand lightly, your thumb brushing over his knuckles in a gesture of comfort. It was almost like you were trying to reassure him, as if the roles had been reversed.

"I'm not going anywhere, Spence," you said softly, your voice steadying as you tried to sit up, but your strength failed you, and you collapsed back against the pillows.

Spencer was immediately at your side, his hand gently urging you to rest. "Take it easy. You’ve been through enough."

You nodded, eyes half-lidded, still recovering from the ordeal. The silence between you two felt different now, more comforting, like the storm had passed, at least for the moment.

"Not very nice to stick knives in people's ribs. Did we get him?" You asked weakly.

Spencer's expression darkened at the mention of the attack, but he quickly pushed it down, not wanting to bring more worry into the room. His thumb lightly stroked the back of your hand, offering comfort as you struggled to sit up.

"Yeah," he said quietly, his voice a little rough. "He's been dealt with. You don't need to worry about him anymore." He paused for a moment, the weight of the situation hitting him again. "You’re safe now."

You let out a soft sigh, relief flooding through you at his words. Despite how weak you felt, you managed to offer him a small, tired smile.

"I missed you. You're done being mean to me?"

Spencer’s chest tightened at your words, his heart ached, and for a moment, it felt like the world around him paused. He had been so caught up in the fear of losing you that he hadn't fully realized how much he missed you, how much he had missed this — being close to you, sharing moments like this without the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air.

His thumb continued to trace the back of your hand as he leaned in a little closer, his voice gentle yet full of sincerity.

"Never again. Never."

You smiled again.

Spencer remembered what he'd agreed to tell you.

"Toby was here. Until you got out of surgery and the nurse let us see you. He told me to tell you.. he loves you."

Your expression softened at Spencer's words, the mention of Toby a bittersweet reminder of everything that had unfolded. For a moment, you didn’t say anything, just took in a slow, steady breath, trying to process everything.

"I... I never meant for any of this to happen," you murmured, looking down at your hand in Spencer's, the weight of the situation pressing down on you. "I never wanted to hurt him."

Spencer squeezed your hand, his thumb brushing over your skin in a silent gesture of comfort. "You didn’t," he said softly, his voice unwavering. "You never meant for any of it. But what matters now is that you’re here. And Toby... well, as much as I hate his existence, he's completely unselfish. He's okay with whatever you do, as long as you're happy."

"Seems kind of like a brown-noser to me, but what would I know?" He muttered to himself.

A soft, tired laugh escaped your lips, the sound cracking slightly but genuine nonetheless. It was the first real laugh you'd let out in what felt like forever, and it made Spencer’s chest swell with something warm and fragile.

You gave his hand a weak squeeze. "Just because he's not the jealous type doesn't make him a brown-noser," you scold with a wry smile. "He’s a good guy. Just... not my guy."

Spencer’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, something unreadable in his gaze. Hope. Fear. Relief. All tangled into one.

"I’m not good at this," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I say the wrong things. I push people away. But I never stopped—" he stopped himself, cleared his throat. "I never stopped caring about you. Even when I was too proud or too angry to show it."

Your fingers found his again. "You're doing just fine, Spence."

He exhaled, slowly, like the weight of your forgiveness let him breathe again for the first time.

"You’re really not allowed to almost die again," he said, a small smile returning to his lips. "I don’t handle it well."

"Yeah?" you whispered, eyes fluttering closed. "Then I guess I’ll stick around."

He played with your fingers for a moment, gathering the courage to say what he wanted to say. To do what he wanted to do. He was tired of being a coward. Tired of never getting what he wanted because he couldn't speak up unless it was something venomous coming out of his mouth.

Spencer's gaze drifted to your joined hands, watching as his thumb traced absent circles on your skin. His mind was racing, heart pounding against his ribcage like it was trying to escape. You were here. You were alive. And for once, the world had given him a second chance.

He swallowed hard, then leaned in, his voice quiet but firm, like he didn’t want to lose the nerve halfway through.

"I don’t want to pretend anymore," he said, barely above a whisper. "I don’t want to act like I don’t care, or like it didn’t kill me to see you with someone else. I messed things up — God, I know I did — but if there’s even the smallest chance… that you still feel something for me, I want to try. For real. No more walls. No more pride."

Your eyes fluttered open, hazy but focused on him. He looked wrecked — eyes rimmed red, lips trembling, jaw clenched in restraint — but honest. So achingly honest.

"I love you," he added, the words rushing out before he could second-guess them. "I’ve been in love with you for longer than I want to admit. And if you’ll let me… I want to earn you back."

Your eyes softened impossibly, pupils blown wide.

You didn’t speak right away—how could you, when your heart was pounding louder than the monitor beside you? His words echoed in your chest, tearing down the last defenses you’d held up between you.

You blinked slowly, tears beginning to gather at the corners of your eyes, not from pain, but from the sheer, overwhelming relief of finally hearing the thing you’d needed most.

"Spence…" you breathed, your voice catching, raw. "You never lost me. I just didn’t think you wanted me anymore."

His face crumpled, that fractured look of disbelief giving way to something closer to joy — quiet, tentative, but real. He leaned forward, forehead resting gently against yours, so careful not to hurt you.

"I love you so much. I always have. You've been so close yet so far. And now," you took a shaky breath. "Now I'm ready to admit that it's you."

Spencer closed his eyes, and you felt the faintest shiver pass through him — not from cold, but from the overwhelming emotion that trembled in his chest.

He didn’t speak at first. He couldn’t. The words lodged somewhere in his throat, too swollen by the enormity of what you’d just said. Instead, he let the silence hold the moment, let the press of your foreheads be the vow neither of you had been brave enough to make before.

“You don’t know what that means to me,” he whispered. “To hear you say that. After everything.”

You cupped the side of his face with the little strength you had, your fingers brushing the tear that had fallen down his cheek.

“I do,” you said, soft but certain. “Because I mean it.”

Spencer kissed your hand. Once. Then again. Like he couldn’t help himself.

“I’m yours,” he said simply, earnestly. “If you’ll still have me.”

And even though you were bruised and broken, you smiled — wide, real, and with more love than words could carry.

“Always.”

[strawberrystepmom]

dante x f!reader. established relationship, a minor disagreement that ends up in hurt/comfort. | wc: 1.4k, reading time: ~5 minutes

“I’m coming with you.”

Your remark is firm while you practically chase after Dante who slumps down in the chair behind his desk for the briefest moment, pulling equipment from the drawers of his desk and putting it into his pockets. 

“No, you’re not.”

It irritates you how he won’t even look up, preoccupied with getting out of here. Your jaw slackens, eyes narrowing.

“Why not?”

Now he looks up, his own teeth clenched. 

“Because I’ve said no ten times and meant it every one.” 

He hates fighting with you. In fact, he hates telling you no about anything and you’re all too well aware of it judging by the way you seem to think you can wear his defenses down into a yes right now. 

Disengaging by looking down, he loads a few bullets into his guns which further irritates you. 

There’s no such thing as a truly unexpected job in his line of work. He gets calls at all hours of the day or night sometimes, reporting to wherever he needs to be to take care of business, but you don’t understand why he won’t let you come. It’s midday and he’s clearly playing coy about the threat level of whatever is out there meaning there may be a need for help.

Laughing sarcastically, you stand in place in front of his desk. 

“It amazes me how you are never this serious about a no until it has to do with what I want.”

Whipping his head upward so fast his hair falls out of place against his forehead, the man you love more than any other curls his lip and points all five of his fingers toward you, eyes wide.

“And it amazes me that you’ve never bothered to wonder why I'm so serious about it. How many times have we had this exact conversation?" 

There has never been a time where he’s raised his voice at you and he has no plans of starting now but you are seriously testing his patience. 

You fold your arms across your torso and raise your brows adversarially high. "I wish you’d just admit it’s because you think I'm weak and can't protect myself. Your little liability."

Finally, you push Dante to the point of a frustrated, humorless chuckle punctures the tense air of the room. You flinch in place, averting your eyes from him to other corners of the room that seem a lot easier to look at. Walls don't have eyes that pierce to your very soul the way his are right now, feeling them even if you don't see them.

"Will you please stop thinking the worst about me? I know better than anyone you can take care of yourself." 

He scoffs, another ironic chuckle following it. 

"In fact, this isn’t even about you. Have you ever thought for even a second that I keep you away from my jobs because I don't know what I would do if something happened to you? That nobody does?" 

You look up and he looks directly at you, brows furrowed. 

"Yeah, I've been called out about it before. By Trish and Lady and everyone who has ever seen the way I am when it comes to you." He shakes his head, rising from his seat behind the desk, reaching across it and grabbing your trembling hands. "They’ve all had the same thing to say about how you can't be around because my focus becomes keeping you safe."

He looks away from you, retreating to somewhere distant in his mind. 

"I catch myself thinking about a world without you sometimes and it's dark and heavy and...and I know I couldn't do it if I didn't have you."

"Do what?"

"Any of this.” He waves his hand around the waiting room of Devil May Cry dramatically. “Exist."

"Dante..." 

You click your tongue, chest aching at his words. They’re well meant but even the faintest insinuation of him stumbling into the bad shape he was when you first met makes you feel hollow.

"I mean it, sweetheart. You could come up with a hundred arguments and probably already have but I wish you wouldn't waste your time arguing with me about what the truth is. It’s not that you're weak, it's that I'm weak for you."

Now you feel like a real problem, pouting like a little girl while he airs out the truth. “Stop it.”

“No, you stop. Let me tell you how I feel and maybe, just maybe, actually listen to me for once.”

Pushing your fists against your eyes, you take a deep breath and allow the pressure of your knuckles to keep the levy holding back your tears from breaking. You probably look as pathetic as you feel standing there like this, shoulders slumped inward and breaths coming in staggered pants. 

Merciful man that he is, Dante never lets you suffer for long. 

You hear his footsteps round his desk in the  same pattern you memorized a long time ago, his warm arms coming to cradle you even if you won’t look at him. Your body naturally leans against his chest, fists pressed against his shirt, face hidden. 

“You’ve made me a man, not just someone pretending to be half one.” He unburies your face to kiss the tip of your nose, pulling you against his chest to bury your head beneath his scruffy chin. “And you’re one thing I wanna keep safe forever because of it. Is that so wrong?”

Shaking your head no, you sigh in lighthearted defeat. How can you put up a fight, especially when he is safely nestling his beating heart in your hand? You protect it, he protects you. 

It’s not all that bad of a deal when you really think about it. 

“You’re starting to give me a stomach ache,” you joke, lifting yourself up on the tips of your toes to kiss him. It’s a little brush of lips against lips, far less searing then how you usually approach. 

Still, it says everything. The pair of you remain locked together - two bodies and one shared soul - refusing to part even to continue the conversation. 

“Sorry for thinking the worst.” 

Your apology is only slightly muffled, mashed between his mouth and yours. He parts his lips to reply but chooses to kiss you instead, tongue dipping between lips he could not successfully exist without. You’ve given his world more than color, you’ve breathed life into every last corner of it. The least he can do is tell you so once in a while. 

Smiling against your lips, he stops for a breath and backs away enough to look down at you. 

“Let me know next time that happens so I can get ahead of it, okay?”  

A lighthearted reminder, sealed with another small kiss. The tension in the room gradually soothes itself, minute by passing minute. The safety of his arms even improves your mood slightly, your fists pressed against the center of his chest rather than over your eyes. 

“Please stay behind and let me come home to you in one piece.”

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you fight the urge to insist you need to continue fighting for your place in his life. He’s telling you clearly that you’ve earned it. 

“Alright,” you acquiesce, raising yourself up on tippy toes to kiss him again. 

Opening your mouth to continue speaking he shoots you a look, not venomous or dangerous, but serious. He doesn’t wanna argue about this again. 

You lean into him, big eyes staring. “Fine, God, okay. But you need to call me as soon as you’re done because I don’t know what I’d do without you either and cannot think about it so please don’t make me.”

Dante nods, chuckling. 

“You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Later on, after you’re less emotional and he’s home safe and sound, you’ll admit he’s right. You’ll mutter against his hair that he’s not merely a good man but the best one for thinking of you the way he does and that you constantly question if you deserve it or not. He’ll whisper to you that nobody has ever deserved it more, rocking you gently until you fall into a fitful sleep and leaving him awake for a little longer. 

Only then will he find himself alone enough to silently thank whatever force brought you, this stubborn, beautiful woman, into his life to save him. He’ll insist to this same force that he’s only making up for lost time by protecting you from danger to begin with. 

It happens every time.

[aliteralsemicolon]

FUCKING FINALLY DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW LONG I'VE BEEN SUFFERING IN SILENCE. And still suffering but not in silence anymore

I'd like to start by reminding you, Samantha, of how traumatic of an experience this was for me. And how you've now put me through it twice now. So I've been through this a total of three times. And it literally hurts worse each time. HATEE. I HATE YOU!!!

Spencer is looking at you like he loves you. He doesn’t know how to look at you any other way.  Sometimes you don’t feel like this. Sometimes it’s easy. That doesn’t make the guilt in the pit of your stomach any smaller when it’s not.  The only thing you know is that you’ll want it again. This is what you’ll want tomorrow morning, or in an hour, or the second he’s gone. You’ll want it so badly you’d humiliate yourself for it. And humiliation in front of him is a fate worse than death. So you find ways to want him in the present. 

It's personal because I feel perceived even though this isn't about me but you know exactly what the fuck I mean you [redacted]. PLEASE I'M SO SCARED RIGHT NOW I'M LITERALLY HAVING HEART PALPITATIONS.

That’s all you need—you just need him to keep trying.

You can't hear me but I'm still screaming. I literally can't even write down what I'm thinking and you know why but it's okay because you know what I'm thinking and you should also know to start RUNNING because I'm literally on my way to blow up your place of residence 💞

March 9th. I'm gonna highlight things and then you have to interpret them using your memory.

“Don’t twist my words. I do care about you. A lot. I just—when we started this a few months ago you knew where I was at with commitment, and we agreed we’d be honest and communicate about what we were feeling—and what I’m feeling is that I’m not ready for this to be more than what it is! You knew that was a possibility, I knew that was a possibility. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. It just means I’m not ready for… for labels, or telling the team, or—or putting pressure on ourselves to try and be something we don’t have the time to be right now.” Spencer looks at you with something close to disdain. It’s sort of like a bullet to a flack-jacket—it won’t kill you, because you’ve made sure to protect yourself. But it hurts.  “I make the time. That’s what you do when you care about someone. I mean—where am I, when we’re not on a case? I’m here. I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be. Do you think I do that because it’s convenient for me? We have the same 24 hours. We have the same job. It’s not about time. Don’t insult me by saying that’s what this is.” “I’m not trying to insult you.” The words come out an unsure waver—but it’s not because you don’t believe what you’re saying.  I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be.  Why? Why would he do that? Spencer is not gracious in the face of your silence. Maybe he interprets your inability to put words together—the way you froze as soon as he casually admitted something that feels so oppressive and suffocating—I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be—as your silent way of admitting he’s right, and you don’t care about him.  But he’s not right. You just can’t breathe. Why does he care about you so much? Someone would have to be looking very closely at you in order to care that much. To think you’re worth the trouble. But you’ve taken steps, your whole life, to ensure that nobody will ever be able to see you close enough. If they did, they’d notice all the structural flaws. The deep cracks and the sagging floorboards and the mold you’ve been covering in paint.  You feel your throat closing as he stands.  Yes. Leave. Get out. Don’t look at me. 

So this is a theme with a lot of what I've just read and to save you a 50K word reblog, I'm only now highlighting THE MOST important bits to me.

Even now, even drunk as you are—a very small part of you knows this is cruel.

So like. You might already be aware of how relatable reader is to nobody in particular, but this is very real. Like the worst part is the self-awareness throughout the entire course of the relationship.

They believed—they believed when I said you’re my boyfriend. They didn’t even question it at all. Like, what? They thought I was good enough to deserve you.”

How it feels*

You want to say it before you can’t. 

Bitch. Biiiitttttchhhhh. BITCHHHHH. And then the next do OHHHHH the things I am planning for you. Good things are not in your future Samantha. There is no future in your future Samantha. POST NUT CLARITY (no nut version) IS SO. AND REMEMBERING IT ALSO. EVILLLLLLLLLLLL (I get her). AND THE WAY HE CALLS HER OUT ON IT OH MY GOD YESSSSSSSS. AND THEN THE WAY IT GOES HOT AND COLD. Like obv that's a recurring theme, but still it's SO. OH MY GOD. NONE OF THIS CAPS IS EXCITING I'M LEGITIMATELY YELLING AT YOU.

The whole ice cream scene. I hope you have a good memory bc I am NAWT repeating that 💙 and then after when

The rest of the day, you’re almost… clingy.

Vicious cycle I'm telling you...

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

SCREAMED GET OUT OF MY HEAD. Acts of service, literally taking care of her while not making her claustrophobic

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

Too much, understandable reaction by reader. But then the way reader wishes she told him VICIOUS FUCKING CYCLE SAMANTHA*

 Over the phone he insists that you don’t come over. So you show up at his door and use your key.

Count 1: Ignoring his wishes despite lashing out when he ignores yours. Count 2: Going far beyond what's required to take care of him and being unable to handle him doing the same (as seen earlier). Verdict: Jail. Samantha. You're going to PRISSSSOOOONNNN.

Also the fact that she's basically high on cough syrup will never not be funny. The events the occur due to this were never funny I hate you. Also, once again, the fact that she only ever confesses her love when she's under some sort of influence. It would be funny if it wasn't real. Actually ykw reader's so real.

“I have been patient with you. You were taught that the people closest to you are going to let you down and hurt you. It is not your fault that those lessons are biologically ingrained into your nervous system. I understand that sometimes it doesn’t feel safe to let someone in, and you’re just doing what you think you have to do. But you are an adult. I’m done letting you use me as a scapegoat for your own attachment issues. I love you, and I care about you, and I’m never going to punish you for caring about me. I’m not going to hurt you for it, ever. But I am not your doormat. So I need you to understand that the smokescreens and the manipulation tactics are not going to work anymore. If you leave, it’s going to be because you are afraid. Not because I’m clingy or obsessive or exhausting to be around. You’re going to take accountability for what this is.”

Oh my god yesterday was not the worst day ever, today is the worst day ever. Spencer putting reader in her place is supposed to be hot and sexy and 😜 not...this. If this was irl he would be catching fists. This would be my final crash out before I killed myself on the spot and left him with trauma he can never fucking escape.

Then you think awwwww they're gonna be friends now. WRONG. NO. IT'S A TRAP. They can never be 'just friends'. It's literally two steps back straight into that same vicious cycle.

You yelp in surprise when he grabs your hair and uses it as a handle to direct your attention toward the sofa.

Just as good as the first time. Actually can I put in a formal request for you this use this as a prompt and give me another smut piece. Please. Samantha. For all your evil sins this should be your reparation. To me. Or you can just not also. But remember when you and Lia blew up my house...

He’s so fucking strange. You missed him awfully. 

It be like that fr fr. Also, have I ever mentioned that I love the way you write smut. Because it's not a fantasised version of smut, it's raw and real. It's awkward and intimate like real life sex. And I cringe while reading it in the best way possible. You know like. When you're hanging out with a couple and they're very like lovey dovey and you feel like you're interrupting and they should get a room? That's how it feels. Like it's just that real. You're using your evil which powers to emulate the feeling of real intimacy for me as a reader, in both first and second person perspective. And this shit would get you burned at the stake once upon a time btw. Then in that same breath, it is exactly a fantasy. Because it's never really as pretty as you write it. It's funny and awkward and intimate, but real life never really feels that pretty. What I'm saying is, Spencer Reid being real would fix all my problems.

as even when you’re the one on your knees, he worships you. Christens you his own little angel, angel, angel—whispered like he really believes it, like you’re a miracle. Spencer loves in a way that feels like soothing, that feels like an apology for all the bad things that have ever happened to you and a nullifying of all the bad things you have ever done. 

Also the yearning. You always get the yearning right. I hate you. God I hate make up sex. Because why is it so bittersweet even when things are going good. Like the whole act of it is just so heavy. There's just so much emotion. AND

Spencer continues with those murmurings, like spells—things nobody who knew him would ever imagine him saying. Things that have you making promises, breathing uh-huh’s, telling him you love him. Things that have your vision going black and your throat tightening around choked moans. He’s never had you this vulnerable before.

This whole paragraph. Idk. I can't explain. Just the part where Reader's making half-baked promised and Spencer's physically comforting her while fucking her. GOD. I hate you. Truly. You are one of my biggest opps. And the fact that even as it ends, there's just SO MUCH fucking emotion. But then it ends so sweet and light hearted. Idk the contrast is confusing me.*

“You are my person, and I need that to be clear. Is that okay with you?” His sincerity has stunned you speechless, and the proximity isn’t helping either, so you can only let your fingers catch on his lapel and nod—quick, eager little dips of your head. Yes, yes, you think. I can’t say it like you can. But yes. Please. That’s what I want. 

You’re like… a lens I see the entire world through. I can’t do anything, or make any choice, without thinking about you. I’m always thinking about you. When we’re not together, it feels like I’m waiting for my life to start again. Nothing really counts unless you’re there to experience it with me, you know? I think of you as… I don’t know. Everything. You’re why I know it’s all real. Why it matters.  It was so much, you had to hide in the curve of his neck. It made you nervous. The bigger it is, the harder it falls.  But, because it mattered so much to you—because he matters so much—you found the courage to whisper against his neck: Me, too.

One of my assignments this week is to talk about a recent piece of literature we've read that inspires us and invokes strong feelings. How the fuck am I supposed to stand in front of my class and say "I haven't been reading much lately but this one Spencer Reid fanfiction by nereidprinc3ss..." Bitch.

Let me be good enough for him. Let me be someone else. Anything. I’ll do anything, just—please. Take this feeling away. Make me into a girl who deserves this kind of love.  God does not answer. 

Samantha I am tired. I am on my last straw. "Why can't you ever just be alright?" Samantha Last name. Excellent fucking question. Better question: WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU.

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

Kill. Murder. Btw.

“Not yet. They’ll—it’ll change things. But… but maybe we don’t have to hide it quite as much.”

Oh my god wanting to keep it private because then you have more control....which is not what I'm saying this is. So.

Sometimes when you miss him it feels like a threat to your autonomy, and by extension, your safety. You sure as hell don’t know how to just admit this to him.  So instead you pick fights. Not as much, anymore, but sometimes when you’re in need of comfort and just can’t ask for it, you’ll start pushing your luck with inflammatory comments.

I'm trying I really am*

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

So remember when he said he'd always be there but then reader kept pushing and it's almost like she knew this would happen because she doesn't know when to stop pushing 😂 but she also keeps making it worse 😂

See, this is why—this is exactly why you’ve done what you’ve done, why you’ve been the way you have and treated him the way you did for so long. Because of this inevitability. Because of your nature,

Oh 😂 right 😂 so maybe reader should be more self aware 😂 and Sam maybe you should [redacted] 😂 Oh it gets worse 😂 great 😂

I know I encouraged it but for my sake of mind I have nothing to say to you. Except I'm glad you did it because it's pivotal for a writer to experiment but as the current reader I have nothing to say to you 💙*

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

I can't talk about this either*

He needs you to be predictable right now. No sudden movements. No derailments. To the best of your ability, you are quiet and good and gracious and docile. 

It’s not supposed to feel like this. 

I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU

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

“Nice socks.” You sigh, pausing just a moment before you finish pulling your boot on.  “Sorry. I need to do laundry.” You stand, and Spencer opens the door for you. “What socks you choose to wear are none of my business.” Halfway inside, you pause, glancing up at him. “Do you want them back?” He narrows his eyes thoughtfully.  “That’s okay. I have a pair just like them at home.”

BECAUSE HE HAS THE OTHER HALF. Idk if it was intentional but the English subject enthusiast in my sees the deeper meaning.

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

The push and pull in this section god it's everything*

Ok then everything is okay because they ended up back in the cycle. Which is not good. But it's good for me because you didn't write anymore of that cycle so I can pretend it's good without having to reap the consequences. And I really like that you stayed true to the title and the fic went from spring into summer. Literally full year. It was very poetic. As I've mentioned before, this is the most graphic piece of media I've ever consumed, more than gore, and it was spectacular. Don't ever do it again 💙

spring into summer

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

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

February 17th

You don’t know when you last blinked. 

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

Spencer said you’d love this movie.

“You okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is the right thing. 

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

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

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

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

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

He’s warm. He keeps you safe. 

March 9th

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

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

The ringing silence is killing you. 

“Spencer—”

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

“I explained it to you—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why? Why would he do that?

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

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

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

You feel your throat closing as he stands. 

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

March 13th

“Spencer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you’ve told me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

March 26th

“Did you mean it?”

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

“Did I mean what?”

“When you said you loved me.”

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

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

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

“… Okay what?”

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

“Spencer.”

“What?”

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

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

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

“But you’re obviously upset.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Yeah, actually, you are.”

Spencer blinks. “Oh.”

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

More buzzing silence. 

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

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

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

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

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

“So you do remember saying it.”

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

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

“Noted.”

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

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

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

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

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

April 15th

“That tastes like lawn clippings.”

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

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

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

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

“Not ice cream.”

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

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

“How?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“… No. Yours isn’t even good.”

“Oh my god,” he laughs. “Come on.”

“Mm… okay.”

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

“We need to go.”

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

“And Kevin,” you agree. 

“Oh. You don’t want to say hi?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I just—I’m not ready for that.”

“We wouldn’t have to tell anyone.”

“Can we please just drop it?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks.”

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

The thrum of his heart could lull you to sleep. 

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

April 29th

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

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

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

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

Later, you corner him by the coffee machine. 

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

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

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

“Are you accusing me of something?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May 3rd

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

Your blood goes cold. “Spencer.”

A beat. “What?”

“You’re not staying behind for me.”

“I’m—”

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

“You just said—”

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May 20th

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

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

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

“Anti-inflammatories.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

“Plenty.”

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“A kiss.”

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

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

“Yeah? Why not?”

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

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

“Hey, wait.”

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

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

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

June 6th

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

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

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

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop talking to me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He simply lets you go. 

June 11th

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We are.”

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

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

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

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

June 30th

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Should we go?”

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

“So… you wanna wait?”

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

And with that, a silent treaty is signed. 

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

“September 24th.”

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

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

“Eight months is quite a while, huh?”

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

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

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

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

“Very.”

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

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

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

July 13th

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

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

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

“Bed?” You whisper against his mouth. 

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

Okay. “Couch?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not ready.”

“Yes, I am, fuck, please, Spencer!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

August 3rd

Spencer corners you outside the bathroom. 

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

“Who was who?”

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

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

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

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

“Why won’t you answer the question?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Spencer is so overreacting. 

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

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

That only pisses you off worse. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer comes out a few minutes later. 

“They’re playing your song.”

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

“I can hear.”

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

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

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

Pointed? 

Surely not. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer?

Hm?

What am I to you?

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

Do you actually want me to answer that question?

You’d nodded. 

Is the answer going to freak you out?

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

Spencer weighed something internally for a long moment. 

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

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

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

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

Now, he’s asleep. 

You trace the moon-glow line of his cheek. 

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

God does not answer. 

August 19th

Something is off. 

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

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

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

Spencer isn’t doing anything wrong. 

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

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

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

The last time you broke up, you realize. 

That is a sobering thought. 

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

There is an old, familiar pang in your chest. 

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

He loves me. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is wrong with you?

Why can’t you ever just be alright?

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

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

Something you’d learned from Spencer, of course. 

Spencer. 

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

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

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

For a few minutes, it works. 

Then, for no apparent reason—it stops working. 

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

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

You tap lightly at his door. 

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

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

Glasses. Sweatshirt. Spencer. 

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

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

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

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“I’m fine.”

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

“It was just a panic attack.”

This doesn’t satisfy him. 

“Do you often pass out from panic attacks?”

“Um… not never.”

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

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

“What triggered it?” He asks. 

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” is all you say. 

A pause. 

“Why didn’t you come sooner?”

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

“I… don’t know. I was overthinking.”

“Overthinking what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me why you’re upset.”

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

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

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

“No, no—look at me. Come on.”

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

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

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

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

“I’m really not hungry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He regards you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spencer?”

“Hm?”

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

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

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

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

He hums. 

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

You chew your lip. “Some of them.”

“Which ones?”

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

“I don’t know. We’ll find some.”

“I have a few in mind.”

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

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

You nod. “And I have a rule.”

He strokes your hair. 

“What’s that?”

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

“Yes, ma’am.”

You tilt your chin up. He kisses you. 

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

September 1st

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

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

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

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

“Or you’re being defensive.”

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

“Am I being accused of something?”

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

“No,” you huff after a weighty moment. 

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

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

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

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

Fuck. 

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

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

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

Which means you need to backtrack. 

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

How can you make this go away?

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

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

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

“You should go.”

A beat. 

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean, this?”

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

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

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

“You are such a fucking asshole.”

The words come out too hurt, too quiet.

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

“Go. Home.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing but stardust, now. 

You blow across the silent black ether. 

September 5th

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

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

“Sorry sorry sorry. I’m up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sure. Don’t get any ideas.”

You grin. 

“Too late.”

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

“Easy. Six.”

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

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

“I’m not sleeping with you.”

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

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

“Nonono, I’m dead sober. Please?”

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“Nothing, baby. It was a joke.”

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

“Why would you joke about that?”

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

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

Why are you breathing so quickly?

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

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

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

“What’s wrong?”

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

“Nothing.”

“Don’t say nothing, you clearly—”

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

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

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

Immediately, something about Spencer’s demeanor goes cold. 

“Did something happen?”

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

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

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

You watch it wash over him. 

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

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

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

But he’s going to. 

This is it. 

The unforgivable thing. 

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

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

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

“What did you say?” 

His tone bites. 

“We weren’t together.”

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

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

“When?”

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

“Spencer…”

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

“When?” 

You try to inhale and choke on it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You only shake your head.  

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

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

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

“I just can’t.”

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

No solution. 

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

So he gets up. 

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

The tear in your voice is desperate enough you flinch. 

But it gets him to turn around. 

He looks exhausted. 

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

You fucked up so badly. 

How much more of you can he handle?

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

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

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

“I know you’re sorry.”

Your chin wobbles. 

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

“You’re gonna leave?”

A beat. 

“Yeah.”

“Are you gonna come back?”

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

September 12th

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

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

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

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

But you have to try, don’t you?

“Spencer—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

The fabric of his coat bunches in your fist. 

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

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

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

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

All this, with one please. 

Spencer exhales. And he kisses you again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mind is screaming, deafening static. 

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

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

“You got up pretty quick.”

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

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

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

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

Because he knows. He knew the whole time. 

He’s not sticking around. 

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

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

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

“I don’t know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did I owe you that, too?”

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

Humiliated. Like usual. 

Spencer is stunned into silence for a moment. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

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

The stroking thumb stops, and then restarts. 

“Okay.”

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

“What?”

He only shakes his head. Nothing. 

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

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

No response. Back and forth. 

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

“Angel.”

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

“Sorry.”

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

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

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

“… I know.”

“No, honey. I mean… it needs to end.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You falter. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not supposed to feel like this. 

You shudder a cry. 

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

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

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

October 29th

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

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

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

“It begins,” you mutter. 

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

Your brow knits. “You’re not with—”

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

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

“What about you?” Penelope asks. 

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

“What about me?”

“Are you hunkering down with anybody?”

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

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

“You didn’t tell me.”

You shrug. 

“It wasn’t… official.”

“How long were you seeing him for?”

“It would’ve been a year next month.”

This time, she’s silent for too long. 

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

She’s… looking at your feet. 

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

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

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

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

Before you can, she speaks. 

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

You flash her an alarmed look. “What?”

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

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

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

“When?”

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

“Penelope, it’s fine.”

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

You blink. Try to process. 

“You didn’t tell anyone else?”

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

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

Heat blooms in your cheeks. 

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

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

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

“Pizza!”

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

“Nice socks.”

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

“Sorry. I need to do laundry.”

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

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

He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. 

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

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

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

It’s sort of a relief. 

January 1st

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

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

“Bye, guys! Happy new year!”

You wave as the last stragglers head out the door.

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

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

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

He checks his watch. 

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

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

“Neither?”

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

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

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

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

A stuttering inhale. 

A moment that is just too long. 

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

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

“You’re okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you come here?”

He appears. “What’s up?”

You point at the fan. 

“I think somebody put a cup up there.”

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

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

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

“I’m sure he’d be able to tell you.”

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

“Kevin and Penelope?”

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

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

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

“Who’d you hear that from?”

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

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

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

“I did. Two, actually.”

Two dates? With the same person?

“How’s that going?”

He approximates a smile. 

“You’re not being very subtle.”

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

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

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

“But you didn’t bring her tonight?”

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

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

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

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

“I’m being supportive.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. Is that allowed?”

“You’re sure it’s not surveillance?”

“Yes!”

Even to you, you sound overly defensive. 

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

“What about me?”

“You didn’t bring anyone either.”

“Well… I’m not seeing anyone.”

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

“Why not?”

“Do I need an excuse to be single?”

“Just curious. Is that allowed?”

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

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

“What is?”

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

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

“Oh. I’m… I’m… sorry.”

Spencer cracks a dry smile. 

“You’re sorry? Why are you sorry?”

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

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

“That’s not what she is, honey.”

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

“Then what is she?”

He hums. 

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

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

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

“Spencer…”

“What?”

“That’s… that’s not fair.”

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

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

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

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

“Why not?”

“Because… because we’re not together.”

“When has that ever stopped us?”

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

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

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

His throat bobs. “Come here.”

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

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

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

“Then we’ll stop.”

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

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

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

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

It’s basically tradition.

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

if u read this far WOW ily I hope u liked it :D I put blood sweat and tears into this bad boy. also shout-out @aliteralsemicolon for helping me so much with this fic she is a very helpful and willing consultant I think this never would've seen the light of day without her!!!

[harunayuuka2060]

*Ace and Epel were thinking of ways to get MC to notice them.*

*Meanwhile, Azul and Ortho noticed something odd: the sky darkened into a deep red hue, and the air thinned just slightly—not enough to hinder breathing.*

Ortho: Azul...

Azul: ...

Azul: Ace! Epel!

Ace and Epel: *turned their heads at him*

Ace: *yells* What do you want, Azul-senpai?

Azul: You’ve got five minutes to get their attention! If you fail, we’re out of here—no matter what!

Epel: Eh?! Five minutes?!

Ortho: Azul, if my hypothesis is accurate, is MC responsible for this place's deterioration?

Azul: Yes. Why maintain a place that reeks of death? Though I must admit, their continued hesitation is… surprising.

Ortho: ...

Ortho: Is it possible… the Prefect cares about our safety?

Azul: ...

Ace: Okay, great. So we only have five minutes—no, four.

Epel: ...

Epel: Should we start hitting them?

Ace: Are you crazy?! Do you want to get swatted like a fly?!

Epel: At least it's better than any idea you will have!

Ace: You don't know that!

Epel: Do you want me to list all the stupid things you did in Heartslabyul?

Ace: You're from Pomefiore! How would you even know?!

Epel: Deuce told me!

Ace: That snitch—

*A soft chuckle rumbled from MC, startling the boys perched on their lap. They lowered their massive head, eyes finally focusing on them with deliberate gentleness.*

MC: Ace... Epel...

Ace and Epel: YEESSS!!! WE DID IT!!!

*Relief washed over Ortho and Azul as Ace and Epel succeeded. Yet despite their victory, the eerie atmosphere lingered—unnatural and heavy. Still, it bought them precious time. Exchanging a glance, the pair stepped forward to approach MC.*

Silver: Everyone! Azul and his group are back!

Sebek: Ace! What took so long?!

Ace: Shut up! We got news!

Epel: MC has another unique magic, and we need to stop them from awakening it!

Leona: What?

Sebek: *shocked expression* Another... unique magic?

Azul: Ortho documented the essential elements of our discussion with them.

Ortho: Everybody! Please listen!

MC: I see the others couldn't persuade you to leave.

Azul: Had that been an option?

MC: Yes.

Azul: ...

Ace: Hey, but why do you want us to leave? We're here to help you, you know?

Epel: Yeah! Everyone's here!

MC: *their face darkened* You don't understand. We're doing everything we can to prevent loss of life.

Ortho: Huh? What do you mean by that, Prefect?

MC: A dangerous magic is about to awaken.

Azul: What does it do?

MC: …A mirror that dictates its own reality. Not even its caster will be able to control it.

Everyone: !!!

Vil: Then what's the use of collecting these mirror shards?!

Azul, Ace, Ortho, and Epel: ...

Azul: Yes, about that - they said we can't take chances with any more reflections. When we see one, we should destroy it.

Kalim: B-But why?!

Azul: Though we stumbled upon benevolent reflections this time, they cautioned that far more malicious ones await us.

Jamil: Even if you say that, isn't our mission to ease their doubts?

Jack: Right, and we're supposed to choose.

Ortho: I detected no deception from the reflection we encountered, so I'm confident they were telling the truth.

Leona: Okay then, did they give you the mirror shard?

Azul: ...

Ace, Ortho, and Epel: ...

Leona: Azul.

Ace: They said they didn't have one.

Leona: And you believed them?

Ace: ...

Epel: Well... They said it would be useless anyway...

Ortho: I agree. After all, the one we met was a giant merfolk.

Everyone: ...

"That giant was no fun. How could they warn them like that? *giggles*"

[fanficgirl429]

Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Prompt: Y/N admits to Bucky that she has feelings for him

---

Bucky Barnes sat on the worn porch steps of a little house nestled near the bayou, sipping a cup of coffee that was made by Y/N. She had made it a little hot and a little too strong but he didn’t complain. He never did when Y/N made it.

Y/N was Sam’s friend—someone who used to help at the dock with her sleeves rolled up and her mouth full of sharp-witted jokes. She'd seen Bucky at his worst during those early days, still haunted and quiet, carrying the weight of names in a little notebook. But she never looked at him with pity. A few times he had caught her staring at him, her cheeks turning a slight shade of red, when his eyes locked with hers. 

It had been a long time since he had started to get feelings for someone. In fact, he thought that it would never happen again, but he found himself falling fast for Y/N the more he got to know her. 

Now, weeks after the fighting had stopped, he was still here. Not because he had nowhere else to go. Because this place was… comfortable. Everyone was warm, welcoming, and friendly. He liked that most people here didn’t seem afraid of him. 

“You’re brooding again,” Y/N said from behind the screen door. She stepped out barefoot, balancing two plates of food.

Bucky looked up and gave her a crooked smile. “I’m not brooding. I’m contemplating.”

“Contemplating your brooding,” she teased, handing him a plate. “Eat. You didn’t eat anything during dinner.” 

He shifted, accepting the food. “Didn’t feel hungry.”

“You never feel hungry. You just wait until I shove something in front of you.”

He looked at her then, really looked. Her hair was messed up from spending the day in the sun,  a hint of sunburn beginning to appear on her shoulder. 

“You take care of me too much,” he said softly.

Y/N sat beside him, her shoulder brushing his. “Maybe I like taking care of you.”

He swallowed, the words catching him off guard. “You shouldn’t. I’ve got… a past. A heavy one.”

She placed her hand in his and squeezed it. “We all do. But you’ve got a future too.”

Bucky glanced down at their hands and laced his fingers through hers, his throat tight. No one ever said that to him without a hint of fear or hesitation. But Y/N? She said it like it was the simplest truth in the world.

And for the first time in a long time, he believed it.

----

The next day Bucky stood at the edge of the dock, hands in his pockets, watching the water ripple beneath the soft wind. There had been a small dinner together at the Wilsons house and although Bucky enjoyed everyone’s company, he had needed a few minutes alone. He liked the silence, in fact he preferred it. 

Behind him, the sound of Y/N’s laughter echoed from the open windows of her house. He let out a small smile, happy to hear the sound. It was a comfortable sound.  

A few minutes later he heard the sound of soft footprints approaching behind him. “You’re doing it again,” Y/N called, walking down the dock barefoot with two beers in hand. “Contemplating.”

He smirked. “I thought I was brooding.”

“Depends on your posture,” she teased, handing him a bottle. “Tonight you’re contemplative. Less shadows in your eyes.”

He twisted the cap off and took a sip. “Think I’m getting soft.”

“You deserve soft,” she said, leaning against the post beside him. “After everything, you deserve more than just survival.”

Bucky glanced at her. She didn’t flinch when he looked. She never did. That was the thing about Y/N—she didn’t try to fix him, she just saw him. Not as the Winter Soldier, or the White Wolf, or even just Steve’s friend. She saw him.

“Is that what this is?” he asked. “Something 'more'?”

Y/N looked up at him, the last of the light catching in her eyes. “Could be. If you want it to be.”

He hesitated. Not because he didn’t want it. But because wanting felt dangerous. Because the last time he let someone in, they either died or were left behind. But here she was—still standing next to him. Still waiting, quietly.

“I want it,” he said, the words coming out rough but honest. “I want more. With you.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment. Just set her beer down, stepped closer, and laid her hand gently on his chest—over the place that still ached sometimes, even when it shouldn’t.

“Then take it,” she whispered.

And so he did.

He leaned in, slowly, giving her every second to pull away. But she didn’t. Her hand slid up, fingers brushing the stubble on his jaw as he kissed her—soft, sure, real. The world didn’t stop, but it got quieter. More focused. Just them. Just now.

When they pulled apart, her smile tugged at the corners of her lips like she’d known this was coming for a long time.

“Told you,” she murmured. “You’re not broken.”

---

The next morning, the rain was pouring down. It was the kind of storm that made you stay in bed longer, wrapped in silence and someone else’s warmth.

Bucky woke first.

Y/N was curled into his side, one arm slung across his chest like she belonged there. He didn’t move. Didn’t dare. There was something sacred about the stillness—the way her fingers twitched slightly in sleep, the way her cheek rested against the scarred line of his shoulder like she trusted it not to hurt her.

He stared at the ceiling, heart tight in his chest, as if something fragile inside him might break open if he let it. Not because he was scared of her—but because he was scared of how much this meant.

She stirred eventually, eyelids fluttering open. “You’re thinking again.”

“I think a lot.”

“You also stare like the world might fall apart if you blink.”

He gave a soft laugh. “That obvious?”

“Mmhmm.” She propped herself up on an elbow and studied him, her voice quieter now. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Bucky hesitated, then exhaled slowly. “I used to wake up like this… in Wakanda. Peaceful. But it was always temporary. Always waiting for something to go wrong.”

“And now?” she asked.

“Now it feels real. And that scares the hell out of me.” He turned to face her fully. “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For someone to come knocking. For me to hurt someone without meaning to. For you to leave.”

Her hand found his. “I’m not leaving.”

“You don’t know what being with me really means, Y/N. I have nightmares. I disappear into myself some days. There’s parts of me I’m still trying to forgive.”

She nodded. “And I won’t pretend to have all the answers. But I’m here, Bucky. Not just when you’re smiling on the porch, but when it’s 3 a.m. and you’re shaking in the dark. I want all of it, not just the pieces that are easy.”

He closed his eyes, her words wrapping around old wounds like gentle hands. She wasn’t afraid of his shadows. She walked right into them, lit a fire, and sat beside him.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said. “A real relationship. I’ve never had one that wasn’t… wartime or chaos.”

“Then we learn together,” she whispered. “We take the hard days. We hold steady. And we make a home, right here. Even if the world doesn’t stop spinning.”

Bucky nodded slowly, and this time, he didn’t try to hide the emotion in his eyes.

“I’m falling for you, Y/N,” he said, voice barely above a breath. “And that terrifies me.”

She leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Then be terrified. But fall anyway.”

[jo-speaks]

Jealous Quinn Jealous Quinn I beg

CAN HE TOUCH YOU LIKE THIS?

overview: your past hookup gets quinn riled up.

warnings: 18+ content below. mdni. mentions of alcohol consumption, poor past hookups (sorry jack), unprotected sex, etc.

note: this request is from january… anyway! also, not proofread </3

Parties at the lakehouse weren’t uncommon. If anything, they were expected. Jack was always the usual planner, his lack of college frat parties making him compensate with the loudest, most entertaining functions. 

As a usual guest at the house, your invitation was always the first to go, considering you practically lived with the Hughes boys the second their seasons ended, your parents having been friends for a lifetime and some. You were closest with Jack due to age, but Quinn had always felt like something more than to label him ‘just a friend’.

Currently, you were sitting on the couch, legs draped over Jack’s as you both drank from your red solo cups and engaged in the conversations you could hear over the music.

Quinn sat on the other side of you, your head resting on his thigh as you put your cup on the ground. His free hand mindlessly dropped to yours, bringing it up to your shoulder so he didn’t have to reach down. It wasn’t romantic, it was strictly platonic. While he wasn’t off limits, you knew him well enough to know that this is how he felt the most grounded in an overwhelming scene.

“All I’m saying is that I wouldn’t be too happy if the guy I was talking to ghosted me out of nowhere.”

Your words were directed towards Trevor, a usual suspect when it came to leaving his trail when it came to summer hookups. The conversation had started when he began talking about some girls he had hooked up with in LA before flying to Michigan, getting looks from you and Quinn at the way he overshared about his experiences. 

Trevor scoffed, taking a sip of his drink, “Yeah, well, you’re a girl. Of course, you think that way.” 

Jack rolled his eyes, “Or maybe she just has decency? C’mon, Trev. You gotta admit, you sound pretty messy right now.” 

“Obviously you would say that,” Trevor retaliated, “You wouldn’t get it. You and Y/N hooked up and are still friends.”

You nearly choked on your spit, the shock on everyone’s face making yours feel suddenly warm. Jack squeezed your shin, deciding whether he should laugh it off and move on or explain how it didn’t mean anything to either of you. Unfortunately, Trevor’s words had struck a different brother in a distasteful way. 

Quinn’s hand tightened its grip on yours, squeezing your fingers as if you were going to get up and run away. He didn’t picture it, he just pictured you. 

How did you react? Did you like it? Would you do it again? 

Do you like Jack?

He could feel the jealousy coursing through his veins; the mere idea of his younger brother seeing you in your most vulnerable state plagued his mind. He knew Jack. He knew that most of his hookups were centered on his pleasure, not the girls. Did he even care to make you cum?

Your bubbly voice pulled him out of his spiral, “One time thing when we were eighteen, Trev. Get over it.” The sound of your laughter pulled everyone out of the awkwardness, treating the conversation as if it had never stunned you into silence. “Plus, it didn’t mean anything anyway.” 

“Oh, it’s like a dagger in my heart.” Jack teased, playing into it. 

Quinn, on the other hand, was having none of it. He sat you up, letting go of your hand. “I think I’m gonna call it for tonight.” His tone was short and snappy, as if someone had just insulted him. 

It was impossible to notice the way he weaved himself past the group sitting at the bottom of the stairs, making his way up to his bedroom before shutting the door. While Trevor and Jack returned to their conversation, you couldn’t help but wonder what was going on with the man upstairs.

“I’ll be right back.” You excused yourself, shifting your legs off of Jack’s lap and trailing the same path Quinn had taken to his room. 

The party downstairs was disregarded when you knocked twice on the door, turning the knob before he ever gave you the go ahead. Quinn was never one to lock his door, but he couldn’t say he was upset at you when you switched the lock as you stepped in and closed the door behind you. His eyes locked with yours for a moment before going back to stare at his TV. 

You let out a sigh. “You okay? You kinda upped and bolted in here.” He didn’t get the chance to answer before you sat down on his bed, crawling over to where he lay, “Was it the hookup talk? I swear I was gonna tell you, but-”

He cut you off with a scoff, shaking his head before looking at you, “It’s not that.” 

Your head tilted at his statement, “Then what’s wrong?”

Quinn sighed, his arm coming across to drape over your shoulders as he pulled you closer into his body, “I hate thinking about the fact that he didn’t take care of you properly.” You weren’t sure what you had expected him to say, but it hadn’t been that. He chuckled at your shocked expression, your eyes shifting between his as you processed his words. 

“What?”

“Y/N, be real. Did he even make you cum? Or did he just make you so tired of him that you faked it?”

His vulgarity stunned you even further into silence. On some level, though, his words had truth. Jack hadn’t made you finish when you hooked up, but you gave him the benefit of the doubt because “He was eighteen, Quinny. He didn’t know what he was doing.”

Still, your defense didn’t make the anger brewing inside him simmer down one bit. Before you knew it, his hands were gripping your waist, pulling you up onto his lap so you straddled him. “Let me show you what he should’ve done, yeah?” 

Your brain short-circuited. Were you hearing him correctly, or were you just turned on by the way he was determined to prove he was better than Jack? Before you could process your own question, you were leaning forward, capturing his warm lips in a heavy kiss. 

Quinn flipped you both over, finding his comfort in being on top of you rather than below. His lips moved in sync with yours, his tongue already pleading for entry, which you gladly granted. You could feel his knee pushing your legs apart, the skirt you had chosen to wear for the now long forgotten party giving him easy access to press his knee against your warmth. 

You gasped softly at the pressure, your hips instinctively rocking towards it as you felt his lips travel down to your neck, finding a spot and suckling on it.

“Did he do this for you?” He asked in a quiet voice, “Did he make sure you were this wet before even trying to fuck you?” 

A whine slipped past your lips in response, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders as you sped up your movements. Quinn brought one hand down, fingers bruising your hip as he stopped you from moving. “Words, baby. Tell me.”

“N-no.” 

Quinn hummed, “No?” 

“No, he didn’t.” You groaned, trying to move your hips again, but to no avail, “Please let me move, Q. Please.”

Satisfied with your words, he loosened his grip, letting you grind against his sweatpants-covered leg again. He was hypnotized by the small furrow in your eyebrows as you started to feel your orgasm build, the way your breaths started to come out in soft pants rather than big huffs. It was the small details that told him exactly what you wanted, what you needed. 

He pressed his leg up closer to you, intensifying the pressure that sent your head reeling. Your eyes struggled to find his, the urge to close them becoming overwhelming. But you did yourself a favour, keeping eye contact as you got closer and closer.

“Quinn,” You moaned, biting down on your lip to maintain yourself quiet enough so that the guests wouldn’t catch wind of what was happening upstairs. “Gonna cum.” 

The look on his face was unforgettable. He was proud of himself. Proud he had you so desperate underneath him that you were getting off by using his body. Proud he got you there, unlike your past experiences with Jack. It was pure pride and satisfaction, and fuck did it feel good. 

“Atta girl, sweetheart.” He praised, whispering in your ear. “Let me feel you cum all over me before I’ve even fucked you.”

His words sent you over the edge, his ego rising as he could feel the way your fingers tightened on the skin of his shoulders, the way your body shook gently as you dampened your panties and his pant leg. He was learning all your tells, something he knew no one had bothered with before. 

He kissed your cheeks, meeting your lips as his hushed words guided you through your orgasm. Your body was hot against his as he stripped off your skirt and damp panties, following suit and revealing his body to you. As you calmed down, your bleary vision cleared up just in time to stop him from pulling off his pants, your hand covering his that sat on his waistband. 

Quinn stopped moving, smirking at you as he took your wrist, placing it where his was previously, and lifted both hands up. He watched as your mouth all but watered as you pulled down the fabric, exposing his navy blue boxers and the bulge that threatened to tear through the cotton. He stepped out of them as you stared in awe, amazed at the dark, wet patch that was barely noticeable due to the colour. 

You reached for it, your hand cupping around his cock as he let out a soft groan, anchoring himself back onto the bed as he took your hand and pinned it over your head. His lips were back on yours instantly, his lips moving with more frevour than they had before, as if it was his last chance at kissing you. 

His hand reached down for his cock, stroking his length briefly as he slapped his tip against your swollen clit, whines escaping your lips at the inconsistent pressure. His actions showed no signs of a rush, but your body was so desperate to have him inside of you that you could barely control your words as they slipped out.

“Please just fuck me,” You begged, “Know you can do it better than him, Q.”

Those words cracked him because before you knew it, he slipped in with one harsh thrust, filling you up so quickly that you had no choice but to scream. Quinn covered your mouth with his hand, wanting to reserve your noises for no one else but him. 

You watched with wide eyes as his jaw fell agape as he started to move, his thrusts speeding up as your arousal coated his cock, making it easier to move. His hand came off your mouth, a rookie mistake because the second he did, you sang his praises.

“So, so big, Quinn.” You babbled, your cock-drunk mind focused on nothing but the way he hit all the right spots so effortlessly, like he’d mapped out your body to the tee. “Oh my- fuck! Best I’ve ever had, please don’t stop.”

His cock twitched at your words, his hand lifting your shirt as he leaned down to scatter kisses across your chest. “You feel so fucking good, pretty girl.” He targeted your nipple, pinching one while he swirled his tongue around the other, switching constantly as he felt you clench around him. “Pussy was fucking made for me.”

He could feel the way your body tensed up again, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips as you slammed your hands down on his sheets, pulling the cover tighter as he hit the spot that had your head falling back and your eyes seeing stars.

“You look so pretty,” He teased, speeding up his thrusts so you couldn't chirp back. “Bet he didn’t see you like this, huh? All fucked out underneath him?” Quinn’s words were poisoned with spite, fuming at the thought of someone missing out on everything you had to offer. “More for me, though, isn’t that right, baby?”

Your head nodded rapidly, words not coming as an option as you could feel your abdomen tighten the more he abused that spot inside of you with each thrust. You were pulled a little closer back to reality when you felt his finger flick your clit, the sudden action leaving your mouth to widen even further. 

“What did I say, hm?” He scolded, the pad of his finger now swirling rapid circles around your swollen bud, as if he was trying to keep you speechless. “Words, or you don’t cum.”

You whined, “All for you. I was made just for you, Q.”

He hummed in satisfaction, your words shooting straight to his cock as he kept his pace, feeling your body twitch underneath him as the knot in your stomach threatened to let go. “No,” Quinn breathed. “You cum with me or not at all, you got it?”

“Yes, sir.” The idea of keeping yourself teetering at the line of your orgasm felt like torture, but your mind had already adapted to Quinn’s rules, rewired to listen to him no matter how badly you needed to let go.

He groaned, the sound coming straight from his chest, as his fingers gripped your thighs, pushing them further back to push deeper into you. It was overwhelming, your walls spasming around him as you fought back your orgasm, wanting nothing more than to tip over that peak as he filled you up.

A few more harsh thrusts and he was right there with you, his forehead touching yours as he mumbled praise to you before saying, “Cum on my cock, pretty girl.”

And that was the only cue you needed. Your movements were involuntary, your back arching off the mattress and pressing your skin flush to his chest, your shooting up to tug his hair. He was no different, the way his muscles tensed and a sinful moan slipped past his swollen lips, his cum spurting into you as he tainted your walls white, filling you up to the point where it leaked out of you in drops.

You could feel his breath clashing with yours, the mixture of warmth bringing you comfort as you felt his cock soften inside of you, one of your hands coming down to cup his face. Your thumb rubbed the skin soothingly as he dropped his weight onto you, catching his breath and embracing your warmth.

“So,” You began, shifting that hand to toy with his now damp curls, “Was that you just trying to prove to me that you fuck better than your brother?” Quinn groaned into your skin, the vibrations tickling you slightly. He lifted his head, catching your gaze as you waited for his answer. 

“One, I knew I did. Two, no. I’ve been hoping you’d look my way since we were kids. But you were closer to Jack, so I don’t know. Didn’t wanna play the guessing game with you until I knew for sure.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, “You could’ve said something sooner. It’s never felt like just a friendship with you.”

The relief that washed over him was visible, his body relaxed as he let out a sigh. Quinn had never thought he’d get to even have this conversation with you, so he cherished your response as if he’d forget it the next day. 

“Well, I’m saying something now.” He smiled cheesily at you as he leaned up for a quick kiss, which you gladly gave in to. “Let me take you out tomorrow?”

[quesocheeso]

If Macaque does tell Wukong what LBD did for him, I'm just imagining it would cause a deeper rabbit hole that delays Wukong's departure.

"What do you mean, you died?!"

"What are you talking about, she said you... BITCH."

Like, has the possibility that LBD had Macaque killed so she could have a powerful servant ever come up in his mind? The idea that he just believed her story that Wukong killed him when she has every motive to lie is a little weird.

Okay second time's the charm💃💃💃

If we go this route

We gotta understand that this whole situation has a lot more psychological manipulation than just a he said she said situation

The only way for Macaque to believe Wukong killed him is for him to have seen this happen

and if we assume that this whole thing was plotted by LBD, which yeah sounds like her, she must have seen a lot of value in having Macaque under her control and somehow had been watching over the journey well after she was imprisoned because she meets the pilgrims way before Macaque ever crashed into the journey

Which also brings in the idea whether or not Macaque knew who LBD was other than a demon who was wronged by Wukong, maybe he was more inclined to believe her recap of everything than listening to the guy he believes murdered him, because he didn't know how truly evil she was.

And by believe I mean Wukong didn't kill him, but he did leave Macaque heavily injured and with scars, he probably left Macaque behind when he saw him start to heal, albeit slowly, and was planning to return to check on him later but Macaque was missing when he returned

He was missing because LBD's servant, the mayor or whoever he is, probably was ordered to drag his body away to another area farther away and kill him there while glamoured to look like Wukong, which with how disoriented, injured, blood loss, and blind he was, was not hard to trick Macaque into thinking it was Wukong who came back to finish the job. And then they probably buried Macaque's body in a random ditch to further convince Macaque that Wukong didn't care about Macaque at all, so when he has to dig his way out of the ground and finds himself in a ditch with no marker to his grave that's like the most disrespectful thing someone, who he thought cared about him, could have done to him.

All of this to make sure that Macaque stayed her champion and against Wukong for as long as possible,

though in the end she didn't account for how much these monkeys cared about each other even when pissed.

And definitely didn't see them having a family at all in her plans

LBD: WHAT DO YOU MEAN MY CHAMPION HAD CHILDREN WITH THAT APE?!!!

Mayor: Well he's been living in Sun Wukong's Island for the past few centuries (LBD: WHAT?!!) and has a small ginger child with him and the last time I saw him seemed to be expecting so...

LBD: I can't believe this...after everything my champion is still a simp...

And I think that when Macaque and Wukong finally talk about the whole thing, it's probably after LBD reveals her hand in everything, which Wukong is fcking pissed at and Macaque is having an existential crisis, it's kinda just Wukong clarifying how no matter how mad he was at the other, he would never be able to kill him no matter how hard he tried, and Macaque admitting how not even when he tried to make himself believe Wukong killed him, he could never wrap his head around it and could never truly hate him

[wvyik]

cherry soda goodbyes ⋆˚࿔

teen! dean winchester x mean girl! reader

ʚɞ summary: you don’t catch feelings. and he doesn’t stick around. that’s the deal. but this one? it doesn’t taste as sweet going down.

ꕤ warnings: mdni! explicit content, angsty angst with a whole lotta comfort, cinematic smut (literally), mentions of cheating? kinda, aggressive kissing, “i hate you, i love you”, lots of swearing, fluffy open ending, lots of pining-turned-soft-love, references to violence, emotional stability not included. proceed with caution. this is your fairytale, and it hurts (in the best way).

MINISERIES MASTERLIST. NAVIGATION. PREVIOUS PART.

It had been good. Too good.

The kind of good that made you suspicious of every smile, every lingering glance in the hallway, every late night phone call that lasted until your voice turned to whispers and your eyelids started to slip closed. It felt like happiness was holding your hand with one and hiding a knife behind its back with the other.

But still, you let it happen.

Because Dean Winchester had become a fixture in your world. Not like a boyfriend. Like a storm. Loud, impossible to ignore, always rolling in whether you were ready or not. You didn’t try to cage him or change him. You just… watched him settle in. Watched the way he started leaving things in your locker; notes scribbled on crumpled receipts, dumb candy wrappers with “thought of you” written on the inside. Watched the way he started memorizing your schedule better than you did. Watched the way he looked at you, like you were some kind of miracle he didn’t believe in but was clinging to anyway.

And you let yourself believe it would stay like that. That it wouldn’t break.

That he wouldn’t leave.

It started small. Subtle.

Missed texts. A little more distant in the mornings. That haunted look in his eyes when he didn’t think you were watching. He’d snap out of it fast, cover it with a smirk or a dirty joke, pull you into him like he was trying to memorize your warmth.

And then, he stopped showing up.

Not for school. Not for late night drives. Not for you.

No warning. No explanation.

Just… gone.

At first, you told yourself it was nothing. Maybe something came up. Maybe Sam needed him. Maybe he lost his phone or got grounded or his car broke down or—something. Because the idea that he’d just vanished, after everything, after kissing you like you were his entire world… hurt.

More than you wanted to admit.

Amber noticed first. She always did. “You okay, babe?” she asked, nudging you with her acrylics tapping your desk. You smiled. Lied. Said you were tired. Said it was cramps. Said anything except the truth.

The truth was you hadn’t slept. That every noise outside your window made you look up hoping it was the Impala. That your chest felt like a sinking ship and no amount of gloss or eyeliner or “fuck them all” attitude could stop the ache in your ribs.

You didn’t know where he went. Or why. But you knew something was off. Something big.

And the worst part? He didn’t even say goodbye.

The halls looked the same. Fluorescent lights too bright, floor too polished, voices too loud for a place full of people pretending they don’t care about anything. It was just another Tuesday. Except it wasn’t.

Because you weren’t the same.

Your walk was slower, even if your heels still clicked like a threat. Your eyes didn’t scan the halls for fun—they searched. Hunted. Hoping to catch a glimpse of green eyes and leather jackets, hoping he’d be leaned against your locker like he used to be, cocky grin and some dumb comment that made your stomach twist.

But he wasn’t there.

He wasn’t anywhere.

And the silence he left behind? Was so fucking loud.

You snapped at some girl in the bathroom for taking too long at the sink. Bit the head off a guy in English for asking to borrow a pen. In gym, you didn’t even pretend to try. Coach shouted, you rolled your eyes, and everyone pretended not to notice the fire behind them.

They were talking. Whispering. You knew it. You could feel it.

“She looks like hell.”

“Guess her boy toy finally got tired.”

“Didn’t she used to run this place?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t even look. Because if you did—if you acknowledged it—it would be real. And you weren’t ready for that. Amber kept sending you glances. Eyes full of worry and lip gloss. But she knew better than to say anything. At least for now.

The worst part? You missed him in the little ways.

Your locker was too quiet. The seat next to you in history was too cold. The walk home was just… a walk. Not a chaotic, giggle-filled escape with his fingers brushing yours or a whispered “meet me later” in your ear.

No one had kissed you in two weeks.

And it felt like withdrawal.

But you kept your chin up. You kept your lips glossed. You still strutted down the hallway like it was your runway, even if your eyes didn’t sparkle the same.

Because even when your crown was cracked, you wore it.

And if Dean Winchester had any idea what he left behind?

You hoped it haunted him.

You don’t cry. You never cry. Not in public. Not in the girls’ bathroom. Not in the back row of homeroom, even though everything inside of you is screaming.

No. You don’t cry. You burn.

And today? You’re on fucking fire.

Because anger’s finally settled in her seat next to you, and she’s wearing your perfume and laughing like the devil. And when some sophomore had the audacity to ask if you and “that new boy” were over? You looked her dead in the eye and said, “Do I look like I’ve ever been someone’s fucking phase?”

But the rage didn’t come from nowhere.

It came from all the unanswered texts. The nights you waited for that engine to roar outside your window. The way your bed felt wrong without him in it, and your skin felt cold in all the places he used to touch. The anger came when you opened your phone for the hundredth time, and it was just empty. No “thinking about you.” No stupid flirt. Not even a fucking meme.

He just… vanished.

So yeah, you’re mad. You’re livid.

Because what kind of person walks into your life like that—burns it down—and then disappears like smoke?

He made you soft. He made you laugh. He looked at you like you weren’t just some pretty face and a reputation. He knew things, real things, and now he was just gone like none of it mattered.

So you kicked your desk halfway through history. Got sent to the office. Stormed out before the secretary even asked your name. The hallway floor shook beneath your heels, the whole school getting out of your goddamn way. And that felt good, didn’t it? The power. The fear. It felt like control.

But it wasn’t. Not really.

Because no matter how loud you slammed the door, or how many people you bit back with that venom-coated tongue, you were still the girl he left behind.

The girl who gave him her body, her secrets, her favorite Led Zeppelin song, her fucking heart—and he just… walked away.

So you laugh. Bitter, biting. It echoes off the bathroom tiles where you’ve locked yourself in.

Because the truth hurts worse than anything else. You didn’t just miss him. You hated him for it. And maybe, just maybe, you hated yourself more for letting him in.

It happens on a Sunday.

The house is quiet. No music blasting from your speaker, no Amber pulling you out for coffee runs. Just silence. The kind that creeps under your skin and makes you feel too much. You’ve barely left your bed since Friday. Your makeup bag sits untouched on your dresser, and your hoodie feels more like a shield than a fashion choice.

You don’t cry. You’ve told yourself that a thousand times. That crying is weakness. That if you keep your eyeliner sharp and your tone sharper, no one will know just how ruined you really are.

But tonight? Tonight, you slip up.

You’re in the kitchen, barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled down over your hands, pouring cereal you’re not going to eat. And your mom walks in. Just her. Hair in a messy bun, grocery bags on the counter. Soft, tired eyes.

She doesn’t say anything at first.

She just watches you. Watches the way your hand trembles. Watches the way your jaw clenches like you’re holding back an earthquake. And then she does the mom thing. That terrifying, magic mom thing where she just knows.

“Sweetheart,” she says gently, “what’s going on?”

You freeze. Staring down at the milk in your bowl like it holds the answers. Your throat tightens. You shake your head.

“I’m fine,” you mutter. But your voice cracks. A little too high. A little too fragile. And that’s it.

She crosses the room in two steps, pulls you into her arms like you’re five years old again, and for the first time since he left, you let go.

“I thought he loved me,” you whisper. Broken. Barely audible. “I thought… I don’t know. I thought I meant something.”

Her arms tighten. One hand on the back of your head, cradling you like she used to when you had nightmares. “Oh, baby…” she sighs. “I’m so sorry.”

And then it pours out of you. The nights you waited by the window. The jokes that meant too much. The songs. The promises. The way he made you feel like you. Not the version everyone gossiped about. Not the mean girl. Just… you.

“I let him in,” you choke out. “I let him see everything, and he still left. What’s wrong with me?”

Your mom pulls back just enough to look at you. She cups your face in her hands, her thumbs brushing away the tears that smear your mascara.

“There is nothing wrong with you,” she says fiercely. “You gave your heart to someone. That takes guts. That’s brave. And if he walked away from that? From you? Then that’s not your failure. That’s his.”

And god, hearing her say that? It shatters something inside you. In the best, most aching way. Because for the first time, you don’t feel crazy. Or dramatic. Or pathetic.

You just feel human. A daughter, in her mother’s arms, grieving something real. And even though the pain doesn’t vanish… it softens. Just a little.

Because you’re not alone.

Not tonight.

Two weeks pass. Then three. Then a month.

And Dean Winchester fades like he was never even real.

The rumors die down. People move on. There’s some new bad boy now. Tattoos, a busted skateboard, smells like cheap weed and fake rebellion. He parks in Dean’s old spot and leans against his car like he owns the school. Girls flock to him like flies to a flame. Amber rolls her eyes and calls him a “Hot Topic discount,” and you don’t even look twice.

Because he’s not him.

You still walk the halls in heels and Juicy. Still keep your lip gloss sharp, your hair perfect, your reputation untouchable. People still whisper when you pass. Some fear, some awe, some leftover scandal from the month you set the world on fire.

But it’s different now.

You’re different now.

You try to keep your crown on straight, keep the mean girl mask flawless. But some days? It slips. Some days you catch yourself glancing at the door like he might walk in late, leather jacket slung over his shoulder, that smirk just for you. Some days you remember how he used to hold your pinky under the table when no one was watching.

No one talks about him anymore.

And it’s not fair. Because you still feel him everywhere.

In the silence between bells. In the ghost of a song on the radio. In the empty seat behind you in English class.

The world keeps turning. The school keeps buzzing. And you? You’re just trying to survive it. All of it. Without him. And somehow, that’s the hardest part. Because you were on top of the world. The queen bee. The sharpest tongue in the room.

But without him?

It’s not a kingdom. It’s a cage.

It’s stupid, really.

You weren’t even thinking about him today. You’d finally convinced yourself that you were okay. That time was doing what it always promised—it was healing.

So when you decided to clean your room, it wasn’t some symbolic fresh start. It was just dust and clutter and the smell of your favorite citrus spray. Something mindless. Something quiet.

And then you found it.

Half-buried under your bed, balled up and forgotten like it hadn’t meant everything once.

His shirt.

That damn grey one he always wore. The one with the tiny tear near the hem, soft from too many washes, still carrying the faintest trace of his cologne—leather, spearmint, sin.

Your body stops moving. Time stutters. You just… stare.

Your hand doesn’t reach for it at first. Like touching it will shatter you. Like it’ll make it real.

But you do.

You grab it.

And the second your fingers curl around the fabric, it’s over.

Your knees hit the floor.

And then the sob rips out of you; ugly, violent, and raw. The kind that shakes your whole chest, breaks something open in your ribs. You press the shirt to your face like maybe if you breathe deep enough, he’ll appear. Like maybe, maybe, maybe this whole thing was just a sick joke and he’s outside revving that loudass Impala waiting to pick you up.

But he’s not.

You tried to bury it. You buried him. You pretended to be fine. But that one stupid shirt is louder than every scream you swallowed these past few weeks.

So you sit there. On your bedroom floor. Shirt clutched like a lifeline. And you cry for all the things you didn’t get to say. For every kiss you didn’t know would be the last. For the way he disappeared without warning, without goodbye.

It’s been a few months. The kind of months that stretch, where you can’t really tell if time is moving fast or slow, but it is moving. And for once, you’re moving with it.

You’ve spent countless nights reflecting on everything. On him, on the drama, on the moments where you almost let yourself lose who you were. But now? Now, you’ve figured out how to breathe without him in your chest. You’ve figured out how to laugh without it hurting. You’ve learned to love yourself again, not because of what you had, but because of what you deserve.

The end of the school year hits hard, but in a good way. It’s bittersweet. There’s no more drama, no more confusion. No more “what-if’s.” It’s just you now, with a future in front of you that’s yours to own.

Graduation day comes and goes, and you stand on that stage, holding your diploma. You smile like you mean it, like everything you went through was worth it because, in a way, it was. The person you were in September, in October, in December? She’s different now. She’s stronger. More sure of herself. She’s learned the value of her own voice. And she’s learned how to let go when the time is right.

As the ceremony wraps up, you spot Amber in the crowd. She’s waving wildly, practically jumping up and down. Even though you’ve had your differences, you both know that you wouldn’t have made it through without each other. You catch her eye and flash a grin, that same confident, sharp smirk she’s always known you for.

She throws you a wink and a thumbs up. You don’t need words. You’ve always been in sync when it matters most.

The drive home is quiet, but not uncomfortable. You’ve got a playlist of songs you used to listen to with him, the kind that now bring a weird sense of nostalgia. You don’t skip them though. You listen. You don’t need to run from memories anymore. You’ve made peace with them.

Later that night, as you sit on your bed, scrolling through your phone, you see something that pulls at your chest. A picture of him. Just a random shot from someone’s vacation to the next town over, but there he is, looking like he doesn’t belong there. Like the wild part of him will never fade, no matter how many new places he goes, how many new people he meets.

You stare at it for a long time, your heart doing a weird flip in your chest. For a moment, you think about reaching out. To ask him how he’s doing. To ask him if he ever thinks about you, too.

But then you stop. You remember your mom’s words, how you’d come to realize that you’d been clinging to something that wasn’t meant to be yours forever. You’ve grown up. He’s grown up. And sometimes, people just walk in and out of your life, like a song you hear on the radio. One day, it’s playing, and the next, it’s gone. And that’s okay.

You finally put your phone down, letting out a deep breath. You’re not waiting anymore. Not for him. Not for anyone.

You’re going to be okay. And that’s all that matters.

Somewhere in Colorado, 3:47 a.m.

The Impala hums under his hands like muscle memory. Like a ghost that knows its place. The open road stretches out in front of them, all cracked concrete and flickering signs, the kind of nothingness that used to make him feel free. Used to. Now it’s just noise. White static between his ears. He drives, but his mind stays back in a hallway somewhere. In a pink mini skirt. In a laugh that won’t leave his fucking head.

Sam’s in the passenger seat, reading something off his laptop, vampire nest, a couple states over. Nothing too messy. Nothing they haven’t done before. But Dean’s only half-listening, nodding and throwing out a grunt or two to let his little brother think he’s present.

He’s not.

Because it’s been months. Months. And she’s still sitting behind his ribs like a goddamn bullet he never got removed. Still wearing that lip gloss. Still rolling her eyes. Still crawling into his bed with soft hands and a mouth that made him forget his name. She’s everywhere. In his music, in the way he can’t look at the passenger seat too long without thinking of her feet up on the dash. She used to sing in his car, barely on key, but louder than anything he’d ever heard. He used to pretend to hate it. Now he’d kill to hear it again.

He told himself leaving was the only way. That she was better off not knowing about the monster guts and motel rooms and fake IDs. She had this whole shiny life ahead of her, and he couldn’t taint it with the curse that follows him everywhere. He thought it’d be easy; one last kiss, one last good morning, and then the wind. But he didn’t count on how quiet it would be after.

Sam looks up from his laptop. “You good?”

Dean forces a smirk. “Peachy.”

He’s not. Because every night, he stares up at cheap motel ceilings and wonders if she’s moved on. If someone else is holding her hand in the hallway. If she’s laughing again. If she hates him.

He deserves it if she does.

What messes him up the most? He left to protect her, but he misses her. He misses her in ways he doesn’t know how to fix. He misses her when he’s got blood on his knuckles and when the night’s too long. He misses her when Sam falls asleep next to him in silence, and there’s no smart mouth to keep him grounded. He even misses her yelling. The way she used to tear down anyone who looked at her wrong, like a goddamn firecracker.

She made him feel seen. Like he wasn’t just a mess of scars and daddy issues and bad decisions. Like he was worth knowing. Worth kissing slow. Worth staying for.

But he couldn’t stay. Because people like him don’t get people like her.

So now he hunts. Drives. Drinks. Repeat. He acts like it never happened. Like she was just another girl, another soft memory tucked into the backseat. But no matter how fast he drives, he can’t shake the way she looked at him when she let her guard down. Like he wasn’t dangerous. Like he could be hers.

And the worst part?

He still is.

Sometimes it’s just him. A motel room with flickering lights, a bottle of whiskey, and his own damn hand. And it’s you, every time. He lays back, breath heavy, and he doesn’t even have to close his eyes to see you. That look you gave him the first time you undressed for him, all confidence and cotton candy danger. The way your lip curled when you teased him. How you’d say his name all soft and sharp at the same time. Dean. God. It kills him.

His hand’s rough, calloused, not nearly as soft as yours— but he imagines it’s you touching him, that smug little look you got when you realized just how easy he was for you. He grits his teeth, muttering out filthy, filthy things into the dark. Things he never said out loud before you. Things he only learned because of you. He fists the sheets, hips jerking up, jaw clenched like he’s mad at himself for needing you this much. For being weak for someone who’s miles away.

And on the nights he lets someone else into his bed? It’s worse. The girl could be sweet, hot, eager, but it’s empty. Just a body. He closes his eyes while he’s inside her and prays she sounds a little like you. That she moans the way you did, breathy and mean. That she pulls his hair, scratches his back, whispers how much she wants him. But she never does. They never do.

Because no one takes him apart like you.

Sometimes he fucks like he’s trying to forget you. Fast, rough, cold. But when he’s alone again, the sheets are still damp and you’re still gone. His chest hurts. His hands shake. He puts his head in his hands and thinks about that night in your bed, the way you kissed him like you were saying goodbye before either of you knew you’d have to.

He’s ashamed of how many times he’s whispered your name under someone else’s breath.

But fuck if he doesn’t want you more now than ever.

Sometimes he cries.

Not all the time. Not where Sam can see. Not in the middle of a hunt or when the adrenaline’s still pumping. But late at night? When it’s quiet and the only sound is the soft hum of the A/C unit in some nameless motel off I-70? Yeah. That’s when it happens.

He’ll be sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it holds some answer. And that shirt, the one you wore the first time you slept in his bed? Yeah, he keeps it. Folded in the bottom of his duffel. He’s washed it, but he swears it still smells like you. Like strawberry lip gloss and danger and soft cotton comfort. Sometimes he just… pulls it out and holds it, presses his face to it, breathing you in.

And that’s when it hits him.

He’s not okay.

He left you. Didn’t say goodbye. Just vanished into the smoke of some ghost town he was trying to exorcise from his bones. He tells himself it was for your protection. That he was keeping you safe from his world. But some nights, that excuse feels thinner than the sheets he’s tangled in.

The tears come slow, at first. Just hot, stinging blinks. Then his throat gets tight, and his breath starts to hitch, and suddenly he’s shaking. Quiet, but falling apart. Not sobbing, but crying. Real, aching grief. The kind of heartbreak that makes you wish you were dead because at least then you wouldn’t feel so goddamn much.

He punches the mattress sometimes. Calls himself a coward. Wonders if you still think about him, or if you’ve already moved on. Found someone safe. Someone normal.

Someone who stayed.

And then he really loses it. Because he knows, deep down, no one will ever love him the way you did. And even worse? He might never get the chance to love you right.

A totally random case. Except fate’s a little bitch sometimes.

Dean’s hands are still steady on the wheel as they roll into the familiar stretch of highway, the one he’s driven on a hundred times before. Same old route. Same old song. But today, it’s different.

He’s back in your town. And he can’t stop thinking about it. About you. About the way it used to be when it was all so simple, when the days didn’t end with him alone in some dingy motel room nursing a drink and an ache he couldn’t name.

The town looks the same. Small, sleepy, but now there’s something off about it. A ghost. Maybe it’s the memory of your face that hits him when he drives past the gas station, or the way your high school’s sign catches the corner of his eye like a knife in his ribs. “Hillside High School. Home of the Tigers.”

It’s been months. So much has happened—hunting, killing, running—but in the back of his mind, it’s always been you. He never planned to be back here. Hell, he didn’t think he’d even want to.

Sam notices his quiet. “You good?”

Dean doesn’t answer right away. He’s watching the road, watching the scenery pass, but inside, his head’s a mess of memories. Every street corner, every building, reminds him of a time he’s been trying to escape. Of a girl who had him wrapped around her finger without him even realizing it.

“Yeah. Just—just thinking about the case,” he mutters, shaking his head like he can shake it off.

Sam eyes him, sensing it. But he doesn’t press. Not yet.

They pull up to the rundown motel a couple of blocks from the high school. Dean’s been here before. A lot of hunters have stayed here. But tonight, it feels wrong. Like there’s something lingering in the air, something he can’t put his finger on. He doesn’t even really know what he’s expecting, maybe you’re gone. Moved on. Maybe you’ve found someone else, someone better.

But when they start talking to locals about the missing kids—another one’s gone, just like the others—the signs hit too close to home. Wendigo. A predator that preys on the vulnerable. It feeds on fear, and it’s been stalking this town for years. But there’s a reason Dean feels like the weight of his own past is here, too. This thing is hunting, and it’s pulling him back to places he’d rather forget.

He tries to focus on the job. They get in the car and drive toward the woods, the night stretching out in front of them like an endless road. Sam reads his books while Dean just stares ahead, the headlights illuminating the thick trees as they head into the brush.

Sam doesn’t ask questions. But he knows something’s off. Dean doesn’t make small talk. Doesn’t joke. Just goes quiet.

“You wanna talk about it?” Sam asks after a beat.

Dean’s jaw tightens. He wants to say no. But that damn ache won’t go away. “Not yet,” he says, as if it’s a choice. But the truth is, it’s because he’s scared. Scared of what seeing you might do to him. Scared of remembering how much he fucked up, how much he lost, how much he messed everything up between the two of you.

“Dude,” Sam said, looking up from his book. “You’ve been staring at the road for a good ten minutes now. You sure you’re okay?”

Dean blinked, his grip on the steering wheel tight. The question wasn’t about the road. It wasn’t about the case. Sam knew that. But he wasn’t asking, so Dean didn’t feel like answering. He didn’t feel like answering anything at all. He just nodded, though, the tired, hollow feeling creeping back into his bones.

“Yeah, I’m good. Just thinking,” he mumbled.

Sam didn’t press. He knew better than to push Dean when he was in one of these moods. The last thing Sam wanted was to get into another argument. But the silence in the car was becoming unbearable. So much so that Dean almost wished for the noise of gunshots or the screeching tires of a hunt to cut through it.

They finally made it to the woods, and the air felt thick, like something was wrong. It wasn’t just the case that was off, it was something else. Dean couldn’t shake the feeling that it was more than just the Wendigo stalking the woods, something about being back here, something about the memory of you, was gnawing at him in a way he couldn’t explain.

They parked by the edge of the woods, the trees looming over them in a way that felt almost like a warning. Dean didn’t really want to be here, but he had a job to do. And Sam, being Sam, was already ready to go.

“Alright, let’s check it out,” Sam said, grabbing his gear and making his way toward the tree line.

Dean followed, his feet heavy as he moved through the underbrush. The moment they stepped into the woods, it was like the world narrowed down to just the rustle of leaves and the crunch of their boots on the ground. The cold air was thick with the scent of pine and something else, something sharper.

Sam looked at Dean, noticing the distant look in his brother’s eyes. “Dean, you good? You’ve been like this since we got here.”

Dean waved him off. “I’m fine, Sammy. Let’s just finish this hunt, alright?”

But Sam wasn’t convinced. He followed Dean closely as they moved deeper into the forest, eyes scanning the area for any sign of the Wendigo. Dean was still quiet, too quiet for someone who normally had a snarky comment or a sarcastic quip ready for anything. Instead, he was tense, shoulders stiff, eyes flicking between the trees, but his mind wasn’t on the hunt.

Dean’s thoughts kept drifting back to you—how he couldn’t shake the memory of your smile, the way you would talk to him when no one was around, the way you’d look at him like he was the only thing in the room. He didn’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the way, he stopped thinking of you as just a distraction. He stopped thinking of you as just a thing to pass the time when he was feeling lonely. He realized, way too late, that you were someone he couldn’t let go of. But now, months later, you were gone. You had your life. You were moving on. And he was still stuck in the past.

“Dean!” Sam’s voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and urgent.

Dean snapped back to attention. Sam was pointing up ahead, his face tense. There was a rustling sound in the trees, and Dean’s heart kicked up in his chest. They had the Wendigo’s scent—this was it. The thing they’d been chasing for the past few days.

“Get ready,” Dean said, his voice low.

They moved cautiously forward, but as they crept through the trees, the wind shifted, sending a chill down Dean’s spine. He was getting that sense again, the one that felt like something was wrong, like they weren’t alone. His instincts were screaming at him, but he couldn’t figure out why. And then it hit him. It wasn’t just the Wendigo that was haunting him, it was the damn town. It was the memory of you that refused to leave him alone.

“Dean!” Sam called again, louder this time, his voice cutting through the fog of his thoughts. “It’s close. I can feel it.”

Dean snapped out of his reverie and looked up. Sam was pointing toward the thick of the trees, his stance alert, ready. Dean took a deep breath, trying to shake off the nagging feeling at the back of his mind. The Wendigo was close, and they had to end this now.

They spread out, moving in a semicircle around the area where Sam had pointed. Dean’s senses were on high alert, but he was still off. He felt disconnected, his focus blurred. As much as he tried to push the thoughts of you from his mind, they kept circling back, catching him in a loop. He wasn’t ready to confront this. He wasn’t ready to admit how much he had fucked things up.

The Wendigo’s growl sliced through the silence, and they both turned toward the noise. It was quick, fast, too fast. Dean’s breath caught in his throat, his grip tightening around his gun. He glanced at Sam—Sam was ready, but Dean’s head was still half a mile away.

The Wendigo struck first, its hulking form darting out from the darkness of the trees. It was fast, almost too fast, and before Dean could even aim, it was on Sam. Sam struggled, trying to shove the creature off of him, but the Wendigo was overpowering. Dean’s heart hammered in his chest.

“Sam!” Dean shouted, rushing forward.

He pulled Sam out of the creature’s grasp and threw him to the side. The Wendigo’s eyes burned with hunger, and it turned toward him. Dean raised his gun, pulling the trigger without hesitation. The shot rang out through the woods, but it wasn’t enough. The Wendigo barely flinched.

“Shit,” Dean muttered under his breath. “This isn’t working. We need to get it out of the trees.”

Sam was still getting to his feet, but his head snapped up. “We need to lure it out. Into the open. We’ve got to burn it.”

Dean didn’t hesitate this time. He pulled a flare from his jacket and tossed it into the air. The Wendigo followed it, coming closer to the open clearing. But Dean wasn’t prepared for how fast it was. It moved so quickly that it was on him before he could react.

Sam, looking panicked, raised his gun to help, but Dean wasn’t sure they had enough time.

“Sam!” Dean shouted again, just as the Wendigo’s claws scraped across his chest, tearing through his jacket and leaving deep scratches on his skin.

Dean gritted his teeth, his own blood mixing with the dirt on the forest floor. But he couldn’t focus on the pain. He couldn’t focus on anything except the haunting image of you that still burned in his mind.

In the chaos, the Wendigo disappeared back into the trees, disappearing into the darkness, leaving them standing in the clearing, panting, and bruised.

Dean’s eyes were wide as he looked around. “We’re not done yet.”

But Sam’s voice broke through the tension. “Dean. We should have gotten it. Why didn’t it work?”

Dean wasn’t sure how to answer that. He wasn’t sure he cared. The hunt had gone sideways, and deep down, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t just the Wendigo at fault. It wasn’t just the town.

It was him.

It’s a Tuesday night, a little past six. The café’s half-empty and smells like burnt espresso and cheap vanilla candles. Your shift ended a while ago, but you’re still sitting at your usual corner table, sorting through receipts and stuffing tips into a worn envelope. It’s automatic. Repetitive. Easy.

This is life now. Early mornings, split shifts, stacked textbooks you barely crack open between work and exhaustion. You’ve got responsibilities. Deadlines. A half-decent GPA. A car that rattles when you turn too hard. A cat you adopted on impulse and named after some vintage brand. You take care of yourself. You get up on time. You don’t need saving anymore, not even from yourself.

People still ask sometimes, mostly the ones who knew you back when your name was always tied to his in whispers and side-eyes. You give them the same answer every time, all shrug and raised brow and “he left, I didn’t.” And it’s true.

You don’t think about him.

Not really.

You don’t stay up late wondering where he is. You don’t check your phone. You don’t stare at the sky hoping a certain Impala rumbles down your block like some movie moment. You don’t replay the hallway kisses, the sneaking out, the soft “I think I love you’s” that maybe meant more than either of you could admit. That chapter closed. You let it.

You don’t miss him.

But if you’re honest—really honest—there are pieces of him still around. Not ghosts, exactly. More like fingerprints. The way you only ever play rock music when you clean. The old leather jacket shoved in the back of your closet you keep meaning to donate. The exact way your body still tenses when someone new looks at you like they want to love you.

You don’t think about him. You don’t wonder if he thinks about you. You’ve stopped checking rearview mirrors like they hold answers. You’re not that girl anymore.

You’re steadier now. Still sharp, still stubborn. But there’s something calmer in you. A version that doesn’t flinch at loss, that learned how to stand still after the earthquake.

You close your notebook, sling your bag over your shoulder, and head out. The sky’s already dim, and the air’s colder than it should be. You tuck your hands into your sleeves, look both ways, and keep walking.

He could drive past you right now and you wouldn’t even blink.

At least, that’s what you thought about the whole situation about two weeks ago. That he was gone. That you were over it. That it was done.

Right now?

You don’t fucking know anymore.

It all started with the disappearances.

A string of them, spreading like a disease through the edge of town. First it was just rumors. A girl from the gas station never clocked out. Then a couple who never came home from a hike. Then a jogger. Then a teenager. All scattered. No pattern. Nothing official yet—just whispers, Facebook posts, people saying “weird shit’s happening again.”

You wouldn’t have paid much attention. You’ve got enough to worry about; rent due next week, your boss lowkey threatening to cut your hours. You’re not the kind of girl who investigates missing people. You’re not the hero.

Despite all the warnings being everywhere, that road back home was your favorite. It’s not like you’re trying to look for trouble.

You just like driving.

That’s what you tell yourself, anyway, when the clock hits midnight and the roads are empty and you’re still wide awake. The woods outside of town are quiet, wrapped in that weird fog that clings to the trees like it knows something you don’t. You roll your windows up, keep the music low. Lock the doors.

Because people are going missing.

And sure, the news is calling it an “unidentified serial assailant” like that makes any fucking sense. Like that explains how a guy goes out for a smoke break and never comes back, or how hikers are disappearing without a single goddamn trace. The whole town’s on edge. People cancel their camping trips. Parents are picking kids up from school again. Neighborhood watch groups are back from the dead.

And still—you drive.

Because your car’s safe. It’s familiar. It smells like old perfume and a vanilla air freshener that died six months ago. It’s got a blanket in the backseat and a stun gun in the glovebox and you know every dent in the body like freckles on skin.

And maybe you like the quiet. The way it wraps around you like static. Or maybe it’s the hum of the engine, something you can actually control. Maybe it’s just better than sitting still. Better than thinking about the way everything feels off lately. Like you’ve got this bruise under your skin that hasn’t shown up yet, but it’s coming.

If fate was trying to fuck you over, it clearly succeeded. Like, got-on-its-knees-and-sucked-the-life-outta-you succeeded.

Because now? Your car; your safe, cozy, emotionally supportive, trauma-bonded little shitbox—has died. Just flatlined in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, on a stretch of road so dark it might as well be the inside of Satan’s asshole.

And you’re sitting there, jaw clenched, hands still gripping the wheel like you can will the engine back to life through sheer rage alone. Spoiler alert: You can’t.

“Fucking perfect,” you mutter, slamming your palm against the dashboard like it’s personally responsible for the betrayal. “This is literally how every slasher movie starts. Bimbo breaks down in the woods and next thing you know, she’s running in heels while Jason or whatever the fuck chases her down with a machete.”

You’re not even wearing heels, but that’s beside the point.

It’s late. Like, witching hour late. The kind of late where time feels fake and the air is too still and every rustle outside sounds like a serial killer doing yoga.

Your phone has one bar, because of course it fucking does, and it’s doing that thing where it decides if it wants to work or not like it’s the main character. The headlights flicker once before going completely dark, and that’s when your heart does this little Olympic-level somersault.

“Nope,” you whisper to yourself. “Absolutely the fuck not.”

But you still glance out the window. Of course you do.

Because that’s human nature, right? You hear something in the dark and your dumb monkey brain goes, hey let’s look! instead of let’s run and maybe don’t die today.

And yeah, there’s movement in the trees. Just a flicker. Just enough to make your blood run cold and your stomach drop into your ass. You lock the doors. Instinct. As if that’ll do anything against whatever’s out there.

And you sit there in silence, breathing too loud, trying to convince yourself that it was nothing. That the fog’s playing tricks. That you’re not in the beginning of some twisted-ass Final Destination reboot.

Still, you reach for the glovebox. Your fingers brush the stun gun.

“Fuck around and find out,” you mutter under your breath, staring into the dark like it owes you money.

But deep down, something’s shifting. A feeling you can’t quite name. A pull. Like maybe you are being watched. Like maybe something’s coming. And you’re not sure if you’re more afraid… or curious.

Because suddenly—out of the silence—there’s a knock on your window.

Your soul leaves your body.

Like, you genuinely think that’s it. You died. Slasher movie confirmed. This is where the creepy guy with a skin mask gut-punches you through the window and drags your corpse into the woods.

You grab the stun gun, turn like a fucking warrior, and—

“Woah!” the guy flinches, hands in the air, eyes wide like a scared Golden Retriever. “Easy! I come in peace, I swear.”

He’s tall. Like, stupidly tall. The kind of tall that makes you immediately suspicious. What the hell are you doing out here, you lanky cryptic? And worse, he’s kind of hot. In that “I’m majoring in philosophy and listen to too much Radiohead” way. He’s got shaggy hair, a soft jawline, and dimples. Dimples.

“Who the fuck are you?” you ask, stun gun still aimed like your life depends on it.

“I—uh—it’s Sam.”

You blink.

“Sam who?”

“Sam… Winchester?” he says, like it should mean something.

It does. But your brain short-circuits trying to process it. Because last time you saw Sam Winchester, he was a shy lil freshman with floppy hair and a backpack that weighed more than he did.

This? This is a man. A whole-ass man. With a broad chest and long legs and the voice of someone who listens to NPR and probably knows how to change a tire.

“You’re not Sam,” you say slowly. “You’re—like, Sam’s older cousin or some shit.”

He laughs. “Nope. Just puberty.”

You lower the stun gun a little. “Damn. You hit the genetic lottery hard, huh?”

“Dean always said I was a late bloomer,” Sam says, smirking. “Guess he wasn’t wrong.”

And that name? Yeah, that one lands like a motherfucking missile in your chest.

Dean.

Your heart lurches. Your vision blurs just for a second. And then—you hear it.

“Jesus, Sammy, did you find the—”

You freeze. Because that voice. That deep, cocky, gravel-dipped-in-sex voice, you’d know it anywhere.

Your stomach drops as Dean Winchester appears out of the darkness, flashlight in hand, leather jacket slung over one shoulder like he just walked out of a goddamn CW poster.

He’s older. Sharper. Still hot as hell. His hair is shorter, jaw scruffier, and his eyes—God, those eyes—land on you like a freight train.

And the moment he sees you?

He stops in his tracks. Silent. Stunned. Like he’s just seen a ghost.

You, meanwhile, are malfunctioning. Fully. Completely. Brain buffering like a 2003 Dell computer. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you mumble, shoving the stun gun into your purse. “What is this, romantic horror plot twist hour?”

Dean blinks, steps forward like he’s not sure you’re real. “You…”

“Yup,” you cut him off, crossing your arms. “Me. Not dead. You know—despite the whole you disappearing without a word thing.”

“Okay,” Sam says, backing away slowly like he just walked into the middle of a soap opera and wants no part of it. “I’m gonna… check the perimeter.”

You shoot him a thumbs up. “Cool. Don’t get murdered.”

Dean steps closer, careful. Like you’re a deer about to bolt.

“You okay?” he asks, voice softer now.

You glare. “Oh, now you care?”

He flinches. Just a bit. Just enough for your heart to ache and your blood to boil. There’s so much to say. So many things clawing at your throat. Instead, you just glare at Dean. “You have the audacity to show up after vanishing like a goddamn ghost? After everything?”

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s complicated.”

“No, it’s not,” you snap. “You left. No calls. No texts. You just disappeared, Dean. Like I was a fucking pit stop.”

His jaw ticks. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then explain,” you say, arms crossed, chest tight. “Please. Enlighten me. What excuse are we using tonight? You joined the CIA? Witness protection? Secret modeling career in Milan?”

Dean opens his mouth. Then closes it.

Of course. No answer. Just that look. Like he regrets it. Like he missed you. Like he still wants you. But you’ve spent months scraping yourself off the floor. You’ve moved on. You have a job. A life.

You clear your throat. “So, what? You two creep through the woods saving damsels in distress now?” you snort, despite yourself. “Can either of you fix a car, or am I gonna have to start walking like I’m in a fucking ‘Final Destination’ movie?”

Dean softens. “I can fix it.”

“Cool,” you mutter. “Because if something kills me out here, I’m haunting your ass.”

Dean looks at you for a moment longer, like he’s memorizing the way your mouth moves, like he’s trying to piece together the version of you he left behind with the one standing in front of him now.

And something in you aches. But you’re not letting that out. Not tonight. Not yet.

“Fine,” you sigh, finally stepping back. “Fix my car, Winchester.”

He gives a half-smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

And just like that, you’re back in the woods with Dean.

Only this time, you’re not the same girl who fell for him. And he’s not the same boy who broke your heart. Not that you know the half of what’s really going on… yet.

But fate?

Yeah. That bitch is cooking.

Dean’s underneath your hood, fiddling with wires and muttering curses under his breath like the car personally offended him. You’re pacing nearby, arms crossed, eyes flicking between him and the surrounding trees like something might jump out.

He glances up once. Then again. Finally, he slams the hood shut and sighs. “Alright,” he says, avoiding your eyes. “It’s not gonna run tonight. Your alternator’s toast.”

You blink. “You just made that up.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. Point is, you’re not driving out of here.”

You narrow your eyes. “So what, I camp out in my car? Roast marshmallows? Wait for Bigfoot to come tuck me in?”

Dean’s jaw tightens. “You can’t stay out here.”

“Oh really? Why not? Planning on murdering me, Dean? Huh? You and Sasquatch over there gonna toss me in a ditch?”

He laughs— dry, tired. “You always did have a flair for the dramatic.”

You step closer. “Then tell me. What’s so dangerous about sitting in a car on a backroad for a night? I’ve done dumber shit.”

He’s quiet. Too quiet.

You watch his face, and something in his expression shifts,!like he’s doing math in his head, like he’s weighing what he can say without cracking open a whole world you’re not ready for.

“I just—” he sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “I shouldn’t’ve left. Back then. I know I fucked up.”

You pause. He’s not looking at you. You don’t know if he can.

“I wanted to stay. I wanted to tell you everything, but…” he trails off, glancing toward the trees. “I couldn’t. You wouldn’t have believed it anyway.”

Your heart kicks a little faster. “Try me.”

He laughs again, sharp this time. “Yeah. Not tonight.”

You scoff, stepping away. “You’re still the same. Still full of bullshit.”

“No,” he says suddenly, voice rough. “I’m full of regret, okay? That’s what I’m full of.”

You stop.

He steps closer now, slowly. “You were the only good thing I had in that place. And I left you. And that’s on me.” You stare at him, blinking hard. You don’t know what to say. But apparently, Dean’s tapped out of honesty for the night. He shakes his head and steps back.

“You can’t sleep out here,” he says, quieter now. “Just… come with us. I’ll take you home. I’ll even drop you off a block away if you wanna pretend we never ran into each other.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And why, exactly, can’t I stay out here?”

He hesitates. Then shrugs. “Bears.”

You snort. “Bears?”

“Big ones,” Sam chimes in from behind you, voice way too serious for the dumb lie. “Like. The size of minivans.”

You blink between them. “You guys suck at this.”

Dean grins faintly, and for a second, you almost remember what it felt like to laugh with him, to kiss him, to fall asleep tangled up in limbs and leather and whispered jokes in the dark.

And damn it all, maybe you are a little tired. A little scared. The woods really are way too quiet. So you sigh and open the passenger door. “You better not be kidnapping me.”

Dean raises both hands. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

“Not with that attitude.”

He helps you in like the gentleman he only sometimes pretended to be, and as you settle into the seat of his car—the same one that used to smell like pine and danger and home—you tell yourself it’s just a ride.

You’re not falling for anything. Not again.

But your heart doesn’t get the memo.

The engine hums low beneath you, and the road ahead is all shadows and fog and unanswered questions. Dean clears his throat. Doesn’t look at you. “So… where am I taking you?”

You turn your head real slow.

“You used to know that,” you mutter. Not even looking at him. Just staring out the passenger window like the trees are more interesting than this emotional landmine of a ride.

Sam, in the backseat, freezes like he can feel the silent explosion about to detonate. He shifts awkwardly, adjusting his bag or maybe just trying to phase into the upholstery like please do not involve me in this straight-people argument from hell.

Dean swallows hard. Knuckles white on the wheel. “Yeah. Well. Things change.”

You scoff under your breath. “No shit.”

The silence rolls back in like a thundercloud. Sam coughs. You swear the poor kid looks like he wants to roll down the window and just tumble out at 40 mph.

You finally, finally rattle off your address, staring out the window still, because eye contact? In this car? No thanks. Not unless you wanna start sobbing or throwing punches.

Dean hums low in his throat, like he’s filing the info away with all the other things he’s tried so hard to forget but never really could. You notice the way his jaw tightens, the way he shifts in his seat like his leather’s suddenly choking him.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

You pass that old corner store you both used to walk to late at night, that gas station where you’d steal snacks and dare each other to drink the weird canned “energy beer,” the back alley where you kissed for the first time and nearly got caught—where he whispered you were the only thing in this town that didn’t suck.

You’re not crying. You’re not. Dean clicks on the radio, but it’s just static. He shuts it off again. Sam glances between you two, then sighs and mutters, “I’m gonna pretend to be asleep.”

Dean snorts quietly. You try not to smile.

But that ache in your chest? It’s still there. And it’s not going anywhere.

He pulls up in front of your house. The porch light is on. Everything looks the same. But you don’t feel the same. Not at all. You reach for the door handle.

“Wait,” Dean says.

You freeze.

He finally turns to look at you. His eyes are softer than you expected. Tired. Full of something like guilt, maybe even love, but you don’t know anymore. You don’t trust yourself with the maybe’s.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For everything.”

You just nod. Quiet. Because if you talk now, you’ll unravel. Then you open the door, step out, and shut it behind you. You glance back. Dean’s still parked there. Still watching. Still waiting for something.

And then it just hits you. Fuck it.

You walk back down the steps, barefoot on the cold concrete, heart pounding like you’re in one of those dumbass rom-coms you used to make fun of but secretly watched on repeat. You march right up to his window, lean down just enough to see that stunned look on his face, and say it before you can even stop yourself:

“Stay.”

That’s it. One word. Like you’re offering him a life sentence and a second chance in the same breath.

And oh he’s already fucking moving. No hesitation. His hand flies to the keys, yanks them out of the ignition like they’ve personally offended him, then turns to his stunned little brother and just chucks them into Sam’s lap.

“Drive back to the motel,” he says, breathless. Eyes never even leaving yours. “I’ll get back later.”

Sam blinks. Looks down at the keys in his hand like they’re a ticking bomb. “Dude. I don’t even have a license.”

Dean just shrugs, already halfway out of the car, slamming the door behind him like it owes him money. “Guess tonight’s the night, then.”

“You’re gonna let me—?”

But Dean’s already walking toward you, like nothing else exists. And Sam’s left in the car, holding the keys, yelling out the window, “WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO IF I GET PULLED OVER?!”

Dean doesn’t answer. He’s already at your side. Close. Real close. And for a second, neither of you say a damn thing. You just look up at him. He looks down at you like he’s still catching up. Like you knocked the air out of him.

Then you turn back to your door, heart thudding, pulse in your throat, and whisper: “Well? You coming in, or what?”

Dean follows. Of course he does.

Behind you, Sam yells something about how “This is a federal offense!” as the Impala peels off down the street.

Neither of you care.

The door slams behind you both, cutting off the world outside. The air between you and Dean is thick—charged with a type of tension that feels like it could snap at any second. You feel like your chest is on fire, and it’s his fault. It’s always been him.

You stand there, your back straight, but your eyes never leave his. He’s staring at you, all intense, all brooding, like he’s got every damn answer on the tip of his tongue, and you just want to slap it out of him.

“You think you can just waltz in here, after everything?” Your voice is cold, sharp. “You think you can just walk back in after you fucking vanished without a word?”

Dean doesn’t move, but you can see the muscle in his jaw twitch. The anger is there, simmering behind his eyes, but you’re not letting up. Not this time.

“You don’t get to act like I’m the only one who fucked up,” he grinds out, voice rough. “You think it’s easy? You think I wanted to leave?”

Your lips curl into a bitter smirk, the anger flowing through you like adrenaline.

“Well, you sure as hell didn’t make it hard for me to think you didn’t want to leave. You didn’t leave a damn note, Dean. You didn’t give me anything. Not a reason. Not a goodbye. Just—“ you make a motion with your hands, a little dramatic, because you feel it “—just gone.”

Dean’s face tightens. He looks like he might snap, his chest rising and falling with every breath. But he holds it in, just barely. He takes a step forward, like he’s trying to hold it back, but you can feel it in the way the tension in the room thickens. He’s not about to give you the satisfaction of making him crack—but you’re pushing him. And you know you’re doing it on purpose.

“I didn’t leave because I wanted to hurt you, alright?” His voice drops lower, darker, as he steps closer. “I left because I’m a goddamn mess, okay? You want honesty? Here it is. I can’t give you what you need. I can’t be what you deserve.”

You swallow hard. It stings. It stings because somewhere in that mess, you still want him. But you’re not going to let him have that power. Not this time.

“So, what? You just thought I’d forget?” You step closer, your body tight with rage. “Forget the way you made me feel? Forget the way you walked out and left me, without a damn word, after everything we had?” You poke his chest, hard, pushing against him like you’re daring him to move. “You think I’m some fool? Some girl you can just drop and pick up when it’s convenient for you?”

Dean’s hand snaps out, grabbing your wrist in a firm grip. His touch is hard, desperate, like he’s trying to hold onto something, anything, before it all falls apart.

You can feel the heat in his palm, the electricity coursing through you, and despite everything, despite the fury boiling in your veins, your body reacts. You try to pull away, but he’s not letting you. He’s not done with this. Not by a long shot.

“You think I wanted this?” Dean’s voice is raw now, almost broken. His lips are barely an inch from yours, his breath hot against your skin. “You think I didn’t think about you every goddamn day? You think I didn’t miss you?”

It’s like he’s cracking, breaking open, and for a second you almost feel bad for him. Almost. But not enough to stop.

You shove him back, hard, until your bodies are separated. You’re panting, your chest heaving. His eyes flicker with that spark again, and before you can say anything else, before you can stop yourself, you grab the front of his shirt, yank him down, and slam your lips against his.

This isn’t sweet. This isn’t gentle. This is aggressive, needy, filled with all the years of pent-up frustration and yearning. His lips are rough against yours, his hands on your body, pushing you into him like he’s trying to prove something. And God, you kiss him back with everything you’ve got—because despite everything, you fucking missed him. Missed the way he could make you feel like you were the only person in the room, even when he was hurting you.

His hands are everywhere now, pulling you closer, his mouth moving against yours like he’s trying to claim you, like he never left. You can taste the anger, the hunger, the desperation on his tongue. The kiss is heated, frantic, almost violent, as if he’s trying to erase the distance between you, trying to pull you back to where you were.

But you can’t let it happen that easily. Not this time. You break the kiss, gasping for air, and you push him away again, harder this time, until you feel the cold air hit your skin. You’re pissed, still angry, but there’s a part of you that’s conflicted, torn between wanting to scream at him and wanting to drag him back into your arms.

You stand there, chest heaving, heart pounding, as the room swallows up the words you want to say. But something is gnawing at you, deep in your gut. It’s like a weight pressing down on your chest, and for a moment, you almost forget where you are, who you are.

Suddenly, everything feels familiar. Too familiar. The anger. The frustration. That stupid ache in your chest that’s never really gone away. You can taste it again—the bitterness, the sweet sharpness of betrayal, the familiar tug of wanting something that you know you shouldn’t.

For a split second, you’re back there. You’re back in high school again. Back when everything was so much simpler, but you were so fucking naive. Back when it was all about him. Back when he made you feel like you were the only person who mattered in the world, just to walk away when it suited him.

God, you hated him. You hated him for the way he made you feel. The way he made you think you were special, only to leave you on your own when the world got too hard for him to handle. You hated the way he made you believe you were the one thing he cared about, then shattered it all, like it was nothing.

And you’re standing here now, looking at him, feeling all that shit flood back in. You can’t escape it, no matter how much you try.

He’s right in front of you, still breathing heavily, eyes searching yours, and you can feel the anger bubbling up again. But this time, it’s different. It’s not just anger. It’s something deeper. Something darker. Something you thought you buried.

You stand there, staring at him, and suddenly, you’re not sure who you are anymore. The lines between then and now blur, and all you feel is that gnawing emptiness. Like you’ve never left high school. Like you’ve never escaped that shitty reality where he always has a way of worming his way back into your life, making you question everything, just to leave you to clean up the mess he left behind.

For a second, you want to scream. You want to tell him to leave. To get out. To stay away. But instead, all you do is shake your head, because it’s not that simple. It never was.

“You’re still the same, Dean.” Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, but it’s the truth. The truth you’ve been running from. “I thought I was done with you. Thought I was over it, but you—” You cut yourself off, throwing your hands up in frustration, the tears threatening to spill but not quite making it. “You’re the same. And I’m still here, feeling like a fucking fool, thinking you’ve changed.”

Dean flinches, like the words hit harder than anything you’ve said before. But he doesn’t back off. He just stands there, a flicker of something—guilt?—passing through his eyes.

You want to scream again. You want to throw something. You want to hit him. Because goddamn, you do feel like that girl again. That girl who thought maybe, just maybe, there could be a happy ending. But there’s no happy ending here. Not with him.

“I hate you.” The words slip out before you can stop them. The venom in your voice is pure, raw, something that’s been building up for months, for years. The weight of it all settles in your chest, but this time, it feels… right. For once, you let yourself feel it.

Dean stands still, like he’s been struck. But you don’t care. Not anymore.

“I hate you, and I hate what you’ve made me. I hate the way I keep coming back. I hate that I still want you, even after all the shit you’ve pulled.”

You’re not even sure what you expect him to do. Maybe you want him to argue back. To fight you. To make it worse so you can get it all out.

But Dean doesn’t say anything. Not a word. He just watches you, eyes dark with something you can’t quite place. And that’s the worst part. He doesn’t say anything, because he knows. He knows you’re right.

And that just makes everything worse.

You want to leave. You want to walk out of the room, slam the door behind you, and forget this night ever happened. But you don’t. You can’t.

“You think you can just walk back in here and fix it all, don’t you?” Your voice cracks, but you don’t care. “Well, you can’t. You can’t fix this, Dean. You never could.”

And then, for a brief moment, he looks like he’s about to say something. Like he’s about to finally say the thing that’s been stuck in his throat all this time. But he doesn’t. Instead, he turns away, hands clenching into fists by his side.

The air between you two is thick, suffocating. You’re shaking with all the anger, the frustration, the hurt, and before you even realize what’s happening, you raise your hand, the slap coming from nowhere, stinging like fire across his face.

The sound echoes through the room, and for a second, everything freezes. You both stand there, chest heaving, as the tension holds its grip.

Dean’s eyes flicker, a sharp breath escaping him as his cheek reddens. For a moment, it feels like you’ve done something irreversible. But instead of backing away, instead of flinching in anger, something shifts. His gaze softens—something almost painfully familiar—and the bastard mutters a curse under his breath, like he’s trying to push down the feelings you’ve just thrown at him.

But you don’t care. You want him to feel it. You want him to feel the sting of everything he’s done.

And that’s when it happens.

“Baby,” he says, voice low, his eyes locking onto yours, the softness in his tone almost cutting through you like a knife. “Baby, I didn’t mean—” But he doesn’t get to finish. He doesn’t get to explain himself this time. You’ve heard it all before, and you’re so fucking tired of it.

Before you can stop yourself, the anger twists into something different—something desperate. You feel the lump in your throat. You hate yourself for feeling this way. You hate how much you still care, how much his stupid voice can break you.

Your hands are trembling as you step forward, and you don’t even think twice. You grab his collar and yank him towards you, smashing your lips into his again. The kiss is hungry, frantic, everything you’ve been holding in for so long pouring out all at once. His lips meet yours with the same fiery intensity, pulling you closer as if he can’t stand the space between you.

And then, you feel it. His hands, on your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks as if he’s trying to wipe away the years of hurt. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t hesitate. He kisses you back like he’s starving, like he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you have.

But then, as quickly as it started, the kiss breaks. You both pull away, breathless, eyes wide and filled with something too complicated to name.

And that’s when you feel it, your body trembling in his arms, that lump in your throat finally giving way to the overwhelming rush of emotion. The tears spill down your face, hot and raw, and you let out a shaky breath. It’s not just anger anymore. It’s everything. It’s the hurt and the longing, the betrayal and the love you can’t seem to erase.

“Fuck,” you whisper, your voice cracking as you bury your face in his chest, unable to look at him. You hate that you’ve let him back in. You hate that you still want him. But you can’t stop it. Not now. Not when everything feels so damn broken.

Dean doesn’t say anything, but you feel his arms wrap around you tightly, holding you against him like he’s afraid you’ll slip away again. His fingers run through your hair, gentle this time, as if he’s trying to comfort you in ways that words can’t reach.

“Shh, baby. It’s okay,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice thick with something that almost sounds like regret, like guilt.

But you can’t look at him. Not right now. Not when you don’t even know what this is anymore. You don’t know what he wants, what you want, or where the hell you’re supposed to go from here. All you know is that you’ve just made a mess of everything—and you don’t even know if you can fix it.

But for now, for this moment, you let him hold you. Let him whisper empty promises into your hair. Let him kiss your forehead like it’s all going to be okay. And maybe, just maybe, you can convince yourself to believe it.

You pull back from his chest, his warmth still lingering on your skin like a cruel reminder of everything you lost and everything you still fucking want. Your lips are swollen, your breath shaky, and your heart? Yeah, it’s a goddamn wreck. You look up at him through tear-blurred eyes, mascara streaked and bottom lip trembling.

“Why?” you breathe, voice small, barely holding itself together. But it cuts through the air like a scream. “Why the fuck did you leave?”

Dean opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Just air. Like he’s trying to think of a lie that doesn’t sound like one. His jaw clenches, his hand still cupping your face, but you flinch away from it now. Because no, not this time. You need answers. Not touches.

“Just fucking say something,” you snap, wiping your face angrily with the sleeve of your hoodie. “Was it me? Did I scare you off? Or was it just a game, Dean? Get the bitchy girl to fall in love with you and then bounce?”

He runs a hand through his hair, backing up a step like he needs space to breathe, and it makes you feel sick. “It wasn’t like that,” he says, and it’s almost a whisper. Like he can’t even handle his own voice.

“Then what was it?” you yell now, all that composure just snapping like a cheap string. “What was so important you couldn’t say goodbye? That you couldn’t—fuck, that you couldn’t even send a text?”

You’re sobbing now. Like ugly, gasping, can’t breathe sobs, and Dean looks like he’s about to fall apart himself. His hands twitch like he wants to pull you back in, hold you again, but he knows better.

“I couldn’t stay,” he says finally, and his voice breaks in the middle of it. He looks at you like you’re the only real thing in the room, and it’s killing him. “I wanted to. You have no idea how much. But my life… it’s not normal. I’m not normal.”

You blink at him through the tears. “What does that even mean?”

He hesitates. You can see it. The truth threatening to fall off his lips and then; slam. Door closed. Shut tight. Locked away. “I can’t tell you,” he says. Quiet. Final. Like it’s some kind of goddamn death sentence.

Your body stiffens. “Then why are you here now?”

He swallows hard. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Because every time I closed my eyes, it was your voice. Your laugh. Your fucking lip gloss. I thought I could bury it, but I can’t. I tried to forget you and all I did was miss you.”

You laugh through the sobs. A broken, bitter sound.

“And what? You just thought you’d show up and what—pick up where we left off? Like I didn’t break after you left?”

He looks like he’s in hell. “No. I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect any of it. I just…”

He trails off again. Because there’s nothing else to say. Not really. You wipe your face again, your hands trembling. Everything hurts. Your chest. Your head. Your heart.

You turn toward the window, needing to breathe, needing space, because this is too much. All of it.

And behind you, Dean whispers, almost too softly to hear, “I never stopped loving you.”

You don’t even realize the words are about to fall out of your mouth until you’re already saying them.

“I love you too, Dean.”

It’s quiet. But not soft. It’s not some shy little whisper—it’s a punch to the gut, raw and bruised and real. The words scrape your throat on their way out because you’ve held them in for too fucking long.

Dean freezes like you just shot him. He stares at you, eyes wide, breath hitched, hands slightly lifted like he’s afraid to touch you unless he knows you mean it.

You mean it.

Your voice is shaky when you say it again, but firmer this time. “I love you, you asshole. I loved you even when I hated you. I fucking missed you. And I shouldn’t. God, I shouldn’t—but I do.”

And then he’s on you.

It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s years of anger, confusion, lust, longing, and heartbreak shoved into a kiss that feels more like a fight. His mouth crashes into yours, hot and desperate, teeth clashing, hands gripping like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he blinks. Your back hits the wall, the coat rack rattles, and you swear you feel the whole damn house shake when his hips press flush against yours.

“You have no idea what you fucking do to me,” he growls against your neck, biting just a little too hard, and you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. “You think I forgot? You think I didn’t think about this—about you—every goddamn night?”

Your shirt’s off. You don’t even remember how. His hands are everywhere—gripping your thighs, your waist, palming your ass like it belongs to him, like he’s trying to remind himself it’s real.

“You left,” you breathe, tearing at his belt, voice cracking. “You left me, and I still wanted you.”

“I know, baby,” he whispers like it’s killing him. “I know. I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you. Let me show you.”

He carries you to the couch like you weigh nothing, like he’s carried you before in his dreams a hundred fucking times. And when he lays you down, it’s not rushed. Not now. His kisses slow down—deeper, messier. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s starving.

Clothes hit the floor. Your breath hitches as his fingers trail down your stomach, lazy and teasing. You whimper, hips lifting on instinct.

“Still so fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, dragging his lips across your chest. “Still mine.”

And yeah, you should argue. You should push him away. But you don’t.

Because maybe he is yours, too.

When he finally sinks into you, it’s like everything breaks loose. He groans low in your ear, your back arches, and you cling to him like he’s the only thing anchoring you to this world. Every movement is thick with tension and need and fucking relief. Like all this pain finally has somewhere to go.

He whispers your name like a prayer between every thrust. Kisses the tears off your cheeks even while you’re gasping into his mouth.

It’s slow and rough and so full of love it hurts.

And when you both fall apart, clinging to each other, bodies shaking, he doesn’t let go. Not even for a second. His arms wrap around you like a shield, like he’s never letting you out of them again.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, pressing his lips to your temple.

And for the first time in a long, long time, you believe him.

Sunlight filters in through the half-open blinds, painting lazy stripes across the floor and your tangled sheets. The house is quiet. Still. Heavy with that early morning silence that feels like the world’s holding its breath.

You feel him before you see him, his arm still loosely slung around your waist, chest pressed to your back, legs tangled with yours under the blanket. His breathing is deep, steady. Slower than usual. Like even in sleep, he’s trying to drag this moment out for as long as he can.

You don’t move for a while. You just stay there. Let yourself feel his warmth, the scratch of his stubble against your neck, the weight of his arm around you like it was never supposed to be gone.

But eventually, he shifts.

You feel it in the way his fingers twitch, in the sigh he lets out before gently pressing a kiss to the back of your shoulder. His grip tightens for a second, like he’s considering staying right here, like this.

Then he sits up.

You roll over slowly, propping yourself up on your elbow, watching as he pulls his jeans on, the leather jacket slung over the chair nearby. It hits you all over again—he’s still Dean Winchester. Wild, unpredictable, never really yours.

He turns to look at you, hair a mess, eyes heavy with sleep and something softer. “I gotta go check on something,” he says, voice low and gravelly. “Won’t be long.”

You sit up, tug the sheets around you like they’ll protect you from what you’re about to say. “Please don’t disappear again.”

He stops dead in his tracks.

For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Then he kneels by the bed, cupping your face with both hands, thumbs brushing just under your eyes.

“I won’t,” he murmurs, and he means it so hard it hurts to look at him. “I swear. I’m coming back.”

Your lip trembles, and he leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead so gentle it makes your chest ache. One more to the tip of your nose. Then your mouth.

He lingers there, noses brushing, his hand cupping your cheek like you’re fragile and holy.

“Lock the door when I go,” he says, smirking a little, even though his eyes don’t match. “And don’t do anything stupid.”

“Too late,” you whisper.

He grins. Kisses you again—deeper, like a promise.

Then he’s gone.

And you’re left with nothing but the scent of him on your pillow and the hope that this time, he meant it.

You immediately text Amber, because duh. This is huge news,

The Skype call rings three times before Amber’s pixelated face pops up on your screen, messy bun perched like a crown of chaos, face mask half dried, and a bag of Hot Cheetos in hand.

She doesn’t even say hello.

“WHAT. THE FUCK.”

You flinch back from the camera. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

Amber gasps like you just murdered her puppy. “Don’t ‘sunshine’ me, you man-stealing whore—I say that with love—but WHAT THE FUCK, WHAT. WHAT THE FUCK. BITCH.”

You bite back a smile, sipping your lukewarm coffee. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

Amber squints like she’s trying to burn the truth out of you. “Dean. Winchester. Is in your bedroom. With your ugly ass curtain pattern. After WEEKS of you being like, ‘Oh I hate him. Oh I’m soooo over it. Oh I don’t even think about him anymore.’ BITCH YOU LIED.”

You break. Start laughing. Like full-on, hiding-your-face, can’t-breathe laughing.

Amber throws a Hot Cheeto at her camera. “Don’t laugh, bitch! I’ve been INVESTED. This was supposed to be enemies to lovers to you key his car. And now you’re telling me it’s bedhead to forehead kisses? NUH UH.”

You’re still giggling, but your cheeks hurt and your chest’s doing that dumb flutter thing because she’s right. She always is. Even when she’s dramatic.

“Okay, okay,” you breathe. “We didn’t plan it. He just—he showed up, and the car broke down, and then—”

Amber cuts you off with the fakest gasp you’ve ever heard. “YOU HAD A CAR-BROKE-DOWN MOMENT? You absolute rom-com-ass disaster.”

You flop back against your pillows, groaning. “I hate you.”

She snorts. “You love me. Now tell me, was the sex as good as I think it was? Because you look GLOWY.”

“Amber—”

“You’re glowing like you got baptized in dick. Start talking.”

You groan, but the stupid grin is permanent. “Amber, I swear to God—”

“No no no. You don’t get to play shy, not after making me listen to you sob over him for months. You cried about his jawline once, bitch. Now he’s biting your neck and whispering ‘baby’ or some shit like that and you expect me to be calm?!”

You flop back dramatically. “I’m unwell. He had me begging.”

Amber’s face goes blank. “Begging?”

You just nod.

She deadpans. “I’m actually gonna throw myself off a building. So you’re telling me he said nothing and just looked at you with those fucking green eyes and you turned into a slutty Victorian ghost?”

You cover your face. “Stoppppp.”

“No. Because you’ve ruined me. Now I need therapy and a cigarette, and I don’t even smoke.”

You peek through your fingers. “To be fair… he was like—rough. But soft? Like, he kissed me like he was starving but also like I was porcelain. Then he said my name all slow like I was his last prayer.”

Amber lets out a squeal so loud the audio distorts.

“I can’t even look at you right now,” she gasps. “He came and left like a damn fever dream. Who even is this man?”

You bite your lip, soft for a second. “I think… I still love him.”

Amber’s eyes go soft. Just for a second.

Then she snaps back. “Okay but did he pull your hair or was he more of a neck-grab kinda guy—”

You launch the pillow at your laptop.

It’s been two weeks.

Two weeks of Dean pulling into your driveway at impossible hours of the night, headlights off, that Impala purring like a secret. Two weeks of whispered “you up?” texts that you pretend to be annoyed by but answer in less than three seconds. Two weeks of him slipping through your window like a goddamn teenage cliché and leaving before sunrise, the scent of leather and cologne still trapped in your sheets.

But it’s not just sex. Not even close.

He started bringing you shitty gas station coffee in the middle of the night like he remembered how you take it. One night, you made the mistake of joking that you liked the taste of his toothpaste more. The next time he showed up? Spare toothbrush. Minty.

It’s the little things, the soft things, that are ruining you.

Like how he kisses your shoulder when he thinks you’re asleep. Or how he runs his thumb along your knuckles when your fingers are tangled together. Or the way he looks at you when you’re not looking at him, like he’s memorizing you for when he has to disappear again.

Because he still won’t say what he’s doing. Where he goes during the day. Why he always seems tired, a little bruised, a little wrecked in ways he won’t explain. You asked once. He kissed you until you forgot the question.

Sometimes he talks in his sleep. You caught him murmuring Sam’s name once, and something about “silver bullets.” You pretend you didn’t hear it.

But the truth is? You’re getting used to the ache. To the waiting. To the quiet rhythm of loving someone you never really have all to yourself.

And he’s trying. In his own broken way, Dean is trying. He leaves notes sometimes—ripped-up scraps of napkins or receipts stuffed under your pillow. Dumb shit like: “You snore.” or “You looked cute yelling at that barista.” or “I dreamt about you again.”

You keep every single one.

The sneaking around, the secrecy, the tension? It only makes everything burn hotter. One minute you’re arguing about his distance, the next you’re pinned to the kitchen counter, biting back moans so the neighbors don’t call the cops again.

But underneath the heat, there’s this hum of something worse—inevitable. You can feel it in the way he pulls you closer but never says why he has to keep leaving. Why he won’t just stay.

You don’t ask anymore.

But you’re starting to wonder if you’re just the pit stop. The safe place he gets to rest before the road takes him again. And you’re starting to wonder how many times you can let him go before your heart stops letting him come back.

It starts stupid. Like everything between you two.

You’re in his lap, legs over his thighs, half-eating half-throwing popcorn at his face while a shitty horror movie plays in the background. His flannel’s on you, because of course it is—he showed up at your house two hours ago claiming it was “cold,” but he just wanted to see you in it. You didn’t fight him on it. You never do.

Dean’s chewing obnoxiously loud, mouth open, just to piss you off. You throw another kernel at his forehead.

“Swear to God, Winchester, I will smother you with a pillow.”

“Promises, promises,” he smirks, grabbing your wrist mid-throw and pulling you closer. You’re nose to nose now, and he smells like soap and sin. “You’re real mean for someone sitting in my lap.”

“You like it,” you mutter, cheeks hot.

“I do,” he says, softer this time. His thumb brushes your jaw. “Way too much.”

You blink. The room goes kind of quiet, except for the movie screaming in the background. His hand lingers at your waist. He’s looking at you like you hung the damn stars. You try to play it cool, but your heart’s going feral.

He clears his throat, then shrugs like he’s trying to downplay what he’s about to say. “So, uh. If I asked you to, like… be my girlfriend—”

“You’re doing a terrible job of asking,” you interrupt, smirking but suddenly breathless.

Dean groans dramatically. “Alright, alright—fine. Jesus.” He pulls you in tighter, palms flat on your back. “Will you be my girlfriend, you pain in the ass?”

You laugh so hard you almost fall off him, then catch yourself by grabbing his shoulders. “God, you’re the worst.”

“That’s not a no.”

You roll your eyes, tug him by the collar, and kiss him slow, lingering. When you pull back, your smile’s stupid and lovesick. “It’s a yes, dumbass.”

Dean grins so wide it makes your stomach flip, and then he’s lifting you like you weigh nothing and spinning you around until you’re both breathless and tangled in laughter.

“Mine,” he murmurs into your neck.

“Yours,” you whisper back, still laughing.

The movie’s forgotten. The popcorn’s all over the couch. And for once, there’s nothing hanging in the air between you except joy.

Time slips by like a dream you don’t wanna wake up from.

You’re not just sneaking kisses in dark hallways anymore. You’re holding hands in the open, tangled together in diners, gas stations, anywhere he can steal a moment with you. You’ve got a new favorite hoodie—because it’s his, obviously. Worn and warm and smells like him. He lets you wear it without even teasing you, just stares a little too long and mumbles something like, “Looks better on you anyway.”

There’s still distance, sometimes. He leaves. You know he’s got a life that doesn’t quite belong to the world you live in, but now, he comes back. Not just with bruises and vague excuses, but with flowers he clearly picked up at a sketchy roadside stand, with candy he says reminded him of you, with his lips on your collarbone whispering “missed you” like a confession every time.

One weekend, he takes you to some little town with a view so good it looks fake. You’re up on the hood of the Impala, legs stretched out, his arm around your shoulder. It’s sunset, stupidly cinematic, and Dean’s just staring at you instead of the sky.

“What?” you ask, nudging him.

He shakes his head like you’ve just smacked him in the chest with a brick. “You’re it, y’know that?”

You laugh. “It what?”

“Everything.”

It’s so soft you almost miss it. But you don’t. You feel it in your fucking bones.

And it’s not that you needed the world to know about you two. It’s not that he had to announce it with neon signs and fireworks. It’s just… something’s different now. You’re not hiding. You’re not a dirty secret. He shows up when he can. He tries. He holds you like he means it and tells you without words, every time, I choose you.

And the scariest part? You believe him. You’re in love. Deep, stupid, hopeless, soul-snatching love. And for once, it doesn’t feel like it’s gonna ruin you. It just feels right.

It’s been months. Good ones. Scary good. You’ve memorized the freckles on his back, the way he bites his lip when he’s focused, the quiet little huff he does before saying something vulnerable. You’ve seen him at his softest and his most tired. But still, something’s always been there. Behind his eyes. In the silences. Something he’s been holding back.

And tonight, he finally lets it crack.

You’re curled up in bed, legs tangled under your favorite blanket, movie playing low in the background, some shitty old horror thing that he’s making fun of under his breath. You throw a popcorn kernel at him. He misses the catch and it bounces off his nose.

“What, ghosts don’t move like that?” you tease, giggling.

He doesn’t laugh back. You blink. “Babe?”

His shoulders tense, eyes fixed on the screen. Then he pauses it.

And there it is.

“I gotta tell you something,” he says, voice way too serious for this soft-lit bedroom.

You sit up a little, confused. “Okay… you’re kinda scaring me, Dean.”

“I don’t—fuck, I don’t wanna scare you. But I can’t keep lying. You’re too important for that.” He rubs his hand over his face, lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been stuck in his chest for years.

“You ever wonder where I go?” he asks. “Like… really go?”

You shrug. “I mean, yeah. But I figured you were just… busy. Or had, like, a weird job or whatever.”

He laughs—short, sharp, almost bitter. “Yeah. Weird’s one word for it.”

“What do you mean?”

And then he says it.

“I hunt things. Monsters. Like—actual fucking monsters. Vampires. Werewolves. Ghosts. Wendigos.”

You stare.

Silence.

Then—“Okay.”

He blinks. “Okay?”

You shake your head, dazed. “I mean, no, not okay, what the fuck are you talking about, but like… you’re not joking? You’re not high? You’re not having a stroke?”

“No.”

“…Do I look like the kind of bitch who dates a vampire hunter and doesn’t get to see receipts?”

He laughs—really laughs this time—and it’s a little unhinged.

“So show me, then,” you say, arms crossed. “Prove it. If you’re telling the truth… I wanna see it. I wanna understand.”

He goes quiet again. You know it’s not an easy ask. Not with what he’s seen. But you also know he trusts you now. Enough to let you in.

“You sure?” he asks, serious again. “This changes everything. I can’t unshow you.”

“Neither can that time you got ketchup on my silk pillowcase and said it was ‘a battle scar,’ but here we are.”

He smirks.

“Alright, sweetheart. I’ll show you.”

And suddenly, the world you know? Yeah. It’s about to fucking shatter.

It’s funny how fast you got used to holy water in the glove compartment.

How normal it feels now—salt rounds instead of makeup wipes in your bag, Latin scrawled in the back of your planner, exorcism chants memorized like lyrics to your favorite song. The girl who once walked hallways like a runway now walks crime scenes in a tailored suit and a badge that reads a name that’s not hers.

But she walks it with him.

You and Dean, shoulder to shoulder, dressed in black. FBI knockoff fits on point. You’re outside a rickety police station in the middle of nowhere; just another small town with secrets, another case you’ll solve in a motel room over takeout and sarcastic flirting.

Sam’s on the other side of the parking lot, probably charming the local sheriff with his whole “I’m tall and non-threatening” routine.

But you? You’re leaning against the Impala, arms crossed, eyebrow cocked. Dean steps up beside you, checking the gun tucked under his coat.

You smirk.

“You ready, Mr. Thompson?” you ask, all fake authority and faux-innocence.

Dean turns to look at you, and God, you’ll never get used to the way he looks at you now. Like you’re not just his partner in hunting, but his home. Like he’d burn every monster to the ground if you asked him to. Like he still can’t believe he gets to have this—you.

He slides his sunglasses on.

“Always, Mrs. Thompson.”

Your fingers brush as you head toward the station together. And when they finally lock, it feels like the whole world clicks into place.

This isn’t high school anymore.

This isn’t hallway kisses and angry diary entries and confused heartbreak.

This is the life. Your life.

You and Dean Winchester. Fake names, real love, monster blood on your boots.

Together,

Always.

ꕤ notes: i’m so sorry this took so long omg. i literally deleted the draft like twice?? full-on meltdown, lost everything, had to rewrite while crying fr. but we made it. we pulled through. barely. this was actually supposed to end in angst. like… i was planning a full jessica season 1 moment for reader lmao. i was in my evil era. but i folded. i couldn’t help myself. love won. also, i know this probably feels rushed in parts, and i’m sorry about that. i wanted to give it more time, but the vibes were too strong, and i got carried away lol. thank you sm for all the love on this series. every reblog, comment, freak out, scream, made this so worth it. i love u. like a lot.

SPECIAL THANKS TO @rosemichael12 ‪‪❤︎‬

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[aventurineswife]

Seriously, I love your blog so much!! It's always a treat to read.

Anyway, may I have a scenario of boothill, aventurine, sunday, feixiao, and March with a memokeeper s/o?

Like, their first meeting was s/o snooping around in their dreams or living quarters for memories, and somehow, they got caught. Obviously, there was animosity at first, but s/o expresses genuine interest about their past and wants to unviel it. To let their past be seen and acknowledged. Whatever trauma they have and s/o just wants to comfort them after what they had been through.

Thank you and take care!!

Fragments of You

Tags: Boothill x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Feixiao x Reader, Memokeeper!Reader, Angst, Trauma, Slow Burn, Character Development, Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Vulnerability, Emotional Support, Conflict.

Warnings: Mentions of Past Trauma, Mild Violence, Emotional Angst, Dealing with personal loss, Manipulative behavior, Internal Struggles with Past Events.

A/N: I'm so glad to hear that! I'm glad you're enjoying your time here!

The night was quiet, and the stars glimmered through the dusty window of Boothill's hideout. You had been sneaking around for days, lurking in his dreams, trying to glimpse the painful memories that burned behind his cold eyes. Your intentions weren’t malicious—no, you were a Memokeeper, trying to understand the tortured soul of the cyborg cowboy who seemed to fight not just for justice, but for something deeper. Something painful. But tonight, you were caught. The sharp crack of a metallic boot hitting the floor jolted you from your dreamlike trance.

"What the fudge do you think you're doin'?" Boothill’s voice sliced through the still air, his silhouette framed by the dim light of the room. His cold black eyes were now glinting with suspicion, yet there was an edge of weariness to them that made you hesitate.

You froze. "I... I didn’t mean to intrude."

His mechanical hand hovered near the grip of his gun, but his gaze softened ever so slightly. You could tell this was no ordinary man, and the weight of his pain was something you could feel in your bones.

"I ain’t no open book," he growled, taking a slow step toward you. "People don’t get to read me."

“I wasn’t... I wasn’t reading your memories like a book,” you said, stepping forward, your voice soft but unwavering. "I just wanted to understand. To know who you are beneath the fight."

Boothill didn’t say anything for a long time. His sharp features softened a little, his fingers loosening their grip on the gun. He stared at you, something like surprise flickering in his gaze. "Ain’t nobody ever cared to know," he muttered under his breath, as though it pained him to admit it.

"You don’t have to hide it. I’m not here to steal your past," you told him, your voice gentle. "I just... I want to help you bear it. Let me see it. Let me help you carry the weight. All that loss. All that rage."

For the first time, Boothill’s shoulders slumped, the hard edge of his posture faltering. His gaze softened, and he looked away, as though fighting the impulse to shut himself off from you.

"You really think that’ll make a damn bit of difference?" he asked, his voice quieter, more vulnerable than before.

You stepped closer, reaching out a hand, but you didn’t touch him. You didn’t need to. The offer was in your eyes. "I think it’ll help you heal. Even if just a little."

He remained silent for a moment longer before finally nodding, slowly. "Then, maybe it’s time someone knew."

Aventurine sat in his lavish quarters, a calm and confident smirk on his face as he enjoyed his latest victory. Yet, something felt off—a presence that wasn’t supposed to be there. You, the Memokeeper, had managed to sneak into his dreams once again. He was no fool, though, and it didn’t take long for him to notice the strange disturbances. His sharp eyes cut through the stillness, catching the gleam of your figure materializing in the corner of his mind.

“Well, well, what have we here?” Aventurine’s voice was smooth, dripping with mock curiosity. “A little peek into my private recollections? Surely, you’ve got more tact than that."

You tried to step back, but his voice had already caught you in its web. "I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy. I’m just... curious about you. About your past."

His lips curled into a smile, but it wasn’t a pleasant one. “Curious, you say? Most people would’ve run the other way. Few are brave enough to ask about the demons in my head.”

“I’m not afraid of what you’ve been through,” you said softly, yet with conviction. “I don’t need to be scared of your memories. I just want you to know that... you don’t have to hide them.”

Aventurine's eyes twinkled with a mix of intrigue and something deeper, something darker. He stood up, moving closer, his movements smooth like a practiced gambler’s shuffle. "And what would a Memokeeper like you want with my memories? You think you can just waltz in and dig them up, hoping to find something that makes you feel better?"

You met his gaze, standing firm. "I don’t want to just take your memories. I want to understand them. I want to help you see them for what they are—proof that you lived. That you’re still here, despite everything."

For a moment, Aventurine’s smile faltered. He wasn’t used to having someone speak to him like this. You could see it in his eyes—the vulnerability he kept buried under layers of wit and manipulation. "You really think you can comfort a man like me?" he asked, voice dangerously soft.

“I think everyone deserves to be seen,” you replied, reaching out, your voice warm and genuine. "Your past doesn’t define you, but it deserves to be acknowledged."

Aventurine hesitated for a moment, his smirk returning, but it was softer. Less guarded. "Fine. You want to know? Then let’s play your game. But you better be prepared for the stakes, sweetheart."

Feixiao stood at the edge of the battlefield, her blood-streaked gloves clenched tight, her eyes glowing with an intensity that matched the fires surrounding her. But the moment her gaze landed on you—a Memokeeper sneaking into her dreams—something shifted. The rawness of her memories was too much for her to bear, and the weight of her affliction, the Moon Rage, stirred. She was aware of your presence long before you stepped into her mind.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice stern, though the underlying exhaustion was apparent.

You froze, your heart pounding. “I... I didn’t mean to invade. I just wanted to understand you. To know what’s inside, what drives you to fight so relentlessly.”

Feixiao’s eyes hardened, her fox ears flicking in irritation. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” she growled. “The Moon Rage. The beast that takes over when I lose control.”

"I have," you admitted softly. "But I don’t see a beast. I see someone struggling with something too powerful to face alone."

Her eyes flickered with something almost akin to shame, but it was quickly masked by a steely determination. “I’ve learned to carry this curse. I don’t need help.”

"You don’t need to carry it alone," you insisted, stepping closer, your voice gentle. "I know what it’s like to hide parts of yourself. But your past doesn’t make you weak, Feixiao. It makes you strong. And I want to help you see that, to bear it together."

Feixiao’s gaze softened for a fleeting moment, the tension in her muscles loosening slightly. "You think you can handle this darkness?" she asked, her voice quiet now, laced with something like fear.

"I can try," you said, offering a comforting smile. "And if it gets too heavy, I’ll be there to help you carry it."

She hesitated, but then, for the first time, a soft smile broke through her fierce exterior. “Maybe... maybe it’s time I let someone see the scars I’ve kept hidden.”

[nyheartbreak]

sammy bryant and the overworked, underpaid, absolutely miserable state defence attorney that the scumbags he arrests get. most of the time cops don't really respect these lawyers too much, and at first he does have his reservations. especially when you show up with a bit of an attitude, clearly having a shitty day and tired from dealing with worse cops than him. but sammy knows that you don't get to choose your cases, that you just get assigned to them. and he feels so bad everytime you arrive at the station with a cup of burnt coffee in your hands and anxiety written all over your face.

despite it all, you have always been so cordial with him. you always call him detective bryant and you kinda avoid his eyes when you say im alright, thank you while you guys wait in the station hallways before an interrogation and sammy can't help but ask you okay? to fill the silence. which makes you always seem a little bit too shy around him. though you seem shy around everyone and he wonders if this is the right job for you at all. he does makes you smile once, though, and it makes him so giddy he takes it as his win for the month.

but he finds himself thinking of you more than he wants to admit. finds himself doing so in situations where he shouldn't be thinking of you at all. when he gets to work. when he arrests someone and wonders if they are going to send you to defend them. when he kisses his wife. when he jacks off and lies to himself that he did it thinking of his tammy. feels guilty after, of course, disgusting even. can’t look you in the eye for a few weeks.

but the more he looks at you, the more he finds the comments from his partners more and more obnoxiously annoying. the way the talk about you. how they say that they would fuck you either way, even if you defend criminals, eyebags and all. it makes his blood boil. and its not like you are one of those assholes on call they sometimes get. cocky and confrontational. you are nothing like that, at least not with him. you are just doing your job, right? like he is doing his job.

and then, this really nasty motherfucker tries to put his hands on you on a private attorney client visit and he fucking looses it. nate has to literally drag him off so he doesn’t kill him and ends up on the other side of the questioning table. his fists hurt for days after but he doesn't regret a thing, in fact, he would do it all over again.

he finds you in this bar one night, a few days after the incident. the one he always go to when things get a bit rough and he needs to get his limbs loose at least for a couple of hours before he goes back to his wife. you are sitting at this booth alone, and he finds you placing the two or three bottles of beer you had neatly against the wall. you are just entering on tipsy and you joke that you have some kind of undiagnosed ocd and he finds that you are really awkward and bad at making conversation but it just makes him like you even more.

you drink together. barely talk. stare at each other when you think the other isn't looking. and then, a couple of beers in, when he is not really thinking about anything substantial— thankfully, he really needs those moments— but rather letting himself enjoy the feeling of it. of the company. you say it. thank you, for what you did. and sammy quickly has to think of something gross to keep his dick tamed inside his pants.

he decides to be a bit of an asshole then. fights you just the right amount to get you all defensive, hot and bothered. and you fall for it. you think I like this job? you think i like sitting next to those assholes in court? that i like spending all day listening to their sorry stories? i have my own sorry story too, you know? and then you finish with, after a pause, we both chose shitty jobs I guess.

you just need someone to take good care of you, he answers. a little bit too drunk. a little bit too bold. in that condescending voice cops sometimes have to use. you choke on your drink but don't say anything. the heat on your cheeks too damming. and he jots another win down.

and of course he takes you home that night. you live in this shitty apartment which you say you won't invite him to because it's totally embarrassing and you both linger at goodbye. hidden in the darkness of the empty street of this not-so-nice part of town. and again, you are a bit too drunk and he is a bit too tipsy and it's only natural he ends up kissing you against his car, your back flat against the curve of the door until you put a hand on his chest and gently push him off. not because you don't want to but because this is definitely a bad bad idea.

he still ends up in your bed, though. clothes tossed caressly around your room like it doesn't really matter. like this doesn't mean anything at all. he still ends up fucking you hard against the mattress, both too fucking wasted to have a civilized thought about what you are doing. he keeps whispering in your ear as he thrusts from behind let me take care of you. let me take real good care of you. and you let him. both your lives are falling apart at the seams, so you sure let's sammy bryant take real good care of you.

[tune-on-in-folks]

I've decided to abandon the order of the days and post whatever fic I finish first. Which just so happens to be the cuckolding prompt with Alastor + Vox. I genuinely love this fic and hope you enjoy it too!

Tags/Warnings: Cuckolding, Vox is bad with feelings, top Vox, top Alastor, fem!reader, creampie, friends with benefits, P in V sex, m! receiving oral, f! receiving oral, maybe size kink(?), Alastor is a little shit Word Count: 3,735

Vox fell onto his back besides you, his chest heaving from exertion. He glanced up at you, his heart skipping a beat as he realized you were already looking at him. His cock gave a valiant twitch as he trailed his eyes down your naked form. A light sheen of sweat covered your skin, your breasts moving tantalizingly as you caught your breath.

He reached out, brushing your hair out of your face, “Fuck babydoll, that was perfect,” He praised breathlessly.

He brushed his thumb over your bottom lip, leaning forward to capture your mouth with his, kissing you softly. You melted into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck, and deepening the kiss in kind. You poured everything you felt for him into it.

The intensity of your kiss, the affection he felt in it, terrified him. He pulled back, leaving you to chase after him. You were his best friend and you occasionally fucked… but that? That felt too real. He sat up, brushing you off as his heart raced in his chest.

“Vox?” You question, feeling the shift in him.

Your brows furrow with concern as you sit up, reaching to touch his arm tentatively. He stood, stretching his hands over his head in a clear dismissal. You let your hand drop back to your side as you watched him, a sense of growing unease spreading through you.

“Well sweetheart,” He said, his tone performative as he attempted to distance himself from you. “Let's get cleaned up, I have better things to do.”

You felt your heart drop into your stomach at his words. ‘Better things to do?’ What the hell did he mean by that? What were you, chopped liver? You watched as he headed towards the bathroom, a frown pulling at your lips as you felt your heart begin to break. You knew you were falling in love with Vox. You knew that this arrangement was dangerous, foolish even. But you had really hoped that maybe you’d be lucky, maybe Vox would feel the same. And now you were realizing how much of a fool you’d been.

If you followed your typical routine, you’d be joining Vox in the shower; but with your heart sitting heavy in your chest, you didn’t know how to face him right now. You took a moment to breathe before you stood from his bed, silently gathering up your clothes, and pulling them on. You paused in the doorway of his room, casting a glance over your shoulder at the bathroom door. You wondered how long it would take him to notice that you weren’t joining him, that you had left. Your footsteps were quiet as you left, a solemness falling over you.

Vox was just about to step into the shower when he paused. You hadn’t come into the bathroom yet and he was starting to get worried. He had seen the way your face had fallen when he had brushed you off, he had tried to ignore it. To ignore the way he hated seeing that look on your face. He didn’t want to think that he might have hurt you with his indifference. He cleared his throat, calling your name. When he didn’t hear a reply he moved back towards his room, peeking out and freezing. You were gone and so were your clothes.

“Fuck,” He curses, his heart clenching painfully in his chest as he realized you had left without a single word.

He knew you had been hurt by his words, by his cold actions, but the fact that you had left without a word?  That hurt him far more than he was comfortable admitting. He felt small for how he’d reacted, how he had hurt you without a care in the world, and that was not something he liked feeling. So he did what he always did, he pushed the blame onto someone else- you.

He shook his head, scoffing, “If that’s how she wants to be, so be it. She should be grateful that I even allow her space in my bed.”

He returned to the bathroom, stepping into the spray of the shower. He sighed and rubbed his face in frustration. He didn’t want to examine why he had acted the way he had. He didn’t want to acknowledge how much your kiss scared him, and he certainly did not want to admit that he was falling in love with you.

“FUCK!” He yelled, slamming his fist against the shower wall, the door shaking in its frame. He’d apologize to you eventually, when his pride allowed it.

You sigh, glaring down at your phone, at Vox’s text. It had been a couple of nights since Vox had pushed you away. He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t bothered to apologize. But now... Now? He had sent a text, asking if you were “down to fuck.”

“Ugh! The nerve of him!” You hiss, turning your phone off and tossing it onto the couch next to Alastor.

He barely looked up from his book, used to you complaining about Vox. In a way it let him check in on his old friend, regardless of the bad blood between them. He also found your exasperation with Vox entertaining.

“What has he done this time, dear?” Alastor asks, turning the page of his book.

You lean back against the couch, nestled in between his legs, “What hasn’t he done?” You sneer, resting your head against his thigh.

You lean your head back further against his lap, staring up at his face while he read, “He texted me seeing if I was available for sex. Like I’m his personal whore or something.”

That got Alastor’s attention.

His eyes darkened, his smile straining at the edges as he set his book aside, “Pardon?”

Alastor was used to the lows that Vox went to, but the thought that he was treating you like a common floozy? That was unacceptable, and Alastor wasn’t going to have any bit of it. He watched as you shifted enough to grab your phone.

His expression was dark, “Pray tell, what exactly were the picture box’s exact words?”

You turn your phone back on and hand it to Alastor so he could have a look at your texts himself.

“‘I have better things to do,” that’s what he told me the other day after we had… well you know,” you explain, frowning, “I just gave him a little taste of his own medicine.”

Alastor’s smile strained more, the perpetual state of it unable to hide his growing anger on your behalf. But you kept speaking, kept on digging Vox the grave that Alastor was intent on putting him in.

“He said that, and hasn't apologized, b.t.w. Then he asks me if I’m down to fuck. He’s an asshole! A complete and total asshole, whose head is so far up his own ass he can’t even see when he’s hurt me!” You sit up, turning to face Alastor.

 The Radio Demon’s eye twitches, his anger growing with every word you speak. He had never been fond of your relationship with Vox, especially when the both of you started being… intimate. And now Vox had been treating you like this, the proof right before him. Alastor wasn’t going to let this slight against you go, and he knew exactly how he wanted to hurt Vox in turn.

With his mind made up, he set your phone aside and cupped your cheeks. “Tell me, little doe, do you trust me?”

You furrow your brows, falling silent at the sudden shift. A beat passes before you hesitantly respond, “Yes, I trust you, Al.” 

His eyes flashed with an unnatural light, his smile widening, “Good. Because we’re going to hurt Vox just as badly as he hurt you.”

Alastor stood, pulling you up with him. Not giving you a moment to react, he slammed his lips against yours in a bruising kiss. He was going to make Vox pay for how he's treated you, by giving you the pleasure you deserved.

Surprise floods you as Alastor kisses you. You felt a little guilty as you kissed him back, thinking of Vox. But you didn't owe Vox anything. You were friends with benefits, nothing more. He had made that obvious when he brushed you off and pushed you away. So what did you care what he thought? You were free to fuck anyone you wanted. Besides, Vox had probably gone to Valentino to get laid the moment you denied him. So why shouldn't you kiss Alastor? Why shouldn't you have sex with him?

Alastor breaks the kiss to trail his lips down your neck, nipping at your collarbone.

“On your knees, little doe,” he commands, watching  as you comply without hesitation.

He felt his cock twitch to life at the sight of you on your knees for him. The power he held over you in this moment was heady and arousing. You smile up at Alastor, meeting his gaze as you palmed his rapidly hardening cock. You were going to enjoy this, you decided.

“Fuck Al, is this for me?” You ask, your eyes dark with lust as you begin to undo his slacks.

His smile softens as he brushes your hair out of your face, already anticipating the feeling of your mouth on him. “It is, my dear. Now how about you put that mouth to work, hmm?”

You smile, pulling his pants and boxers down enough to free him. His cock slaps against his lower stomach, the tip leaking precum. Grasping his length, you eagerly lean forward. You stroke his cock slowly, licking a long stripe up his length before closing your mouth around him. Alastor groans, his hand tightening in your hair as you begin to move.

He watches you with half lidded eyes as you eagerly work him with your hand and mouth. With a snap of his fingers your phone appears in his hand. He turns it on and captures a photo of you sucking him off. He sent it to Vox before tossing your phone aside.

“Just like that my dear,” Alastor praises as he rolls his hips, forcing you to take him deeper.

Vox was stubborn. He knew he had hurt you but he didn’t want to admit it. He didn’t want to admit that kissing you had been fucking fantastic. He didn’t want to confront the way it had made him feel, the way you made him feel. But he knew he needed to, so he had texted you.

He was hoping to breeze past the apology portion and sink himself inside your warm heat. He wasn't good with apologizing, hell he wasn't good with emotions period! He had hoped you'd accept, that you'd come to him so you could talk and then fuck. Instead you replied that you had “Better things to do.” He knew that he had hurt you, but he hadn’t truly realized how much until he saw your message.

He groaned, falling back onto his bed, his phone falling from his hand. Fuck, he thought bitterly. He knew he had to try to get through to you, had to apologize for real, and he had to mean it. Which meant facing what he didn’t want to face- his feelings for you.

His phone pinged with your text tone and he shot up, scooping up his phone and opening the text. He froze. His heart dropped as he saw the text that awaited him. It was a photo of you with your lips wrapped around a cock, a hand tangled in your hair as you looked up at the camera. He knew those hands but the caption confirmed that it was Alastor. “Beautiful, isn’t she, old pal?”

Vox felt his screen bluffer, angry arcs of electricity sparking off him. His hand tightened around his phone hard enough that it shattered in his grip. That motherfucker! How dare he touch you? Vox shot to his feet, teleporting himself into the nearest electric device. He wouldn’t let Alastor have his way with you, he would save you from that old-timey prick. Vox would make sure of it.

Alastor grunted, knowing that it wouldn't be long until Vox got there, he pulled you off his cock. Helping you to your feet he crashed his lips against yours, kissing you deeply. He pulled back, fixed his pants, and swept you up into his arms. He carried you to his bed, dropping you unceremoniously onto it.

You gazed up at Alastor as he began to remove his pants, feeling a confusing mix of emotions. You wanted him, wanted this, but a part of you was still subconsciously thinking about Vox. He was your best friend and you were in love with him. Yet he clearly didn't feel the same, so you had a decision to make; either you let Vox go or you got hurt.

Alastor's voice pulled you from your reverie, “Strip, my dear.”

His tone was low and sultry, sending a shiver down your spine. You take a deep breath to calm your fraying nerves and make your decision. Without further ado, you pull your shirt off, tossing it to the side, before unclasping your bra to free your breasts. You lay back, pushing down your pants and panties to leave you completely bare for him. Alastor's eyes darkened with desire as he crawled above you, settling in between your thighs. He hiked your legs around his shoulders, leaning in to lick a stripe up your entrance. You gasp at the contact, arching your back as he closed his lips around your clit, sucking lightly.

“Oh fuck, Alastor!” You whimper, a moan falling from your lips as he thrust two fingers into your soaked pussy.

He worked you with efficiency, his fingers curling up to caress your g-spot. His mouth worked in tandem as he pleasured you, his tongue swirling around your clit between light nips and sucks.

It didn’t take long for Vox to locate your phone through the electrical grid. He zapped out of it, walking right into Alastor’s room. He froze as soon as he did, his eyes widening as he took in the sight before him. Here you were, moaning and writhing on Alastor’s bed as he ate you out.

“You son of a b-” Vox began, taking a step towards the bed, intent on tearing Alastor off of you.

Without pulling away from you, Alastor snapped his fingers. His magic dragged his chair over, the feet scraping on the wood. It knocked Vox off his feet, and he let out a startled yelp as he fell back into the seat. Shadow tentacles wrapped around his arms and legs, binding him to the chair. He struggled against the binds, his eyes snapping up towards you as he heard you cry out.

“Alastor!” You beg, your body quaking as you get closer to your release, “I'm so close! Please, please, please.”

Vox felt a cold shock of anger and jealousy run through him as he watched Alastor double his efforts and bring you to release. He opened his mouth to object just as you cried out, but found a shadow tentacle across his screen, muffling his yell. He clenched his teeth, glaring at Alastor as the demon pulled away from your dripping core. He climbed up your body, positioning himself at your entrance, his cock nudging against your sensitive clit. You gasp softly, fully aware of Vox’s presence. You were trying your best to ignore him and the way your heart clenched at the distress in his voice.

Vox pulled and thrashed against his shadow binds, yelling obscenities that were muffled by the shadow across his mouth. He tried to tip the chair, tried to scooch closer, tried to turn it away. But his attempts were futile, he was completely powerless, unable to escape from Alastor’s tight binds. His heart squeezed painfully in his chest as he was forced to watch his rival sink his cock into the woman he was in love with. Vox, much to his displeasure, felt his own cock twitching to life at the sight.

You mewled as Alastor entered you, wrapping your arms around his neck, as if to ground yourself. He was big, bigger than Vox, but fuck did it feel good. You bury your face against Alastor's neck as he began to fuck you in earnest, the bed shaking with the force of his thrusts. You tighten your hold on him, trying to focus solely on the Radio Demon and the pleasure he was giving you. But you found yourself looking towards Vox. His eyes were wide, full of a mix of jealousy and hurt. The sight made your inner walls clench around Alastor, who grunted in return, his pace slowing as he noticed your distraction.

“At-ta-ta, eyes on me, little doe.” Alastor scolded you, tilting your chin back up towards him before capturing your mouth with his.

“A-Alastor,” you whimper as he kisses down your neck, nipping at your collarbone.

“That’s it my doe, keep your focus on me,” he praises, pushing your legs up against your chest to slide deeper. “Tell me, my dear, who’s bigger, me or Vox?”

Vox shouted around the shadow tentacle in objection at the question, his ego bruised. He knew, just by sight alone, that Alastor was bigger.

“You are,” you whine, your eyes fluttering shut as Alastor's cock punished your cervix with every deep, hard thrust, “Fuck, you’re so much bigger, Al.”

He chuckled, smirking against your skin as he picked up his pace, his hips slapping against yours loudly. Vox groaned from his place in the chair, his cock painfully hard and aching for release. He hated that he was turned on, hated the idea of Alastor being bigger than him, but more than anything, he hated that Alastor was bringing you pleasure. It should have been him. That realization made his heart stutter, and suddenly Vox understood what was happening; this was his punishment for hurting you, for being so callous with your feelings.

Vox threw his head back against the armchair, shame filling him and mixing with his arousal. He was angry, not just at Alastor for this show, but at himself for the way he had treated you. He clenched his teeth, listening to you gasp and moan beneath his rival, his hips bucking upwards as he searched for friction. He felt defeated, this was completely justified, but fuck!- If he could just touch himself! 

“I’m so close, Alastor.” You breathe, arching your back as you roll your hips down against his. “Don’t stop.”

But Alastor had other plans. Smirking, he slowed down his thrusts until he was leisurely fucking into you, ruining your orgasm. You whine as he pulls out of you, leaving you empty and wanting.

“Not yet, my dear.” He murmurs, flipping you onto your stomach before pulling you up.

The change in position brought you face to face with Vox. His eyes were dark and stormy as he fought his anger and lust. You swallow hard, opening your mouth to say something, anything, to him when Alastor thrust back into you. The words die on your tongue, turning into a pleasured cry as he returns to a steady rhythm.

Alastor pressed his chest against your back, his lips brushing against your ear, “Tell me, my dear, do you think Vox should be allowed to touch himself?”

You gulp, your eyes flickering away from Vox’s down to the obscene tent in his pants. “Y-yes,” You murmur, granting Vox a sliver of mercy.

Alastor hummed, loosening the tight control he had over his magic. As soon as Vox felt the magic slacken, his hand flew straight to his crotch. He palmed himself before moving to free his aching length from the tight confines of his pants. A strangled noise escaped him as he closed his hand around his cock, pulling it free. Vox’s eyes never left you for a moment, watching your tits sway as Alastor took you from behind.

Vox found himself shamelessly matching his strokes to Alastor’s pace, imagining that it was him buried in your tight cunt instead. He watched as Alastor slid his hand up from your hip, over your stomach and breasts, to your throat. He tightened his hand around your neck, yanking you up until your back was flush with his chest. You yelp at the sudden change in position, feeling Alastor slide even deeper inside you.

“Alastor! Fuck!” You cry out, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as he moves his free hand between your legs, rubbing tight circles against your clit. Your legs shook, your entire body quivering as you grew closer, and closer, to your inevitable release.

“Let go for me, my doe,” Alastor muttered against your ear, his pace faltering as his own orgasm grew closer.

“Yes! Yes! YES!” You cry out as your climax rips through you, your body trembling in Alastor's arms as you cum hard.

Alastor groans, his hips stuttering and slowing into hard, deep thrusts as he reaches his own release. He grinds against your cervix, meeting Vox's gaze and holding it as he pumps you full of his seed.

Vox grunts as he meets Alastor's gaze, his cock jerking as he cums. Rope after rope splatters his hand and stains his clothes, but he keeps stroking himself, working himself through his release. He slumped against the armchair, panting heavily as he tried to regain his breath, his hand finally stilling. Vox watched as Alastor pulled from you and let you collapse onto the bed, shaking and exhausted. That bastard’s seed leaked out of your used cunt, but Vox couldn’t deny the fact that he was still turned on. Damn Alastor, damn him!

“Now!” Alastor declared, standing up and tucking his spent cock away. “I believe you two need to have a conversation.”

He strides towards the door of his room, snapping to free Vox from the shadow binds as he goes. His red eyes scanned from Vox, rubbing his sore wrists, to you, just barely regaining your breath.

“Best of luck chums!” He cackles as he leaves, locking the door behind him, leaving you both alone.

You swallow nervously, meeting Vox’s gaze as you slowly push up on shaking arms. This was going to be an interesting conversation, that much you were sure about.

[eeerrrrewsd]

Temptation’s Game

You’ve always been the good girl—the one who never steps out of line, the one who smiles politely, nods at orders, and never makes a fuss. But lately, a new side of you has been waking up—one that craves a thrill, a danger you’ve only read about in stories. And no one embodies that temptation more than Remmick.

Remmick’s reputation precedes him—rough around the edges, commanding, and unpredictable. You’d be lying if you said his presence didn’t send a shiver down your spine. Maybe it’s the way his intense gaze lingers a little too long or how his deep, gravelly voice makes even a simple greeting feel like a challenge.

Tonight, you’re alone in the safehouse, cleaning up and organizing supplies. The dim light flickers, shadows dancing across the worn walls. You’re humming softly when you hear the door creak open. You turn, heart pounding, only to see Remmick leaning against the frame, his eyes locked onto you like a predator sizing up his prey.

“Didn’t think anyone else was here,” he mutters, his voice low.

You smile sweetly, pushing a stray strand of your dark hair behind your ear. “Just me. Figured I’d tidy up a bit.”

His eyes rake over you, lingering just a second too long on the curve of your neck. “You always this good?” he asks, his tone almost mocking.

“Depends,” you reply, your voice softer, hinting at something unspoken. You swear you see his jaw tense.

He steps closer, the air thickening between you two. “You don’t fool me,” he says, reaching past you to grab a bottle of whiskey from the shelf. “That innocent act. It’s cute. But I know better.”

Your cheeks flush, but you tilt your head up, eyes meeting his defiantly. “Maybe I just like playing the part,” you murmur.

Remmick’s smirk is dangerously enticing. He sets the bottle down and moves closer, his hand grazing your hip. “Playing with fire, sweetheart.”

You bite your lip, looking up at him through your lashes. “Maybe I’m not afraid of getting burned.”

His hand slides to your waist, pulling you flush against him. “You think you can handle me?” His breath ghosts over your lips, and you shiver despite yourself.

Your hands find his chest, fingers tracing the muscles under his shirt. “I think you’re underestimating me,” you whisper.

He chuckles darkly. “Sweet girl. You’re gonna regret teasing me like that.”

Before you can respond, his mouth is on yours—rough, demanding, and impossibly intoxicating. You gasp, but your hands fist his shirt, pulling him closer as he pushes you back against the worn wooden table. The kiss is a clash of heat and want, and you can’t help but let out a breathy moan when his hands grip your hips harder.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and wild. “Still think you’re the one in charge here?”

You smirk, running your fingers through his hair. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

Remmick doesn’t waste another second. His lips trail down your neck, nipping at your skin just hard enough to leave a mark. You can feel his frustration mingling with desire—how you push his buttons just right. Your sweet, innocent act crumbles as you let out a soft, needy sound, and he growls in response, his hands sliding under your shirt.

“Thought you’d be quieter,” he teases, his voice husky.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders. “Only for you,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

He pulls back, a wicked glint in his eyes. “You’re gonna wish you hadn’t said that.”

You don’t get the chance to respond before he’s capturing your lips again, more possessive this time. And as the night goes on, you realize just how dangerous it is to play with fire—especially when it’s with someone like Remmick.

But in that moment, wrapped up in his touch and his smoldering gaze, you can’t bring yourself to care.

[omg-just-peachy]

Okay but what would the thunderbolts version of avengers movie night look like

Personally I think:

- Alexei is so excited it’s happening he has 87 suggestions for what to watch and the all claim they don’t care what they put on but inevitably end up arguing about it before landing on something silly but heartfelt and half of them cry at the end and pretend not to be (except Bob because he’s trying to tap into his feelings when they come)

- Bucky has seen more movies than anyone expected because he had a lot of free time there for a while, he doesn’t sleep that much, okay?

- One night Yelena picks something she and Natasha liked watching back in the day and Alexei gets emo

- Walker is in charge of snacks, no one knows how it happened but they don’t argue either

- Ava takes a while to settle in but eventually she ends up falling asleep during movies because she’s finally comfy somewhere. She is a snorer

- Yelena and Bucky bond over liking something weird like Red Vines

- Bucky is always sneakily looking at his phone and they tease him bc they all know it’s Sam and he will not admit it

[um-soybean]

Mammon and your Pact Marking

Summary: What does Mammon think about your pact marking predicament?

Warning: THIS IS A SEQUEL TO THIS‼️ Sorta darkish romance I guess. Pact marking PLACEMENT described. Branding, demon pacts, human mentioned like it’s an insult, reader takes shirt off (not in a gender specific way), mention of reader crying. Sorta fluffy but also in a possessive way idk how to describe it. Mammon is very guilty but also very greedy <3

Despite his protests, Mammon completely adores you. And also despite his protests, you are completely aware. He isn’t sadistic like Lucifer. He wants those he loves to be safe. He wants you safe. Preferably, maybe, probably in his bed or his arms at the very least.

As your first man, he was the first to see the colorful mark appear on your skin. And as his feelings grew for you so did the dark pit in his stomach grow every time he saw the pretty thing on your back. So did the glow of yellow in his eyes as he traced the pattern for the first time.

Of course at first, he was glad the mark didn’t show in such an obvious place. He couldn’t have a human bouncing around with such power over the Avatar of Greed. His reputation as the Great Mammon would be ruined!

Slowly but surely, inch by inch, he wanted to show it off more and more. Almost desperate to rip off the back of your shirt just to rub his marking off in anyone and everyone’s face. Of course, he wouldn’t...but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a genuine idea of his…

Along with him being your first man, his was also the first to burn. And it wasn’t difficult to trigger.

In all honesty, small amounts of greed are easy for humans. Whether you complained Asmo wore your clothes, or huffed when Satan took your favorite book. The marking doesn’t seem to care much about the excessive side of greed, only that you put material possessions over the demons you hold closest.

Mammon didn’t even take into account the fact that you could get hurt. Didn’t care much when he made the pact. How would he know anyways? He’s certainly never thought about giving such power to any human before.

But then your skin sizzles and burns. Warranting the stares of each brother to that golden mark behind your clothes, now burning red hot and straight through the fabric. Guilt surging through those who understood what was happening, because they could not warn you in time.

You couldn’t believe how much Mammon tore himself up about it. So much so you would’ve thought he had gotten burned.

It’s not long after that you both find yourself cuddled up, away from the prying eyes of his brothers. You’ve opted for no shirt, in order to cool off the burning on your back. He spoons you, just to gaze at the mark that’s settled right atop your spine. Like he’s the only thing grounding you to the bones you need most. Or like he’s the only thing, only one, you need most. And that bottomless pit surges up again as he realizes it’ll stay forever.

That no matter what, everyone will know that he’s yours. That you chose him first, not even thinking about the consequences, you picked his marking to decorate your pretty skin first.

No matter if you had to force him or not, don’t worry about that part.

Deep in thought, he traces the already silvery scar as he listens to your previously crying breaths drift off to sleep. Helpless to his own sin as he wants nothing more than for you to fall into it again.

He feels no greater satisfaction in being a source of your greed, than you being the source of his.

Notes: IM BAAACKK. For now at least just to post this. I will admit this has been in my drafts since the OG pact marking was posted (likely before Lucifer’s)… but I just knew the Mammon girlies had to be well taken care of. Partly because as much as I dislike to admit it, I fear I am also a Mammon girly…