#and that’s fine! but that doesn’t make it bad

[nereidprinc3ss]

spring into summer

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

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

February 17th

You don’t know when you last blinked. 

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

Spencer said you’d love this movie.

“You okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is the right thing. 

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

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

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

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

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

He’s warm. He keeps you safe. 

March 9th

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

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

The ringing silence is killing you. 

“Spencer—”

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

“I explained it to you—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why? Why would he do that?

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

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

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

You feel your throat closing as he stands. 

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

March 13th

“Spencer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you’ve told me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

March 26th

“Did you mean it?”

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

“Did I mean what?”

“When you said you loved me.”

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

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

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

“… Okay what?”

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

“Spencer.”

“What?”

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

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

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

“But you’re obviously upset.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Yeah, actually, you are.”

Spencer blinks. “Oh.”

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

More buzzing silence. 

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

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

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

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

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

“So you do remember saying it.”

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

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

“Noted.”

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

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

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

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

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

April 15th

“That tastes like lawn clippings.”

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

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

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

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

“Not ice cream.”

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

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

“How?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“… No. Yours isn’t even good.”

“Oh my god,” he laughs. “Come on.”

“Mm… okay.”

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

“We need to go.”

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

“And Kevin,” you agree. 

“Oh. You don’t want to say hi?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I just—I’m not ready for that.”

“We wouldn’t have to tell anyone.”

“Can we please just drop it?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks.”

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

The thrum of his heart could lull you to sleep. 

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

April 29th

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

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

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

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

Later, you corner him by the coffee machine. 

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

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

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

“Are you accusing me of something?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May 3rd

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

Your blood goes cold. “Spencer.”

A beat. “What?”

“You’re not staying behind for me.”

“I’m—”

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

“You just said—”

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May 20th

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

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

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

“Anti-inflammatories.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

“Plenty.”

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“A kiss.”

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

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

“Yeah? Why not?”

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

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

“Hey, wait.”

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

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

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

June 6th

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

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

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

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop talking to me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He simply lets you go. 

June 11th

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We are.”

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

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

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

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

June 30th

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Should we go?”

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

“So… you wanna wait?”

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

And with that, a silent treaty is signed. 

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

“September 24th.”

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

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

“Eight months is quite a while, huh?”

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

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

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

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

“Very.”

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

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

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

July 13th

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

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

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

“Bed?” You whisper against his mouth. 

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

Okay. “Couch?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not ready.”

“Yes, I am, fuck, please, Spencer!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

August 3rd

Spencer corners you outside the bathroom. 

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

“Who was who?”

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

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

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

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

“Why won’t you answer the question?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Spencer is so overreacting. 

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

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

That only pisses you off worse. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer comes out a few minutes later. 

“They’re playing your song.”

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

“I can hear.”

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

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

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

Pointed? 

Surely not. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer?

Hm?

What am I to you?

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

Do you actually want me to answer that question?

You’d nodded. 

Is the answer going to freak you out?

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

Spencer weighed something internally for a long moment. 

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

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

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

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

Now, he’s asleep. 

You trace the moon-glow line of his cheek. 

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

God does not answer. 

August 19th

Something is off. 

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

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

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

Spencer isn’t doing anything wrong. 

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

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

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

The last time you broke up, you realize. 

That is a sobering thought. 

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

There is an old, familiar pang in your chest. 

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

He loves me. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is wrong with you?

Why can’t you ever just be alright?

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

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

Something you’d learned from Spencer, of course. 

Spencer. 

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

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

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

For a few minutes, it works. 

Then, for no apparent reason—it stops working. 

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

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

You tap lightly at his door. 

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

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

Glasses. Sweatshirt. Spencer. 

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

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

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

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“I’m fine.”

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

“It was just a panic attack.”

This doesn’t satisfy him. 

“Do you often pass out from panic attacks?”

“Um… not never.”

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

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

“What triggered it?” He asks. 

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” is all you say. 

A pause. 

“Why didn’t you come sooner?”

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

“I… don’t know. I was overthinking.”

“Overthinking what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me why you’re upset.”

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

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

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

“No, no—look at me. Come on.”

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

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

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

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

“I’m really not hungry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He regards you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spencer?”

“Hm?”

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

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

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

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

He hums. 

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

You chew your lip. “Some of them.”

“Which ones?”

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

“I don’t know. We’ll find some.”

“I have a few in mind.”

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

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

You nod. “And I have a rule.”

He strokes your hair. 

“What’s that?”

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

“Yes, ma’am.”

You tilt your chin up. He kisses you. 

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

September 1st

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

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

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

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

“Or you’re being defensive.”

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

“Am I being accused of something?”

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

“No,” you huff after a weighty moment. 

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

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

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

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

Fuck. 

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

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

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

Which means you need to backtrack. 

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

How can you make this go away?

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

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

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

“You should go.”

A beat. 

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean, this?”

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

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

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

“You are such a fucking asshole.”

The words come out too hurt, too quiet.

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

“Go. Home.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing but stardust, now. 

You blow across the silent black ether. 

September 5th

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

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

“Sorry sorry sorry. I’m up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sure. Don’t get any ideas.”

You grin. 

“Too late.”

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

“Easy. Six.”

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

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

“I’m not sleeping with you.”

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

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

“Nonono, I’m dead sober. Please?”

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“Nothing, baby. It was a joke.”

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

“Why would you joke about that?”

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

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

Why are you breathing so quickly?

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

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

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

“What’s wrong?”

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

“Nothing.”

“Don’t say nothing, you clearly—”

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

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

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

Immediately, something about Spencer’s demeanor goes cold. 

“Did something happen?”

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

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

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

You watch it wash over him. 

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

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

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

But he’s going to. 

This is it. 

The unforgivable thing. 

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

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

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

“What did you say?” 

His tone bites. 

“We weren’t together.”

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

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

“When?”

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

“Spencer…”

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

“When?” 

You try to inhale and choke on it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You only shake your head.  

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

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

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

“I just can’t.”

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

No solution. 

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

So he gets up. 

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

The tear in your voice is desperate enough you flinch. 

But it gets him to turn around. 

He looks exhausted. 

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

You fucked up so badly. 

How much more of you can he handle?

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

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

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

“I know you’re sorry.”

Your chin wobbles. 

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

“You’re gonna leave?”

A beat. 

“Yeah.”

“Are you gonna come back?”

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

September 12th

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

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

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

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

But you have to try, don’t you?

“Spencer—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

The fabric of his coat bunches in your fist. 

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

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

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

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

All this, with one please. 

Spencer exhales. And he kisses you again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mind is screaming, deafening static. 

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

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

“You got up pretty quick.”

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

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

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

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

Because he knows. He knew the whole time. 

He’s not sticking around. 

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

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

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

“I don’t know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did I owe you that, too?”

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

Humiliated. Like usual. 

Spencer is stunned into silence for a moment. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

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

The stroking thumb stops, and then restarts. 

“Okay.”

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

“What?”

He only shakes his head. Nothing. 

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

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

No response. Back and forth. 

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

“Angel.”

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

“Sorry.”

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

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

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

“… I know.”

“No, honey. I mean… it needs to end.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You falter. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not supposed to feel like this. 

You shudder a cry. 

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

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

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

October 29th

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

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

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

“It begins,” you mutter. 

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

Your brow knits. “You’re not with—”

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

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

“What about you?” Penelope asks. 

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

“What about me?”

“Are you hunkering down with anybody?”

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

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

“You didn’t tell me.”

You shrug. 

“It wasn’t… official.”

“How long were you seeing him for?”

“It would’ve been a year next month.”

This time, she’s silent for too long. 

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

She’s… looking at your feet. 

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

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

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

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

Before you can, she speaks. 

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

You flash her an alarmed look. “What?”

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

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

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

“When?”

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

“Penelope, it’s fine.”

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

You blink. Try to process. 

“You didn’t tell anyone else?”

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

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

Heat blooms in your cheeks. 

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

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

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

“Pizza!”

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

“Nice socks.”

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

“Sorry. I need to do laundry.”

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

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

He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. 

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

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

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

It’s sort of a relief. 

January 1st

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

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

“Bye, guys! Happy new year!”

You wave as the last stragglers head out the door.

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

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

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

He checks his watch. 

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

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

“Neither?”

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

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

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

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

A stuttering inhale. 

A moment that is just too long. 

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

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

“You’re okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you come here?”

He appears. “What’s up?”

You point at the fan. 

“I think somebody put a cup up there.”

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

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

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

“I’m sure he’d be able to tell you.”

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

“Kevin and Penelope?”

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

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

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

“Who’d you hear that from?”

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

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

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

“I did. Two, actually.”

Two dates? With the same person?

“How’s that going?”

He approximates a smile. 

“You’re not being very subtle.”

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

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

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

“But you didn’t bring her tonight?”

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

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

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

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

“I’m being supportive.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. Is that allowed?”

“You’re sure it’s not surveillance?”

“Yes!”

Even to you, you sound overly defensive. 

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

“What about me?”

“You didn’t bring anyone either.”

“Well… I’m not seeing anyone.”

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

“Why not?”

“Do I need an excuse to be single?”

“Just curious. Is that allowed?”

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

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

“What is?”

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

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

“Oh. I’m… I’m… sorry.”

Spencer cracks a dry smile. 

“You’re sorry? Why are you sorry?”

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

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

“That’s not what she is, honey.”

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

“Then what is she?”

He hums. 

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

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

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

“Spencer…”

“What?”

“That’s… that’s not fair.”

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

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

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

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

“Why not?”

“Because… because we’re not together.”

“When has that ever stopped us?”

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

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

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

His throat bobs. “Come here.”

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

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

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

“Then we’ll stop.”

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

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

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

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

It’s basically tradition.

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

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

[paarksunghoon]

resignation (5)

SUMMARY: For the last six years, you’ve dedicated your career to ensuring Park Sunghoon never misses a day of work in his life. But you’re tired of endless days that seem to blend together, and seeing him living his fun, luxurious lifestyle makes you think about what else you might be missing out on. When Sunghoon finds your resignation letter on his desk, he does everything in his power to convince you to stay.

NOTES: unrelated to this fic, trendwave sunghoon has me acting UP. but also when am i not when it comes to him…my bf fr

WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: an incredible amount of sexual tension & fingering.

SERIES PLAYLIST + SERIES MASTERLIST

***

The first thing you feel when you wake up is Sunghoon’s fingers brushing the hair from your eyes. The second is the warmth of his hand. 

It startles you to see him sitting on the edge of the bed and so close to you. He chuckles at your reaction and watches you gather yourself when you remember you awoke in his guest bedroom and not your own. 

“Good morning, sleepy head.” 

Even his morning voice sounds like Heaven with how deep and sultry it is. You blink the sleep away from your eyes and Sunghoon continues to cradle your face as you adjust to the morning light peeking through the window. 

“What time is it?”

“A little past six. How’d you sleep?” 

You nuzzle against his palm and close your eyes. You miss the way he smiles down at you. “Really well, actually. You rich people have this sleeping shit figured out.”

He caresses you again. “You snore like a little kitten.”

“I don’t snore.” 

“Yes, love. You do.” You ignore him, and you ignore the pet name. 

“We have to get to work, don’t we? I don’t have an extra outfit and I don’t feel like showing up in the clothes I wore yesterday.” 

“We’ll stop by your apartment before going to work.”

You make a face. “We’ll be late.”

“I’m the boss,” he says. “I can tell you when to come in.” 

“Oh? This is a first for you.” 

“You need to take care of Pochi too, don’t you?”

“Hm. You’re right. I do miss my cat.” 

Sunghoon bends down and kisses you like he’s done this a thousand times before. He’s slow with it, moving his lips in tandem with you until you’ve truly registered that he’s kissing you. It’s a new sensation. It’s weird, neither good nor bad, just different. Sunghoon’s breath is minty and when you pull away, you’re surprised when he lets out a small whine.

“I haven’t brushed my teeth,” you tell him when he leans in for another kiss. Your arms brace his shoulders and you try to keep him at bay. He doesn’t seem to care, though, and steals another kiss from you. 

“You think I care about that?” Another kiss. Your cheeks heat up. 

“I dunno. I haven’t done this in a while.”

“Kiss your boss and wake up in his arms?” 

You roll your eyes and sit up, pushing him away while he laughs. “Dumbass. I haven’t kissed anybody in a long time.” 

“You’re doing just fine.” 

Looking at him makes your heart race for more reasons than one. Sunghoon is absolutely gorgeous from this angle, especially when he’s wearing casual clothes and sporting hair that looks like it hasn’t been brushed. He looks painfully normal instead of the high-demanding businessman you know him to be. Sunghoon looks almost approachable like this. If the two of you met under different circumstances, you might’ve gathered the courage to ask him out. 

On the other hand, there aren’t many times you can say you’ve awoken in a man’s guest bedroom with gentle kisses being pressed upon your face. It’s the first time anybody has ever woken you up like this, and it took a great deal not to immediately panic and push him away. It’s scary how nice being doted on feels, and you’ve only gotten a little taste of it with Sunghoon kissing you as soon as you awoke. 

This feels different than what you’re used to. Typically, Pochi makes her way to your face and nuzzles her own between your neck, the outside construction prevents you from falling back asleep when you're able to sleep in, and you usually wake up alone. What you’re not used to, however, is Sunghoon looking at you like he’s got stars in his eyes. The idea that anybody could look at you like that is alarming and unfamiliar.

“We’ve got plenty of time,” he says before bending down to touch your lips with his. “I can hear that little brain of yours working so hard.”

“My brain isn’t little.” He smiles against your mouth and gives your lips a peck. 

“Mm. Definitely not. My smart girl. I can still hear you thinking, though.” Sunghoon’s hand touches your outer thigh and it sends a shiver up your body. 

“Oh yeah? What am I thinking about?”

“How we’ll be late if we don’t leave in thirty minutes. You’re probably thinking about what clothes you have left in your closet and if Pochi ate breakfast.” 

“…Am I that predictable?” 

Sunghoon shakes his head and moves his hand up your thigh. “I’d like to think I’ve picked up a thing or two after knowing you all these years. You’re not the only one who observes, you know.” 

“Hmph.”

“Relax for me, okay?” He brings his other hand up to your cheekbone and caresses that spot. “I’m not in a rush. We don’t have meetings or anything important on my docket today.”

“You looked at my calendar, didn’t you?” 

He grins. “Might’ve taken a peek. It’s connected to mine anyway.” 

Sunghoon’s blankets are keeping you warm and toasty, and his touch feels like you’re being lulled to sleep. You find yourself at odds with the idea that Sunghoon could convince you to relax at this hour, especially when you have to stop by your apartment before going into the office. It’s not like anyone would notice either. Sunghoon’s colleagues are in and out of the building all day, some of whom don’t show up until late morning or early afternoon on account of personal business. You aren’t worried about what other assistants might think either, as you’re the assistant who has been there the longest. With the hierarchy system in place, it’s more believable that you’re in business with Sunghoon than being in bed with him.

Yet, some part of you doesn’t like that you’re breaking the routine you’ve built over the years. You’ve never spent the night at anyone’s place, much less on a weekday, and you don’t enjoy the fact that you haven’t seen Pochi. 

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten my promise,” Sunghoon says, pulling you out of your cycle of thoughts. He’s perched on the side of the bed with his elbow resting comfortable on the pillows and you look at him quizzically.

“What promise?” 

The look he gives you is akin to the way he looked at you last night. Suddenly, the memory of his hard dick straining against his sweatpants comes to mind. You’ve been so distracted by Sunghoon’s lips and sweet talking that you nearly forgot about the way he felt in between your legs. Sure, the fabric of your clothes acted as a barrier, but nothing could ever hide the way his dick felt pressed right against your covered cunt. 

Sunghoon leans down close to your ear like he’s trying to tell you a secret. You feel his breath touch the shell of your ear and that alone is enough to make you squirm. He must know, and you can tell by the way Sunghoon digs his fingertips into your skin just a little.

“I told you I’d make you cum today. Will you let me?”

Your mouth runs dry. You look up at Sunghoon and there’s nothing humorous about the way he’s watching you. His eyes are a deep shade of brown that stare directly into yours like he’s trying to hold himself back from being too hasty. It’s almost alarming that he’s being so forward with you at this moment. There’s not a hint of shyness that you can detect, unlike how you feel with your heart beating too fast and your uneven breath. 

Would it be so bad to indulge yourself in his request? It’s not like you’re getting any action beyond the quiet of your bedroom or with the only vibrator you bought yourself after a short stint of bad sex. The fact that he’s your boss is out the window. You know what his dickprint feels like and you’ve practically memorized the way his lips feel when they’re pressed against yours. There shouldn’t be any harm in letting Sunghoon pleasure you when that’s all he seems to want. 

Sunghoon watches you spread your legs from underneath the covers and grins to himself. He helps push the comforter off just enough to expose your legs to him. 

“Can I take these off?” he asks, fingers removing themselves from your thigh to the waistband of the shorts you’re wearing. He traces the hem and you suck in your stomach at the feeling of his hand being so close to where you crave him the most. 

You consent quietly because of the intensity of his gaze. He looks like he’s moments away from devouring you whole, like a boa constrictor who’s locked eyes on its prey. The shorts come off and he tosses them behind him, and you try not to care that he’s haphazardly throwing clothes he’s taken off of your body to focus on the moment. 

Like an instinct, you close your legs when you realize you’re only wearing underwear. They’re plain black cotton, nothing exceptionally fancy since you didn’t plan on having anyone see them. Sunghoon doesn’t rush hastily. He slips his large, warm hand between your knees and slowly guides himself up your legs until your body starts to relax. 

He must feel how nervous you are. It has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the lack of intimacy you’ve received in the past couple of years. It’s like your body locks on itself at this foreign sensation of somebody else’s hand on your body, even if it’s consensual and yearned for. 

He doesn’t rush, nor does he immediately push his hand towards your covered cunt. Sunghoon bends down to capture your mouth in a slow kiss, his plump lips pushing against yours like he’s trying to talk to you with his body. You’re not sure what to focus on—how smooth his hands are or how wet your mouth is becoming—but it all feels so good. For somebody who is as touch deprived as you are, it feels like a million sensations all at once. 

Sunghoon moves up the expanse of your thigh when your body starts to relax against him. Whether it be the sound of your lips smacking echoing through the room or getting used to his hands, your legs start to part before him. Sunghoon doesn’t break the kiss like you think he will. His palm slides up your leg until the edge of his fingers barely brush against your panties, and that alone is enough to make you gasp against his lips. 

“Want me there?” he asks through the kiss. “Need me there?” 

You can barely pay attention to his words when his hand is hovering above you. Sunghoon’s fingers trace the outline of your covered cunt and his seductive caress makes you squirm and buck your hips with every passing touch. When you manage to nod, he rubs you with the pads of his finger. 

Sunghoon’s touch is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. It’s determined, almost like he’s got a mission he needs to complete. His fingers aren’t hesitant and scared to touch you like men from your past. Sunghoon’s touch is calculated and meaningful. He’s urgent about it, but unlike all the times you’ve had sex before, this doesn’t feel like he’s trying to get you off as quickly as possible before he gets his turn. 

Instead, it feels like Sunghoon might be as desperate as you are. He keeps a cool exterior for the most part and doesn’t allow others to see him let go of himself completely. You’ve been around him long enough to see cracks in his office persona, but Sunghoon maintains an air of professionalism when he’s not asking you to help him in his personal life, which doesn’t happen as often as people think it does. 

He brushes his thumb over your sensitive clit and it has your hips bucking by his touch. You’re embarrassed by how much he’s turning you on, and he hasn’t done anything yet. Are you that depraved? 

Before you know it, Sunghoon’s hand covers the entirety of your cunt. You marvel at how big his hands are and ask yourself why you’ve never noticed them before. He’s got his expensive black plated watch with silver accent on, the one he wears everyday without fail, and you tense. Something about Sunghoon’s accessory puts you in a frenzy. 

“You’re so worked up,” he says with a short laugh. “When’s the last time you relaxed?” 

“I don’t relax.” 

He tuts. “That’s your first problem. You don’t let go.” 

Well, it’s hard with so little time and too many obligations. Sunghoon probably knows it too, but that won’t stop him from reprimanding you for pushing yourself past your limit. 

“God, you’re so wet already. I can feel you through your panties.” His words nearly have you choking. Since when is Sunghoon bold like this? Is he like this with other girls, too?

Sunghoon pushes them aside and eyes your bare cunt. It makes you feel shy, which isn’t something you feel very often when you’re with him. But at this moment, you feel like you’re out to gain some kind of approval from him because he’s looking at it like he’s trying to inspect it. Knowing you didn’t prepare yourself for him to look at your naked lap makes you feel somewhat awkward and unprepared, but Sunghoon looks like he couldn’t care less. You pulsate around him and he groans quietly when he notices.

“That’s so good,” Sunghoon mutters as the tips of his fingers slide down your entrance, coating himself in your wet slick. The subtle intrusion makes your head spin. “Do you always get this wet?”

“W-Well, it’s been a long time since anyone touched me the way you are.” 

He grins. “Do your fingers not work?” 

“Sunghoon. This is so embarrassing.” You try to cover your face with a spare pillow, but he laughs and tosses it away from you.

“Surely my fingers will do the job. Yours are so much smaller and shorter than mine.” 

Sunghoon pushes his middle finger into you and stops when it’s half way inside. He watches you from where he sits and watches your breath hitch by how your chest has nearly stilled. 

You don’t protest nor push him away and he takes it as a sign to push his finger deeper. Sunghoon feels your smooth walls envelop him the more he maneuvers his finger in and out of your pussy, and you don’t know if you love or hate the way Sunghoon is smiling down at you. It’s like he knows he’s got you underneath his spell when he’s got you acting like this. 

“Doing so well,” Sunghoon mumbles, tongue licking the corners of his mouth as he salivates at the sight before him. His abdomen tenses and his dick swells in his pants. “Can’t believe you’ve been hiding her from me.” 

Your face warms up when he talks about your cunt like that. But it makes you gush even more, and it starts to splash onto Sunghoon’s wrist the more he thrusts into you. 

He adds another finger and cherishes the deep, loud moan that comes from deep within your chest. Your hands brace his free arm when he picks up the pace until the entire room sounds like plat plat plat. Sunghoon expertly curves his finger until he’s reaching parts of you that you’ve always thought to be unreachable. 

His forehead starts to sweat and his arm flexes. Every vein in his arm comes to your view and you feel yourself clenching around his fingers when you truly notice how well-built Sunghoon is. He’s got muscles and biceps that make you wonder what it would be like for him to pin you underneath his body. 

“Shit,” you curse. “C-Can’t believe you’re good at this.” 

He smiles wickedly. “I’m good at everything, aren’t I?” 

“Not good at checking your texts. Not good at that.” You yelp when Sunghoon thrusts his fingers inside of you at a faster speed. It’s pushing you towards your orgasm the more he moves.

“What was that?” he asks with his ear turned towards you as you gasp for air. “What did you say?”

“Not good at texting.” You manage to say it between harsh breaths but it seems to egg him on even more. Sunghoon pushes his hand harder against you until the heel of his palm rubs against your clit.

“Not good at texting? Who says I need to text you, anyway?”

“I do,” you choke, holding onto his arm as your nails dig crescents into his skin. “You need me.” 

“I need you?” His fingers don’t let up. You nod anyway.

“Brat,” Sunghoon mocks. “But you’re right. I do need you.” 

The way you clench around him makes him yearn to see you come undone like the beautiful mess he knows you can be. His hand aches from fingering you at lightning speed, but he’ll be damned if he stops now.

“Need you to cum more than anything,” he says while chuckling. “I need that.” 

Sunghoon says it halfway between desperation and with arrogance like he knows he’ll get what he wants. He knows you won’t fight him on it either because he knows how badly you want to cum. If not by the way you grip his body, then because you’ve mentioned how many times people have left you high and dry over the past few years. It seems unfair to edge you right now.

It doesn’t take much for you to crash. He stills his fingers when he realizes you’ve come to your orgasm, letting your hips rut against his palm as you chase your high. Coming undone before him is a beautiful sight to see and Sunghoon drinks in the way your hands move from his arm to the bedsheets underneath you. You try to grip onto them for stability as your hips grind against his hand while you finish on him. 

When your eyes open, the room has gotten significantly lighter from the sun peeking through the sheer curtains. Sunghoon has made you forget about the time. You push your head up and pucker your lips for a kiss. He gives into your request right away and gently rubs your aching cunt, pushing your panties where they belong before kissing and touching you slowly.  

“You’re so hot when you cum.”

“Bet you say that to all the girls,” you mutter against his kisses.

“Nuh uh. Just you.” 

“Mhm. I’ll believe that for now.” 

Sunghoon doesn’t get up until he’s sure you’ve returned to a state of consciousness and doesn’t leave your side until you sit up by yourself. He keeps his mouth attached to you while you steady your breath and find it in you not to feel completely mortified that you’ve allowed yourself to be vulnerable in front of him. He doesn’t seem to hear your racing thoughts when you’re kissing him, and you feel your worries ebbing away. You don’t think you’re ready to decipher why that is.

He brings a rag soaked with warm water and pries your legs open with little resistance. Sunghoon gently wipes your inner thigh and pulls your panties aside again, cleaning your cum from your skin. This makes you feel more self conscious compared to his fingers rooted deep inside of you, but you try not to look away. Sunghoon looks calm and focused, like he’s getting paid a lot of money to look after you. He spends a bit of time making sure you’re all cleaned up before throwing the rag in an empty hamper. 

“Let’s get going, hm?” Sunghoon says absentmindedly when you stand from the bed. He doesn’t make a fuss about his dick straining in his sweatpants and steps out of the room before you can even think about returning the favor. Sunghoon moves around his house like you’ve been there a million times before. 

“We still need to go to your place. Is there a café by your place that you like? We can stop for breakfast before heading into the office.” 

His nonchalance pleasantly surprises you. But you think you prefer his attentive care over being left alone in bed to deal with the aftermath of feeling alone once your partner has left the room. Sunghoon doesn’t leave until he’s sure you’re walking behind him.

It’s nice.

***

Nabi texts you just before you and Sunghoon leave his place to lets you know Pochi is back in your apartment with breakfast and a new bowl of water, and attached a cute video of Pochi jumping onto bee favorite spot on your couch. It makes you coo out loud, to which Sunghoon laughs at.

“You really love this cat, don’t you?”

“Pochi is my child, Sunghoon. Of course I love her.” 

“When did you adopt her?”

“The third year I worked for you.” You’re stuck between looking at him and the scenery outside as he drives to your apartment. “I was pretty lonely after a bunch of my friends moved away from Seoul. My little brother has always told me I resemble a cat growing up and suggested I get one.” 

“Sunoo, right?”

“Yeah. It’s funny though. When we were younger, our personalities were completely switched. I was the extrovert and he was the introvert. Seems like we changed over time.” 

“Why does he think you’re like a cat?”

“I don’t like being around people very much and it’s hard for me to open up to strangers. He jokes that I have to be the one to warm up to people before anyone can really get to know me.” 

“So, what, you need people to leave you alone before you decide you like them?”

You laugh. “Yeah, I guess so.” 

“That’s funny. I think I’d describe you as a lion.” 

“A lion?”

“Still a cat, just more powerful. You run the hell out of my inbox.” 

You roll your eyes. “Haha. So funny, Sunghoon.”

“I’m serious! You’re so good with meeting new people and getting them under your fold. I would’ve never assumed you don’t like being around people with how good you are at making connections.” 

“It’s for work, though. I turn on the charm because it’s good for business. At the end of the day, we all use each other just a little bit. In my personal life? I guess I can make a friend or two, but there’s never any time to meet new people.”

“This job eats you alive, doesn’t it? I feel the same way sometimes.” 

“It’s fun and it makes my week interesting. I’ll give it that.”

“It’s time for something new, huh?”

“Yeah. It is.”

Sunghoon swallows the unwanted feelings that creep into his mind. 

“How do I get your cat to like me?” he asks suddenly. 

“My cat?” 

“Yup. Who else?”

“Why do you want to get in her good graces?” 

“I don’t want to get mauled when I meet her for the first time.” 

You laugh. “You won’t get mauled, Sunghoon. She’s pretty shy and it takes her some time to get to know new people.” 

“Sounds just like you.” 

“Mhm. We’re twins.” 

“Seriously, though,” he says, glancing at you. “I’ve never been around cats much. My parents are dog people. How do I get a cat to like me and not spook them?” 

“Well, your best bet is to ignore their existence until they come up to you. They’re a hunting breed, you know. You shouldn’t make any sudden movements if you can help it. If you find yourself making eye contact with Pochi, blink slowly. It lets her know you aren’t a threat.” 

“Ignore your cat?”

“Foolproof way to get her to be okay with you in the room if I’m not there.” 

“It sounds like you’re trying to set me up.”

You gasp. “Why the hell would I do that?” 

“I don’t know!” Sunghoon says with humor. “Maybe you’re trying to get back at me for all the years we’ve worked together. You and Pochi could’ve made an alliance to kill me.” 

“Right,” you say sarcastically. “Me and my domesticated cat want to put a hit out on you, even though she’s a fraction of your size and I’m trying to help you find a new assistant.”

“Exactly. See? You’re following my logic.”

“You’re so stupid.” 

Sunghoon pulls up to your complex and parks his car on the street underneath a large tree. You make a split second decision and invite him up to your apartment so he doesn’t have to wait in the car and waste his gas by keeping the engine on to avoid sitting in the frigid air. He doesn’t make a joke like you think he will, especially since Sunghoon made you come an hour ago. Instead, he nods and follows you through the front door. 

The journey to your third floor apartment is nerve wracking. Is your apartment tidy enough? Is it clean? Is there any lingering dust that Sunghoon will notice? His house is far cleaner than your apartment will ever be, and while you pride yourself on keeping a tidy home, your two hands are no competition for the cleaning crew Sunghoon hires every week.

He seems excited enough. Sunghoon fills the silence by vocalizing his observations and particularly likes that your lobby has a state-of-the-art machine that can prepare coffee and espresso in various different ways. He likes that the mailroom is safeguarded by a touch key entrance and likes how the lobby is decorated. 

When the two of you arrive at your apartment, you hear Pochi meowing from the other side of the door. To your pleasure, your space isn’t as messy as you thought it might be, save for the throw blanket you forgot to fold after watching an episode of Castlevania. Pochi jumps down from the armrest and waddles her way to your feet when Sunghoon enters your apartment and closes the door behind him. 

You’re too busy locking the door and crouching down to sift your hand through her soft fur to notice Sunghoon surveilling your apartment like he’s in a museum. He sees your dark green couch and all of the decor you have in frames. The living room is far smaller than his, but he thinks it represents who you are perfectly. 

“I missed you, baby,” you say as Sunghoon looks down to where your body is and takes off his shoes one by one while Pochi rubs her small body against your ankles. You’re cute when you talk like that. 

“Why’d you name her ‘Pochi’?” he asks when you make your way deeper inside of your apartment. He watches you throw your jacket on the back of the couch while Pochi follows and climbs up the piece of furniture to get closer to you. 

“Pochi means ‘spot’ in Japanese,” you tell him. “You see these spots on her ears? I thought she looked so cute and unique when I saw her at the animal shelter. We bonded pretty quickly and I would always kiss both of her ears when we were first getting to know each other. She gets annoyed if I don’t kiss both of them and only one.”

“Really?” 

“Mhm. Watch.” 

Your lips come to touch her ear. You pull back soon after and Sunghoon watches Pochi sit back and watch you with the other side of her head like she’s waiting for the other kiss. When you don’t move to complete the routine, Pochi meows until you relent and kiss her other ear too. 

“She’s so cute. Pochi might as well be my daughter with how well she listens to me.” 

“You’d look cute with a girl.”

You look at Sunghoon, bewildered. 

“You’re certifiably crazy, Park Sunghoon.” 

He just shrugs. “I’m just saying.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Let me change my clothes and put some makeup on, then we can head out. Make yourself at home. It shouldn't be more than ten minutes.” 

When you disappear, Sunghoon hears the faint click of your bedroom door and walks to your couch to sit. He can hear you walking in your room in the dead silence of the morning when Pochi looks at him like she’s trying to figure out if he’s a threat or not. He follows your instructions when she tilts her head and looks away from her. 

Sunghoon notices pictures that line your fireplace. He doesn’t recognize anybody except for you, but adores the way he can see how much you’ve grown up. There are pictures of you and your childhood friends together, one of you he assumes is on vacation, and a few of you and your college friends littered throughout your space. It makes him realize there’s more to you than meets the eye, and for as long as he’s known you, Sunghoon gets the feeling he’s only scratched the surface.

He also tries not to think about the fact that his hands know what you feel like. Flashes of the early morning run through his mind. He loves the way you sound when you’re about to climax and had to keep himself in check before he made any rash decisions that the two of you would later regret. Sunghoon shifts in his seat and does his best to will his yearning because the last thing he wants is to sport a boner around Pochi, just for you to walk out and see him like that. What would you think of him then?

From the corner of Sunghoon’s eye, he sees Pochi grooming herself and tries to blink slowly when she makes eye contact with him. He feels silly and looks away when he starts to laugh at himself. In all of his years working with you, Sunghoon never thought he’d be playing nice with your cat. 

You emerge from your bedroom looking polished, and Sunghoon is impressed you were able to pull yourself together in fifteen minutes.  

“How do I look? Presentable enough?”

His eyes glance up and down your body. 

“Stunning as ever.” 

“Be serious, Sunghoon.” 

He walks to you and puts both of his hands on your hips, dragging them down to your waist before pulling your body flush against his.

“I’m serious. So gorgeous.” 

He learns in and slots his lips between yours, gently holding your body against himself. You get lost in it too, recalling the way Sunghoon’s fingers felt inside of you as he squeezes your body. The familiar ache emerges before you can even think about it, and you find yourself clenching against absolutely nothing. You think you’re somewhere between desperate and pathetic at this point, but Sunghoon can’t see or feel you down there for you to give a shit. 

“We should get breakfast,” you mumble against his mouth. 

“We should.” He doesn’t stop kissing you and your hands come to gently grip the lapel of his suit jacket. 

“There’s a place around the corner. Killer croissants and good espresso.” 

“Mhm.” Sunghoon pulls your arms away from his body to turn you around and press your ass right against his crotch, effectively caging you against his body while his lips litter short kisses down your neck. “Could eat you for breakfast, though.”

The moan that escapes your throat makes you feel embarrassed, but it makes Sunghoon’s pride swell. 

“W-Work,” you choke out as Sunghoon’s hand touches you above your work trousers. His fingers make out the ridges of your folds and slots his index finger between them. “We need to get to work.” 

“You’re no fun.” Sunghoon pouts and lets you go, but not without giving your cheek a kiss. 

“You are such a fucking menace,” you say as you scold him. “In front of Pochi too?” 

“She wasn’t even looking. Relax.” 

You look and find that Pochi is indeed nowhere to be found. She’s perched on the windowsill behind your curtain and you breathe a short sigh of relief. 

“Did you make nice with her?” 

“I ignored her, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“Good,” you say with a definite nod. “She’ll like you in no time.” 

“I’m not so sure about that? It feels counterintuitive to ignore an animal if you want them to get to like you.”

“Cats and dogs are different, though.” You unlock your door and slip your shoes on at the same time after you’ve double checked that everything you need is in your work bag. “Dogs need love and affection all the time. Cats pick and choose when they want to receive it.” 

“Is that why your brother calls you a cat? Because you’re picky about all the people you let into your life?” 

He follows you out and watches you lock the door. 

“Mhm. I wouldn’t have let you touch me if I didn’t want you to.” 

“Is that so?” 

“Don’t think you’re special just because you’re my boss, Park. Keep up.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

***

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[lovebugism]

reader taking care of bob (thunderbolts) during a depressive episode? 🥹

ty for requesting!! — you like taking care of bob on his bad days. he isn't quite sure why (friends in love, fluff, thunderbolts spoilers, cw for mentions of depression and suicidal ideation | 1.4k words)

Bob has his bad days. And he’s not just talking about that stint in New York.

Sometimes he can’t get out of bed, can’t take care of himself, can’t go outside. There are days when he can’t find a reason to be an actual functioning human being, so he takes to rotting in his room — and trying not to suffocate beneath the crushing knowledge that the rest of the world is living on just fine without him. 

He’ll hear the rest of the team laughing or otherwise arguing a floor below, while he hasn’t spoken a word all day because he can’t find the energy to. He’ll go to sleep without having left the four walls of his bedroom, or his bed for that matter, while fighting the black shroud of death that never quite seems to leave him.

It’s been that way his whole life: constant cycles of great days followed by the no-good-very-bad ones that he’s always distantly fearful might be the end of him. So Bob counts himself lucky that he’s got you for those days, and all the days in between. 

“I think the blonde’s finally washed out,” you observe gently as you brush through his freshly washed curls. You get a whiff of the strawberry-scented shampoo with every swipe of the comb from where you sit just behind him on the bed. Bob, meanwhile, slouches on the floor between your legs and fiddles nervously with one of the many skincare products you’ve stacked beside him.

This is often what your “sleepovers” look like — which is what you call the many nights where the rest of the team’s out on a mission and you’re left babysitting the leftovers. (Bob’s almost certain you only call it that so you have an excuse to take care of him.)

“Really?” Bob hums distantly, fighting back a shiver. He’d much rather blame his chills on the water droplets falling from his hair and dampening the neck of his white t-shirt than the fact that he’s just not used to being touched so gently. Not used to being touched at all. 

“Yeah,” you say with an audible smile. “I like your hair better this way.”

Bob scoffs pessimistically. “Shit brown?”

“It’s more like chocolate. Or chestnut, maybe— with little flakes of gold.”

Something in your words strikes him deep. Makes his chest go all warm and sparkly. He doesn’t know how you see such beauty in him when he can hardly look in the mirror without snarling in disgust most days. You still think he’s got so much good left in him, even after Valentina made him hurt you, even after he nearly took out a whole city without blinking. 

He doesn’t get it. 

In fact, the thought alone makes him so dizzy that his head starts to hurt. 

“I— I’m sorry about this,” Bob apologizes through a breathy, awkward laugh. “Just— By the way.”

“Sorry about what?”

“You, you know, having to take care of me and everything.”

“Don’t apologize,” you giggle and drag the brush from his temple, around the curve of his ear, and down towards his neck. “I like taking care of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Bob chuckles with a stubborn shake of his head.

“I do. Honest.” 

The mattress squeaks when you rise from it. Bob tilts his chin and peers up at you with a pair of dark, glittering eyes as you round him. “So… what?” he lilts with a shy half-smile. “You’d rather be here than off fighting crime with the New Avengers?”

“Yes,” you answer automatically, scoffing like it’s obvious, as you sit on the ground across from him. You settle between his parted legs with your own curled beneath you and twist the cap off of something that says deep hydrating face cream.

“I would much rather be here with you than god knows where with Walker trying to tell everyone what to do, and Ava and Yelena shouting at him, and Bucky trying to shout over all of them, and…”

You trail off. The lid unscrews with a quiet pop. You flash Bob a shy smile and a pair of squinted eyes. “Basically, what I’m saying is this is practically heaven compared to that.”

Bob’s face flares. He shakes his head and looks away. His eyes find a rogue piece of glitter in your carpet and lock there. “You don’t mean that…”

“Actually, I do—” You swipe two fingers through the white lotion and set it off to the side. “—Here. Look at me.”

You shift an inch towards him and lift a hand towards his face. Bob flinches on instinct despite wanting you so much closer. “Sorry,” he apologizes, ‘cause that’s his instinct, too.

Your eyes go wide and dart worriedly across his face. “Did I do something?”

“No! No, it’s not— It’s not you,” Bob stammers with his eyes squeezed shut. “It’s— It’s me. I don’t wanna…”

His voice breaks, fragile as glass, and he trails off. He doesn’t have the words for it — what he did to you, how he did it. He only knows that you saved his life, and touched his hand, and saw something that terrified you. He doesn’t know what it was, only that he won’t forget how frightened of him you looked.

You don’t look so scared of him now, though.

Instead, you look at him with your eyes wide and full of hope — like you love being this close to him, like you can’t wait to get closer. 

“You won’t. I promise.”

This time, when you reach for him, you do it slowly. You give him ample time to stop you before you cup his jaw in your hand, slightly scruffy and still flushed from a steaming shower. You cradle his face in your palms without a vision of a long-gone horror flashing across your eyelids. You just feel safe. Warm. A strange sort of happy emotion that still makes you feel like crying.

“See?” you lilt with a sunshine smile. 

Bob swallows hard as your fingertips swipe softly across his face. Your middle and ring fingers trace over the dark circles under his eyes in a feather-light touch as you rub in the moisturizer. Your fingertips follow his cheekbones as they rise to his temples before sliding down and across his stubbly jaw.

He keeps his eyes shut as he tries hopelessly to recall the last time he was ever touched this gently — if he ever has before — if he even deserves it.

“That day…” he starts suddenly, slowly. “You know, the day you guys found me…”

“Mhm?” you hum to egg him on.

“When you pulled me up out of that elevator…” Bob’s dark eyes flutter open again, swimming with honey and apprehension. “What did you see?”

He watches you falter, but only briefly. It’s a faint flicker in your eye that he wouldn’t have noticed if he didn’t already notice everything about you.

Your face twitches slightly, like his question single-handedly brings back the dreaded memories you’ve been trying to shove down for years.

“Uh, Hydra,” you stammer, swallowing hard and sitting back on your haunches. You can’t find the strength to meet his gaze, so you focus on your hands as you rub the remaining moisturizer into your palms. “I came back from a mission I couldn’t finish— A children’s hospital full of ‘failed test subjects’ that wanted me to get rid of, and I couldn’t do it… And they punished me for it.”

You decide to save him the gritty, bloody details of what had happened to you that day, but Bob still flinches like he knows everything you’re not telling him. He feels like he does, in a way. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles when he can’t find the words to say.

You flash him a quiet smile and a soft look beneath your lashes. “It’s not your fault.”

Bob scoffs an emotionless laugh. “Well, I mean, it kinda is—”

You reach suddenly for his face again, and his eyes go wide. Your touch is still as gentle as ever, but stern still, as you force him to meet your gaze. “It isn’t,” you repeat with an unyielding stare. “And, you know, despite the circumstances and everything, my life’s actually gotten a whole lot better since you’ve been in it.”

Bob’s face burns at your confession, even more so at your touch. “...Really?” is all he can squeak out.

“Really,” you echo with a firm nod.

He shifts awkwardly, uncomfortable in his skin, and tilts his cheek further into your palm “Like… Even on my bad days?” he mumbles, distantly dreading the answer.

“Especially on your bad days,” you laugh. “‘Cause you’re the only one that lets me braid your hair.”

“That’s the only reason why you like me?” Bob laughs, trying to play it cool even though his hopeful eyes give everything away. “‘Cause I let you braid my hair?”

You smile at his smiling. “Mhm. The only reason,” you nod, obviously playful in a way that makes his heart skip a beat (or three). “Nothing else at all.”

[roanofarcc]

THE BLEEDING, BEATING HEART

pairing: yelena belova x reader (requested)

summary: yelena struggles to find her footing in a team dynamic after so many years of working alone, but when things get tough she has you to lean on.

warnings: self-doubt, sad yelena, a little bit of hurt with comfort! mentions of the OG avengers

word count. 1.2k || masterlist

It was early, too early to be awake, but your mind decided to wake long before your body was ready to take on the day. With a groan, you forced yourself out of bed and dragged yourself to the kitchen of the Watchtower, desperate for a mug of coffee. 

It was a rare day off for the team, as long as no major threats decided to sweep in, so you believed everyone to still be sleeping until you noticed a pot of coffee already made and at least two cups missing. 

No one was in the kitchen or the living room. Curious as to who was awake at such an early hour, you quietly made your way through the spots in the tower where anyone else could have been. Landing outside the training room, which was still half under construction, you heard repetitive grunts in time with hits on one of the punching bags. 

Stepping inside, holding the warm mug of coffee between your hands, you spotted Yelena. She was wide awake, dressed in her training gear, and a good while into her set. Her blonde hair was slicked back and sweat beaded her forehead. 

“Yelena,” you called out. She stopped, holding her balled fists at her chest. “This doesn’t look like taking a day off.” 

She rolled her eyes playfully. “I’m relaxing.” 

You raised your brows, stepping closer to her. “You seem awfully tense, actually.” It looked as if her whole body was pulled like a rubber band waiting to be snapped. You had noticed her odd behavior for the past week, but you had chalked it up to the shit-show that was the latest mission. 

As the ‘woman in the chair,’ you weren’t on site for their missions, but rather managing comms, taking down intel, and acting as their eyes from above if you were able to hack your way into a security system. Even without being on site, you knew the mission hadn’t gone as everyone had hoped. It was messy, dangerous, and almost resulted in major injuries if it hadn’t been for the team's watchful eye for one another. Despite the mission being completed and deemed a technical success, when they arrived home, you knew their mistakes and missteps weighed on them. You especially saw it in Yelena. 

Yelena huffed, dropping her hands at her sides before grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat from her face. “You know, I could ask you the same question. Why are you awake?” 

“Well, I thought it was because my mind refuses to shut off for too many hours, but now I’m thinking it was gut telling me to check up on you.” 

“I don’t need to be checked up on,” Yelena said, turning her back to you as she rummaged through her training bag for a water bottle. 

If it had been months prior, you would have let her be after that, but you had grown to know Yelena over your time spent living at the tower together. She was impossibly tough, but there was a softness that wasn’t often taken care of and overlooked by other herself and everyone else. But you saw it, a little weakness that made her human, much to her dismay. 

You placed a hand on her shoulder, half expecting her to shrug you off, but she didn’t. Instead, she turned around to face you and hung her head. “Fine,” she muttered. “I screwed up. I made a bad call during the mission, and I…I don’t know what I was thinking, but now I can’t think of anything else. Okay? Happy?” She fell back on the bench, and you followed, sitting beside her with enough space between you so as to not make her feel suffocated. 

“You’re not perfect, Yelena. No one is. You made a call that you thought was right, and it wasn’t,” you said. “It happens. It’ll probably happen again, but the important thing is you realized it and you corrected it.” 

“Yeah, but not before Walker took a bullet in the arm,” Yelena sighed, fidgeting with her hands in her lap. “They looked to me to take the call, and I…I let them down. I don’t know how to do this.” 

You furrowed your brows, watching her intently. “Do what?” 

She didn’t meet your gaze but rather kept her focus forward. “Work as a team. I’ve been on my own, doing missions on my own for so long. Reporting to someone else is one thing, but being the one others look at to make decisions is pressure I don’t know if I can handle. Why me? Why do they look to me?” 

Despite the hurt that her words drew, you smiled softly, itching to reach out for her but refraining. Yelena was a complicated person with an even more complicated past. You didn’t want to push her, even if you ached to hold her hand, hug her, even brush some loose strands of hair behind her ear. 

“Probably for the same reason the Avengers looked at your sister during the Blip.” 

Yelena snapped her attention onto you, startled and confused. You had been there during the Blip, when the disbanded team crawled back together. It was Nastasha who called you in, once having you aid in undercover missions when you were a fresh-faced S.H.I.E.L.D operative who had a hunch something darker was going on within the organization. You had been young, inexperienced in the world of super-powered humans, betrayal, and complicated politics, but you had helped regardless, getting yourself in a fair amount of trouble. You had been lying low when the Blip happened, only to find Nastasha at your front door asking you if you wanted to help save the universe. 

You couldn’t give much, but you had nothing else to lose or to do. You watched the Avengers and company bring everyone back, only to lose Natasha and others in the process. 

“Steve had said, even before then, that your sister was the heart of the Avengers. The bleeding, beating heart. I think you, Yelena, are so much like her.” You turned toward her, bumping your knees against hers. “You’re the heart of this team; that’s why they look to you.” 

Many emotions flickered across Yelena’s face, but she landed on a glossy-eyed gaze with her lips pointed downwards in a frown. “My sister was a hero. She helped save the universe. I could hardly lead the team through a standard intel removal.” 

“Everyone else seems to think you’re a hero.” 

She laughed humorlessly, looking up at the light like she was trying to prevent any tears from leaking out. “Because Valentina set us up so we wouldn’t kill her right there on the street.” 

“Fair, but that was after you guys saved Bob and the city. That sounds like a hero to me,” you said. “This team trusts you because they can see what I see. What the Avengers saw in your sister, they see it in you.”

Yelena’s head tipped down, a few tears falling with it. She grumbled under her breath and wiped her cheeks. “Shit. You cannot say things that make me cry this early.” 

With a hesitant hand, you softly squeezed Yelena’s knee. She stared at it for a moment before letting herself linger in her feelings a little longer. She leaned in and wrapped her arms around you, her head falling onto your shoulder. You hugged her back tightly. 

“Maybe you should start doing the pep talks before missions instead of Alexei,” Yelena mumbled into your shoulder, tired body heavy against yours. 

You snorted out a laugh. “Yeah, you try telling him that.”

[larkshark]

Question 9!

“If they had to be put in a “get along shirt” with a companion, who would it be?”

Aria butts heads the most with Wyll, given her love of chaos and his desire to always do “the right thing”. After her lineage and his history with Mizora are revealed they kind of tentatively get closer and nicer to each other, Aria because she respects his willingness to fight for what he cares about even when outnumbered and Wyll because, well, having daddy issues is honestly a little relatable and he no longer sees her murder-y tendencies as her acting out, rather he sees her controlling those tendencies as her doing her best in the face of adversity. That said, they’re never actually all that close.

For Darra it’s Gale for the first few acts and Shadowheart the whole time (Karlach never joined the party (RIP) and a) Wyll is scared of her and b) she’s pretty good about keeping her nature hidden until the very end). Darra finds Gale to be honestly rather spineless until the bit with the crown, as well as being far too chatty for her tastes and not letting her have some damn peace and quiet. Gale finds her closed off and even downright mean sometimes, as well as frustratingly dismissive of books and information.

Shadowheart started off in her bad books for her blatant hatred of Lae’zel and then continued on to be (in Darras opinion) a whiny brat with a holier-than-thou attitude. Shadowheart finds Darra to be a brute who always sides with Lae’zel over her even when she’s clearly right and is the emotional equivalent of talking to a brick wall that might punch you. This is only made worse when she embraces Shar, who Darra sees as a particularly idiotic and weak goddess who can’t make up her mind on anything. She did enjoy kicking Viconia out of her enclave though.

Sloan gets along with most of her party members just fine (or even more than fine), but Astarion (and later Minthara when she joins them) get on every last nerve she has. She finds Astarion pointlessly violent and stuck-up, not to mention seemingly incapable of caring about a single other person. It also didn’t help that he STARTED by attacking her for no reason and then being all high and mighty about it. In his more vulnerable or understanding moments she feels some empathy for him and tries to help, but they bicker a LOT, especially in the first few acts. Astarion finds her to be overly righteous most of the time, even though she has some good moments (like punching Aradin in the grove), and her unwillingness to let him do anything fun pisses him off a bit. Also her unreceptiveness to his flirting while being VERY receptive to just about everyone else (she does eventually warm up to the idea a little but never really feels he’s being sincere, and ultimately her reluctance to take him up on anything makes him feel more comfortable asking her about things like his back scars). Astarion and Sloan slowly get more ok with each other over time, and are willing to rely on the other without question during a fight, but even through act 3 they still butt heads relatively regularly.

Sloan takes way longer to warm up to Minthara in any meaningful way, and even then, Minthara is regularly ruining any progress she’s made towards them being ok with each other. Basically Minthara escaped during the pandemonium of them killing the goblins and when she popped up in moonrise again the others felt bad for her and pressured Sloan into saving her, so Sloan was never really on board with her joining the party in the first place. As much as she recognizes Minthara had been brainwashed, she really doesn’t feel like she’s owed that much sympathy, and finds her agressive nature and penchant for slavery and murder to be a little much. Minthara finds Sloan to be curiously weak and overly trusting, as well as being annoyed at her unwillingness to do what Minthara thinks is right. Her comment about enslaving the refugees ultimately made Sloan punch her, which made their relationship a little weirder since Minthara almost respected her doing that since Sloan hadn’t really been standing up to her before and Sloan was Very Pissed at her for a good long while.

20 Tav QOTDs

a compilation of questions i’ve seen on twitter + ones i’ve come up with myself <3 can be used as an ask game or as a daily game!

what do they smell like at their freshest? (and/or after a tenday. your choice)

what would their blood taste like to vampires?

how would they kiss their LI?

how do they sleep with their LI (what position, does one steal the blankets, is one too hot/cold, etc)?

what does their tent area look like? where do they prefer to pitch their tent (next to water, covered on three sides, etc)?

if they had a set of dnd dice, what would they look like?

do they collect anything (gems, bottles, keys, etc)?

if either, are they part of the astarion/gale book club (magic & literature) or the wyll/shadowheart book club (trashy romance novels)?

if they had to be put in a “get along shirt” with a companion, who would it be?

do they prefer speak with dead or speak with animals?

what are their thoughts on clowns?

their companions are gossiping about them behind their back! who is it and what are they saying?

what makes them laugh? what does their laugh sound like?

do they have any inside jokes among their companions?

what’s the description of their camp clothes in the inventory menu?

what’s the description of their underwear in the inventory menu?

how do they celebrate their birthday?

what modern day tv show would they binge over a weekend? do they get their LI to watch with them?

do you have a playlist for your tav? if so, what’s the title + description?

if you were to try pickpocketing them, what would they be carrying?

[maskedbyghost]

With possessive reader what is it gonna be like when she’s decided it time Simon proposes? Like is she a this is the ring you buy me girl or is she a it’s a shame I don’t have a ring to show off to the bitches who dare to flirt with you girl?

I love your series so much! ❤️❤️❤️

I think possessive!reader is absolutely the “it’s a shame I don’t have a ring to flash at the girls eye-fucking you from across the room” kind of girl.

You’re not shy about it. You’re not coy. You don’t drop sweet little hints about marriage—you make it a goddamn territorial threat.

You don’t care about the wedding, you don’t care about the diamond, you just care about making it publicly known that Simon Riley belongs to you and no one else.

Something permanent. Something no one can argue with. You don’t want a pretty proposal under the stars; you just want a visible warning label on your man.

You’re out one night with him and a few of the guys, tucked into his side with your drink in hand, and you’ve already noticed the two girls sitting at the next table who won’t stop glancing over. They’re not even trying to be subtle about it—giggling, whispering, giving him looks that make your blood boil. Simon hasn’t noticed. He’s relaxed, laughing with Johnny, focused on his beer, and not paying attention. But you are. Of course you are.

You don’t even bother whispering when you say, “Y’know, if I had a ring on my finger, bitches might stop thinking they’ve got a shot.”

Simon turns and just stares at you. His mouth opens, then closes again, like he’s trying to figure out whether to be offended or terrified. You just keep sipping your drink, resting your hand on his thigh like nothing happened.

“Not asking,” you add. “Just saying. Might be smart to lock it down before someone gets hurt.”

Johnny chokes into his drink, but Simon doesn’t laugh. He just squints at you like you’ve grown horns, making you smile sweetly.

Later, back home, you’re in bed scrolling through your phone, and he leans over your shoulder to see three tabs open—engagement rings, all wildly different styles. When he raises an eyebrow, you don’t even try to hide it.

“What?” you say. “Just wanted to see what those other girls won’t be getting.”

He groans, mutters something about you being a menace, and rolls over with his arm flung over his eyes. You toss your phone aside, climb over him, and sit on his chest until he looks at you.

“I’m not saying you need to propose tomorrow,” you say, tone way too casual. “But I am saying if another girl makes a joke about how available you seem, I will propose to myself with your credit card and then beat her with the receipt.”

He looks up at you with that stunned face, like he’s not sure if he should argue or marry you right there.

You lean in, press your forehead to his, and whisper, “Just think about it, yeah?”

And yeah. He will. Right after he survives being so deeply and dangerously wanted by someone who’s already one bad look away from proposing for him.

And the bitch actually proposes after a fight one day.

You were on the couch, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the TV that wasn’t even on, trying to look unbothered even though your heart was still thudding from everything you’d screamed at each other half an hour ago.

Then, out of nowhere, he stopped in front of you.

“You think I’m leaving?”

You blinked up at him, annoyed already. “Did I say that?”

“No. But you look like you’re waiting for it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

His hand went into his pocket. You almost laughed—because really, what now? Another excuse? A lighter for a stress smoke? A grenade?

But then he dropped something into your lap.

A ring.

You stared at it, your mind blank.

He didn’t kneel, didn’t soften. He looked exhausted and angry and—himself.

“You wanna throw shit at me for the rest of our lives? Fine. Say yes.”

You blinked again.

“I wanna fight with you and make up with you and argue about fucking curtains and then fuck you until the neighbors call the cops. Got it?” His voice cracked a little. “So say yes. Because I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you.”

You picked up the ring and slipped it on like it was always meant to be there.

And then, without even looking at him, you muttered, “I was gonna carve my initials into your chest tonight but I guess this works.”

He sat down next to you with a groan and covered his face. “Fuckin’ psycho.”

You leaned into him, proud. “Yours.”

----------------------------------------

fuck me i love them so much you guysss.... also, thank you for the request love <3333

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs

[delilahsturniolo]

— ★ party 4 u . . . m.s

(making out, cheating, reader is in a toxic relationship, being intoxicated, drinking & mentions of alcohol, suggestive but no smut.)

requested by anon!

you’re five drinks in and already regretting every second of this party. the room spins around you in lazy circles. the music is so loud it rattles in your chest, making your head throb with every beat. sweaty bodies bump into you. someone spills a drink near your feet. you don’t care. you can barely stand straight, but that’s not what’s bothering you.

it’s him.

your boyfriend is draped over you like a bad habit. his arm is slung around your shoulders, his breath hot against your neck, and he reeks of whiskey and weed. you shift uncomfortably, trying to slide out from under him, but he only grips tighter.“where the hell do you think you’re going?” he slurs into your ear, loud and mean and unmistakably drunk.

“i just need a little air,” you mutter, not even sure he hears you. he scoffs, pulling back enough to look at you with narrowed eyes. “what, you’re gonna start crying again? god, you’re so fucking dramatic.” you flinch. maybe he doesn’t notice. or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. “you dragged me here,” you remind him, voice barely above a whisper. “i didn’t even wanna come.”

he laughs, mean and sharp. “then why’d you put on that dress? huh? trying to get attention? ‘cause congrats, baby. mission accomplished.” you feel your throat tighten, heat rising behind your eyes. you’re not sure if it’s from the alcohol or the words or just… the weight of it all. you pull out your phone with shaky fingers. “who the fuck are you texting?” he snaps. “no one,” you say, not looking at him.

you storm off outside, you just hit the call button. it rings once. twice. “hello?” matt’s voice is low and groggy, he was probably asleep. your heart squeezes at the sound of it. “can you come get me?” your voice is thick and cracked. “please, i… i need to leave.” there’s a pause. “where are you?” you send him the address, barely able to type through the blur of your vision. “i’m on my way. stay outside, alright?”

you hang up, slipping your phone back in your pocket and standing. your boyfriend grabs your wrist. “you’re seriously leaving?” he sneers. “you’re such a fucking joke.” you yank your hand away. “don’t talk to me like that.” he snorts. “whatever. go run to matt. i don’t give a fuck.”

you don’t say anything. you stumble into the cool night air, head spinning in a way that’s no longer just about the alcohol. your body feels heavy. your heart, heavier. ten minutes later, matt’s car pulls up. you practically fall into the passenger seat.

“jesus,” he says softly, reaching across you to buckle your seatbelt. “you okay? you’re wasted, kid.”

“i’m fine,” you slur. slumping against the window. “thanks for coming.” he doesn’t press the conversation, he just starts driving. the car ride is quiet. too quiet. you can feel him glancing at you from time to time, but he doesn’t say anything. not until you’re pulling into his driveway. “you shouldn’t keep going back to him,” matt says, cutting the engine. his voice is low, rough. “he treats you like shit.”

“i know.”

you both sit there for a second, the silence buzzing. “you deserve better,” he adds, softer this time.

you turn your head to look at him. his jaw is tense. his hands are still on the wheel like he’s grounding himself. “then why haven’t you done anything?” you ask, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “if you care so much… why haven’t you ever tried?” his eyes snap to yours. you don’t know who leans in first. maybe it’s you. maybe it’s him. but then his mouth is on yours, and suddenly the world falls out from under your feet. it’s not gentle. it’s not sweet.

it’s desperate.

his hands are in your hair, tilting your head, and your fingers clutch at his hoodie like he’s the only thing holding you together. your lips part on instinct, and he takes it as an invitation, deepening the kiss, tongue brushing yours, tasting like heat and something so long buried it hurts.

you moan against his mouth, and it’s like a switch flips in him. his hands slide to your waist, gripping tight, pulling you closer across the center console. you don’t even care that you’re still in the car, still wearing that stupid dress you put on for a boy who didn’t deserve you. because this…this is what you needed.

this is what you’ve been craving.

his mouth trails to your jaw, down your neck, lips hot against your skin. your breath catches, and you tilt your head to give him more. your thigh brushes his, and he groans low in his throat, like he’s barely holding himself back. you whisper his name, and it breaks something. he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, lips pink and swollen, breathing hard. his eyes widened, realizing what just happened. you were drunk, you both just kissed, you had a boyfriend.

“we should…go inside,” he says, voice wrecked. you nod. your hand finds his. and for the first time all night, you feel something like relief. but fuck, this was wrong, this was so fucking wrong.

but yet, it felt so right.

© delilahsturniolo

[pagesfromthevoid]

saw your bob post and decided to say my thoughts🙏

he’s definitely submissive (or at the very least, not dominant). i love the thought of him reaching out to hold readers hand when he’s getting overwhelmed, pretty whimpers leaving his mouth as they play w his dick🤤 also imagining him desperate to suck on ur tongue as he dry humps ur thigh—

okay i’ll chill out now but gahdayum he is FINE😛

These can combined I think 👀

But listen. I think for the first like, six months? Maybe the first year —he’s definitely not confident enough to be the one that makes any kind of move. I don’t want to give him a label as dominate or submissive because they just…don’t work for him. He’s a broken guy —he’s healing, he’s being helped —but it’s hard. Smut below the cut:

He would, however, crave physical touch. Especially because he’s so scared that if he touches anyone, they’ll be trapped a shame room and he doesn’t wish that on anyone.

He especially doesn’t want that to happen to you.

But you’re patient, and kind. And you don’t seem to mind that he’s always as close as he can be without actually touching you (he has no sense of personal space, which annoys everyone except you, Yelena and Alexei. The others will politely remind him to step away just a bit, and he’s totally okay with that).

Bob likes his little book nook, but he also likes your room. It’s warmly lit, and smells good, and it just feels like a welcoming place. So if he’s not in his corner, he’s usually sitting on the floor of your room, reading, while you lay in bed and scroll through your phone.

His back aches, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s fine where he’s at, and he doesn’t want to get up and leave. Or disrupt the serene quiet of your room. But he shifts, and his back cracks and he lets out a groan.

You roll over onto your stomach and look down at him, brow raised. “You good?”

He nods frantically, apologizing for being loud. But you wave it off. “You don’t have to sit on the floor, you know. You can come sit on the bed. I won’t bite unless you ask.”

He flushes at the comment, looking down for a moment. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t fantasized about you putting your lips on him —but he knew better than to act on anything. It just…it wasn’t safe.

You pat the bed, drawing his attention again, and he stands up with his book. You scoot over, closer to the wall, and smile up at him patiently. Bob swallows hard and slips into your bed, brushing against you just barely. Even that touch —barely there, barely anything —sends a shiver through him. It had been so long since he was close to someone.

Yeah, the team had hugged him when they stopped Void. But that was a safety kind of thing. And it was nice, but he was scared of dying at that point. There was a difference between safety touching and intimacy and he…he really wanted that. With you.

The comfortable silence takes over again, and after a while you both end up engrossed in your own activities. Bob is focused on his book —sort of. Every time you move or adjusted your position, you got slightly closer. Touched him a little more. And he was distracted by thoughts of how you would feel on top of him. Not even in a sexual way; just…your weight, pressed against him, safe and close.

He freezes when your head falls to his shoulder. Nothing bad happens —no shame spirals, no nightmares. But you’re asleep, phone loosely sitting in your hand, and he considers if he should wake you up. But the selfish part of him —the touch starved part —decides to let you lay against him.

Though you adjust again, and push yourself further down into your pillows. Bob doesn’t want you to move but lets you do whatever you want to be comfortable. Except your cheek presses against his thigh, your head finding itself in his lap.

He panics. You’re so close. So warm. And he doesn’t know what to do with his book because it was in his lap but now you are. So he sets it down, folding his hands over his chest because he doesn’t know what to do. You’re actually asleep —breathing soft and even —and he really doesn’t want to wake you up.

So cautiously, he rests a hand on your back. When you don’t stir, he draws circles into your T-shirt in a way he hopes is soothing. His other hand plays with a strand of your hair, trying to keep himself from panicking. He worries you can hear how hard his heart is beating, because he’s pretty sure it’s going to explode out of his chest at any moment. But you don’t wake, and you both lay there for a long time.

He loses track of time; enough so that he’s starting to doze off himself. But you adjust again, just barely, and your hand rests under your cheek on his thigh and he almost jolts up from the touch.

You’re asleep. You’re not…you’re not purposely trying to touch him like this, he knows that, but he can’t help it. You’re so close, and so warm, and nothing bad has happened since you fell asleep. His head falls back into your pillows, trying to think of anything besides how close your hand and mouth are to his cock, but even trying to think about other things leads back to that thought, and there’s nothing he can do but try to adjust away the hard on he’s sporting.

Maybe he can slip a pillow into his lap. Then you have something to lay on and something to hide in case you wake up. But when he moves to take a pillow from behind him, you stir snd yawn. And then he really panics because he knows you’re awake —hyperaware of your eyelashes brushing against his leg as you blink away sleep.

“Oh,” you yawn, though you don’t move away from him. Actually, he swears to god, you move your hand even closer. “I’m sorry —I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

“It’s uh, it’s totally fine,” he practically whimpers, swallowing hard. Shaking his head. “Not your fault.”

“I think this is though,” you murmur, brushing your hand just barely over the bulge in his sweats. Bob buckles, his fingers tangling into your shirt as you glance up at him. “Do you…can I help you out?”

“God, please,” he begs, nodding frantically as you slowly run your hand over his clothed cock. He’s breathing hard, and he probably sounds like an idiot. But he can’t help it. Even through his clothes, your touch is soft and enticing and he just. He wants more. But he can’t bring himself to ask. “Anything. Please, you can —anything.”

“Don’t say that,” you laugh softly, sitting up some to look up at him. Your hand dances along the edge of his waist band. “‘Anything’ is a lot of power.”

“Anything,” he insists, lower stomach contracting some as your fingers slip under and against his skin.

But your touch is gone too soon, and he whines as he opens his eyes. You haven’t gone far —actually, on the contrary. You’re sitting up on your knees and straddling his lap. Just like he’d imagined before —your weight pressed against his body was wonderful. He’s hesitant to touch you, afraid he’ll do something wrong, but you take hands and hold them against your hips.

“You’re allowed to touch me, Bob,” you promise, letting go of his hands. He cautiously squeezes your hips as you reach up to take his face in your hands. “Can I kiss you?”

“God, yes. Please,” he pleads, and without thinking about it, he’s pulling you in by your hips as you close the distance between you both.

He doesn’t care if he’s coming off as desperate or pathetic. Your mouth on his is even better than he could have imagined. Your hands in his hair could have been heaven. But when you press yourself down into his clothed cock, he whimpers. He feels your smile against his mouth, and you press down harder and grind yourself against him. He opens his mouth and pushes his hips up to meet yours, and you take full advantage of his open mouth to slide your tongue against his.

Bob wants to melt into your touch. Your hands tugging at his hair, your teeth nipping at his lips, and your body pressing against his —he’s not even sure when it happens, because he’s too focused on every little touch. But he groans, holding you tight by your hips against him as he cums in his pants.

“Oh god,” he sighs, pressing his forehead into your shoulder. He’s shaking and he doesn’t know if it’s from all of this or embarrassment. “I’m —shit, I’m sorry —I didn’t —,”

But you’re grinning at him, pressed against him still, but your hand is running through his hair. “It’s okay. That’s what I wanted.”

He pulls back, looking up at you and the teasing grin on your face.

Yeah. You could do whatever you wanted to him and he’d thank you for it, he decides in that moment.

[billysgirllol]

“you’re the only one sayin’ that.” she isn’t calling him gay at all, but if it bothers him then fine, that’s what she’s saying then but that’s all on him. lucy gray steps into the room and barely finds it surprising he’s not here because he’s chicken. “sex tape with who?” stepping back, putting her hands on her hips. “oh, well i bet they did.” big brown eyes roll again. “it’s just a name. it doesn’t imply you like it up the hind end.” her jaw sets, “i just have a bad habit of callin’ everyone little pet names.” shouldn’t really have to explain that, she’s the type to call the stranger in a gas station babydoll, thanks babydoll, while getting her change back — it’s not something she really thinks on before saying. why the hell is it all the sudden a big deal to poke fun at her about? the liking it up the ass comment is just unnecessary, he been hanging round jesse without her knowing it after all? makes her eyes roll again. “what are you doin’ anyway? HIDIN?” uncapping the marker, ready to draw on his ass cheeks if she can get a hold of them.

“not little ole me.” lucy gray playfully claims, acting as if she didn’t just admit it. “couldn’t have unlocked my heart better with those three ingredients.” she laughs, “well you might as well, it’s your titty anyway.” doe eyes roll, throwing it at his head instead, “since when are you grossed out about anything anyway?” THAT’S a first.

[daosies]

birds, flowers, stars, and you

this piece is part of the spring & swag event!!

Xavier pines after you like a fool! Oh, and who's Jeremiah anyway?

xavier ♡ gn!reader

warnings: jealous boyflop xavier, reader is the protagonist but gender neutral, allusions to xavier's myth lore, pre-established relationship

notes: MY SPIRIT ANIMAL IS WHEN XAVIER DOES THAT LIKE PATHETIC SAD INNOCENT FACE OF HIS I LOVE HIM ヾ(≧▽≦*)o

“Do you like birds?” Xavier asks, hovering over your shoulder, his eyes never once parting from your face. 

“What?” The movement of your pen comes to a halt. You crane your head over to catch a glimpse of Xavier, not ready for the proximity that exists—or rather, doesn’t—between your faces. In the reflection of his blue-grey eyes, you can see yourself; shocked.

Xavier’s gaze never once wavers from yours, his blue-grey eyes never taking the time to blink, desperate to drink your expression in; sublime. 

“Do you?” he reiterates, his voice steady. You wonder if you’re the only one who’s bewildered. 

Turning away, your face growing warm, you respond, "Yeah, I like birds.” 

Xavier’s gaze never once wavers from the expression on your face, the way you begin to fiddle with the pen, the way your eyes cast downwards, staring at the post-mission report. What would it take? Xavier wonders, his lips drawing into a thin line. To become a report? 

What would it take to be the pen that balances in between your fingers? What would it take to be the chapstick that glides over your lips? 

Xavier wonders if you like birds (they’re always chirping outside his window), if you like strawberries (is that why that’s your chapstick flavor?) or if you like stars (you know, he knows a thing or two about stars), or if you like fish (he likes fish). 

Most of all, Xavier wonders if you like him. 

He’s always wondered that, really. Back then and now. Xavier has always had so much wonder within him; it stretches across planets, across galaxies, across timelines. Xavier’s wonder coexists with the rumble of his stomach, the spasm of his heart—it coexists as the wildest, however, with his brain, tucked away like a chain, tied to the fervent thought of you. Wonder. 

You look up at him, remaining seated in your chair, watching Xavier drift off into his own reveries, his brows furrowing while his bottom lip juts out slightly. 

“What about you?” you ask, feeling half-bad for him as he snaps from his stupor, staring at you with that look of his; that look where he frowns, just a little; that look where his eyes grow wide, glimmering; that look where he seems so tiny and so adorable that, for but a second, you forget that he’s supposed to be one of the best hunters at the Association. 

“Me?” He tilts his head a little, discombobulated. 

“Do you like birds?” 

“Yeah,” Xavier responds, nodding. “I love birds.” And fish. And stars. And you. 

“That makes the two of us then.” You grin. Xavier mirrors your smile, his blue-grey irises reflecting the expression which it beholds.

The next day, Xavier pulls up with a bird in hand.

“What?!” you exclaim, shocked. Xavier’s index finger and thumb come to form a circle around the neck of the bird, its feathers splaying all across his hand, its beady eyes blinking once, twice, before a chirp resounds from its opened beak. 

Despite being held like a fine lab specimen, the bird doesn’t seem to mind Xavier’s grip. You stare at its head, a shade of pale yellow while the rest of its body fades into a tender grey, spotted with white. 

“This is Alarm Clock,” Xavier finally explains, lifting the bird up slightly towards the artificial light. Alarm Clock juts its chin up towards the roof. You think you can make out the rays of the sun protruding from its head. 

“Alarm Clock?” you echo. “You keep birds, Xavier?”

He lowers Alarm Clock, the hints of a smile ghosting across his face. “No, not really.”

“But… you know this one?” 

“Alarm Clock wakes me up every day. That’s why it’s named alarm clock.”

“Oh.” You mirror his grin, and although his face doesn’t betray his thoughts, Xavier rejoices. He is going to go home today under the impression that he absolutely nailed it. You smiled at him like that too back in Philos, wholly, with your crinkled eyes and your gummy-like expression. That was love.

“Do you have more birds?” you ask, tilting your head slightly. Xavier sets Alarm Clock down, its beak sifting through your various reports and pens. 

“Yes. There’s one called Fatso.”

You laugh. “Wow.” The sound stays with him still, pervading, despite your gaze departing from him to stare at Alarm Clock, its outstretched wings drowning in your attention. This—he doesn’t pay any mind to the bird, his blue-grey eyes absorbing your features like light in a vacuum—this is love.

The next day, Xavier’s impression—that he swept all potential competitors, that he triumphed and won your smile and therefore your affection—completely shatters. 

You’re smiling. At Jeremiah. Who even is that? Xavier had brought you to a flower shop in an attempt to surprise you with a new side of himself; the gardener, florist side, which he doesn’t really tend to often, but he knows enough about since he knows Jeremiah—wait, no, because of sheer luck and personal passion. 

His flower knowledge has nothing to do with Jeremiah. Who even is that, anyway?

He did not intend to bring you to a flower shop so you could hit it off with some Jeremiah dude. 

“That’s hilarious!” you exclaim, unable to contain your laughter. Xavier scowls. What’s so hilarious? Jeremiah? Is Jeremiah hilarious? Maybe you’re just so joyous, finding mirth and humor in places where others don’t. Xavier likes—no, he loves that about you. 

“Right? And then—oh, hey, Xavier. When did you get here?” Jeremiah asks, smiling that damned smile of his. Xavier’s brows furrow for but a second, only a second, because your gaze quickly finds him and Xavier can’t afford to be frowning when you’re looking at him.

Like a vacuum, he absorbs your stare, your light, basking in its color and its magnitude. Colossal.

“I was here the whole time,” Xavier mutters, not even wanting to look at Jeremiah, for he can’t afford to waste his eyes on some random guy (again, who even is that?) when you’re right there. Tangible.

“Have you two known each other long?” you ask. Jeremiah hums vaguely. Xavier shakes his head. 

“Not that long.” 

Jeremiah doesn’t even bat an eye. 

“I’m just a florist.” Who even likes flowers anyway?

That’s right, Xavier thinks. Know your place. 

“Your flowers are really beautiful,” you affirm. “I love the lilies.” 

Did Xavier ever mention that he likes flowers? Maybe he should bring it up, so the two of you can talk about lilies and flora, and this good-for-nothing Jeremiah dude can go back to doing florist things. Or maybe not. Maybe this good-for-nothing Jeremiah dude can just see himself out. 

“Do you know flower language, [Name]?” Jeremiah asks, feigning ignorance to the piercing stare which stabs the side of his head, the faintest essence of a light blade which manifests at the base of his neck. He shivers. 

Still, Jeremiah thinks that the prank comes first. This is necessary. For Xavier’s own good. Because lilies, in flower language, symbolize rebirth; a fresh start; innocence. Jeremiah looks at you—the blade materializes fully, cool against his skin—and he thinks, truly, wholly, that this is it. The rebirth. The start. 

He looks at Xavier, who withdraws his scowling glare, and his sword, the moment you turn towards him. Well, Jeremiah thinks you were turning towards him, to be polite, of course, but Xavier makes an effort to step forward, effectively blocking your view of Jeremiah. Who even is that guy?

“No,” you reply glumly. “What do lilies mean?��� 

Xavier thinks, You. Jeremiah responds, “Rebirth.” 

This is a fresh start. This is a chance at redemption. This is it; the rebirth; the life; the moment. Everything will have been worth it. Every life, every death, every planet, every protocore—everything, everything! 

Xavier looks at you; like light in a vacuum. He absorbs the sight of your face greedily, the features which leave an imprint in his mind, a figure, a wish. Xavier has waited. He has always waited for you, after all; but this last time, he has waited a little longer. Three hundred years. 

Xavier looks at you; it was all worth it. The curve of your lips, the shape of your face, the ridge of your brows. Rebirth, a fresh start, a change. And yet, Xavier thinks that, across every life, every planet, every universe, you have always been as you are: ethereal. Otherworldly. Radiant. 

“Thank you for spending time with me today, Xavier,” you say, smiling. Only today? Xavier thinks. What’s a day in the face of a lifetime? His two-hundredth spring—how many days is that? Not enough. Xavier looks at you, Not enough. 

This—his gaze traces over your face, stopping and shuddering within the reflection of your pupils—this, this is not enough. His hands have become jealous of his eyes, unable to cup your face in between his grasp the same way that his irises can clutch onto your figure like a claw. 

To feel the warmth of a star, to hold the world, even for but a moment; Xavier wants. After all, he has only ever waited.

What’s a day in the face of a lifetime? Or two? Or three? Or, or—he returns your smile—or, a millennia? A universe? 

“I will always spend time with you,” Xavier states bluntly. “Always.”

Today, tomorrow, and the tomorrow thereafter, and many more tomorrows. This is a start. A rebirth. A change. A chance at redemption—and Xavier thinks that this is it. This is life. This is love. 

After all, both you and him like birds. And lilies. So, really, Xavier thinks that the two of you are meant to be; this is love.

[jellofish-plant]

Hiiii! I love your writing and scenarios smmm! I looove the way you write Jason's character!! I was wondering if you could make a hurt/comfort one, no pressure of course!!

Thats all! Hope you have an amazing dayy!

Stay With Me

Pairing: Jason Todd (Red Hood) x GN!Reader Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Soft Ending Warnings: Injuries, implied past trauma, blood mention, soft vulnerability, emotional intimacy

Summary: After a mission goes sideways, Jason stumbles into your apartment in the middle of the night—bruised, bloody, and trying to play it off like it’s no big deal. But you're done watching him bleed and brush it off like he doesn't matter. For once, he lets you in.

[Masterlist]

You wake to the sound of someone fumbling with your window. Not an unfamiliar sound, not anymore. You sit up, already halfway to the first aid kit on instinct.

“Jay?” your voice cuts the dark like a whisper through fog.

He slips inside, soaked in rain, leather torn, blood mixing with the grime on his jaw. Still masked. Still trying to pretend this is routine.

“I’m fine,” he grunts, just before nearly collapsing against the wall.

You’re at his side in seconds.

“No, you're not. Sit. Down.”

He doesn’t argue this time. That’s how you know it’s bad.

Later, after you’ve cleaned him up and wrapped his ribs, he's quiet. No quips, no smirks. Just sitting on your couch in a hoodie you gave him, eyes dark and distant.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he murmurs.

You take his hand gently. “You don’t have to go anywhere else. Ever.”

His fingers squeeze yours like a silent thank you he doesn’t know how to say out loud.

Tag list:

@dreamzaremyrealityy @not-herexo  @a-brilliante-mariposa @fandomtrashsblog @roastyyytoastyyy @cliosunshine @thesunxxtodd @deadbeatphobos @mxxnechos

[daxisyzz]

Hello!! I just happened to stumble across one of your short stories and I think they are incredible and absolutely adorable 🥹 I had an idea where the reader and Bucky are on a mission, having been mission partners for awhile now. What was supposed to be something simple takes a turn for the worse when the reader gets critically injured. The reader survives, but after coming so close to loosing them, Bucky realizes that he is in love with them. I'm imagining a cute fluffy scene in the hospital together towards the end. ^^ No pressure or anything, and if you can't get to it, that's perfectly alright :D Here's a happy Bucky GIF as payment lol. Have a good day!

heyyy!! Love this idea. Here's your fic <3

Bedside Confessions

Word count: 1.5k+

It’s not love.

At least, that’s what Bucky tells himself when his heart skips a beat watching you laugh across the common room. You’re lounging sideways on the couch, barefoot, wearing some ridiculous old band tee, waving your hands animatedly as you tease Sam about losing a bet. Bucky chuckles under his breath, sinking deeper into the armchair with a beer in hand, pretending like he’s paying more attention to the TV than to the way your smile lights up the room.

It's not love, it’s just...he’s comfortable around you. That’s all.

Right?

He watches you without meaning to, tracks the tilt of your head when you’re joking, the scrunch of your nose when you’re faking being offended, the way you tuck your legs up when you’re cozy. It feels easy. Natural. Like breathing.

Maybe that’s just what friendship feels like when it’s good. Really good.

He doesn't even question it when Steve saunters in with a tablet tucked under his arm and says, "Briefing in five. Bucky, you’re paired with Y/N again."

Bucky just grins. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

You hop off the couch, stretching your arms over your head, and Bucky tears his eyes away fast enough that he nearly gives himself whiplash.

Not love. Just...habit.

The mission seemed simple enough on paper.

A low-level hostage situation in an abandoned warehouse. In and out. Keep it clean, keep it quiet. But nothing ever really goes according to plan, especially when Hydra’s fingerprints are involved.

You and Bucky move through the dark, ruined building with practiced ease, shoulder to shoulder, covering each other like you've done a hundred times before.

You crack jokes over comms, whispering snide comments and bad puns that make Bucky snort so hard he nearly gives away your position once. You were always like that — a pressure valve when everything got too tense.

It’s when you’re clearing the second floor that everything goes sideways.

Gunfire erupts from behind a stack of broken crates, and you shove Bucky hard, taking the lead to draw fire away from him. You always were the reckless one, the one who moved first and thought second because you trusted him to have your back.

You do take the guy down, one clean shot to the knee, but not before another bullet finds you.

Bucky hears it before he sees it — the sickening, wet impact of a bullet hitting soft flesh — and then you're stumbling backward , your face twisted in confusion and pain, your hand pressed against your side, blooming red.

His heart doesn’t just stutter. It stops.

"Y/N!" His voice is a rasp, rough with panic he hasn't felt in years. Not since the worst days. Not since he lost everything once before. His arms catch you before you can crumple, his gloved hands pressing hard against the wound, his voice a desperate, low chant.

"Stay with me. Stay with me. Please."

You try to smile — that stubborn little smile you always give him when you're trying to convince him you’re fine — but your eyes are glassy, and your hand is shaking.

Bucky’s shouting into comms before he even realizes it, demanding evac, demanding medical, demanding anything that will get you out of here faster.

The hospital is too bright. Too sterile. Too slow.

Bucky sits in the hard plastic chair outside the operating room, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hands clenching and unclenching like he could strangle time into moving faster if he just tried hard enough.

He's still got your blood on his jacket. His hands. His heart.

The surgeon’s words spin in his head — critical but stable, lost a lot of blood, bullet missed major organs by a hair — but none of them make the knot in his chest loosen.

Sam tries to talk to him. Steve tries to get him to leave, even just to eat something. Bucky doesn’t hear them. Doesn’t move.

He stares at the double doors like he can will them to open.

It hits him there, in the too-quiet, too-cold hallway:

He loves you.

God, he loves you.

He loves you in a way that makes him feel like his ribs are cracking open, like his soul is laid bare and all he can think is how he almost lost you and he didn’t even know.

Didn’t even know until it was almost too late.

How fucking stupid can he be?

When they finally let him in, you’re still unconscious, tubes snaking from your arms, machines beeping steadily at your side. You look small in the hospital bed, pale against the stark white sheets, and Bucky feels like a goddamn idiot for not realizing it sooner.

He pulls the chair as close as he can get, leaning in, his metal hand carefully wrapping around your much still, much warmer one. His thumb strokes lightly over your knuckles, afraid to hurt you, but needing to touch you. Needing you to be real.

"You scared the hell outta me, doll," he murmurs, voice low and rough. He smiles, a broken, helpless little thing. "You know that? Always throwing yourself into trouble. What were you thinking?"

You don't stir.

He sighs, resting his forehead lightly against your joined hands.

"I was so stupid," he whispers. "Didn't even realize what you meant to me until I saw you fall." He squeezes your hand gently, like a silent apology. "You're everything, Y/N. You’re...hell, you’re the reason I still get up in the morning some days."

He leans back a little, rubbing his free hand over his face, and then just lets it all pour out — the fear, the guilt, the love he’s been too dense to name.

"I don't know when it happened," he says, laughing under his breath, the sound watery. "Maybe it was the way you always made me laugh when I thought I forgot how. Maybe it was the way you look at me like I’m not broken. Maybe it was just you being you. Loud. Brave. Impossible."

He shakes his head, staring at you like he could memorize every detail.

"I love you," he says, finally. "God, I love you. And if you don’t wake up and let me tell you that to your face, I swear to God, I’m gonna lose my mind."

There’s a pause.

Then —A small, unmistakable sound.

A giggle.

Light. Breathless. Completely, beautifully alive.

Bucky freezes like he’s been hit with a stun gun, eyes snapping to your face.

You're awake.Barely, your eyes are just barely fluttering open, your mouth twitching into a mischievous little grin but you're awake.

And you heard everything.

Bucky’s mouth opens and closes uselessly, his entire brain short-circuiting.

"You little— you’ve been awake this whole time?" he sputters, half horrified, half overwhelmed with relief.

You’re still smiling, your voice raspy but full of unmistakable warmth as you tease, "Maybe. I wasn’t gonna interrupt. It was a good speech."

Bucky lets out a choked laugh, pressing your hand to his lips like a prayer, but when your eyes meet his — bright and sincere and a little watery, he suddenly finds himself looking away, overwhelmed, flustered in a way he hasn't been in decades.

"Don't look away from me," you whisper, your voice shaking just a little. "You're all I can think about too."

His eyes snap back to yours, wide and stunned, and you squeeze his hand with what little strength you have.

"I’m not dreaming, right?" he asks, voice thick. "You’re really here?"

You nod, squeezing his fingers back weakly. "I’m here, Buck."

He leans in, brushing a feather-light kiss against your forehead, lingering there like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

You close your eyes at the touch, heart stuttering in your chest for a whole different reason now.

But when he pulls back, you blink up at him and say, playful and soft, "Did your aim get worse or something? You missed my lips by like...a few inches."

Bucky stares at you for a beat — and then bursts out laughing, the sound bubbling up raw and real from somewhere deep in his chest.

"You little shit," he says affectionately, shaking his head.

And then —He leans down, one hand cradling your jaw so, so gently, and kisses you for real.

It’s soft at first, tentative, like he’s asking permission — but when you kiss him back, when your hand fumbles weakly into his jacket and pulls, he deepens it with a kind of desperate tenderness that steals the breath from both of you.

He tastes like relief. Like hope. Like home.

When he finally pulls back, resting his forehead against yours, you're both grinning so wide it almost hurts.

"Don't ever scare me like that again," he whispers, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

"I'll try," you promise, a little breathless, a lot in love. "Only if you stay close enough to catch me next time."

Bucky chuckles, brushing another quick kiss over your nose, your cheek, your temple, like he can’t get enough now that he’s allowed to love you the way he always should have.

"Deal," he murmurs. "I'm not going anywhere, doll."

And you believe him.

Because for once —In the middle of all the chaos and noise and danger of the world —You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Together.

Always.

Divider credits: @saradika-graphics

@shortlikerdj

[getmeoutofhell]

Slashers Possessive/Yandere HC

Includes: jennifer check, horny the clown, billy loomis, stu marcher, ethan landry, bo sinclair, hannigram, thomas hewitt, jeepers creepers, art the clown.

Warnings: the title speaks for itself!! gifs are not mine credits to the owners.

ʲᵉⁿⁿⁱᶠᵉʳ ᶜʰᵉᶜᵏ:

She is extremely possessive of you. After all, she is Jennifer Check—whatever she wants, she gets, and that includes you. In public, she is very touchy and won’t let you go or even allow you to think about leaving her. She will go to great lengths to hurt anyone who makes her feel threatened when it comes to you. When she’s in her demon form, it gets even worse; she grabs your arm and drags you around in public, making sure everyone knows that you belong to her. While she knows she is attractive and could have anyone she wants, she only wants you.

ʰᵒʳⁿʸ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜˡᵒʷⁿ:

It depends on his mood that day, but most of the time, Archie tries to keep you close. He is someone who needs constant comfort; if you're not around, he becomes increasingly unstable. He is jealous and possessive, wanting you to stay with him at all times. Don't leave his sight, or he might harm someone you care about. He will feel bad for making you cry, but ultimately, he just needs you by his side. You are the only one who truly sees the real him, and he will always appreciate that.

ᵇⁱˡˡʸ ˡᵒᵐᵐⁱˢ:

He’s completely possessive, I’m sorry—well, actually, I’m not. Billy is full of ego and pride, and whenever you spend time around someone of the same gender as him, he feels as if you’re trying to make him jealous. He yells when it’s just the two of you, making it clear that he doesn’t want you to do that again. It’s not like you mean to upset him; he’s just very sensitive and fragile about it. Despite that, he does show you love in his own rough way in the end.

ˢᵗᵘ ᵐᵃʳᶜʰᵉʳ:

This poor boy is incredibly loving and caring. However, beneath that exterior, he does exhibit some controlling tendencies. He may not show it openly, but there are moments when you can notice a shift in his behavior, leading you to ask questions. He consistently responds with, "I'm fine," when, in reality, he is seething with anger. If you’re not careful, it might not be safe to be around him for long, and you'll find yourself stuck in an uncomfortable situation until he feels he can trust you again.

ᵉᵗʰᵃⁿ ˡᵃⁿᵈʳʸ:

I could go on for hours about how he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. This boy is a demon, I tell you. He’s very manipulative and jealous of everything you do. If there’s another boy around, he will get rid of him without hesitation; in fact, it’s a bit strange. His anger isn't rare, surprisingly; it's quite common. He does try to hide it, but it never really works out. You can see every time how the sparkle in his eyes disappears when someone gets too close to you. He may act shy, but he’s far from it.

ᵇᵒ ˢⁱⁿᶜˡᵃⁱʳ:

You can probably guess what I’m going to say, and you’d be right: he is possessive of you. He sees you as his property that he must protect and keep others away from, which even includes his brothers. He can get quite loud if he feels one of them is flirting with you too much. While he understands them, he doesn’t want them to overdo it. He’s a busy man, which means you’ll likely spend a lot of time at home until he feels comfortable letting you out. That could take weeks—if you’re lucky.

ʰᵃⁿⁿⁱᵍʳᵃᵐ:

These two work together to keep harmful (innocent) people away from you. They operate in a way that is very different from any other human. They communicate silently, ensuring that you remain unaware of what’s happening around you. In about a week or so, that troublesome person will be gone. Will is best at distracting while Hannibal excels in taking action. They try to keep you from noticing the things they do, even though you know all their secrets. It's no surprise to you that they behave this way, but you don’t mind it too much.

ᵗʰᵒᵐᵃˢ ʰᵉʷⁱᵗᵗ:

Speaking of Thomas, he is exactly what you would expect. What I mean is that he is very protective of you because he loves you so much. It’s not in a scary way, though. He will do his best to keep you at home, trying to shield you from his darker side. Besides that, he truly loves you. He often wonders why you chose him out of everyone. He struggles with self-hatred and tries to deny it. However, you love him for who he is and dream of becoming his wife/husband/spouse one day.

ʲᵉᵉᵖᵉʳˢ ᶜʳᵉᵉᵖᵉʳˢ:

What do you hope to achieve by trying to leave him? He will track you down and restrain you even more. He can always tell when you are lying, so don’t even attempt to deceive him. Jeepers is a hardworking man, and because of his hunger, he will be out of the nest most of the time. However, that doesn’t mean you will be free. He will ensure you have everything you need while he is out hunting. He won’t allow you to see or interact with another human ever again. If he finds you talking to or seeing anyone else, they will be gone.

ᵃʳᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜˡᵒʷⁿ:

If you and he are really together, he will likely be the least possessive. He’ll definitely protect you and may even try to distance you from people he feels you spend too much time with, but that’s just part of it. Art himself is like a walking time bomb; one minute he’s allowing you to go outside, and the next he’s keeping you cooped up in the house with him for the night. It seems to depend on whether he’s injured or not. He won’t try to hide his darker tendencies because he feels there’s no need to, and besides, he has better things to do.

[bitchyglitterkoala]

𝐋𝐈𝐋 𝐁𝐈𝐌𝐁𝐎 ⊹ ࣪ ˖

plot! ₊˚⊹ ᰔ : just ni-ki being whipped for his hyper feminine girlfriend

genre! ₊˚⊹ ᰔ : fluff ; head canons

warnings! ₊˚⊹ ᰔ : suggestive ; smoking ; swearing

this work is purely fictional and does not reflect ni-ki’s real personality in any way - english is not my first language! (I swear that it’s good tho)

───୨ৎ───────୨ৎ──────୨ৎ───

bf!niki who has to wake up at least one hour before you so he doesn’t have to sacrifice his hygiene for the day. Getting in the bathroom is like a ritual for you. You need to get your hair done, your makeup done, and of course, need to add some pink body glitter all over your body with some Ariana Grande or Rihanna blasting in the room. Ni-ki will forget remember when you humbled him real bad. Just because he called you out for taking too long in the shower, ending up to him sleeping on the couch, touch deprived and freezing because you couldn’t tolerate his tone.

“Can you at least pass me a blanket?” He asked in a gentle voice, trying not to get scolded again.

“No, use your jacket.” You responded, barely paying attention to his presence and scrolling on your phone with your feet in the air on his bed.

“That’s literally my room.” he frowns, putting his hands in his pockets to assert dominance. “Riki…” you groaned right back, clenching your jaw and giving him a death stare.

He sighed and muttered “Tyrant.” before going back to “bed.”

bf!niki who spoils you rotten like a princess. Whether it could be money, gifts, or acts of service, your wishes are his commands. His friends tend to make fun of him for being head over heels for you, calling him a pussy for being a gentleman, but he doesn’t care. You come first after all.

“Are you done yet? I’m getting tired from waiting.”

“One second love, yeah?” he answers, toying with the tool kit beside him and your car. “There you go bunny.” The man stands up and sighs, wiping off the sweat from his forehead, before being brutally crushed in your arms from you jumping right onto him.

“I love it!” you squeak, attacking his face with kisses, leaving red stains of lipstick all over his face and leaving him blushing. You run to your red mini cooper, kneeling down to see his work from up close. Ni-ki replaced your boring orange indicators with pink heart-shaped ones.

“So so so beautiful. Although I’m a hundred percent sure this is completely illegal.” you say, looking up at him.

“I can just pay for the fine..” he smiles softly, admiring the big smile on your face.

bf!niki who pays very close attention to all your details. He can’t tell what it is, but he finds something so interesting and arousing in you customizing yourself like a pretty doll.

“What perfume you wearin’?” he asks with his head burried in your chest during a nap session. “Some.. drug store perfume? Pink sugar I think.”

Next day while you’re gone he finds himself drowning his bedsheets and clothes in your perfume. Pouring your shampoo into his washing machine too so he can get a sniff of you anytime he misses his girlfriend. (He’s down bad, BAD.)

“Who did your nails?” he asks while you’re scratching his head while he’s playing some video game and has you on sat down on his lap.

“I did them myself.” you smile, proudly showing off your work.

Next thing you know he buys you all the supplies you need to make your own acrylics, even stuff you obviously do not need.

“What flavor is it?” he asks another time when you’re applying lip gloss in front of your vanity’s mirror.

You giggle, amused by his curiosity and interest in your girly things. “Cherry.” He stays still for a few seconds before opening his mouth, probably to say something stupid again. “Can I taste it?”

Then comes an eye roll, “It’s not supposed to be edible sweetheart.” you answer, turning your chair over to face him. He walks over to you and leans down, cupping your face to kiss your lips. His tongue grazes over the cherry lip gloss to get an actual taste of it.

“When it comes to you, you’re 100% edible.”

bf!niki who can’t tell if he absolutely hates it or loves it when you get sassy. He loves a little brat, but a straight up bitch? Gets to his nerves pretty quickly despite his patience.

“It’s really not that serious. I did it for your own good.”

“$12 down the drain ain’t really for my own fucking good Y/N.”

“Switch to vapes then! At least you won’t smell like shit everyday.” you scoffed before walking away.

There, he gives up. He doesn’t deserve this, no. Ni-ki suddenly grabs your waist and holds you against the kitchen counter. Usually you’d be giggling and touchy, but something in his eyes makes you feel actual worry, like you probably need to calm down a little.

“I don’t know what’s up with you since the beginning of this week, but you need to drop this shit off right now.” he orders in a low voice, almost sounding like a murmur. “Losing my keys, making me lose my games on purpose, pushing me or even insulting me.. Now my cigs? Do I need to fuck some sense into you? That’s it?”

Despite your legs shaking and your cheeks getting redder, you decide to push his buttons a little more. There’s something turning you on about Ni-ki losing his temper, since he’s always so calm and putting up with your shit.

“Try. I’ll pretend I’m finishing once again, I guess.”

There, he grabs your legs and carries you over his shoulder, leading you to his bedroom. Needless to say you got humbled real good. You end up with blurry eyes, a blurry mind and with shaky legs. Ni-ki can’t help but laugh seeing you in that state. He’s not that bad though, he wraps his arms around you and pampers you with kisses and soft scratches here and there, all while sharing some sweet talk in your ear.

bf!niki who is here to comfort you when you feel down. Through years you’ve built this image of yourself. Confident, pretty and sassy girl who is not scared to fight back. But inside, you still have this young insecure girl doubting herself, and eventually since nobody knows her, nobody helps her. Except him, who knows, and sees through these eyes.

“It’s okay you can cry, angel..” he whispers while stroking his hand against your back, covered by his hoodie. Sniffles and sobs are echoing through the room despite their quietness.

You don’t talk, you just cry against his chest, weeping for the test you failed. It’s not something you’d usually cry for, except it’s just the result of many shitty things that happened throughout the day, making you feel useless and worthless.

“You’re worth it. Smart, generous and kind.. sometimes.” he mumbles the last word, provoking a light slap on his chest you give him. “You want me to buy you something?” he asks softly, making you nod immediately. He grabs the laptop that was sitting on the nightstand and gives it to you. “Here, make your wishlist. I’ll make you some hot chocolate.” Ni-ki presses a kiss on your forehead before getting up, at least trying to, until you tug on the sleeve of his hoodie.

“Stay.. I just need to hold you.”

His heart skips a beat and it takes him a few seconds to gather up his emotions. The man nods and lays back down, wrapping his arms around you and covering you from everything else around, like a big shield protecting you from the world.

hope you liked it! advice is always appreciated!

[revelboo]

hey it’s my first time being sick in like 2 maybe pushing 3 years, and this week is college finals week and I have my math final tomorrow so that sucks. Negative covid and flu tests leaves my doctor saying cold and a clearance to go in if I’m in the back, wear a mask, and have a low grade fever which my doc says 98.7 is normal for a lot of people but since my face is kinda red and I’m shivering he counts it especially since I run coolish and 97.2 is my regular. I still am miserable and I forgot how much having a cold sucks.

If you don’t mind writing for it how would MTMTE Drift deal with his human getting sick 😅

Sure! Hope you get better soon!

Sick

Drift

• Cracking an eye as Drift cups the back of your head, lifting it so he can fluff up your pillow again, you feel loved. Shivering as you sweat, you don’t even have the energy to get up. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. And he immediately frowns to make you guess you’re still running a slight fever. “Anything I can do to help?”

• Servos brushing over your cheek, he smiles when you roll to curl into him with a little shiver. “This is fine,” you say. Are you cold again? Curling his arm around you as your legs slide against his, anxiety twists through him. “Just need rest.” Forcing himself to relax, he vents to stir your hair. Even if you and Ratchet both told him it’s just a ‘cold,’ he hates not being able to help. Hates that you’re miserable.

• He’s humming. Face buried against his neck, you let the sound spill into you, easing your tension and helping you relax. One of his big hands slides against your spine as the deep rumbling noise grounds you. Coaxing you back toward sleep. It’s nice, maybe a lullaby.

• Hesitating when you reach up to lay a palm on the side of his neck, he can feel your warm breath on his mesh. “Don’t stop. Please?” And he starts humming again for you. Feeling your heart beating against him and when your breathing shifts, evens out with sleep. Resting his chin on top of your head, his arm tightens around you. His little mate.

• Knows you didn’t want this, didn’t choose him, but he doesn’t regret what he did. Knows he should feel at least guilty about it, but the closer he gets to you, the more he loves you. And maybe someday you’ll forgive him for taking away your choice in order to save your life. Maybe you can love him, too. Doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but he wants it so bad it hurts. That partial bond like a jagged wound in his spark, a wrongness. For now he can love you and pretend you love him.

[primtrevors]

So here’s how I see it: Nick has always been shown as “one of the good guys” in past seasons, right? And what we see is basically what June sees. So now the showrunners are clearly trying to pull off the mask in the final season and tell both June and us: “See? You’ve been blinded by love this whole time. This man was always dangerous. He’s still part of Gilead, no matter the good he’s done before. You only saw one part of him, but behind the scenes, he’s been involved in all the dirty stuff.”

And I’m just like… don’t they know we already get that?

We know he’s an Eye. We know he’s a Commander. We know he’s a soldier. But he also has a good and kind side.

And honestly, this isn’t the kind of plot development or ending we’re hoping for.

If they wanted to do a plot twist and show Nick’s two sides, or make us question if he’s actually a bad guy — fine, that’s cool. But do it earlier. Drop hints, build it up, make it feel earned, you know? Not just throw in this “betrayal” vibe all of a sudden, especially when there’s only like three or four episodes left.

What’s funny is, it’s not even really a betrayal. We, as the audience, can actually understand where he’s coming from. Sure, some people might say, “Oh, he just wants to protect himself, he’s letting others die,” or “He only cares about his little family,” or “He’s selfish.” But honestly, that’s just human. That’s his flaw. That’s what makes Nick a layered, realistic character.

So when the show keeps pushing this betrayal angle — sorry, it just doesn’t land.