#and the first thing he says is thankyou

[sluckythewizard]

BUT IM NOT A WRITER. something strange possessed me to write my first proper fanfic in maybe a decade. be niceys to me but also grill me so i can get stronger. this one is a stupidly self indulgent bit between Soda and Emizel, a day or so after emizel was sired. CW for gore descriptions, but thats about it i think. image below is a snippet of the start. the rest of the whole dang thing will be under the cut. ive never posted fanfic ever in my life. read my tags for secret behind da scenes commentary

"Oh shit… I think hes dead…" It was another night, another patrol, another fight, and another win, for Emizel and Soda.

Under moonlight, under street light, under interwoven wires above, the two stood here in a quiet and damp alleyway. The air was drenched with the smell of a previous rain, and the puddles of said storm remain huddled in corners and pot holes.

One splashed as soda found himself stepping forwards into one. The residual adrenaline of the fight had left his body shaking, his heart still pounding, his wounds still throbbing. They had still won; or more-so, Emizel had won. A particularly nasty blow to the side had Soda reduced to the side lines for most of the fight, left to watch as his newly vampiric comrade had absolutely eviscerated the competition.

Emizel had only been turned a day ago, but it was impossible not to notice how it had changed him. He already acted so goddamn confident, so on top of the world, and this newfound power, newfound speed and strength, only built upon his insane ego.

The Fangs that they encountered here on this night stood no fucking chance. Emizel was too quick, too strong, and he easily chased off the rivals. It was only now, as the final unfortunate opponent had turned to flee, a clean clock in the jaw sent the human tumbling to the ground with a dull thump, and it did not move afterward.

Soda shifts his shoe out of the puddle, the cold seeping into his sock being one of the few things keeping his mind in his body in the moment. Is the guy breathing?

A low laugh bleeds from Emizel as he stretches his arms, licking his sharpened teeth as he stares off in the direction the remaining Fangs went. Soda knew that look on his face, the look of a tiger pondering on its next kill, he knew well that Emizel wanted to chase them.

But the guy on the ground.. It was one punch to the face, and the wicked crack sound that came from it had planted a seeding dread within Sodas chest.

As he steps forward, around the puddle, the resulting sound made Emizels attention click back over to Soda, the snap of his gaze making Soda flinch.

The two lock eyes, and Soda weakly gestures to the limp body on the floor. "The uh.. I think.. Is that guy dead?" He finally asks, having a hard time keeping contact with Emizels intensely red eyes.

Emizel turns his attention to said body, tilting his head as he goes to kick at the thing, turning it over. "Man no way hes dead, I punched him once." He mutters.

"Well, yeah, but his head almost twisted all the way around when you did.." Soda steps up to stand beside Emizel, the two boys standing with their hands in their pockets, down at this unfortunate, limp body.

"Should we hide it?" Soda asks, glancing back over at Emizel, who had.. An odd look on his face. He was clearly pondering something, but Soda could only guess whatever was going on in that brilliant head of his. He knew and trusted that Emizel was smart. If anyone could figure out what to do about this, it would be him.

But the lack of an answer had anxiety chewing at the back of Sodas rib cage, and after a second, he speaks up again, compelled to fill what he perceived as a tense silence. "Like.. I dunno, I've never uh... killed a guy..." He shrugs, prompting Emizel to let out a big sigh.

"He's not dead man, just out fuckin cold." Emizel kneels down next to the body, putting an ear up to its chest, and pondering on that for a moment. An uncertainty twists his expression, as he decides to instead place a hand on the victims throat, checking for a pulse. A moment passes, and seemingly finding nothing, he pulls back.

"Uh... Okay, so he might be dead."

Something about the confirmation from Emizel made a shiver run up Sodas spine. That, or maybe it was just the breeze agitating the cold water in his shoe.

"Huh… Damn.." Was all that Soda could really get to leave his mouth. Which was hardly a splash compared to the torrent that was slowly churning in his head. They just killed a guy. Or, Emizel just killed a guy. And it was so easy. They had to hide the body now, right? That was the usual progression here? Getting caught for murder was way more extreme than getting caught for breaking mailboxes with soda cans. It was so, so disturbingly easy. It really was just one punch. It's not like the Fangs are weak by any means, so just one punch? And this guy is dead? Forever?

Or, perhaps by human means, their rivals were fairly tough. But Emizel was on a whole other level. No mortal could stand up to him now...

"Hey, are you okay?"

The question had pulled Soda back from his head, his gaze flicking back over to Emizel, who was looking up at him with those eerie, piercing red eyes. Soda felt another shiver.

"Uh, ieah man, I'm all good." Soda nods, swallowing down whatever anxiety was bubbling up in his throat.

But Emizel didn't seem satisfied by his answer, standing back up and staring down his human comrade. Soda couldn't meet his eyes, his gaze instead traveling downward, and pausing on Emizels red, cut-up shirt. There was something off about the color, the way it seemed darker in some spots, brighter in others.. Wait, wasn't Emizel wearing a white shirt before all this?

The vampire boy seems to pick up on Sodas expression, following his eyes down to his shirt. "Oh, yeah! While you were on the floor, the knife guy got me a little" He says, a stupidly simple smile on his face. Soda was about to let out a laugh at how unbothered his friend seemed by it, but it gets caught in his throat when Emizel goes to pull his shirt up.

The sound of the bloodied fabric peeling away from skin made Sodas own skin crawl, but that wasn't nearly as bad as the sight of the intense gash running from his collar bone, down to his stomach.

"Oh, fuck dude!" Soda gasps, but Emizel laughs it off. Even despite knowing Emizel well, Soda was still surprised by just how much Emizel could shrug off. "Shit, doesn't that hurt, dude?"

"Oh yeah this fucking hurts!" he says with a laugh, his smile big and toothy and proud as he presents this egregious wound. Swollen and angry, pulsing with a slow heartbeat, and still oozing with thick, dark blood.

The sight of the split flesh, and the glints of bone beneath the dark, dark red all tugged at Sodas gag reflex, and yet he couldn't pull his eyes away. So Emizel's just been walking and talking so normally this whole time with his chest just cleaved wide open? Soda felt just as impressed as he felt horrified.

It wasn't until Emizel reaches down to poke at the abhorrent wound that Soda snaps out of it. Watching his friend press his fingers into the bloodied flesh, and slowly pulling it apart, allowing more ichor to seep from the gash, it was too much to watch at this point.

Soda reaches up to put a hand on Emizels wrist, the vampire boy stopping, and looking up at his friend.

Soda found himself freezing again when he locks eyes with Emizel. He was going to say something now, right? "U-uhm.." Is all he really chokes out, giving Emizels wrist a gentle tug. "D-do you. Uh. I suppose a hospital Isn't a place you can go anymore..?"

Emizel just smirks at that, letting Soda pull his hand away from the wound. "Oh, yeah no, but it's fine. I mean, I don't think it's gonna kill me" He shrugs. It was so, so impressive just how unphased Emizel was by all this. Fuck he's actually so cool.

"Well yeah man but it's like, still a bleeding hole. Like you're soaked in blood dude, I'm pretty sure that even a vampire needs that stuff on like, the inside." Soda rubs the back of his head, still unnerved by the sight of it all. "Vampires have like, super healing, don't they?"

"Oh yeah like, regeneration powers. I know I heal faster sometimes but I dunno how to just, activate it on command.." Emizel hums, his eyes narrowing down at his own injury, as if trying to will it into mending. Soda looks away, unable to watch that vile gash ooze any longer.

"I dunno man, how do they do it in like, video games?" Soda tosses the question out, trying to click together some sort of solution in his own head.

"Uhhh.. Huh, video games.." Emizel repeats to himself, chewing on the thought while idly poking at the laceration; until an idea audibly flickers to life in his head. "Oh, I just gotta refill my blood meter. Or whatever."

"Oooh yeah, blood meter!" Soda perks up, "Of course, see this is why you're the brains, man" Soda smiles, glancing back over to his cool friend, but immediately needing to look away again when the sight of that egregious gash tugs bile back into his throat.

While Soda averts his eyes, Emizels eyes wander back over to the body, and that classic 'Emizel has a bad idea' smile creeps across his face.

"Well, if this guys dead, I'm sure he's not gonna need all that blood.." He grins, kneeling down next to the body again.

The word 'wait' had hardly gotten the chance to crawl from Sodas mouth, before Emizel lifts up the arm of the unfortunate body, pulling the sleeve back, and immediately sinking his teeth into the exposed wrist.

The sound and the sight of blood gushing around Emizels teeth made Soda cringe, his hand impulsively coming up to aide his own wrist. An empathetic phantom pain made his wrist ache, his imagination simulating the feeling of shark teeth cutting into skin, sinking deep into the flesh, and clacking against bone. That was a lot of blood, that was streaming down the arm of this fodder.

A low growl bleeds from Emizel as he adjusts his teeth, cutting into more flesh, opening the wound further, and allowing a pulsing torrent of red to stream down his chin, onto his coat. It was an annoying thing, to clean blood out of clothing. Most of the Demons deemed it easier to just let the stains remain. But the night that Emizels throat was torn open, and liters upon liters were granted freedom from his human form, the unbelievable mess had practically changed half the color of Emizels iconic coat.

That was the first time Soda had ever seen that much blood from one person. And well. This would probably be the second.

The sight was unnerving, but it was impossible to look away. The alley was quiet, save for the distant bustle of a distant city, which made the noisy squish and squelch of teeth gnawing on flesh all the more apparent and nauseating.

Emizel had become a monster for sure, and watching it feed on something was��� thrilling, in a way. It reminded Soda of feeding a pet spider, or lizard. A mouse for a snake.

It's a heavy thing to witness, the end of a human life. The fear of death is a primal thing, and Soda was no different from any other living thing. He figured everyone else feared death just as much as he does. Well, maybe except for Emizel, of course.

It made sense. Emizel was such a cocky and noisy kind of guy, but hes always had the power to back it up. Even when he lost, or seemed at his lowest, Soda still saw this sort of fire in him, one that Soda admired.

Of course Emizel would be the one to become something like a vampire. Something that Soda had always figured was just a fantasy creature thing. He wondered; if vampires were real, what else was real? Werewolves? Zombies? Unicorns? Are there real demons? Like from hell? Is hell real? Is he going to hell?

The sudden ttteeeeaaaaarrrr of flesh rips soda from his wandering thoughts. Emizel was tugging his head away from the arm of his kill, his teeth clamped down into the chewed meat, and pulling it apart. Soda had seldom seen so much of the inside of a human arm, and the sight of spilling threads and squirming veins was hardly something he ever wanted to stomach again.

"Oh fuck, dude, hey-" Soda steps forward, raising a hand, but the way Emizel snaps his head back over to him, twisting to an unnatural degree, Soda cant help jolting back.

Reddened teeth glint menacingly in the low light, a threatening growl thundering from its clenched, dripping jaws. Emizels eyes were focused, yet wild, glowing with whatever light they could reflect.

Sodas eyes were wide, and his body was frozen in the thick, electric tension within the air. It was like staring down an angry dog.. Suddenly a light bulb in his head flickers to life. It was kind of like an angry dog, right? One hunched over a meal it didn't want to give up. Memories of old encounters and unfortunate dog bites resurface in Sodas head, and with that experience, and with those lessons learned, he gathers the courage to react.

He shuts his eyes, keeping them closed for a few seconds, as he slowly pulls back his arm, and slowly steps back. It was an eye contact thing, wasn't it? Eye contact makes dogs angry, right? That was how you dealt with an angry dog? As he pulls back, and takes in a breath for composure, he finally dares to peek at the angry vampire before him again.

Its snarling had died down, but its eyes were still trained intently on Soda. After a tense, and agonizingly, slow pause... It blinks back, lowering its head back down to its meal, but keeping its anxious stare on this potential threat.

A relieved sigh falls from soda as the tension finally melts. He didnt realize he was holding in so much of his breath. "O-okay, man.. It's yours, you uh.. Earned it.." Soda mutters, stepping back further, until he was standing in a sufficiently dry enough space to sit down in. Now that he wasn't standing, he was finally taking into mind just how much his hands were shaking.

It's odd. Soda couldn't really describe this feeling thrumming in his chest as something like fear.. Nausea? For sure. Disturbed and rattled? Oh absolutely. This was certainly a sight he would have a hard time scrubbing from his eyelids when he sleeps tonight. But he wasn't scared. The memory of the night that Emizel was sired still coated the inside of his mind like an unwashable film. Even in that moment, when the unnatural teeth from the unnatural maw of an unnatural thing hovered over his throat, he couldn't say with confidence that he was scared.

Emizel really is his best friend in the world. And he knows with his whole heart that Emizel feels the same. He knew and trusted that his best friend would never hurt him. Not too badly at least. He loves Emizel, and would give anything to support him.

Like a mouse to a snake.

This really is an incredible power that his comrade had come across, and Soda especially felt a sort of pride in his friend. He felt it was worth it to help him feed it.

The bile in his throat had made its point, and Soda agreed, that watching someone die, and get torn apart and drained might be too much for him. Despite how much he hated the Fangs, the end of any human life seemed like such a jarring thing. To have such an intense fear finally get confronted. Would he go to hell?

Maybe he couldn't just feed people to his friend. So an alternative could be donated blood, right? Soda wouldn't mind giving up something like blood. His body makes it for free, after all. Maybe some other Demons would agree to give up some blood too. But they shouldn't have to take on such a burden. Soda wouldn't mind being the only one. The only one. The only one.

His hand comes up to rub at his neck, as his imagination conjures up what it might feel like to have teeth sink into his flesh. He's been stabbed before, is that sort of what it would feel like? Would he have to get stitches? He didn't really want to get stitches, so maybe there could be a more effective way to get the blood out of him. And there was so much vital stuff in his neck too. There's' a vein that's safe to cut into somewhere, right? He would have to look that up later.

A STARTLING RINGING;

Splits the moment,

Prompting both Soda and Emizel to jolt in shock,

As the phone in Emizels pocket rings away.

Acting as if nothing abnormal had taken place, Emizel pulls out his phone, and answers it.

"Heyy, Johnny! Yeah we chased em off, I don't think those bastards will be infesting this street again anytime soon. Yeah, ieah we'll be heading back soon. Oh fuck yeah dude, save us some!"

Emizel covers the speaker of his Nokia, turning back to Soda with a big smile on his violently bloodied face. "They got some pizza waiting for us back home, dude!" he whispers out to him.

Soda does his best to crack a smile, and to suppress the look of unease that probably stained his face, as he stares at the literal murder scene that's been splattered about in front of him.

"Oh, yeah, hell yeah man.." He swallows down the bile again. "What kind of uh.. Soda did they get?"

Emizel ponders that, before turning back to the phone to ask Sodas question.

"Sprite and a big pack of that one strawberry mountain dew" Emizel tosses the answer back over to Soda, who gives a nod, and thumbs up.

Mountain dew is so neat, Soda really liked all the wacky flavors those guys come up with. The thought of going home and opening a can of soda was certainly a comfort. After witnessing all this blood and gore and viscera, Soda absolutely needed to get back home and get a nice cold glass of something bright red .

As Sodas mind wanders off to soda, Emizel wraps up the conversation on the phone, before hanging up, and standing up.

The movement had pulled Sodas mind back into the moment, enough for him to timidly voice a concern he's had since the start of this debacle.

"Uh, hey, so.. The body, should we… Uh.." He gestures vaguely to it, and Emizel grants it a nonchalant glance.

"Eh, I can toss it into a dumpster or something, I dunno. I'm sure its fine. I'll handle it."

The vampire boy goes to pick up the corpse, the wound in its mangled arm no longer even dripping with blood, the flesh pale from the absolute absence of red in its veins.

"Go ahead and meet me by that one mailbox, the one with the bullet hole in it." Emizel casually instructs, tossing the drained body over his shoulder. "I'll catch up."

"Uh, yeah, okay.." Soda musters up a nod, and the strength to rise back up to his feet, wincing as that bruise on his side makes itself loudly known again. He still felt anxious, but even despite it all, he knew he could trust Emizel to take care of things. He always does. "Just stay safe man, I'll see you there." Soda assures with a smile, and Emizel matches it, tossing him a wink. And then suddenly- -He's gone! If Soda had blinked he would've missed it, but he was fortunate enough to just barely catch the glimpse of Emizel darting off at an inhuman speed, probably looking for a place to dump the body. Right, he would take care of it. Emizel always makes sure his crew is taken care of. Well... Guess all that's left for Soda is for him to walk back to that meeting spot. He looks around the alley for a moment, taking in the sight of that enormous pool of blood in the middle of the concrete. Or whatever the floor of this alley is made from. He ponders on the present moment a little longer than he meant to, the shock of it all leaving him aimless for just a few, soothing moments of just, decompression. The night is quiet, vast, and cold, but the stresses of just the past 5 hours had left his body radiating with fiery aches and pains, so the chill of the occasional clawing breeze was welcomed. Except for when said breeze agitated the cold water still soaked into his sock. He should step in another puddle on his way back to even it out. The smell of rain still rested heavy in the air, heralding another storm on the horizon. There was that, and then, well, there was also the blood. The stench of it felt far too intense to just ignore it, the metallic miasma making itself maliciously unmistakable. Maybe the impending storm will wash this mess away... He looked forward to putting this unfortunate night behind him. With one last rattled, but deep breath, he stuffs his hands in his pockets, and turns away, strolling back over to the mailbox that Emizel had described.

He couldn't wait to get home and drink some soda with his friends.

[biillys]

yes i know we all hate karen here but heres the thing. i got a crush on cara from her part in person of interest and i refuse to let the duffer brothers shitty storylines and fucked up attempts at romance take her character away from me. anyway EYE get to pick and choose what the characters i like would actually do and u know what? she would not do that shit. thanku

[hotdadlicense]

walked into the kitchen at work today and announced the fact that i could not tell if the guy on 32 was my uncle or not and everyone laughed at me. i still don't know.

[januaryembrs]

LET IT ONCE BE ME | Spencer Reid x Prentiss!Reader [7]

Description: The THREE times she waits + the ONE time she doesn't have to.

length: 17.9k

trigger warnings: criminal minds gore + violence. jealousy. talks of sex and male and female anatomy. they get horny for one another basically. talks of Maeve + day of the dead. yearning idk? mention of one twin absorbing the other one in the womb (sorry if this is taken the wrong way but I conferred with my friend who did this when she was a foetus and she said it's not offensive and is okay to talk about so?)

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‘Let it once be me, who do I have to speak to 

About if they can redo the prophecy?’

The one where they pretend to be married

“I will not be exploited in my own home,” Bugsy chided, the faint smell of burning toast filling the small kitchenette. The butter knife sat ready in her hand, salted spread dripping down the handle where she’d been busy making breakfast before she had been called. 

He blinked back at her, unamused. 

“No. You cannot just scream at me whenever you want something from me. This relationship is toxic,” She huffed, turning back to butter her toast with the thick goodness. Sometimes she loathed living with three boys who had her wrapped around their fingers. 

The second piece of bread popped out of the toaster, which she quickly grabbed and began spreading, her fingers gripping onto the crusts gently as she did so. The squealing started again just as she readied herself to take the first bite, and she whirled around to see the two orange eyes that stared at her from on top of the counter. 

“Sergio, stop. You’ll get Niko all wound up-” She hadn’t even finished her sentence when Spencer shuffled into the kitchen, his hair mussed from sleep, his long plaid pyjama bottoms skirting high up his ankles where he’d impossibly hit another growth spurt and forgot to find better fitting clothes. Niko darted in between his legs, rushing to jump up on the breakfast bar, where Sergio was already interrogating Bugsy for more treats, a low yowl leaving his throat at the thought of being left out of feeding. “You boys are driving me crazy, no more biscuits for today-”

The yowl grew in decibels, a second one symphonying it, and she rolled her eyes, ignoring the whiney babies, turning to hand Spencer his piece of toast, crust already cut off and split into halves the way he liked it. 

“I warned you not to treat them when I’m not here, they’ve become spoiled brats,” She huffed, though she felt her entire body warm up when she looked at his doe eyes, still half idled with sleep as he watched her swan around his kitchen, their kitchen technically since she had all but moved in to his little apartment meant for two housemates. 

But they weren’t just house mates. They weren’t even dating. But she knew he wanted to. Because he loved her. 

“How could you expect me to say no, they’re so compelling,” He said, his voice gravelly where he’d lightly snored, as much as he always denied he did, fussing Niko behind the ear with long, gentle fingers. He took the plate out of her hand, his eyes swirling with a moved expression when he saw she’d cut his crusts off, his gaze snapping back up to where she’d sweeped her hair out her face, a large shirt and a pair of his clean boxers adorning her figure, “Thankyou,”

He hadn’t said the three magic words since, neither of them had. But they felt it. The weird static that had been thick in the air between them before was crackling along their skin with every glance, like they were both thinking the same thing.

I love you, and you love me.

He smiled at her warmly, the urge to grab her by her face and kiss her skin all over almost overwhelming him, because he counted himself lucky every single day. She loved him. She loved him. She loved him. He heard it in every heart beat, like a mantra that his chest clung to since the words had spilled from her soft lips. She was waiting for him, for his head to settle with the idea that Maeve was gone, and he could let her go and not feel terrible about it; waiting for him to make the first move. 

“Coffee?” He asked, watching her eyes soften as they trailed over his face, and he worried he looked a little worse for wear since he’d rolled out of bed and headed towards the source of the girl he loved arguing with someone in the kitchen even though that someone had turned out to be the greedy bastard they loved dearly.

He knew he was the luckiest guy in the world to have her waiting on him, and he never let himself forget it. 

“Yes, please,” She said, and he brushed past her, close enough for it to be on purpose when their arms touched, his hands busying themselves in between the plate and munching on the first bite of breakfast, because he didn’t know what he might do if they spent one more second looking at one another like that. 

She watched him move towards the kettle she’d sent him for Christmas when she was in London. After using one for two weeks she’d seen the light and realised he would love the nifty little invention. Her arm burned where he’d touched as if he’d taken a flame to her skin, her chest boiling up with every single thing she could think to tell him, like how good his hair looked when he didn’t do much with it, or how hot his voice sounded like that, or that she really really did love him the way she’d never even thought possible outside her silly romance novels, that she’d never believed Pip when he’d told Estella; “You are part of my existence, part of myself. You have been in every line I have ever read,” and yet when she thought of it now, watching Spencer busy himself shovelling sugar into two mugs, it made entire perfect sense. 

She couldn’t remember who she was before she knew him, and she didn’t ever want to know. 

She opened her mouth to say something, perhaps to say those three little words again, or just to tell him he smelled good even when he hadn’t put any deodorant or aftershave on, but her phone’s ringtone cut her off. 

Already knowing it was going to be Penelope with a new case, she flicked the call on to speaker phone, “What you got for me, baby girl?” She said, trying to make her voice as deep as it would go, and she heard Spencer snickering where he was stirring hot water into the instant coffee.

“Was that supposed to be Morgan?” Pen’s voice replied, a small chuckle of her own evident even through the digital tone.

“I thought that was pretty good,” Bugsy replied, stuffing the last of the toasted bread into her mouth.

“I thought he was right in the room with us for a moment there,” Spencer chimed in, humouring her, as he also took an enormous bite from his breakfast, knowing they were more than likely about to be called in and their game of house, one where they flustered every time they spoke, was going to be over, “I was like, woah, Morgan, when did you get here-”

“Alright, my little rascals. We have a case, Hotch wants everyone in,” Penelope said, no doubt already paging through JJ, “No more coffee for either of you, you’re both being weird enough as it is,” 

“Definitely not,” Spencer said, sliding the mug of milky, sweet caffeine over to Bugsy who smiled at him wickedly.

“Wheels up in twenty, Garcia,” The woman added in the same voice as before, Spencer laughing with a shake of his head and moving to stand behind her, his chest pressed against her back, his arm winding around her waist to give her a small, affectionate squeeze on the hip. 

Penelope sighed, already accepting that their mercurial attitudes weren’t going away any time soon, the sudden mood change entirely odd to the rest of the team who had no idea that they had almost kissed just one week ago. To everyone else, they just seemed to have bounced back to normal, reverted back to Bugsy and Spencer; attached at the hip, only the eye contact and secretive smiles had been dialled to a hundred. The line went dead, and her head shot to look at him, where his hand had yet to move, and it was scoldingly hot against the soft fat that gathered at her hips.

“I’ll get your good shirt, I put it out to dry yesterday,” She said, her voice suddenly much less brave than it had been when she saw his eyes crinkling with a small smile. 

He nodded, and she caught his gaze trailing down her nose, darting over her lips for a second in a way that made her chest rev like a Ferrarri out of gear. She felt her breath catch in her throat when he looked back up to her eyes, his forest hues entrancing like he was playing some silent flute song and she was a snake dancing under his orders. 

He took a second to realise they were standing in his kitchen, his body pressed against hers like he hadn’t even realised they were so close, like he’d just gravitated to her that way, like he couldn’t stop it even if he’d tried to. He’d had a taste of nectar, and he was a drunk man ever since. 

Spencer wrangled a hold of himself, allowing himself to stroke the back of her head lovingly, and pressing a kiss to her crown, before he stepped away from her, and the siren song dropped, the two of them dispersing to get ready for the case. 

Bugsy swore she could hear her heart pounding the entire drive to headquarters.

–

“I think the real question is why married couples?” Hotch mused, a steaming cup of black coffee sitting in front of him on the jet, his nose in the file on his lap. 

Bugsy scanned over the manilla folder in her hands, her legs swinging rhythmically beneath the table she sat on, Rossi to her left, her own second cup of coffee squeezed between her thighs. It was a heavy case for a weekend morning, three married couples found slashed and dumped together, the UnSub showing no signs of slowing or stopping.

“If he’s a sadist, having a witness to his torture heightens his pleasure,” Alex added, her lips pursed in contemplation, her hair primped surprisingly neat considering they’d been called in with little to no notice on a Sunday. 

“Israel Keyes kidnapped a husband and wife at gunpoint, got them in a car, took them to a remote location, and then killed the husband in front of the wife,” Spencer said, trying not to look straight at Bugsy when he felt her eyes on him.

He’d never been one to keep a good poker face, never been good at hiding how he felt especially when he was happy. And she made him happier than he deserved to be. He knew their little arrangement would become glaringly obvious to the rest of the team if he let himself look at her. he had no control of his face when it came to her, how he felt his eyes soften, his lips turn up into a dopey smile, his hands itching to touch her just to confirm she was real.

He saw her head tilt down, into her lap as she tried desperately to focus on the words on the page, but he caught the small smile that she kept for herself, and he had a feeling she was struggling just as much as he was. 

“Keyes was a sexual sadist, though,” Rossi interjected, his hands wrapped around a scolding cup of the green tea Penelope had bought them because she’d read of the stress relief benefits. They’d taken it, but David and Bugsy were the only ones who had tried it, “This guy, I don’t know,” 

“Cutting a husband and wife to death, it’s more like he’s mocking their marriage bond,” JJ said, her bluebell hues dancing to Bugsy when the girl chimed in.

“Mutilating both of them, killing them together, it’s like the idea of couples and happy marriage is a trigger for him; it’s personal. He wants to make them pay for their happiness, likely because something’s stopping him from having it too,” She said, taking a long sip of her coffee, Rossi nodding along with her. 

“That’s where my head’s at. ‘You took each other for better or worse, now I’m going to show you worse’,” He said, leaning back against the table, his shoulder nudging the younger girl. 

Derek stroked a hand over his stubbled beard, “His home life’s probably a wreck, at least one ex-wife, not to mention mom and dad,”  

“Alright we need to hit the ground,” Hotch said, flicking a glance at the youngest agent where she was all but inhaling her sweet beverage, “Prentiss and Reid, I want you mapping out a geographical profile,”

She nodded, her eyes slowly trailing to Spencer’s as Hotch distributed jobs around the team, but her head subconsciously tuned his stern voice out into static. Because when she looked up at his face, he was already staring at her, and the sound of her heartbeat racing crawled its way back into her ear, the thrumming so loud she was sure David could hear it too, she might as well have held a megaphone to her mouth and announced “Spencer Reid, you make me so nervous in the good kind of way,”

His hazel eyes trailed over her face, her expression unreadable as she scrambled to keep a lid on her feelings, and she wondered if this was where the phrase ‘Don’t shit where you eat,’ came from, because him so much as looking at her wiped her mind completely, which was not ideal for an agent working on a case. But she couldn’t help it, he was enchanting, and she guessed he was having just as much of an inner quarrel as he looked away from her, the apples of his cheeks and tips of his earlobes turning a strawberry ice cream pink. 

She had no idea how she was going to make it through the rest of the day so close to him. 

–

“First couple were last seen on the corner of Hill Avenue, Bella Mia Italian restaurant,” Bugsy read from her scrawled notes, as Spencer took a purple white board pen to the map of Detroit. Drawing a circle of a 5 centimetre radius around the little dot, he kept his eyes ahead of him. Hearing her pace behind him, he didn’t need to look up to know she was chewing her cuticles again. 

“Stop biting,” He chided lightly, hearing a guilty silence where he knew she’d caught herself with embarrassment. He tried not to show his amusement, knowing it would only make her feel worse, he bit down a smirk and raised his pen back to the map, “Next one?” 

She’d been on edge all day. He would have probably brushed it off as caffeine jitters seeing as she was on her fourth cup already, but Spencer knew her too well to know her tolerance was so high she had about two more mugs in her before she’d start to crash. 

He knew what it was, the memory of her skin beneath his lips burning his cheeks all over again, the look in her eyes when he’d been close enough they were sharing breath. He knew what it was because he felt it too. It was like their confession had set off a ticking time bomb, one that neither of them had the countdown to, and the clicking of every passing second sounded oddly like a pulse in their throats. To put it short, just the sound of her footsteps was making his skin pimpled with gooseflesh. 

“Uh, next one is Bowlarama, about ten stores down from there, Couple number two were seen getting milkshakes and heading towards the parking lot before they went missing,” She recited, her fingers firmly clutching the paper in her hand to resist the urge of gnawing at her nails again. Why was she so nervous? She lived with Spencer, ate breakfast, lunch and dinner with Spencer, spent almost all her evenings either playing chess or watching movies with Spencer, or on the odd occasion he found a book in reach he hadn’t read yet, he’d read out parts to her he found particularly engaging to those million, trillion, billion neurological pathways of his. 

The squealing of the pen against the board was the only thing keeping her head in the case, Spencer’s messy handwriting dotting around the map with points of interest, and she begged her brain to kick into gear the way it normally did, tried everything to yank herself out of the head fog she’d found herself lost in where thoughts of him emerged through like Mr Darcy strolling through those clouded moors, like how his voice sounded when he smiled, how his hand looked gripping that pen, how his body was lithe and handsome even from the back. 

She shook her head, jamming her face back into her files, to the gory images of couple number three, mutilated and bloody, and reminded herself she had a job to do. 

Get it together, Prentiss.

“Couple number three’s last known location was on the corner of Whittier Avenue, outside a wine bar named Blue Mates,” Bugsy read out, hoping her hot cheeks would dissipate before he noticed, “It seems couples out on date night really agitate this guy,” 

Spencer hummed, focused on his third circle, the three of them overlapping with almost precise measurements. It was hard not to notice the pattern to them. He heard her draw nearer with his profile complete, and they stood beside one another, so close they knocked hands when they leaned in to take a closer look at the rings.

“He hits the same street of stores every time, one after another,” Spencer said, his long forefinger trailing down the strip of shops and bars the UnSub seemed to have a taste for, “I mean, excluding retail and supermarkets, since they’re unlikely spots for a husband and wife to go out on a date, the pattern is really quite linear where he hits next,” 

Gently taking the pen out of his hands, Bugsy leaned up to colour in every single store that would be considered retail, crossing out a pet shop or two, leaving only the cafes, bars, restaurants, even a cinema. And sure enough, the three spots the victims had been last seen lined up perfectly as the first three ‘date night’ locations on the strip, the next being a steak restaurant named The Greasy Grill. 

“How much do you want to bet our UnSub is getting a craving for Sirloin right about now?” Bugsy said, putting the pen down onto the table and they exchanged a look of accomplishment, just as Hotch walked in with the Chief of Detroit police. 

“What did you find?” Hotch asked, his eyes falling to the asterisks drawn on the whiteboard, the rest of the known locations Penelope had sent dotted around the map. 

“Date night is very important to this UnSub,” Spencer said, the two of them turning to their boss, his shoulder bumping hers, and it was only then she’d realised she was all but pressing up into his side. 

“He goes on dates?” The chief of police asked, his brows furrowed. Taking a step away, her eyes darting to the map as a means of distracting herself, she pointed to the ink marks they’d squiggled on the paper.

“No, but the victims do and he knows that,” She explained, tracing a chewed fingertip down the street, “The UnSub hit here first, where our first couple went out for pizza. He then moved down here where the second victims had their date night in a bowling alley, and onto our newest victims, they were last seen having wine here, each kidnapping site along the same strip with the next possible location being right here,” She said, her finger slapping against the Greasy Grill, Hotch nodding in thought as the Chief got on the phone with his own team. 

“Good work, you two,” Hotch hummed, and he opened his mouth to speak again when Bugsy’s phone began to ring.

Snatching it out of her pocket, she caught sight of Alex’s name before swiping to answer, pressing it to her ear, “Hello?” 

“Fourth victim has just been found dumped in a car.” The woman said immediately, and Bugsy switched her mobile to speaker so the other two could hear her. Turning on her heels to face the white board, she grabbed the pen resting on the table beside her, yanking the lid off with her teeth.

“Where?” She asked, Spencer picking the plastic from between her lips to help her communicate, her eyes focused on the road names as she waited for Alex’s response. 

“Back alley between Warren and Forest Avenue, one woman found alone in a white Buick,” Alex said, and all three of their faces scrunched in confusion as she said it. 

“He’s changed his victimology,” Spencer murmured and Bugsy nodded, her lips pressed in a flat line, “Alex, is the woman married at least, or has the UnSub completely altered his preference?”

“We have her husband here right now,” Alex confirmed, and Hotch stepped over to where the two geniuses inspected the map, “He said he missed a dinner reservation they had two nights ago at a restaurant called-”

“The Greasy Grill?” Spencer and Bugsy spoke synchronously, and Alex paused audibly. 

“I take it you two have figured out his pattern already?” She asked, though she didn’t sound all too surprised. 

“See if the husband knows anything else, Blake. We’re going to figure out the next location that fits the pattern,” Hotch ordered, and they bid each other goodbye, as Bugsy and Spencer were already coordinating which plots of land were retail stores. 

By the time the line went dead, there was a big red mark circling a mini golf course slash cocktail bar, and the duo looked at him expectantly. 

“If the UnSub keeps his victims for around three days at a time, and the woman was found this morning, my guess is he’s going to head there tonight,” Bugsy said, capping the pen and dropping it back onto the desk, feeling Spencer nodding behind her, “And if the victim was supposed to be at the restaurant with her husband, it means he’s still looking for couples, he just happened to get unlucky. He’s going to want another happy-go-lucky husband and wife pairing,” 

Hotch’s face became unreadable for a moment, his gaze switching between the two of them, like he was assessing the risk factor of sending his two youngest agents undercover for the second time. But they seemed to have worked together seamlessly the first time, in that casino, so he didn’t see the qualms about asking them to work the same act this time.

“What?” Bugsy asked, the look in his eye unnerving her, and she flicked a glance behind her at Spencer’s equally lost expression, turning back to see Hotch dialling Dave’s number to update him on their plan, “Hotch, what is it?”

“He wants a happy couple,” Hotch said, his phone already up to his ear as he eyed the little to zero space between the two agents who swore blind they were just friends, “We’re going to give him one,” 

–

She had to admit, this was a little nicer than the red dress she’d been stuffed into last time. The sundress was flowy enough she could hide her gun strapped to her hip, and still compliment her figure nicely enough that she couldn’t complain. And best of all, it meant she could wear her ballet pumps instead of those god awful stilettos she’d pulled out last time they were undercover. 

She still remembered that evening in the casino, watching Spencer’s big brain tick faster than she’d thought possible even for him. The briefing of this even seemed much more relaxed, seeing as their aim was to look like the happiest couple alive. ‘You worry about playing your parts, we’ll worry about playing ours,’; was what Alex had said when she’d brought in a dress about Bugsy’s size, the woman already styling her hair to look like she was really going on a date. 

Because she was, sort of, not really, going on a date with Spencer. Except none of it was real, like someone up there had to have one final laugh at her luck, like that carrot on a string she’d been waiting patiently for the past week was looking a lot more delicious by the second as it dangled in front of her.  

There was a knock on the small hotel room Hotch had booked them in for the evening, seeing as they were going to be scoping out the area until late, and Bugsy headed for the door without pause, thinking it was JJ returning with the fake wedding rings they’d gotten from a cheap jewellers down the street. 

She swung the door open, only to be greeted by two dark eyes looking at her done up face, her primped hair, her floral dress. 

“Spence,” She said, picking over every inch of him, breathless already, because she always thought he looked hot in a button down shirt, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, “You look-”

“You look beautiful,” He rushed, like he might just burst if he held it in any longer, and she smiled sheepishly, her face flooding with heat all over again. Damn you, Reid, with your stupid charm and ridiculously good looking lips.

“You look beautiful too,” She complimented, noticing a gold band on his finger then and she realised he had something in his palm, “You run into JJ already?” 

He nodded, smiling with a stammered breath, “Yeah, I said I’d come check if you were ready. Hotch and Dave are already there scoping out the bar,” 

She simpered under the weight of his nervousness, “Well, I’m ready,” Holding out her left hand, she raised her ring finger, “Marry me, pretty boy,” 

He snickered, shaking his head at her clear diversion from the stifling tension in the air, and held her hand in his delicately, his skin warm as it encompassed hers entirely, and he was careful to slip the false engagement ring over her digits, following it with a gold band of her own. 

“You ready to get your ass kicked at miniature golf whilst our friends catch a criminal, Mr Reid?” She asked, and he had yet to let go of her hand as she shut the door behind her, slipping her hotel room key into her purse. 

“That’s a bold statement from such a sore loser, Mrs Reid,” He said back, a smile so wide he thought he might burst a vessel as she laughed, and tightened her fingers around his, interlacing them just like she had done a handful of times before, and his chest crackled with white hot excitement when she knocked her shoulder into his side in affection. 

His lips scorched with the words Mrs Reid the entire drive to the bar. 

–

“Any eyes on him, yet?” Bugsy whispered to the women in the stalls, touching up her lipstick as JJ and Alex hid in the women’s bathroom for the signal. 

“Not yet,” Blake said, sitting on the closed toilet seat in her kevlar and jacket, all but twiddling her thumbs and wishing she’d brought a sudoku, “Are you guys having fun at least?”

“Pretending to be married to my best friend while a serial killer eyes up my guts for the taking; yeah I’m peachy,” Bugsy replied, rubbing her lips together and making sure her gun was still strapped tight to her hip, “Besides, he really is kicking my ass at golf,”

“He’s going to let you win anyway, you know that right?” JJ said, tucking her feet up onto the seat in her own stall in case anyone who wasn’t on their team came in to the bathroom, “He always lets you win because he knows it makes you happy,”

Bugsy paused, the tissue that was collecting rogue lipstick smudges from her face almost falling in the sink, and she was quick to gather her voice with a clear of her throat.

“Maybe I just win because I’m good, Jennifer,” She said, a lilt of teasing in her tone, binning the scrap tissue paper and heading for the door, “Keep an eye out, kiddos. I’m going back in,”

They chirped a goodbye, the two of them sighing as they waited for Hotch’s message, and Bugsy walked back out to where Spencer was waiting by Hole Seven. It was a classic windmill on top of a hill, a small tunnel where the door was supposed to be leading to a lower level behind the plastic decor, where the hole lay waiting for them. 

“You ready, honey?” He said, holding out a purple putter they’d chosen at the start of the course, and she smiled genuinely at him. She had been telling somewhat of a lie when she’d been so unenthusiastic in the bathroom, though she thought telling the women just how much fun she was having being married to Spencer might just rub salt in the wound considering they were bored stiff sat in the bathroom.

That and she wanted to keep whatever it was they were feeling theirs and only theirs for just a little bit longer. 

“Ready, my love,” She sang in response and let him go first. He had to lean over a fair bit seeing as he was so tall he made everything on the course look particularly miniature, including the putter that seemed dwarfed by his height. Taking a quick look at the hill, no doubt calculating the angle and force he would need to hit it with, he gave the little, pink golf ball a generous tap and it raced up the slope, straight into the tunnel. They heard it knocking around a little in the chamber, before it came careering out the other end and rolled no closer than a yard away from the hole. 

Bugsy looked at him with wide eyes, to which he pretended not to look almost arrogant with how easy he’d made it seem, only when he looked back at her with a shit eating grin, she knew exactly how pleased with himself he was. 

“I bet it’s not that difficult, it’s all just a matter of force and drag and whatnot, right?” She said, strolling up to place her lilac ball on the inky dot marking the start. 

“Totally, although this is where, I don’t know, say a degree in Engineering would come in useful, I bet,” Spencer chimed in, and she didn’t need to look at him to know he had that smirk on his face. 

“Mr Reid, get ready to eat your words,” She replied over her shoulder, smacking the ball hard enough it flew up the slope, bouncing off the wall of the windmill and racing all the way back down the hill, rolling right back to where they stood, Spencer hiding a laugh behind his hand. She gaped, her face hot with annoyance, “Wait, wait! That was a practice run, I get another go,”

“Practice run, I see,” Spencer said with a chuckle, shoving his hands in his pockets, and watching her scramble to set the ball back on the marker, “So out of interest, how many of these practice runs are you getting,”

“Just the one,” She said, hitting the plastic globe again, though this time it barely made it half way up the incline before it rolled right back down again, “Two, I get two. This one’s the real one, starting now,” 

“The real one? So this one’s really the one that counts, right?” He teased, and she glared at him over her shoulder. He stepped closer to her, a look of the cat that got the cream smeared all across his face as he took a stance behind her, wrapping his arms around hers with the oldest trick in the book, “Why don’t you let your dearest husband help you out, huh?” 

“I have a masters and half a degree in medicine, I think I know what I’m doing,” She hummed, though the feeling of his hands resting over hers soone quietened down whatever fire was stoked in her belly from losing their game. Spencer was so close she could feel him breathing down her neck, feel his chest on her shoulder blades, and worst and most heinous of all, feel his crotch pressing against her tailbone. 

“Alright, alright. Just humour me,” He murmured, a new found confidence in him that he only seemed to get whenever they were playing the part of being other people. He gave her a salacious lick of his lips, smiling at her with a pink parted mouth, his eyes dark in this light like he knew what she was thinking as well, and he couldn’t help but think she looked so pretty when he flirted with her a little. He’d always thought that when she was stunned into that quiet tone, the mousy look she got on her face was rather cute. 

His hands engulfed hers with a mesh of pornographic veins and sadistically handsome knuckles, his mouth at her ear as they lined up the shot together. 

It was as if a murmuration of birds had flocked together in her chest, dipping and diving and creating all manner of shapes in her stomach as she felt it flip three or four times, his body so entirely pressed against hers she never wanted to move a muscle. She’d had the odd thought pop into her head about what sex with Spencer Reid might feel like, and yet all she could think about in the haze of the putter and fake grass beneath their feet was how delicious he felt pressing into her like that. 

He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear as she looked forward again, and she could have sworn she held back a moan when he breathed out down her spine. 

“Hotch has eyes on a guy at the bar watching us,” He whispered, her back straightening as she was reminded with a slap to the face they were still working the case. That as much fun as they were having, as happy as they were supposed to seem, they still had a very real job to do, and she felt stupid for thinking the flirty glances and erotic embrace was for anything more than to sell the married couple act. 

But Bugsy was nothing if not committed to her job. So instead of worrying if Spencer had felt anything real in the last hour or so, she decided to double down and give their UnSub a real show. 

Sticking her ass out so she brushed against Spencer’s crotch more, she intertwined her fingers with his, and hit the dimpled sphere the direction he guided her; and sure enough it rolled straight into the tunnel with little qualms.

Spinning in his arms, the smile was nearly wiped off her face when she saw Spencer’s eyes had darkened to a rich espresso hue as he looked at her. But she hid it well, despite the fact she caught the way his pupils were blown wide, and simply leaned to kiss him smack dab on his cheek, a smirk on her face when she pulled away.

“I guess I just needed the correct motivation,” She said with a flirty undertone, and she revelled in the way his lips parted enough she saw the whites of his absurdly pretty teeth. 

“Remind me to not take you out to mini golf for our first date,” Spencer huffed, his ears red as a mushroom top as they both stepped over to where the hole was and she snickered, trying her best to ignore the wings hammering away at her ribcage when he said that. 

“Duly noted, Mr Reid,” She said, watching him lineup his next shot with a smirk, and she wondered just where exactly they would go on their first date. Her smile only got wider, a girlish glee to her eyes. “So, theoretically, where were you thinking of taking me?” 

“Theoretically,” He said, lining up his shot, the ball only a small tap away from the hole, his feet spreading a little wider so he could lean down to putt the pink sphere, “I was thinking of going to that book cafe out in Delaware, the one where they have a bunch of drinks inspired by different authors. We could play a game I used to with my mom, where we choose a book for each other we think the other would like,” He took the shot, his ball rolling into the cavity without much effort as she watched him meticulously, her entire body softening with his sentiment right down to her marrow, “And then I was going to say we build a sofa fort in the living room and watch whatever movie you like, maybe get some popcorn on the way home,” 

He looked up at her, and almost reeled back in surprise to see her looking at him with something so vastly emotional in her eyes, like he’d offered her a winning lottery ticket or a chance to go back in time in a flying police box, her expression a complete window into her soul because she’d never been too good at hiding how she felt when she was around him. 

Spencer opened his mouth to speak again, only for their earpieces to jump to life, Hotch’s voice out of breath as he reported down their ear. 

“We have the UnSub, we caught him trying to sneak into your car like we profiled.” He said, and she knew his brow was creased without even having to see his face, “We’re taking him in for questioning now, you kids wrap up and head to the station,”

Bugsy hummed in confirmation, fighting the disappointment that their show was over, and they’d have to go back to their usual act of pretending there wasn’t three little words hanging over both their heads, gnawing at the back of their brains. 

Clearing her throat, she set up her shot ready to finish their game, “Well, theoretically speaking, when you’re ready to ask me on that date, I’m there,”

He smiled to himself, perhaps ready to flirt with her just a little more before they went back to being Bugsy and Spence, not Mr and Mrs Reid, when she hit the golf ball just the tiniest bit too vigorously. It rolled straight past the hole, bouncing off the wall and heading further away from the end than when she’d started, and she groaned in frustration. 

“How are you so terrible at this-” Spencer burst out laughing as she stomped over to the lilac ball, lining up another shot with a grumpy expression. 

“Not another word, Lover boy,” 

2. The one with an old flame.

“I wonder what Hotch wants,” She mused, her head resting on the arm of the seat, her eyes shut for the duration of the flight. Rossi had called them into the office startlingly early for a Friday, the entire team sleepy eyed and annoyed as they’d strolled onto the sixth floor. 

Yet the minute that they’d heard Hotch needed them, they’d soon perked up in interest, seeing as it was Aaron’s only appointed week off to see Beth in New York, and they had quickly jumped in to help with whatever it was he needed. 

“Penelope’s still waiting for NYPD to send her the autopsy reports for the previous victims,” Rossi said, him, Strauss, JJ and Alex playing a few rounds of Shithead with a peeling deck of cards because for once they had no paperwork to be looking over while they travelled. Bugsy had laid on the couch, the one Spencer usually commandeered, except this time he let her take the comfy seat, instead letting her legs drape over his lap as he read from his book, another two sat next to him for when he finished that one. 

“He sounded panicked. DEA thinks we might have a bad batch of something making its way through the club scene causing the deaths,” Strauss added, putting down two sets of three on top of JJ’s ace, “Aaron’s brother just happened to have been caught in the crossfire,”

“Men are almost twice as likely to die from drug overdoses than women, just last year there were forty-one thousand, five hundred and two cases.” Spencer said without lifting his head from his pages, his thumb caressing over Bugsy’s ankle bone, “The fact that the majority of the victims are women suggests it’s more than likely is a date rape drug that has been laced since they tend to be targeted towards female victims more often than males.” 

“Ecstasy can be made in pill, powder or liquid form so it really wouldn’t be too difficult to slip it into someone’s drink,” The girl mused, her eyes squeezed shut tightly as she attempted to catch up on another half hour of sleep, “Or to convince people the drug they’re taking willingly is safe,”

“Even regular users might not know they're being dosed until it's too late,” JJ agreed, setting down a seven on top of Rossi’s two fives. 

“What about the two victims who were clean, Linda Heying and Eric Sullivan’s family claimed they never touched the stuff,” Alex questioned, as Morgan looked over the list of victims that they had been able to track down, despite the majority of the information waiting for them at New York. 

“Either the victims are good at hiding the truth or the UnSub is killing for another reason,” David said with a sigh, as Strauss set down the six of clubs, “We should take a closer look, see how they’re connected,”

“Well for now, let the princess get her beauty sleep,” Bugsy said, snuggling into the throw pillow Spencer had passed her as they’d sat down, “I’m feeling weird today,”

His head ripped from his book at that, the rest of the team going back to playing their cards, his hand skirting up to her calf to stroke her leg gently, “You okay?” 

She huffed, “Yeah, Penelope said it's because my Mercury is in Retrograde or something, I don’t know. I just feel strange,” She grumbled, resting a hand over her stomach, “Probably just coming on my period early,”

He frowned, moving her legs off his lap and standing up. Before she could ask where he was going, he stepped to the opposite end of the couch, picking her head up gently by the crook of her neck and sitting back down, resting her back onto his lap. 

His fingers were in her hair before she could say anything, scratching gently at her scalp the way he knew she turned to putty for, and she smiled, swearing blind she’d be purring if she could. 

“We’ll get you some breakfast when we land,” He murmured, and she snuggled her cheek into his thigh, his slender fingers massaging her skin kindly. 

“Thankyou, Spence,” She whispered back, all but slurring her words as sleep caught right back up to her, and before long she was drooling on his black trousers, the sight of it making him smile sweetly to himself. 

And it was for a moment like that he wondered what exact feeling he was waiting for in the first place. 

–

“Any updates?” Bugsy asked, as they entered the New York Police Department and saw Hotch waiting for them, his arms crossed in a casual shirt and jeans, clearly having had no intention of working this week, “How’s your brother?”

“A little shaken but then he never exactly made the best choices in life,” Hotch huffed, putting a hand on her back as she leaned in to give him a small hug because he seemed particularly stressed, “Emily always said you were bad, I’d take you over him any day,”

“Thanks,” She murmured into his shoulder, with a frown, “I think?”

He smiled, amused the way she had a knack for, though the worry in his mahogany eyes didn’t budge, and Spencer was all but a step behind her as the team filed into the building. 

“You guys have coffee?” Spencer asked, his eyes subconsciously trailing after Bugsy as she moved to talk to one of the detectives, and Hotch nodded, pointing him over to the small kitchenette at the back of the precinct. 

“Over there, I’ll get you guys set up with the lab reports now that you’re here. Autopsies came back for Linda and Eric,” Hotch said, and Spencer murmured in agreement, heading straight for the instant coffee and creamer, worrying about the girl who was already nose deep in a file by the time the machine had poured the first cup. 

He wondered whether there were any pharmacies nearby for anti-sickness tablets, or if she needed a heavy dose of water and sleep instead of the caffeine goodness he was whipping up for her, but then he knew she’d rather shrivell into a ball in the precinct bathroom than ask for a day off, would rather suffer in proud silence than make herself look weak. 

Bugsy remembered it happening in choppy intervals. One minute she was heading up the steps towards where Spencer stood patiently by the coffee machine, something already popping up as a point of interest in her overworked brain. Her head was down, muttering to herself the points of the victimology that conflicted with one another, when she felt herself slam right into a solid body, and she jumped back, steadying herself with an embarrassed expression. 

“Oh my god, I’m so, so sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was-” Her eyes snapped up to see a messy blonde sweep of hair, wide blue eyes she’d known ten years ago and a thick beard that happened to be the only thing new about him. Her gaze locked onto him, and she felt a fury she’d not thought about in over a decade rile up inside her, “Sean?” 

“Bugsy,” He breathed, the horror sweeping over his expression, a hand shooting up to slick his hair back nervously, “What are you- how are you-” 

She shoved him back with two firm hands, tossing the file onto the table beside her, and shoving at his chest again, his own hands coming up to defend himself lightly even though his expression read nothing but guilt. 

“Woah, woah, let’s just talk about this, I was just a dumb kid-”

“You left me, Sean. You left me in a foreign country alone with no boarding pass, no cell phone,” She snarled, and the sound of her tone rising turned a few heads, Spencer all but ditching the spoon into the sink when he saw her going nose to nose with some guy who looked purely terrified, “Your dumbass friends spent all my money on hookers, I’d still be in Italy if it wasn’t for the fact you graciously decided not to steal my bank card-” 

She shoved him again in between her growls, and it wasn’t until two hands came up to stop her did she realise Derek and Spencer had all but appeared behind her, the former’s arms wrapping around her waist to draw her back. 

“Woah, woah, talk to me, pretty girl. What’s with the aggression?” Derek asked, his eyes wide with concern as he looked between the youngest agent and their suspect. It seemed her volume had reached the other side of the room where Hotch had been talking with Strauss and Alex, and Spencer could practically see the steam coming out his ears as he whipped around to their trio. 

He could already hear the lecture coming, and the thought of it made him gulp.

“This is Sean,” She spat, and Derek and Spencer’s head snapped to the blonde man who looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole, “You know, the asshole that ditched me on another continent and stole my money,”

“I didn’t mean to steal your money, I thought you had it in your purse, I-I didn’t think to check before we left the hotel room,” He tried to interject, though the girl's glare intensified, unaware her boss's shoes were now thundering across the steps. 

“Where you left me to miss the flight I paid for, you inconsiderate prick-”

“You told me to leave you alone! You said you were sick of us waking you up-”

“I meant playing your music too loud, dumbass-”

“Well sorry, last time I checked I’m not a mind reader, Bugsy-”

“What in God’s name is going on here?” Hotch’s voice was a crack of lightning through the precinct, and the two of them shut up immediately, like two school children caught squabbling in the halls, Sean turning to his older brother with an exasperated expression. 

“Aaron, I swear, I don’t know what she’s doing here,” Sean pleaded, and Derek, Spencer and Bugsy turned to their boss in unison with bewildered faces. Hotch looked back at them, his own anger dissolving into utter, raw confusion. 

“Do you two know each other?” Hotch, Aaron, asked the girl in the middle, the other men all but positioned as bodyguards in the midst of their little spat, and he saw her cheeks hot with anger deflating as she drew a breath to answer. 

“Unfortunately,” She spat, scrutinising the familiar tone Sean had used when he’d said Aaron’s name, “Do you two know each other?” 

“He’s my brother,” The Hotchner’s replied in unison, their tone almost identical and she felt stupid for not seeing it sooner.

Bugsy felt her face drop, her eyes scanning between them for any signs of a lie, except all she found were the tiny details of their face that seemed to half match. Like their cheekbones, and the crease between their brows, the shape of their lips. 

Her face blanked, gobsmacked silence passing between the five of them as she digested exactly what that statement ment. 

Sean, her Sean, the Sean she’d been sleeping with on and off for six months straight, who used to make her tea way too milky and without sugar the way she hated it, but would bring it to her in bed and stroke her back when they were finished, the Sean who once tried to ask her to be his girlfriend when he was stoned and she’d laughed at him and snatched the blunt away, told him to get a hold of himself because that was the exact opposite of how friends with benefits worked. 

Sean, who she had trusted to keep her safe, who’d ditched her naked in a hotel room in a foreign country and made her feel stupid for ever believing a word a man said.  

She stuttered for a response, a wide eyes mix of terror and confusion and repulsion washing over her in stages. 

“I need-” She swallowed thickly, her mouth drier than sandpaper, gently pushing Derek’s arm from around her waist, “I think I need a walk- a walk sounds good- yeah-”

Rossi paced over to the five of them, his phone clutched tightly in his hands. He almost paused at the wall of awkward tension around the group, each participant seeming stuck for the right thing to say, the entire situation so bizarre that Spencer debated faking a migraine to get him and her out of the room for some air. 

“Hotch,” Both of the men turned to look at him, and the sight of it made Bugsy shudder, feeling almost completely out of her own body at the thought of her nude body on top of Sean’s because now all she could see was Aaron in his place, “Six new bodies found in a nightclub-”

“I’ll go!” She jumped, all but bolting past the men, trying her hardest not to touch either of them because her skin crawled with a sickening uncanny valley looking between the brothers, “I’ll go inspect the crime scene,” 

And no one stopped her, because they’d seen her be all manner of strange before, but never quite like that. Aaron nodded his head to Morgan, and the man took it as a sign to follow her. He quickly obeyed, hot on the girl's heels as she kept her head down with an odd, freaked out expression on her face like she was about to throw up and scream at the same time. 

Which left Sean alone as Spencer and Aaron whirled around on him, similar looks of annoyance on their face as the younger agent looked the man head to toe. 

He was handsome, handsome in a rugged way like he was used to bar fights and late nights and drinking until three am with pretty ladies like her. He was built wide like Aaron, his shoulders broad and muscles stocky, a few tattoos dotted around his arms that only added to his rough looking appeal, and Spencer wondered if she’d always liked the bad boys, wondered if he was an outlier in her dating history. 

Except they weren’t dating, not yet at least. 

“So I take it she’s one of your agents,” Sean said, wringing his hands together in anxiety as the two taller men looked down at him, equally unimpressed.

Though, Spencer hated to admit, his was more green faced jealousy than anything else. 

“Agent Prentiss is one of the best,” Reid corrected, his tone cold and stern, and Sean visibly shrunk in on himself, looking to his big brother for help, only he found Aaron was just as annoyed, glaring down at him. 

“You have some more explaining to do, Sean,” His brother snapped, and the two men diverted him into one of the interrogation rooms, Spencer’s jaw clenched so hard he felt his temples ache, “Or next time I’m not stopping her from handing your ass to you, and believe me when I say you’ll wish you’d told me sooner,”

Sean gulped, all too aware of the way eighteen year old Bugsy had never backed down from a fight, when men twice her age shoved her in clubs or girls bitched at her for dancing too close to their boyfriends. He didn’t imagine she was any different at twenty eight, except this time she was trained and licensed to handle a gun. 

The door slammed behind them, and Aaron pushed his little brother into the seat with a firm hand, the sight of his unit chief just as protective over her as he was making Spencer bite back glee. The image of Bugsy laying into the guy was burned into his memory, eidetic or not, and it seemed to be the only thing that stopped him blowing his top as Sean opened his mouth to explain what had happened between him and the younger Prentiss woman. 

–

“What did you do, Thane?” Sean’s voice crackled over the feed, the wire on his chest brushing against his shirt as he paced in the wine cellar. Aaron, Morgan, Spencer and Bugsy sat in the van, listening to the conversation through shared headphones, Spencer and Bugsy’s heads pressed together as they followed the voices as best as they could, waiting for a confession or anything they could tie to the victims' gory deaths. 

“I spiked the wine, you idiot,” Sean’s boss, Thane, snapped, his breathing laboured and Bugsy took a shot in the dark to say he was pacing, worrying now that there was concrete evidence linking his date rape drug to the deaths of atleast nine people so far, “Oh, God. Oh, god, Jim is going to kill me.”

“Why the hell would you do that?” Sean seethed, his patience wearing thin as the man all but confessed to killing his girlfriend. 

“For a laugh, I thought it was X. Girl’s love that crap,” Thane replied, his voice louder as Sean stepped closer to him, and she exchanged a look with Aaron.

“Yeah, but it wasn’t X, was it?” The younger Hotchner barked, and she quickly let go of the headphones to grab a kevlar and her gun. 

“He’s going off track, Aaron, he’d not going to keep his cool much longer,” She said, and Spencer’s eyes trailed up to her face, her brow furrowed as Aaron moved to slip his own bulletproof over his head, adjusting the straps at his side. 

“Tell SWAT to stand by, we’re going in to support, but we may need back up,” Aaron ordered, unholstering his gun and switching the trigger off safety, “You two stay here and see if Thane says any more about the wine,”

She drew her gun to her side just as he did, and Spencer made a move to stop her, even just to check where her head was at because he knew she had this tendency of throwing herself in harms way and asking questions later. He selfishly worried what that upset look in her eyes meant, like she loathed that Sean was in danger as much as she loathed him. 

But he wasn’t quite fast enough, because by the time he’d reached a hand out for hers to ask if she was feeling alright, she had slid the door to the van open, hopping out onto the tarmac as Aaron shadowed her. 

And something ugly and envious reared its head in Spencer’s gut as the doors slammed, so much so that his jaw feathered and he took a deep breath out, his lips pressing into a thin line.

The two agents moved as one, their footsteps pounding over the linoleum floor of the night club. They swept to the back of the building, where the door to the stock room was, and it became apparent almost immediately from the grunting and shuffling the other side of the door that the two men were much closer to brawling than they’d guessed. 

“FBI, drop your weapon!” Bugsy called, bracing herself as she felt Aaron’s domineering figure at her shoulder. She raised her leg to kick the door in, and it swung on its hinges, smacking into the rack of beer. They caught the two men in the middle of a fist fight, Sean with a split lip, Thane with a gash on his forehead, his head locked under the younger man’s arm with a deathly grip.

She holstered her gun, seeing that neither of them were carrying, and moved forward to break the two of them up.

“Alright, Sean- Sean, that’s enough,” She scolded, her fingers prying his muscled arm off his boss’s trachea, and Sean took a second to realise it was disappointment in her face, not the white hot anger it had been not even a few hours before, before he let the man go, some colour returning to his bluing lips.

“He killed Linda,” The blonde Hotchner said softly, and something wavered in her eyes, something close to pity, and she nodded at him while biting her cheek hard. Aaron holstered his gun, surging forward to grab Thane with rough hands as he fought against the taller man’s grip. “She was sober, she’d gotten clean and he killed her,” 

“I know,” Bugsy said lamentingly, and against her better judgement she patted his shoulder kindly, more kindly than he probably deserved, and the thought of it made Sean’s baby blue eyes turn away in sorrow. 

Before she could say anything else, Thane wretched his hand out of Hotch’s grip, grabbing for the sharp box cutter and lunging right for Bugsy where she turned away from him. 

Sean’s expression morphed into fear for a moment, grabbing for her to yank her out of reach, but it was too late. She felt the slash across the back of her arm, where her kevlar couldn’t cover up, and she yawped in pain the way a dog sounds when its tail gets crushed. Turning towards the source of the danger, Sean’s hand weaved around her waist to tug her backwards as Aaron scrambled to grab the suspect. 

Thane’s hand gripped the blade and slashed down again, across her cheek and only inches away from her eye, her hands too late to grab his wrists to stop his advances. By the time he drew back to swipe for her again Aaron had already tackled him to the ground, pinning him to the wine soaked floor and fumbling for his cuffs. 

“We have an agent injured and needing medical, repeat, medical unit required on scene,” Spencer was out of his seat before Hotch could even finish his sentence, forgoing his own vest as he darted from the van, his heart racing at the sound of the scuffle echoing through Sean’s wire, and he felt his chest seizing at just what kind of a state she’d be in when he saw her. 

She was the only other agent on the scene. That call had to be made for her, the voice in his gut told him, but the twisted part of him hoped that it was someone else, anyone else, that had gotten hurt, because he might just throw a punch of his own at Thane or Sean or maybe even both of them if she had so much as a single hair misplaced. 

Spencer had only just about reached the bar area when the four of them emerged from the stock room, Thane in cuffs, looking rattled and aggravated. Spencer let himself take a long, hard look at the man with a glare that soon made him cower away, though he found little luck elsewhere as Hotch’s hands gripped him so tight Spencer thought he might be trying to strangle him through his arms. 

But that wasn’t who he was looking for. And there, trailing behind his unit chief sheepishly, with Sean’s hand on her back as he watched her carefully, his eyes worriedly darting over her skin when he saw how fast the blood was pouring from the laceration on the apple of her cheek, was Bugsy. Her expression was shaken, no doubt from nearly having her corneas slashed open had Sean not pulled her away even a second earlier, and she seemed in some sort of a daze, until she spotted the sweater vest she’d shoved in the wash about a hundred times, and two supple hands reached for her shoulders, snapping her attention out of her head. 

“Are you okay?” Spencer asked, all but ignoring Sean as the man went to flag down medical, his own appearance dishevelled and stunned, and it irked Spencer something childish when her head snapped to the blonde, watching him head for the paramedics. 

“I’m okay, Spence, it’s just a superficial wound,” She said as a reflex, meeting his eyes finally. But she simpered when she saw just how terrified he seemed, a warm palm raising to cup his face affectionately, “He just nicked the skin, that’s all. It’s not as bad as it looks,” 

Which wasn’t exactly a lie. Her face stung like a bitch, but the feeling of her cheek dribbling with the ichor was worse than the actual pain, and made her feel queasy more than anything. 

He went to say something else, or perhaps even gently caress the clean side of her face with his own loving gesture, but he was quickly interrupted by the medical team all but grabbing Bugsy out of his grip and assessing her themselves. 

“It’s probably best if you come take a seat, Agent Prentiss,” The woman said, pointing to where Sean sat on the back of the ambulance getting his nose checked over, “We’ll be over with some stitches and glue,” 

And Spencer made a move to follow the two of them, only to be stopped by Hotch, who called his name with that direct tone he took when he was worried.

“Reid, I need you and Morgan to interview Thane about where he got the drugs he used to spike the wine,” Aaron ordered, even though he seemed to watch the girl go just as bothered as the younger agent, and Spencer seemed conflicted between rebelling against his boss’s instructions or keeping to his track record of following them to a tea. 

He paused for a second, his gaze flicking to the girl who sat with her old flame, Sean’s eyes roving over her head to toe worriedly, and he looked back to Aaron, “But-”

“Now, Reid. She’s going to be fine.” 

And Spencer was forced to listen, even if his face burned with annoyance at the sight of the man watching her so tentatively. 

–

“Would you quit fidgeting, the medic said it was a surface wound,” Bugsy snipped, feeling the ocean hues burning a hole into the side of her head. She dusted her knees off of invisible dirt, braving a look up at her ex-fling where she was met with a wall of guilt.

And it was like for a split second she remembered all the mornings she’d wake up to him twirling the tips of her hair between his fingers, or when he’d shake his head whenever he’d look over her shoulder at her lab reports she’d be writing and make a passing comment on how a hot girl like her could have brains and looks. 

Or how he could be kind to her, genuinely sweet when he wanted to be, when they toed a weird line between friends with benefits and something a little more, because at his core she knew he was a good guy, he was just incredibly dumb for an eighteen year old. 

“Listen, Bug,” Sean sighed, looking down at the ground where they were perched on the back on the ambulance, Bugsy’s face stitched up so tight she hoped it wouldn’t scar very deeply, “I really am sorry for how I treated you,” 

His voice shook with something remorseful, and she let her eyes cast over his face that had grown even more handsome in the ten years since she saw him. With the good memories came the bad ones in equal measure, and the arguments over stupid shit like leaving cupboard doors open and playing music late at night and the time he forgot to feed her gerbil for two days when she was out of town washed back to shore from the deepest crevices of her mind. 

She’d been with men after him, had flings and meaningless kisses with boys who’d treated her much less kindly than he had. And when she thought about it, the anger and resentment she’d felt when she thought about those few days she spent lost in Italy stemmed from the fact she’d been forced to confront what she’d always feared since she was little. 

That Bugsy was alone in the world, forgettable, someone you could leave behind and sleep soundly. 

But when she thought of that now, the first face she pictured was Spencer, and how he would tell her to knock it off if she ever said that out loud, because he would never leave her, in a foreign country or even at a gas station if she needed to get fuel. He always walked up to the pump with her because he knew exactly how many women got kidnapped in places like that every year, he'd told her so already. 

And she knew the person she was when she could have loved Sean, the person who was reminded just how easy it was to leave her behind, was gone. In its place was the girl who Spencer loved like it was as easy as breathing. And the thought of it made her feel just that little bit less bitter towards the blonde man who fiddled with his rough, bloodied hands. 

“I was a dumb kid, I did a lot of things that I’m not proud of,” He swallowed heavily, his frown looking strikingly similar to Aaron's as he did, but she would never remind him, “But I did always wonder whether I’d see your name in the news curing some disease I could never pronounce or being the first person to learn like every single language there is,” He smiled sadly, and the old her knew him just well enough to know he was being honest, because his nose turned red whenever he lied. 

The thought of it made her lips curve up, despite how annoyed she’d been to see him again, and there was something bashful about the way the slid a hand into his to give it a quick squeeze.

“We were eighteen, Sean. No one has themselves figured out at eighteen,” She said earnestly, her head dipping to meet his ashamed gaze.

He shook his head, “You deserved so much better than I could ever give you, we both knew that,” He pulled his hand away, and her expression contorted into confusion, “It’s probably why you're with that doctor, right? Aaron said he’s like a whizz kid,”

“He’s not-We’re-” She sighed, running a hand over where the EMTs had stitched the gash on the back of her arm, “It’s complicated,”

“Complicated like we were complicated?” He asked, her fingertip tracing every single nook where they had looped the suture through her skin. 

She smiled to herself and looked over at him, something weighty like closure passing between the two of him as he watched her take his tired face in, knowing they were nothing more than just passing ships in the night now. 

“You meant something to me once, Sean, no matter how much we drove each other up the wall,” She snickered, and something like an exhausted chuckle matched her, “But it’s different with him. It’s like everything I do means something to the world when I’m with him, you know?” 

Sean took in the wistful look in her eyes, the girl he’d known who had only gotten stronger, scrappier, wittier with age, and he thought he’d be lucky to ever get someone like her again.

“I hope I do,” He said, and she knocked her shoulder into his to dispel the bad memories of two teenagers figuring out what feelings and kisses and sex meant in the messiest of ways. 

“Do me a favour?” Sean hummed at her, and she looked surprisingly like herself again when she smiled at him wryly, “Call Aaron more. It’s difficult being the only disappointment child in his life,” 

Sean barked a laugh at her words, and she smiled into her lap. Who’d have thought closure would be so healing. 

–

She felt eyes on her even as she tried to nap on the jet, having returned back to their original position on the couch, her head on Spencer’s lap. She had a sixth sense to who it would be, the Spider Sense they’d been calling it despite the fact Spencer tried to tell her it was mere intuition, she glanced up to where something melancholic swirled inside his forest gaze, already watching over her despite his book being open in his lap. 

She hadn’t even opened her mouth to speak before his obscenely large hand had sneaked under her jawline, tilting her face up so he could take a better look at the messy cut. 

“Have they given you anything for the pain?” Spencer said quietly, because the other’s were already trying to sleep, and she blanked for a moment, before her hand came up to snake around his wrist gently. 

“They gave me Naproxen for two days. Spence, I’m fine, really,” 

His teeth ground together, his other hand placing his book down beside him and moving to smooth the back of her hair, the sealed wound staring daggers at him as his eyes darted over the rest of her face, just to be sure they hadn’t missed anything. 

He nodded to himself, as if to conclude his consultation and his thumb stroked down the curve of her jaw, his head whipping up to quickly make sure no one else was watching.

“What, uh,” Spencer cleared his throat nervously, her expectant eyes looking up at him, “What were you and Sean talking about?”

Her brow quirked in confusion, and it wasn’t until she felt his delicate strokes hesitate that she realised he seemed on edge, “Why?”

“N-No reason, I just was wondering, you looked like you were-” He coughed again, even though there was nothing tickling his windpipe, nothing except embarrassment, because he’d never thought he’d be the envious type. 

He braved a look at her again, worried she would be annoyed with his crass and intrusive questions, only to see her smiling at him wickedly. 

“We were what?” She asked, and Spencer went so quiet he could have heard a mouse knitting if he tried, his cheeks flushing with raspberry red heat, “Are you jealous, Spencer?” 

He shook his head fast, unable to formulate anything that wasn’t a stammer, and she sat up in her seat, throwing her legs onto the ground so she could scooch up into his side. 

“Because if you were, you know I’d find that wildly attractive right?” She murmured, his cheeks burning an even hotter shade, the sight of it all but a bone to a hound to Bugsy who loved teasing him. She snickered, leaning in close to his vermillion ear, and leaving a tiny kiss on his clenched jaw, “Don’t worry, Wonder Boy. He knows I’m all yours,” 

3. The one with the day of the dead.

“Thankyou, thankyou, my helpful little mice,” Penelope chirped as the three of them stepped into her apartment, their arms filled with shopping bags, “Set them down on the counter, I’ll unpack them later,” 

“Wow,” Bugsy gawped at the altar stood in the corner of the woman’s living room, an assortment of sweets and tissue paper flowers decorating the layers, “Oh it’s so pretty, they’re going to love it. We spent a Summer in Mexico when Mom was having talks with their President, but we moved out before October rolled around so I never got to see a Día de los Muertos,” 

Penny smiled, though she quickly looked around the rest of her apartment that had yet to be decorated, “There’s still a lot to do before the party next week and,” She huffed, the bags taking up the entirety of her kitchen table as Bugsy frowned at her, “I’m scared. I’ve never had the whole team here before,” 

“Relax, Pen, I can help you set up,” The younger woman reassured, helping unload the groceries that needed to go in the fridge as Spencer helped her carry the larger items. 

Penelope perked up watching her guests move towards the cooler, a devilish smirk twitching at her lips, “Hey, while you guys are there, can you see if I have enough hot sauce for the party?”

“Sure,” They replied in synchrony, Bugsy putting the milk and soda in the side drawers as Spencer shelved away some of the meat. They both looked at the top row, where some kind of jalapeno salsa was resting next to a jar of fake eyeballs, and the flicked a casual glance at the woman who was pouring vials of red viscous liquid made to look like blood down her cheeks for a Penelope version of a practical joke.

Bugsy blinked once, not quite surprised as she would have thought seeing Penelope attempting to scare them with something they’d seen a thousand times over for real. 

“Now, are the eyeballs marinating in anything spicy or is it just like a pickled onion type of thing because all you seem to have is the jalapeno sauce,” She said, and Penelope deflated at her bored tone, looking at the two agents in discontent. 

“You guys didn’t even flinch,” She said sadly, her dark eyes flicking between them, “My poor babies, what has the world done to you?” 

Bugsy smiled, shutting the fridge door and handing the bubbly woman a leaf of tissue paper. 

“JJ’s right, I told her I wanted to go scary this Halloween and she just laughed at me, and said that I don’t have a scary side,” Penelope whined, and Bugsy giggled. 

“Sorry, babygirl, you wouldn’t be Penelope Garcia if you were capable of scary,” She teased, waltzing around the kitchen to put away the rest of the shopping, even as the woman tried to shoo her away from helping, “I’ve seen puppies scarier than you, Pen,” 

“If it helps, you probably do,” Spencer interjected, helping Bugsy shelve something on one of the higher cabinets, his long arms weaselling over her own as he reached past her, “The building blocks of the human personality are complex, varied and multi-faceted. It’s essential to one’s mental health to want to express these hidden personalities and it’s just a fact of nature that everybody has one,”

“Everybody?” Penelope asked, ignoring the way the two of them bumbled around her kitchen, handing things between one another the way she imagined them putting away the groceries in their own kitchen, like they worked just as well in the home as they did in the field. Dare she say it, like a couple who had been married and knew each other's routines for years. “Even the two of you?” 

“Oh, absolutely, yeah,” Spencer agreed, and Bugsy flicked a smirk up at him as Pen turned to her expectantly.

"I mean, you can't tell me Bitch-Slapping our boss or fist fighting with my sister was exactly usual behaviour for me," She pointed out, and the two of them nodded in agreement, although they wouldn't have exactly called it out of character for her.

“Okay, okay, I want to see it. I want to see Dr Spencer Reid’s hidden personality,” Penelope said, a smile growing as thick and fast as a weed when he seemed thrown off by her request, and it only took one look at the younger Prentiss to know she wanted front row just as badly. 

“R-right here? Like right now you want to see it?” He stammered, all too aware of Bugsy’s amused lashes batting up at him, the innocent expression she knew made it difficult for him to say no to, and he wondered for a second if she understood the exact amount of control she had over him when she wanted to. 

“I wanna see this hidden personality, pretty boy,” She smiled with her teeth, and he felt his hands turn jittery in embarrassment. 

“Okay, alright,” Spencer shook his arms out, clearing his throat with a growling sort of husk that made her raise her brows, and in a single blink he’d locked stern eyes with her, pointing to her with a completely un-Spencer-like stance; completely rose to his full height, confident and domineering, “I know what you’re thinking,”

She really hoped he didn’t. Because what she was really thinking was just how hot he sounded with that deep sort of timbre, that cocksure attitude. 

“You’re thinking ‘Did that guy just fire five shots or did that guy just fire six shots?’” He went on, his tone deadly serious, as her lips parted in surprise, and what had started out as a game turned into some wildly lewd thoughts fast, “You’re going to have to ask yourself a question; Do you feel lucky, pun-k,”

She swallowed haughtily, as he squeezed his eyes shut and when he looked at her again he was entirely puppy like the way he usually looked, none the wiser to the way her stomach had coiled in want. 

“That was Clint Eastwood from Dirty Harry,” He explained, looking to Penelope because he had no idea what that strange look on Bugsy’s face was, only to see his techy friend just as in awe, “I mean I know it’s not as effective as my dominant personality, but I really think it’s there-”

Penelope’s phone sprung to life with a call from Hotch and she quickly spluttered an excuse that they needed to leave right away, grabbing for her keys and heading for the door. 

Spencer made a move to follow her, only to feel a hand grab his shirt and turn him right back around, Bugsy still staring at him with that look in her eye, like she’d had too much caffeine or been told there was a million dollars cash waiting for them at home.

“Is everything okay-”

“Is Clint Eastwood strictly a party trick or would I be able to have him on request, maybe?” She said, her hands oddly tight as they grabbed at his soft stomach, and it was like he heard the click in his brain when he realised what she meant. 

“R-request, I guess,” He stumbled for composure, finding his footing when he felt her palms were clammy, “You got a thing for cops?” 

“Just the one, I guess,” She said with a clenched jaw, and he laughed though it sounded more like a choke, as she darted right behind Penelope to avoid suspicion. 

–

By the time the party rolled around, Penelope had decked her apartment out to the nines, marigolds and tissue garlands and lights and food of all sorts spread out across the altar, a mix of alcohol and juices available in pitchers, because Penelope was nothing if not a people pleaser. 

The doorbell rang right as Alex and Bugsy poured themselves some margarita, complete with the eyeball ice cubes ofcourse, and Penelope fussed in her beautiful dress, muttering under her breath the way she did when she was nervous. 

“What, what, what,” She murmured, her blonde curls bouncing with her steps as she reached for the door, “I thought you said you couldn’t come!” 

Bugsy’s head whipped to the door, Aaron looking much more casual than they were used to seeing him as he entered the decorated home, his colleagues all dressed smartly and in some shade of black. 

“Jack got a last minute sleepover invitation so I hope it’s okay,” He said, a bottle of rosé in his hand he’d brought as a contribution. 

“Ofcourse, ofcourse,” Penelope sang, leading him over to the altar where everyone stood with their offerings, sipping on their glasses of liquor, “Okay, everybody, I guess it’s time to start, here you go sir,”

She handed him a freshly poured glass of wine, chilled courtesy of the eyeball, and Aaron thanked her kindly, taking a generous sip to catch up with the others. 

“I want to thank everybody for doing this with me, and our altar’s burning, and I just feel so blessed to have you all here,” Penelope started with a grateful smile on her painted lips, a handful of old photos between her fingertips, “I will start, um, this is my mom and dad,” She said, nostalgia idling her tone as she gently placed down a worn picture of a teen couple holding a beautiful, blonde girl, eyes bigger than moons and full of curiosity, just how Bugsy would have imagined Penny as a baby, “I miss them. And this is my cat, Simba with his usual bowl of soda pop. He was a weird cat,”  

The team chuckled, looking at the enormous ginger Tom that lapped at the bubbly liquid. Bugsy took a sip of her drink as JJ took a step forward with a smile, her own photo in hand. 

“This is my sister, Roselyn. Ros.” JJ said, placing down a photo of a fifteen year old with identical eyes and nose to her, sitting it next to a small statue of the eiffel tower, “She always dreamed she’d live is Paris so um,” She swallowed, looking at her sister laying in the grass of their childhood home, something girlish in her gaze, “It didn’t happen but I thought this would bring her some happiness,”

They took it in turns bringing their offerings and pictures: David bringing some Cubs tickets for a soldier he had lost in Vietnam, Alex bringing a crossword for her mother, Spencer sliding down a picture of Maeve silently, alongside a cut out picture of Nikola Tesla, Morgan bringing his father, Hitch putting down the picture of Haley he kept in his wallet. 

Which left them all to turn to the youngest agent, who seemed flustered.

“So, I fortunately have not lost anyone properly thus far, so bare with me here guys,” She said fishing out an old scrapbook photo of her as a seven year old, a small orange snake wrapped around the length of her arm, twenty two year old Emily standing right behind her, the pair of them with beaming smiles as the snake seemingly poked its tongue out for the camera. 

Penelope clutched her chest in horror, “Is that a-”

“This is Tigger, the corn snake Emily gave to me when she left home,” She explained, and Spencer couldn’t help but smile at the million dollar grin she had in the photo, three of her front teeth missing sweetly, “I had him until I was about twelve before he kicked the serpent bucket, but he was cute for a slithery little guy,” 

She drew another photo, an ultrasound showing two tiny embryos and she put it beside the picture of Tigger, and the group drew a shared breath. 

“Bug, I never knew you were…” Spencer started, his stomach flipping when he saw the outline of the foetuses, only for the girl’s eyes to widen. 

“No! No, it’s not like that, this is um,” She cleared her throat awkwardly, scratching the back of her hand with a guilty look, “This is the twin I absorbed in the womb,” She said, and she felt the rest of her team gawking at her without having to look, “I guess I’d like to say, uh, I’m sorry pal. It was nice while it lasted, I hope you can forgive me,” 

“You’re being serious?” Morgan asked, gawping at the girl, right as Hotch broke out into disbelieving snickers, probably spurred on by the wine, and Alex was quick to join him, her hand over her mouth.

Bugsy turned to him with a ‘duh’ kind of look on her face, “Oh, 100% serious, yeah,” 

“Is that why you’re a little…” Rossi started, only he found himself stuck for words when she looked at him betrayed. 

“A little, what?” She asked, looking to JJ who cracked into a chuckle, putting her head in her palm.

“What he means is you have a big personality,” Alex said, wrapping an arm around the girl’s shoulder and giving her a motherly squeeze, hoping they hadn’t offended her, “And we wouldn’t change it for the world,”

“I should hope so, she got a double helping.” Morgan cackled, and Bugsy smacked his arm with a smile. 

“Every time I think I know everything about you, you come out with something new,” Penelope said, her own snickering laugh meeting the girl’s ears, “You’re like Jason Bourne,” 

“God help us if there had been two of you, Prentiss,” David added, patting the girl on the head as they laughed, and Penelope raised a toast to their altar, the rest of the team doing the same before they sipped out their cups and allowed themselves to enjoy the rest of the party. 

–

“Oh, I have something for you!” Bugsy said, springing to her feet and almost tripping over Sergio who had curled up by her legs. 

She’d cut herself off after her third, and by the time midnight rolled around she’d almost completely sobered up enough to the point her and Alex had been playing hangman except with only Old English words.

Her and Spencer had gotten home twenty minutes later, the two of them exhausted from an evening well spent, the melancholy happiness in the room draining them to the point Bugsy had immediately changed into her pyjamas when she got into the house.

Her pyjamas being Spencer’s boxers and one of his shirts since he’d inadvertently been hiding all of the underwear-top combinations she’d gotten from other flings that she’d brought when she moved into his. 

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” He said earnestly, and she simply waved his humble attitude off, the two of them sat on the sofa in their nightwear, flicking through the late night TV. 

He smiled, watching her bustle into her room and root around her closet, before she emerged with a terracotta coloured pot of lilac flowers, whirling on her heel to head for him. 

“What’s this?” Spencer asked, standing to meet her and Bugsy simpered, because she’d felt silly for buying them in the first place. Perhaps it was some left over guilt considering she’d spent the majority of Maeve’s existence in her life hating the girl, or atleast hating what she had that Bugsy thought she could never be privy to. Perhaps it was because all things considered she wanted Spencer to know that it was okay for him to mourn, because she’d never force him to hurry up his process when he’d been there for every second of hers. 

She handed him the potted plant, the small purple petals in the shape of half moons lighting up at him, and his mind raced as to what species they were since he’d certainly never seen them around the East Coast before.

“Scaevola aemula,” She said, fiddling with the hem of his shirt around her waist as she spoke because his eyes were unnervingly doe-like when he looked at her in the dark lamp light, “It’s called the fairy fan flower. I thought-"

She paused, her expression morphing into embarrassment, "Wait, this is so stupid, I’ll send them back,” She shook her head, the worry overtaking the rational part of her as she grabbed for the pot to stash it back in her room, but he held it out of her reach, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her body against his hip, as the other stretched out to keep her from snatching back the plant. 

“Tell me. What?” He said, his lips stretching into a devious smile to see her so shy suddenly, and she buried her face into her hands as he watched her, “I'm not going to think it's stupid. Why did you get me these?”

“They’re not for you- well, they are, but I just thought,” She stumbled over her sentences, her heart thumping that this was entirely the wrong move, that she was poking at an open wound no matter how caring she was being. Clearing her throat, she let her forehead thump onto his shoulder, her eyes squeezing shut as she spoke, “I thought you could keep it so that you can think of Maeve every time you water it, since Maeve was the name of the fairy queen,” 

He was quiet. God, why was he so quiet? Her breath was thick as molasses as they sat in the silence for a second. She nearly jumped a foot in the air when two of his fingers ran delicately beneath her chin, tilting her head up enough that he could see her face and she drew a sigh of relief when she saw he didn’t seem angry or hurt at all. 

His eyes were soft as pools of honey as he looked at her, his brows stirring into a sad-happy mix. 

“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” She whispered, their faces so close they were sharing breath, and he shook his head, his fingers never leaving her skin where they forced her to stay near, gave her no choice but to keep her looking at him. She didn’t think she could stop even if she wanted to. Everything pretty about him was dialled to a thousand whenever she got close, and his thick lashes blinked at her like he was seeing a mirage, a daydream. 

“This is the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me, Bug,” Spencer murmured back to her, his every word fanning over the bridge of her nose, and she sighed in content, melting back into his side as he pulled her into a hug, his own face burying into the crook of her neck, “Thankyou,” 

She smiled and hummed in happiness, wrapping her arms around his slender waist and drawing him so close she got a whiff of his shampoo. 

“I have a bigger pot in my room, if you like, then we can keep it in the kitchen sill, away from the boys,” She offered, beaming at him when he stroked over the back of her hair affectionately. She hopped out of the embrace, “I’ll go get it for you-”

“You’ve done enough, Bug,” Spencer reminded, something grateful in his tone as she paused and waited for whatever he was going to say, “I’ll go get the pot, you go decide what movie we should watch,”

“You’re sure?” Bugsy asked, her brows furrowed as she checked for signs of an escape in his movements. But he just smiled back at her tiredly, the purple flowers his accomplice as she gave in and headed back towards the sofa, “It’s by my dresser, where my paper bin used to be,”

He set the gift on the kitchen table, the lilac hues brightening up the kitchen already like they just knew how touched Spencer felt to have received them, like there really was some kind of fairy magic burrowed into the soil as they watched the two of them dance around one another, heading to opposite ends of the apartment with lingering glances and bashful smiles.

Spencer thought his chest couldn’t swell any bigger in size, his heart so inevitably full of her, it left room for no one else, not even Maeve, which was the first time he’d brought himself to think that in months. 

+1 The one with the book.

He opened the door to her bedroom, her duvet tossed everywhere because it was a rare occasion she made her bed before they left for work, her clothes strewn about the floor in the general direction of the bathroom, like she’d stripped on the way there, and the thought of it made his stomach seize with a heat, the idea of her undressing little more than a wall away from him knocking his every thought from his head.

The vase. He needed a bigger vase.

Quickly collecting her clothes up and shoving them into her laundry basket for her, he diverted his attention to her dresser, where the slightly roomier pot sat on the floor, a towel underneath it to catch any water remnants and he stepped over her various note pads and books she’d clearly tossed off the bed before she went to sleep. 

He tried to ignore them, he really did, but his scratching urge to keep things tidy for her wrestled with his conscience that said to leave her stuff alone. Before he could talk himself out of it, he found himself organising them into a neat pile in his hands and placing them on top of her dresser where one of her books had made it safely, or at least safe enough she wouldn’t trip over it. 

His gaze dropped to the book already on there, its leather cover entirely melting into the background of the dark chestnut dresser, yet it stared daggers up at him like it had been waiting to be noticed.

Great Expectations, Charles Dickens.

The book looked old enough to be easily from original 1900s, at least one of the first few hundred published. It was scuffed a little on the edges, the black lettering of the printed title choppy in places where it had been handled recklessly, and the leaves of paper were atom thin. The smell of dust and paper clouded his nose when he picked it up delicately.

Opening the front cover curiously to see its printed date, he was stopped in his tracks to see a little post it note on the title page, covering Mr Dickens’ name with a scrawled handwriting he’d known for six years. 

Six whole years. Nearly seven. He felt like he’d known her his whole life, when in startling reality he’d not even known her a third of it. 

And there it was, where he was expecting a list of notes or her thoughts on how David Copperfield had much more likeable characters, anything that she’d thought important enough to scratch down on the front page, instead was his name. 

Spencer,

He felt his breath catch the second he read it, contemplated slamming the book shut right then and there because this felt illicit to read whatever it was she��d scribbled out just for him even if it was dedicated to the stupid man who’d been asking her to wait on his stupid head and stupider heart to align so he could give her exactly everything she deserved. 

His gaze snapped away from the page, that voice in his head telling him this was wrong, that if she’d wanted him to see that book she would have given it to him already. And yet, like it did most days, the beating organ in his chest writhed in annoyance that he’d looked away, that he’d followed the rules one too many times for its liking. He bit his cheek, the two halves of himself arguing amongst themselves. 

After a second of debating, his eyes fell slowly to the note, a creeping guilt skirting down his spine that he was reading something private. How could something be private and yet meant for him? His brain scoffed at the dichotomy of it all, while his chest lurched when he caught a glimpse of more of her writing. 

‘Spencer,’ His heart trembled almost as much as his hand as he traced the writing with his forefinger, imagining her writing it out in a little ball point pen, her body slumped over the book with every intent of having him read her little note. He imaged her breath fanning across the page, her hand warm as her knuckles stroked over the paper, and it felt so much more intimate than a little post-it when he thought of her like that, ‘By the time you’re reading this I’ll be back home from London and we’ll probably be in your apartment doing that stupid thing we do when we pretend like I haven’t missed you more than anything in the whole world while I’ve been here in England,’

She wrote this in London, probably in that tiny apartment her and Emily had rented on a short lease, the one she’d said smelled like mildew and dust and wet wood but had a gorgeous view of Hyde Park when she looked out her bedroom window. 

She’d written it months ago, so why hadn’t she given it to him?

‘I miss you every day. You’re all I think about when I go for a run, and I think sometimes you’d really like it here. I’ve mapped out all the bookshops I’ve found and all the places that do really good coffee if you ever did want to visit England, but I think I’d be happy with you even if we lived in a little ditch on the side of the road like two drowning rats,’

His chest seized, tears lining his lashes when he thought about that day she’d yanked him into a hug the second she saw him, when he’d been too busy thinking about Maeve and burying whatever he felt for Bugsy entirely behind him. 

You should have called, Bug. He’d said, like his eidetic memory wanted to twist the knife in just that bit deeper, and he didn’t need his freaky brain to remember how her face had fallen when he’d said it like that. Like he didn’t even want to see her. 

He hated himself. He hated himself more than she’d ever had. Even if she had more rights than anyone to despise his selfish guts. 

‘Anyway, I know Dickens isn’t your favourite or anything, but I got you this because I know you like the original copies and because it made me think of you (but then again, what doesn’t?). 

I never truly enjoyed the living part of life until you were in mine. And so I guess that means I’ll love you until the life part stops too. 

All my heart,

Bug.’

He didn’t realise he was holding his breath until he finished the note, digesting every single word the average speed instead of his usual method of inhaling the letters faster than should be possible, like he wanted to savour every single one because they’d come from her. 

He heard her saying every single one, the thought striking him like someone had cracked him across the face with a paddle. She’d wanted to say all of this when she was in London, when he’d been too busy for her, when he’d been too busy with Maeve. 

I never truly enjoyed the living part of life until you were in mine. 

“Did you find it?” Her voice called from the other room, no doubt where she was settling down to flick the movie on, her heart so delicate and gracious because she was still waiting for him. 

Even now, even when she was in his clothes and under the blanket she’d brought from her apartment for them to use on movie nights because it got cold too fast in his house, when she was waiting for him to come back. 

Spencer felt knocked out of a dream, like someone had yanked the chord on his music, shaken him awake into the freezing realisation she was waiting for a reply. 

He’d made her wait long enough. 

He barely heard her footsteps entering her own room, probably worried when he hadn’t responded and she said his name, “Spence?” A shudder rolled over his neck when he heard it, a siren song he’d been hearing like a mantra for weeks and he felt something fat and full well in his chest when he turned to look at her, standing there in nothing but boxers and a shirt, just as she had when he’d first met her. 

Except she was his. She was waiting on his call, on his signal, on his word go. 

And it was like the idea of being with her for the rest of his life made his living part worth it too. Like it always had done. 

Her eyes fell down to where his hand rested on top of the book, the page splayed open where he’d delicately flicked it open, the yellow post-it catching in the light and making her expression fall. 

They looked at each other, the same thought channelling between them, their brains meshed together on some other kind of bluetooth the same way they’d always done, only this time it was a prickling hive mind that gave them both gooseflesh the second they locked eyes. 

“Why didn’t you give me this?” He asked, his voice small because he already knew the answer, not daring to move a muscle like she was some kind of deer ready to be spooked. 

“You were busy,” She said equally as sheepish, her thumb moving to pick the side of her nail when she saw his still stature. They went quiet again, neither of them daring so much as to breathe too loud because they both knew what was on that note. It was the closest she could ever come to splitting open her own chest and handing him that thumping wad of bloodied muscle herself, and it was only when he turned to look at her did she panic, words tumbling from her lips; anything to stop him from walking away because she’d been poking around a fresh wound, “You weren’t supposed to see- I mean you were but only when you wanted to, I didn’t want you to think-”

Except he wasn’t heading for the door like she’d thought, he was heading straight for her. 

“Spence, please, I wasn’t going to tell you until-” But she’d shut up, because instead of replying anything back to her, instead of telling her she could have his heart and his soul and everything in between if she’d ever ask for it again, instead of telling her she was the thing that had kept him alive, like she might as well be the blood that rushed through every one of his veins, he grabbed her face in his hands so hard her back hit the wall, her hands flying out to stop herself from falling. 

And he kissed her, so hard he thought he might cry because it was better than any high he’d ever had, any drug on the market, better than his wildest dreams. She froze for a second, worried she’d tripped and fallen on her way over, that this was a concussion spun wild, because there was no way he was kissing her with every inch of their available skin pressing against one another, his hands swallowing her cheeks whole, his body invading her space, his breath rushing through her nose that bumped against his clumsily. 

Bugsy woke up after a second, her hands gripping onto his slender waist like he was pulling her drowning out of water, like he was dragging her from a flame which she didn’t think sounded too far off since her skin had become molten, her cheeks hot, her chest wrenching for control like she’d inhaled black smoke. 

But he was there, kissing her like she was all he had left, and she kissed him back with equal fervour, whimpering when he bit her lip, a hand wrapping around her waist to tug her just that bit closer to his stomach. Any molecule of her that was left behind was stolen by the action, and all she could think was that every inch of her was his, entirely his, his forever if he wanted it. 

“I love you, I love you so much,” He gasped, drawing away for a split second of air before he took her lips to his own once more, twice, and a third for good luck, their teeth knocking together as he wanted to tell her that a million more times while still kissing her, “I love you, I love you. God, I don’t think I ever want to stop saying it,” 

He pulled her to him again, silencing his own stupid ramblings of a mad man, a whine dragging from his throat as his brows furrowed, his lips soft and plump as he kissed her like he was begging for honey after a hundred day fast. 

And she smiled into his mouth, because Spencer was finally hers. 

--

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[vatelixx]

You are the knife (I turn inside myself),

S2!Post-addiction!Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT!! (and copious amounts of angst, and like a small amount of fluff to just… balance it out), Workplace rivals, aka, enemies to lovers (who are still enemies and would rather die than tell each other they’re in love).

──── autistic spencer (as per usual), evil evil reader (im being dramatic, kinda), they hate each other so much that they have to find a new way to crawl into each others skin.

Warnings: sub spencer, brat!spencer (a man gets glasses and suddenly thinks he can be defiant) brat!tamer!reader, HUGE corruption kink (someone keeps putting that in there???? it’s not me, i swear), first time for Spencer (i love a virginal nerd), restraints (someone has to pin him down), crying— like lots of crying, degradation (and a little praise because they work hand in hand), Spencer eats reader out like rent is due, reader says thankyou by destroying him, they argue mid-sex. They actually just argue constantly.

— warning: mentions of past drug addiction.

w.c: 9k (mostly smut, holy shit how is it 9k??? their arguments hiked up my word count im positive)

a/n: i know tumblr hates to see me coming with my Spencer Reid one shots. I wrote this at 3am when I was supposed to be studying for my latin exam, it’s okay. Uni will understand I had greater things to do. I promise i’ll get around to my requests this week, i just got possessed by the holy ghost and wrote this.

────────────

Something, something, mindless torture. Spencer holds his brain, his intellect, in high regard. Proverbial accomplishments, Stanford Binet approved genius, he’s an outlier to most. And yet, the moment you start speaking, he has no thoughts beyond the domineering urge to throw himself off a cliff.

You’re late today. Chicago, you’ve both been sentenced, discarded to create a profile from the minimal information present. Forced proximity, the team have been trying to stifle this animosity shared between you for over a year now. It doesn’t work.

Here’s the thing, each member of the BAU has their own specialised feat: Penelope could be a cybercriminal, if she so wished, a tech-genius that has no qualms in tearing down firewalls. Morgan, adroit, an expert on the field, stereotypically strong, all running lines of muscle. Who wouldn’t want to be princess-carried away from danger by him? He’s also remarkably good at kicking down doors. Gideon has incalculable years of experience, a mentor.

The list stretches on.

But you and Spencer can’t both be the brains of the team. It’s unbalanced, skewed. A clash of intellect. Scales tipped in one direction, why does he always come up short? Why can’t he just—

Why, repeats as you push through the bureau, blanking the predictable, formulaic stares of various officers, trained officials, the usual mess. Why— why profiling? Why did you voluntarily choose to suffer your way through ceaseless cases of sanguinary?There has to be an element of masochism to your career; no one with a sane mind voluntarily decides to walk into an onslaught of serial killers and death.

The early mornings are always the worst; stumbling out of bed, deriving no sleep from the night, tangled sheets and restless limbs. “Don’t,” you push, padding into the office, met with Spencer’s hardened gaze. “Late night.”

“We haven’t been here for 48 hours yet, 36 and 22 minutes to be precise, and you’ve already—“

“Get your mind out of the gutter, boy genius. Late night as in I stared at the casefiles until my mind went numb.”

“Did you take a break?” he asks, and you both know it’s not born from care. “Maybe a self-reflection period to realise that torturing yourself isn’t the most effective form of work. Your reactive skills will be delayed now, let’s hope we don’t find the unsub today. In fact, maybe I should warn Hotch—“

“Have I ever warned Hotch about your breakdowns?” that shuts him up. It also makes him spiral, because you can’t know, it’s not statistically possible that you’d be aware of Hankel’s lasting impact on his body, dilaudid, hydromorphine, and not tell someone. He assumes you’d be desperate to eliminate him from the team, to claim your win.

“Right, um— the case,” he shifts in his seat. Professionalism, tolerance, it’s all a little too much work when it comes to the subject of you.

“The case.” you agree.

You’re attuned to each other, a psychological curse he’s forced to stomach. Offices and crime scenes, analysing, competing, hellbent on one upping the other. “Look at these markings—“ his hands rifle through the files that adorn the table, searching searching until they produce an autopsy report.

The markings on the body are intricate, latin symbols prominent against the victims pale skin. You lean further forward, following the path of his index finger as it traces the outline. Perhaps there’s an element of telepathy to your dynamic; you don’t need to state the obvious, too aware that his brain has already processed the information, that he’s moved onto the nuances now.

Human sacrifice, it’s not the first time you’ve caught yourselves in the midst of cult worship and indoctrination. But it’s certainly the first time of its kind.

“Traces of wine in her bloodstream. Found in a forest. Sounds like a bacchanal.” you state, shifting to pull yourself up on the desk.

Spencer looks. At your long, slender legs extending out from a pencil skirt. Effortless, natural, situating yourself on the oakwood, hair half covering your face, with loose strands pooling over your eyes to obstruct your sight.

It’s a strange analogy, the two of you; Spencer with his tired eyes, haphazard clothes and messy desk, and you, just as dishevelled in the morning light.

Metaphorically and literally you’re higher than him right now. He fixes his askew glasses. Clears his throat. “Regina Horthorne,” the victim, “Straight A student. Honour role. What are the chances she willing went to said… bacchanal?”

“Hm. I don’t know, maybe she’s like Laura Palmer. Double life. 4.0 cheerleader by day, crazed bacchante by night.” you retort.

Shamelessly, you take a moment to observe him, just as he did you. Shirt sleeves bunched up at his elbows, hair tousled, large hazel eyes, interminably darting across your face. You wonder for a moment if he’s analysed you the way you’ve analysed him. It’s a futile question, of course he has.

Anything to gain the upper hand.

You continue, “Maybe they’re sacrificing virgins. You could go undercover as a potential victim. Certainly fit the part.”

“I’m already too old to be counted as an appropriate victim. There’s a high probability ‘they’, the dominant unsub, wouldn’t even look at me, and—“ he pauses, pretty face marred by creased features, brows furrowed, a slight pout to his lips.

“There’s a homicidal cult preforming human sacrifice, and you’re wasting time by insulting me?” Spencer is….. a perpetual scholar, a social disaster, wearing his intellect like an ill-concealed secret, outcasted for the weight of his own brilliance. “The BAU clearly made a well-informed decision when they hired you.”

“Oh, you wound me boy genius.” you respond, pressing your hand against your heart.

Endless cases. The impenetrable presence of fall. It feels like you shift through cycles, bleary-eyed and tainted from the job, damaged goods— do you struggle to sleep like I do?

You lean forward, hands, adorned with cluttered rings, braced against the table, bodies closer now. There’s a burn, something fervent that lingers between you, rivalry, opposition. Some days you feel as hedonistic as the unsubs you track and chase.

Continuing, you let out a sharp laugh. “Are you still bitter because I realised it was a bacchanal before you? Don’t worry, i’ll let you take the credit for it. I’m sure Gideon will be so impressed.”

Gideon sees everything in him, and nothing in you. Predictable.

The distance between you has become almost null. It’s intimate, and he’s not sure how he feels about that. “I’m not bitter. And I don’t care about the credit.” A lie. “Unlike you, I don’t need to prove my worth to him.”

────────────

Spilt blood. Your hands are calloused from holding a gun. From firing a bullet straight through skull. The case closes, locked behind that inviolable wall, the one that’s installed into your mind the moment you’re employed, the moment you sign your fate over to the BAU. You’re not sure why anyone stays, overworked and undervalued, there’s no heroes in real life. Maybe it’s the sense of family, or maybe it’s just what everyone subconsciously fell into.

You can’t understand why you’re so angry at Spencer, why it extends to the next case, South Dakota— deaths of locals, but these days, all of the illogical, petty reasons just blur together. Create this tangled mess of overcompensation. ’I assumed you two would get along,’ Prentiss had stated— but what does she know? She’s been an active member of the BAU for a whole 10 minutes.

The hostility has mounted to new levels now.

It’s hard work, long hours, no gratitude and a pay cheque that can’t even begin to cover the trauma that comes with the job. The BAU is like self-sabotage: a long list of reasons to leave, and no real reasons to stay. But still you’re both stuck in this loop.

South Dakota, of course it’s South Dakota. Cold, desolate South Dakota where the wind and snow will not let up, and the team are forced to remain cooped up in a cheap motel, desperate for any sort of entertainment.

Here he is, coerced into your room to work on the case, overtime, his eyes are rimmed crimson.

You’re sprawled out across the bed while he sits at the other end, slender legs crossed. Spencer is tired with a weariness that seems to go soul-deep, shoulders slumped forward, glasses oblique.

The tension is near-palpable, stifling. “I can do this myself. No offence,” full offence, “but you’re unneeded right now. In general, really.”

You make him cruel. Or no, maybe this job does? He can’t remember himself unscathed now, fresh-faced to the BAU, unaware of what he’d endure. It’s still early days in recovery, two months since he was entirely, indomitably reliant on Dilaudid.

“No you can’t,” you retort. Maybe it’s unprofessional, disreputable to waste so much breath on insults, to dedicate specific moments to hostility— people are dead, people will keep dying. And yet, perhaps there’s justification for this; your mutual animosity is the only semblance of routine to this job, the only way either of you can seek control.

Control. All you do is reach for the blade.

“You’re just bitter that I know what I’m doing. You’re not infallible, Boy Wonder. You need my help, so shut up and read that autopsy report. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can go back to my apartment and forget you exist.”

Well that’s certainly unlikely.

“I think,” he says, and he knows this is going to be bad. He can feel the serrated edge to his forming words, his half-baked analysis too focused, too distracted, by his need to hurt. But he’s exhausted, and these days, he runs on a detrimentally short fuse. Maybe he finds a release in your dynamic, or maybe it makes everything worse. How can something be everything and nothing at the same time?

“I think you’re insecure” he continues, “because you know Gideon values me more. That, to him, you’re replaceable. It’s why you’re so fixated on one upping me. Why you feel the need to prove yourself superior. Textbook insecurity. You can’t stand the fact that he chooses me over you, that he thinks I’m better than you. That my input is more wanted, more necessary.”

This is uncharted territory now. It’s never been pushed to this extent. It’s never gotten so morbidly cruel that his words actually pierce. You’d consider yourself to be thick-skinned, bullet-proof, a mess of hardened edges and calloused flesh. But he regards you with such insignificance, in a way that’s different from your own personal view of him.

Obstinate, petty, a smart kid yet to meet his match. But never insignificant.

There’s silence, and then he’s dragging you down with him, forcing you to dig deeper, to smother wounds with salt. “Did he really choose you, though? No one on the team noticed. Not one person. After the Hankel case? When you came back different?”

Spencer falters.

It’s a vulnerable, raw spot, a laceration that never seems to heal; the worst part is that you’re right. He’d been in a spiralling decline for months, in plain sight, but everyone had been so absorbed in their own issues and god he needed a release. No one noticed. No one ever notices.

That he has no life, no prospects outside of the BAU. That his existence has been one comicotragic mess of inexperience, missing the mark, missing the joke, the punchline, the fact that everyone was always laughing at him, behind his back, to his face, present or gone. It didn’t matter? Why would it ever matter to a bunch of washed-out teenagers?

He was robbed of his adolescence. And these days, he barely gets by.

Spencer’s eyes drift back to the files, avoiding your perusing gaze, if only you had enough decency to soften your eyes. Just once.

“You don’t get to bring that into this.” He murmurs. “Shut up.”

“You started this—“

“Are you 5?” he bites back, “I was making an observation.”

When he abruptly stands up, files clattering to the floor, discarded despite the prevalent case, you’re quick to follow after him, to chase him into the cheap motel corridor. Because no, he doesn’t get to walk away from this. Not when he laid the first blow, when the first cut was drawn from his blade. Perhaps it’s perverse, to chase the hurt that comes from being around him. Maybe it’s all just an elaborate way to self-harm, to find release in the distorted relationship you both share.

“Where are you going? You can’t walk away from this one.” you state, gripping his arm. Nails pressing into skin, crescent marks that’ll stain and remind and then ache— it’s repetitive now.

“I covered for your ass.” you knew about the addiction, you knew, and even though omitting such information to the BAU could’ve lost your license, you still. Didn’t. Say. Anything.

It’s not like it took much effort to discern the truth.

“I also signed your email up to about 100 rehab centres and self-help blogs.” you’re not sure if you did that out of malice, or if it was your own, interpersonal way of minimising the damage, despite the circumstances.

You noticed. The rest of the BAU, who pressed false promises of friendship, loyalty into his shaking palms didn’t notice. Didn’t even think to humour what he became at his worst. But you did.

Furthermore, to add onto that jarring conclusion, you helped him. Admittedly in your own insufferable, (downright mocking) way. But it was help, and that’s more than he’s ever received before.

All he knows right now is that he hates you, hates the person he is, the person this job, and the intransigent presence of you, forced him into becoming.

All he knows is that he’s stumbling forward, cupping your face (taking your grip along with it), and kissing you. Kissing you hard. Like he’s Icarus and you’re the sun, worth the inevitable burn, even if the touch is only momentary, even if it’ll seal his fate as foolish.

It’s a mess of harsh, rough skin, tousled hair and sharp teeth against soft lips. It’s like trying to grasp at stardust, his hands fumbling for purchase along your body, trying to push you closer, as if the chasm of space between you is unbearable, a distance that’s impossible to endure.

He laughs when you respond instinctively, a sharp excuse of a noise, muffled by your swollen lips, and he’s just kissing you through it because he hates you, he hates you— he hates you so much that sometimes he can’t breathe when you’re around.

You crawled under his skin a long time ago, made yourself a home there.

“I think I’d rather be held hostage for a second time than kiss you again.” he says, and he might’ve elaborated further, but his lips abandon such a notion to chase your own.

The kiss becomes more languid, more desperate, like he’s trying to find an answer in response to it. There’s a brief, agonising break, foreheads pressed together, a harsh gasp of air, before the moment restarts.

God you taste good. Feel good, he thinks. He’s never been this intimate, not beyond Lila, that fleeting mess in the pool. The two events incomparable, he felt something then, small and minuscule, not enough to pursue. But right now? Oh, In contrast, he feels everything now.

“I wish you were being held hostage. It’d be quieter,” you retort. It’s muffled, and you’re moving, bodies stumbling into obstacles as you relocate, when did you get to your room? It feels like natural progression, evolution, diminutive changes that you don’t even realise are occurring.

You bite his bottom lip, draw it between your teeth, ruin him for anyone else. Because isn’t that what you’ve been doing for years now? Hurting each other so profoundly that only you can bare the scarred aftermath?

It’s sick. It’s sick, and you wonder how petty comments, trivial work-place rivalry distorted into this? How you’ve just ended up sick because of each other, and admittedly, for each other.

What is sickness without pleasure?

He whimpers. The noise almost imperceptible, but it’s there, and it’s pathetic, an unbecoming thing caught somewhere between a gasp and needy whine. He’s backed against the wall now, and he can’t find it in him to complain.

“Of course it would be you,” he says breathlessly. For all the knowledge he lacks here (physically; he’s well-versed in the hypotheticals of anatomy), he doesn’t feel pure.

People like him don’t get that.

He should feel guilty. He should recoil at the touch, at the knowledge you bear, at the reality of this. Except, for some unknown reason, he relishes in the idea of someone having him, even if the cost is his pride, his dignity, even if the cost is you.

He whimpers again as your teeth rake along the slope of his neck, shuddering at the sharp sensation, and he’s almost begging, words on the verge of being uttered.

But he can’t. Because that isn’t him when he’s with you. “Are you going to punish me? For uh, everything I said tonight? Because ah, god, I’d like to see you try.”

Admittedly, it’s not hard to break his resolve. A few more soul-crushing kisses and your wandering hand, dipping beneath his trousers, hard. Obscenely hard. Yes, he’s muttering as you unclasp buttons, as you loosen his trousers to the extent that you can palm him through his boxers. Half-choked gasps escape his bruised lips with every touch, and he’s crying now. Pretty tears streaming down his face, accentuating those doe-wide eyes of his, now glossy and warped.

“Only person who’s ever touched you, huh?” you state, and maybe you derive pleasure from that concept. That only your hands, drenched thick with staining blood, have ever scrutinised the warmth of his skin. The areas where his form curves, and the areas that make him come apart, undone at the seams. Grasping you, relying entirely on the wall, just to remain upright and somewhat conscious.

He makes another noise, another guttural, pathetic sound. Because, yeah, it’s just you. It’s only you, and the thought should be unbearable, but the pleasure of having, being touched is too much.

He has to grasp the back of your shirt, nails digging into fabric, as a distraction, a way to centre himself, while the rest of the world falls apart. His words are scattered, broken and messy, and he finds himself saying things he’ll inevitably regret. “Please, I can’t-“

He’s supposed to hate this, hate you.

“Cant— can’t take it. Oh,” he wants to bury his face into the crook of your neck, but you’re gripping his jaw, forcing him to look directly at you. Glasses discarded, the view was blurry without the added layers of tears.

“Eyes on me, boy genius.”

He complies. Gaze locked, unable to look away, entranced by the way your pupils dilate, staring at you, like you’re artwork, something to be studied and broken down and torn apart, only to be rebuilt again once he’s had his fill.

“Let’s look at you. Hm?” you state, removing his sweater, then his shirt, and there’s so many layers, and he’s acting coy now, as if he wasn’t whimpering moments prior.

Instinctively, by reflex, he tries to cover himself up. To hide planes of untouched skin from your gluttonous palms. You grip his wrists, pin them above his head, and oh isn’t this a sight: Spencer Reid, entirely bare, bound by you alone, tear track marks and swollen lips.

He always wanted to be seen.

He just didn’t expect, anticipate, being seen to this extent. He can’t fight your trailing gaze, and he doesn’t want to; it might make him flushed, a few irrational movements away from a cardiac arrest, but this it— raw uncut intimacy.

You’re softer now, as you run your hand along his dick, earning a variety of muffled noises, as your thumb brushes over his tip, taking care to touch every part of him. Everywhere he needs it. When you finally wrap your fingers around him, everything burns, fervent and collapsing, and he supposes this is what it felt like the moment Troy collapsed.

“Mhh,” he moans, hips bucking in time with your palm, steady movements.

He’s already so messy, and it should be embarrassing, but all he feels is the blunted edges of pleasure, the jagged cut of humiliation, warring against each other.

“You’re— oh.. you’re enjoying this far too much,” he manages, and it takes so much energy to get it out, his words slurring, interrupted by debauched gasps.

It feels good, so good that he can’t process the shame that’s bound to follow. He hates you, and he might be a little in love with you, and it’s not fair to process feelings, chemicals, he was never supposed to obtain.

“That it’s. There you go. That’s my good boy.”

Spencer sobs.

“Shh, shh, I know, I know, it’s a lot.” there’s always an element of condescension to your words. An undertone that rips through his defences. Destroys him in the process.

His body is receptive, ruined, because of the praise. He’s not sure how you can look at him, clearly, consciously, and dictate that he’s good. Most days he feels impure, debased. Burnt-out and wasted, the great always fall.

The same skin he pierced with needles is now reverently on show, and you should be cruel, it’s what you’re both good at, the only viable way to communicate, an undisclosed secret language. But you’re not. That confuses him to no extent.

“I can’t— cant, ‘m so close.” his arms are still bound above his head, and despite the ache, he keeps them there. It’s not the most conventional ‘first time’, but he takes it regardless.

“Yeah?” you mutter, pace picking up. The sound is obscene, his excessive pre-cum smeared across his length, wet noises with every stroke. “You wanna cum for me, hm?”

“Oh god,” he breaks, “Yes— yes, please—“

You have no interest in denying him, not when he’s this destroyed from a mere hand-job. “Go on then. Just because you asked so nicely.”

He falls apart. Dewy-eyed and blissed out, you force him to look at you as he reaches his orgasm. To keep looking as he squirms and writhes. So he does, because apparently his cognitive function has evaporated now.

Your tongue meets your palm, tasting him, pressing the excess into his mouth with an indecent kiss. Is this what sex entails? Complete submission, vulnerabilities bared wide? Dirty in that primal sense, the same one he always shied away from?

Finally, finally in the aftermath, he breaks his stare. His head falls back against the wall, eyes closed, neck exposed. Stifled gasps, it’s quiet, as if you’re both aware of your actions, the consequences of them.

“This is, uh— yeah.” he mumbles, reaching for his clothes; now the ecstasy has worn off, the shame overpowers. The sin of man, he’s starting to think you’re the personification of the serpent.

Or maybe it’s the other way around. He doesn’t hold his own body to such pure standards. He’s not sure any benevolence would look at him with acceptance. Not after everything he’s done to it.

“Hey wait,” you’re not good at this whole ‘nice’ thing, not when it comes to him. But there have been moments, in the past, small, fleeting seconds of…. you’re not entirely sure what to call them. Late hours spent scrutinising cases, your back-up points to his statements, mindless information dumps that the team can’t quite understand.

“Don’t make me chase you a second time, jesus.” You can’t just leave—“ you exhale, breathe, in and out, “Are you okay?”

He stops. He stops because you’ve never asked that question, never cared to ask that question, and maybe that hurts more than not being asked at all.

A part of him, the small part of him that’s not functional, wants to stay, wants to just stay in this bliss and pretend that it doesn’t matter, that the inevitable fallout won’t occur. But the larger, prominent part, reminds him that this isn’t right, that he needs to leave and collect his wits.

“I don’t know, im confused—“ he sighs, drags a shaky hand through his hair. “Yeah, im uh… i’m fine. “I just need to leave, I have to-“ he swallows. “I can’t. Not right now, I need to do— anything but this.”

He walks out on you and it’s fine.

────────────

Everything is fine, reality can return, and you can forget that you had his arms bound against the wall, that he fell apart from the weight of your dragging palm. You can pretend you never saw him naked, bare in every form of the word. Stripped raw, his lips burning against yours, skin on skin. It’s. Fine.

Life continues. Your dynamic remains the same, unrelenting, your biting words, just short of callous, his scathing remarks. Modus Operandi. You wonder how you’ve turned the most tender person into something sharp, and you wonder if it’s ever going to be reversible.

When the case closes, the BAU, in predictable, systematic fashion, celebrate (ease the weight) over drinks. You’re adorned in lace, a black dress that just catches your thighs. It’s late now, and by the time you arrive at the dive-bar, the majority of the team are intoxicated (you couldn’t go straight from work, there was still blood clinging to your skin).

Everything is fine. To reiterate.

It’s not.. It’s not. Because oh, Spencer finds himself staring. He’s fairly certain he doesn’t have any lingering interest. But then again, why is he fixated on the way fabric clings to your ruinous figure, the way your hair sits, slightly dishevelled, pooled over one shoulder? It’s exasperating and inebriating all at once. You shouldn’t be able to affect him to such an extent, and yet here he is, mindlessly staring at you with starry-eyes. He should look away. Leave even?

Of course, he fails. You end up squeezing in next to him, all leather seats and too little space.

And, okay, he knows he should feel guilty.

In reality, he’s not. Because, sure, he’s sat too close, and sure, he can just make out the scent of your perfume, faintly floral. But he’s intoxicated, just as everybody else is, and it’s making logic and reason seem far off, too distant to process. He looks at you once, then twice, like he can’t quite believe you’re tangible.

“You look nice, I guess,” he murmurs bluntly, looking away, feigning disinterest.

As if the ‘incident’ (as he’s taken to calling it) didn’t tilt his world on its axis.

“You also look nice, I guess.” you retort, and it’s the best you’re going to get out of each other. At least in this state (the surplus of praise that left your bruised, possessed lips cannot be justified, or repeated ever. again.)

You lean forward, watch as his face creases at the proximity. Are you thinking about the kisses? Plural, fuck, plural. Open-mouthed, desperate movements?You’re. not. Instead, you steal his glasses, slip them on. The prescription is strong, thick lenses that distort your perception.

“What do you think?” you ask, “I might go as you for halloween, it’ll definitely scare the kids.”

“They make you look intelligent. Considering you need all the help you can get, I’d take that as a compliment,”

It’s a domestic action, to put on his glasses. And the thoughts that burn through his mind stem from HR prohibited to domestic, which he argues is far worse. You, tangled in sheets, sporting nothing but his glasses. Resting against the tip of your nose, askew, as you ride him. As you tilt your head back, exposing— no.

He wants to say something about how ridiculous you look— but it’s hard to focus, you’re taking up all of his sanity, like a computer running multiple programs at once. You’re malware actually, destined to corrupt him (which you’ve already done to a painful extent).

“You can’t just touch my stuff.” he settles on, sounding more petulant than anticipated.

“Oh chill out, boy wonder. It’s a pair of glasses,” you mutter, removing them to blink blink blink, and there he is, the centre focus of your vision, now fully detailed again. It takes you a moment to render in his appearance: shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, arms exposed, long, deft fingers. There’s heavy bags gathering beneath his eyes, dragging down those big, blown-out irises of his, wide and completely dirty (how is it that his natural resting face is so obscene?).

Focus.

You push the glasses back onto his face. Better, it’s a sight you’ve come to anticipate after he ran out of contact lenses. “There. Oh, were you just upset because you couldn’t see me properly? That’s sweet, Spence. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

He can see everything.

Every small detail of your face; strands of hair falling loose, dilated pupils, accentuated by heavy liner, obsidian that contrasts against your incisive eyes. Your lips, oh your lips, he could write a thesis on them. Stained crimson, if he were to kiss you right now, residue would catch against his own mouth, incriminate him.

He gets up. Excuses himself. Sometimes he wishes he could vanish.

But it’s not good enough.

“You,” he says between messy kisses, “Need to keep your hands to yourself.” — okay, he’s not sure how this happened. He left for the bathroom (to splash water on his face, gather his dignity, perhaps drown himself?) and you to humour the locals outside, gathering around with half-smoked cigarettes and slurring conversations.

But then, on his way back, padding through the long corridor (why is it always a corridor?), you were there, and yeah. He was screwed. Fatefully wrecked.

He had tried, in the moments leading up to his demise, to resist, but he was a man of logic and science and the science, when he was around you, simply did not apply. You’re bad for him, in every sense, he should avoid you, he should stay away.

But now, there’s no space between your bodies, no space for rationality or reasoning (god he’s tired of the thinking part. He just wants to feel).

The kiss is rough, sloppy, a desperate, messy thing. “This can’t keep happening,” he mumbles against your smeared lips.

“Do you remember last time?” you question. It’s taboo, to bring it up, to disclose the buried. But you’re fairly certain this compromising position wouldn’t exist without the lethal effects of that one night. The cheap motel and his body arching into your touch.

Rationality appears to be nonexistent now. A discarded concept.

Like last time, you guide him back against the wall, pin his hands above his head. Mirroring your actions. Well, to some ‘dignified’ extent. “Had you just like this,” you lean forward to press a series of kisses along the curvature of his jaw. “I bet you’d let me take you like this again, hm? Right here? In the middle of this shitty dive bar?”

And if he weren’t so far gone, he’d protest, he’d tell you that no, this is wrong, because you’re so wrong for him. He knows that if one good man has to fall, it shouldn’t be him.

But you don’t let good men rise, and there’s something so enticing about the depths of hell. He’s not sure he’s good anyway. It’s a complex situation. “You’re a sadist,” he murmurs, breathless, “I wouldn’t.”

Your grip instinctively tightens against his wrist, and he squirms. He’s nervous, “Could we, like… at least find a bathroom? I’d take a bathroom, even though there’s endless strains of bacteria there. Or, or split a cab. No, i’ll just pay— Anything. I’ll do anything. Just not here. This is a public space, and technically, public indecency, and—“

“Fuck,” he’s never been the type to swear, “I’ll do anything.” this time, he says it in self-defeat. Acknowledgment.

────────────

French exit. His wandering hands in the cab, and the electric pulse that burnt through his body as he kept a low profile, stumbling out of the bar, muttering thinly-veiled excuses for his abrupt departure.

The second you’re both inside your apartment, you’re clattering into things. “I love your eyes,” you state bluntly, forthcoming in every sense of the word, “Love it when you cry for me.”

You think of every harsh word that has ever escaped your lips, You think of the consequences they might’ve had. Did he ever cry over them? You know, in contrast, you never did over his. Though there was that sharp, sinking pain that felt like the embodiment of slow death. Something terminal, fated to linger, to eat and eat until nothing remained.

No big deal!

“It’s an involuntary bodily response. You’re a dacryphiliac.” he responds.

There’s not a lot he can compute right now, his brain too preoccupied with processing your touch alone. Which is so prominent, so harrowingly good that not even his genius mind can comprehend it.

He’s reasonable to believe he would kill whoever had the pleasure of experiencing you like this.

“It’s not a fetish if I only feel it for you—“

Spencer breaks.

“No-no-no,” he says, too loudly, “You can’t just- say those things. You can’t tell me you love when I cry, just because- I should be scared, of you. You’re volatile. Destructive,” he murmurs, head leaning against the crook of your shoulder. Against better judgement. But all reason has left him now. You’ve stolen it, taken it as a personal trophy to parade and boast about.

“Why am… Why am I not scared?” he asks, “It’s not like I make you cry…”

“Because there’s no reason to be scared.” you answer simply. And at surface level, it’s true. In spite of the hostility, the years of white-knuckled rivalry, you’ve always trusted him. It’s a coveted admission, considering you’re circumspect by nature.

You unbutton his shirt, let it fall to the floor, exposing his skin in the middle of your apartment. He’s standing there, and you’re not sure what to do with all of this want that perhaps you’ve misplaced as enmity for so long.

“You could make me cry,” you state, because if there’s one person out there capable of cracking you open, leaning behind fragmented pieces, it’s him. It’s always going to be him.

It’s a startling realisation. That he, Spencer Reid, of all people, can reach the centre of you in ways nobody has ever done before.

“Why would I want you to cry? That’s— i’m not even sure how I would go about it.”

You grip his hips, walk yourself backwards until you’re hitting a wall, there your body instinctively curves forward to meet his. “It doesn’t always have to be bad.” you explain, because he’s looking at it from a simplistic, textbook perspective. “Last time,” those words still feel like poison, “When I made you cry, there was no pain, right? You cried because it felt good.”

He’s staring at you clueless. Though, he might just be distracted. Either works.

Your hand catches his wrist, and then you’re hiking up your dress, guiding his touch beneath fabric. The lace panties that cover skin. He’s tentative, experimental, dragging his thumb over your clit, causing your hips to cant towards him. “Make me cry, boy genius.”

You act like this is the most indecent thing he’s capable of doing. From an unbiased standpoint, it’s up there on his list, but admittedly he hasn’t really done enough to constitute a list in the first place.

Spencer, in response, simply drops to his knees. Your panties are pulled down your legs in a disconcerting haze, and then he’s just groaning, cursing Gods he doesn’t believe in, spiting them with blasphemy, whilst also simultaneously thanking them, humouring false promises he won’t commit to.

It’s blasphemous, a prodigy on his knees, in front of you, for you. As if he’s worshiping something he can’t even comprehend, something beyond the expanse of his knowledge. And you just pull strands of his hair, pull at the strings of him.

His hands find the inside of your thighs, caressing the soft skin there and you make another noise, a noise that has him devouring you.

Face buried between your legs, he flattens his tongue against your clit, drags it upwards to catch wetness, to affirm that you’re just as affected as he. That since you touched him, all thoughts have consisted solely of you.

He doesn't think he's doing this correctly- but you're making noises, gasps that he didn’t even know you were capable of, and that's the thing about science or anatomy, whatever it may be, the brain is incredibly subjective, and the more knowledge you acquire, the less you really know.

And there's knowledge here, but it’s not utilised; no coordination, even when there should be, even when he’s got the human body memorised to perfection. Still, you seem to like him messy, desperate, drawing your clit into his mouth to pull, to tug, before shifting back to blow cold air against you.

The task was simple, at surface level: make you cry. And whilst, if you pick it apart, it becomes more complex, he seems to be efficient in following orders because right now, you’re ruined. It might not be the most meticulous head you’ve received (though you’re sure, under different circumstances he could probably surpass that standard), but it’s wanting, in a way that makes you ache.

“Oh oh, fuck— fuckfuckfuck.”

You grip his hair, twisting and pulling and using, and he lets you, he’d do anything, do this forever if he had to. His fingers, still gripping your thighs, dig into soft flesh, leaving visible marks. And he wants to see those marks, in the morning, an irrefutable fact that would force him to accept this as real.

But he can’t focus, can’t think about anything when you’re reacting like this, so undone. How can there be anything, at all, beyond this?

He lets you drape a leg over his shoulder, let’s you get off against his face, fingers sliding inside, one digit at a time, to feel warmth wrapped around him. To feel the way you clench when he curves them, when he grazes spots that he could explain to factual detail.

Your body shudders, and you’re making noises he hasn’t heard before, sounds that could only be described as obscene— and his name, you’re moaning his name, and god, he’s certain he would follow you to the ends of the earth right now. Without question.

It’s when he stops, when he leans back enough that he can breathe. That he can look at you, really look at you.

You’re messy, undone. The sight could be considered humiliating from an outside perspective, but you’re gorgeous, and he’d do this a thousand times over if it resulted in this exact reaction. A reaction that he’s given you. No one else.

“I love your face.” He says, a little bluntly. But it’s true, he does.

So he returns to the task. Practically situating you on his face now to suffocate him, to let him become some sort of extension to your pleasure. And inevitably when you fall apart, tears and writhing, boundless pleasure, he can only push you through it. Allow his existence to crumble, for the second time,

And as he draws back, face covered in you, he can only stare.

His knees are bruised. That’s the first thing you notice when you stumble to the bedroom, when you’ve taken a moment to wipe away evidence of the tears, to regather and compose yourself. It’s not in your nature to be soft, no to him, but you still find yourself kissing the mauve blemishes, working your way up his body after you’ve oh so unceremoniously undressed him. Reduced to his boxers, he’s an incriminating sight.

“Losing your virginity to me is like the biggest irony ever.” you say, kissing along his stomach, watching as his body reacts, arches, contorts in search of more pleasure. It’s a hypnotising sight, to see every nerve tuned to you solely.

“Ironic, demeaning, enough to send past versions of myself into an early grave. Yes, I get your point.” he mutters.

Your hands find their way to the waistband of his boxers, and he’s lifting his hips, because he wants you to undress him, because he’d let you do anything right now, but he also feels embarrassed, exposed. Vulnerable in a way he’s never felt before. You’re seeing him, seeing things he doesn’t even know himself. But there’s nowhere to hide, not while you’re slowly pulling off his underwear, with a care that he’s unaccustomed to.

“I won’t go easy on you,” you assure. Even though that’s technically a straight-faced lie. Of course it’ll be more tender than anything else you’ve endured; he has this devastating habit of softening those around him. It’s only taken this long to affect you out of pure, unbridled spite.

Oh, he wants. The evidence is his body alone. Laid out before you, like an offering, a hedonistic one. Dick hardened, dripping pre-cum onto his stomach.

“Hands above your head,” you watch as he blindly obeys, any defiance now crushed. Well, for the most part: at least in his actions. “That’s good— good boy. Tell me if they’re too tight,” you say, binding them with his discarded tie.

You stare, and it’s like you want to eat him alive, and against better judgement, he’d let you. Serve himself up, passive as you tear him limb for limb, taste all the bad parts of his existence, the ones he keeps hidden shamefully away.

“Too tight? I’ve been held hostage, I think I can handle a little bit of fabric.” he retorts before tugging at the restraints, “Tighter.”

“Didn’t realise you were so into this—“

“Neither did I,” he scoffs, “I’ve never done it before, obviously.”

“Now you have. Congrats, i’ll give you a sticker once we’re done. Gold star, huh?” and just for good measure, you tighten the restraints further. Just a few more pulls until you’re knotting it in place. Until he’s entirely defenceless, but realistically, what would you do? It’s hard to find fear when you’ve covered him on the field for over a year (he’s prone to being targeted, an unsubs wet dream).

“Yes, thank you. I’ll put the sticker on the wall next to my PhDs.” right now, right in this moment, countless people are getting what they want.

And Spencer is being manhandled by his pretty coworker.

Ironically, that’s exactly what he wants.

You’re the perfect dichotomy. Cruel, and caring. Harsh words to juxtapose gentle hands. Soft touches, but scathing remarks that linger, leaving behind a trail of scars, the ubiquity of your cruelty.

You’re lethal, and he’s smart enough to comprehend the danger. Except he’s never been smart when it comes to people.

Your hands are acquisitive, roaming, searching, blunt nails that scrape skin as you rake them down, down towards his abdomen. He shivers, bite into that pretty bottom lip of his until he’s spilling blood, and it’s a sight. Something sick that you both want to such an offensive extent.

“Sensitive.” you murmur, like the idea of him so reactive pleases you, in a way you’ve never considered before. Because the way his body strains, bucking forward to deepen the contact is maddening.

“Are you always like this?” you wonder aloud, leaning down to run a hand along the length of his inner thigh. “Poor baby, so touch-starved.”

“I don’t know if I’d use the word sensitive.” he replies, “More susceptible to the fact that you’re touching me, and that I haven’t felt another person touch me in a long time. And of course when people touch me, it’s usually professionals poking me with needles or stitching this weeks new wound.”

Touch-starved? He has sensory issues. The lightest graze can provoke, cause his skin to crawl. Of course he would like your touch, of course the universe would torture him by finding relief in the one person who nobody should stumble upon for relief.

“Oh you’re a soldier, you suffer so much.“ you state, and it’s condescending (naturally), but there is some truth to the serrated comment. You, the team, are all bruised, mentally and physically distorted from the consequences of the job. Only he could react so reverently to your calloused hands, blissed out to the extent that it looks like you’re witnessing ascension.

It’s pretty. Pretty, in a soft, domestic way. One that demeans his bound wrists and your sharp words.

You press a few tender kisses to his thighs, the inner sections, where you’re certain, assured, no one has ever touched before. Maybe there’s something possessive to that thought, the want to own, to know that no one will ever have him the way you have him.

Your touch is like a brand. He wants it, even if it’s bad, even if it’s cruel. Because the alternative to this is nothing. A lonely existence. A life of work, of chasing shadows, knowing he had so much to give, and no one to give to.

“Stop mocking me.” he replies, it’s through laboured breath. “Just because I don’t have your proclivity for taking hits doesn’t mean I don’t suffer.”

No one’s ever touched him like this. No one’s ever cared to try. You’re his first.

“I know you suffer,” you retort, are you arguing? Is this foreplay? If it is, then you have some serious self-reflecting to do on every single past conversation. Because maybe you should’ve taken him to your bed earlier, in that case.

Oh god was your hatred of each other built solely on sexual tension?

Finally, you move. Just like the first time, your hand runs across his length, taking him slowly, easing him into it, coercing him through the pleasure. It’s not similar to before: it won’t end after he’s found his release, and it’s not frenzied and ardent. Spurred on by shame.

“And you know i’m always going to take the hits for you, regardless.” he whines when you remove your hand, and whines again, for contrasting reasons, as you spit on your palm, generate lubricant to support each stroke.

“Oh—“ he breathes out. He’s fairly certain he’s supposed to be more contained. A huff escapes his lips and then he’s retorting, “You could try a tactic other than reckless self-sacrifice every once in a while.”

He’s overwhelmed, with you. All of you. The way you look, the way you talk, all the harsh lines and scathing remarks. The way you take the hits for him, an altruistic custodian, but he isn’t worthy of being saved. Isn’t worth the effort.

“Shut the fuck up, Spencer.” you say, promptly ending this discussion; you grip his dick tighter, tilting your movements to catch him at a better angle.

“Shit— okay, okay,” he moans because that feels really really good, and he wishes he could articulate it in a better way. Something complex and poetic, but it’s just so good.

He’s always been a little masochistic. Too smart for his own good, too analytical. He wants you to take him apart, piece by piece, and see the inner workings of his body laid out before you, raw and vulnerable. Because only you can see him like this.

He doesn’t even really touch himself. There’s been nights, body flushed and wanton, bucking up against sheets, muffled noises pressed into his pillow. But they’re rare, and they usually lead to an aftermath of ignominy.

He’s a prodigy, a genius in the field of criminal psychology. So why does it feel so good like this? To be humbled, to be demoted. As if all his degrees, his awards, his intellect, mean absolutely nothing.

He’s never felt so loved. Which is ironic. Because he’d always hoped love would be slow, gentle. Soft, like a caress. The kind of love you share over meals and pillow-talk.

He realises, with a jolt to his system, that if this is love to you, he’d accept it, in its most primal form.

“You get off on this,” he analyses as you draw back, mostly to stifle the begs that nearly escape his mouth. Come back, need you here.

“Well I’d be pretty concerned if I wasn’t getting off on this right now—“

“No,” he pushes, “You like that i’m, that yeah. I have no experience. You want to corrupt me, huh?” he looks up at you with pretty, innocent eyes. Holy shit. “Ruin me for anyone else? Go on, let me have it. I’ll only come back, i’ve already done it once. Statistically, it’s going to happen again. And again. Pavlovian responses, condition me. Make my body react to no one else.”

When you kiss him again, he can only take it. Can only moan, whimper, plead against your mouth until you’re lining him up, until you’re sitting on his dick, and everything is okay.

“You’re so—“ bottomed out, wrapped around him entirely, you sigh. “Fuck, Spence, who taught you to be so fucking dirty?”

“You.” he mutters, playing coy. “But you’re a bad teacher, I think I could do with a few more lessons..”

“I think you could do with learning to shut your mouth more often.”

“It is better suited for other purposes, I suppose..”

He gags when you slot two fingers, index and middle, into his mouth. No warning, no predetermined acknowledgment. They hit the back of his throat, and he can only suck, muffling protests around the digits until he goes blissfully silent.

“Better,” you retort. Drawing them out, you press your thumb against his bottom lip, keeping it parted so that you can lean forward, spit into his open mouth. When you first met, he promptly refused to shake your hand, too conscious of the dissemination of germs, now? He’s swallowing your saliva, unprompted, with little resistance.

You know him. The way you touch is like you’re searching for something. Anything about him. It’s like you’re a bloodhound, trying to unearth every single vulnerability. And you must’ve found them, because you’re suddenly here, bearing all your weight on him, moving, and it’s all his body can do to take it. All of it. All of you.

He tugs at his restraints, because he won’t go down without a susceptible fight. Even if he knows it’s fated that he will inevitably fall. “Please—please untie me, just wanna hold your hand.”

And, oh that shatters you. Like, mentally, physically, spiritually dismantles you until you’re breathless, staring at him with widened eyes and a loss of composure. It’s such a tender request, something domestic and raw, and mindlessly you’re fumbling with the knots of his tie. Freeing them to take one in yours.

It’s against your nature, but you can’t help, can’t refrain yourself from pressing a kiss against his knuckles. “You’re doing so good f’me. Such a good boy,”

Your free hand runs across his torso now, grazing skin, admiring the sight of him, flushed, debauched, sprawled out beneath you.

He grips your hip. That’s the first thing he does once he’s sufficiently sane, well… partially, the praise did knock him entirely off balance. Tip the scales, send him over the inexorable edge.

He watches as you take the incentive to slip off his body, and the loss of friction is okay, tolerable because he’s sitting up against the headboard, drawing you closer, whining for you until you’re on his lap, until you’re sat in your rightful place.

Here, he can kiss you. Which he admits has become a very vital aspect to his existence.

The kiss is like a bruise. Not rough, he’d never be rough with you, he’s all long, languid strokes and soft movements. But it’s overwhelming, and leaves discernible, lasting imprints.

And yeah, sure, kissing you is the closest thing to worship he has ever known. Something he would like to commit to memory, every single time your lips touch, it’s like he’s seeing god in the shape of your cupid’s bow.

“Please, I need—“ he stutters over his words, “If you don’t move, I swear—“ he pauses, his head falling against your shoulder— “I swear, I’m gonna die, this has to be against the Geneva Convention, you can’t leave me like this, please—”

“The Geneva convention? Really? Is this your form of dirty talk?” you retort, unable to muffle your laugh.

“No. I’m stating my rights,” he says, “Torture is prohibited.”

“I’m not torturing you—“

You tangle your hand through his hair, tug tug tug, and then pull, drawing his head back by tousled strands, forcing him to meet your gaze.

“Ohmyfuckinggod, yes. You are.” he whimpers.

It’s indefensible how good he feels, how he sinks into you, hitting crevices you’re certain no one else has ever grazed before. Feeling full, whole, it’s new. It’s your own first, and you can’t even begin to articulate how defenceless you are to the way it makes you disintegrate, fragment to pieces of pleasure. Spencer is warm, and soft, and it makes you want to cry. To just fall, give in, transcendence of self, Burke said, and right now, you feel that entirely.

His moan is unapologetic, unfiltered as you move. At this point, you could slice him open, leave him bleeding in your bed, and he’d thank you for it.

You hold his hand, and yet, simultaneously destroy him.

“Please,” he whimpers again— he’s too pretty to be asking so nicely. “I just— I want you closer. As close as possible, I want you so close to me that I’m not even sure if my body can handle it.”

It’s not dirty talk, it’s more like he’s begging you, tears staining his skin, pitiful eyes, wide and glassy, staring at you with some form of desperation. Brows furrowed, gaze soft.

And his gaze only grows worse when you do give him what he wants, when your pace fastens.

It’s a religious experience, like he’s about to be crucified, a martyr to his pleasure. He’s almost afraid to touch you— to stain something divine, like you’re too much for him. But you’re not.

“I like this. Like you. Like you here. You’re so good for me,” he murmurs, and it’s untruthful, but right now, he sincerely believes it. “so good, so perfect, all I need, please—”

“Stop it.” you bite, preferring him defiant over this— because this opens up wounds you weren’t even aware existed. “Oh fuck, stop it.”

“So good. You’re so good,” he cups your face, presses his forehead against yours, and you might as well just die right here.

“Says you.”

“Says me.”

You fuck him harder.

“Oh,” is all he can pronounce, little oh’s every time you rock against him, and he has to grip you hips, deepen the movements until you’re bouncing against him, up down up down, exploiting his sensitivity with a torturous pace.

And it’s not fair, he needs to balance the scales, so he runs his thumb over your clit, firm halos that have you keening. “If being nice got me this, I’d be so nice to you for the rest of my life—“

Another lie. But it’s worth it. If only for the way you kiss him. The way you silence his cutting words, forcing your way into his mouth, forcing him to just squirm and sob, until you’re clenching around him, and he’s there with you. Falling apart, bodies shifting until movement ceases, and there’s nothing but bliss.

“I hate you so much,” you say in the aftermath, and it’s closest you’ve ever gotten to a confession of love.

He laughs, wipes away tears, “Hate you more.”

“Don’t leave this time.” he just nods, bordering on nonverbal now. It takes you hours to coax actual words out of him, and by then, you’re both tangled in a foreign mess of warm limbs.

“Oh i’m going to be so mean tomorrow.” you mutter, playing loosely with his hair.

He can only sigh, stare at you dreamily. “God, is that a promise?”

[mymoshangthoughts]

okay i know that we all know and love "mobei jun basically marries shang qinghua and shang qinghua is too oblivious/busy/stressed/insecure/etc to realize until its ridiculous" but like

have we considered the opposite? (also if we have considered the opposite, please someone link me to the fics thankyou)

look im just saying i would love a morally bankrupt shang qinghua whose just like "okay so imma marry that man and im 99% sure he loves me too so im just gonna force the issue" but mobei jun is so unfamiliar with human courting and weddings that he just has No Fucking Idea and he's spending all this time pathetically pining after shang qinghua without the slightest understanding that they're already in a committed relationship

i just keep thinking about how mobei jun answered binghe on the "get someones attention question" and how genuinely surprised he was by shang qinghua's answer 🤣 like he reallllyyyy doesnt know the first thing about human courting oki and it's hilarious

also my personal hc but i totally think that shang qinghua is the type of morally corrupt asshole who would 100% trap the guy he wants if he had any inkling that he wouldnt get murdered for doing it

(this might be because i see shang qinghua and luo binghe as sorta similar personality-wise🤣)

even better if the story is just ridiculous for mobei jun not to realize. just him practically breaking down with "i mean we have sex twice a day and we're always at each others sides and qinghua arranged this weird ceremony a year ago and insisted we had to wear red for some reason but like... qinghua is super weird and he never hits me so i dont think he loves me 😭 i mean he did hit me the first time we had sex but it was only the one time!"

sha hualing just like "hm, yeah, that is a lot of mixed signals :/ idk what to tell you man, i think your feelings are unrequited. also that gross rodent isnt worth your time. also get out of my house, i am 100% sick of dealing with this shit after binghe"

shang qinghua literally oblivious to the agony he's putting mobei jun through 🤣

[mandukkul]

LOVE BETWEEN TWO — n.rk

synopsis: you and riki have different ways of seeing love but, in the end, you'll always know who you'll end up with.

or

moments building up before the first i love you

tags: childhood friends to lovers, non!idollau, neighbour!riki x f! reader, FLUFF!!!, only fluff and comfort :)

warning: proofread but might have some spelling + grammar errors

wordcount: 4.5k

published: 3rd october, 2024

authors note: this oneshot acts as a thankyou for all the followers and love i get!! i’m so sorry for not being more active :( BUT i completed this! and i just want to say THANK YOU FOR 1000!!!!!!! I LOVE YOU WHOLE!!! as much as riki loves you! and as much as we love riki :)

reblogs + comments appreciated

Act 1: loving 

Riki had never understood love – that is, until he met you. He knew he loved many things, like dance, and his family and friends, but if you had asked him if he knew what love meant, he would have buffered like a 2000s-era computer. Of course, Riki knew what love was; he had watched it in K-dramas and had seen it rendered in manga. By their definition, love was hard. Love was hard and difficult and full of miscommunication, but also, love was soft and kind and offered the sweetest touches to one's heart that anyone could ask for.

Love was everything, and nothing, all at the same time.

He then concluded, after the piles of pirated manga and dramas he had accumulated over his 17 years of boyhood, that love was simply you. He didn’t need to be a genius to understand that; he knew if it wasn’t you, then no one was going to fit that definition of love for him. Riki didn’t fully understand love, but he understood you – how he felt about you. You, in all your beautiful glory. Love was your touch, your smile, your laugh. Love was what he looked forward to every day.

You were truly the only exception to his dilemma of love, because with you, love came so easily. Love was just like breathing – it was so effortless when it came to you. Love for you felt like rain kissing his cheeks in humid summers, like snow tickling his nose during winter, like an autumn leaf falling on his head in the fall, like cherry blossoms blooming when spring arrived.

Love for you felt like nature, like it was natural. He was sure he had been born to love you, inside and out. From the moment he had met you at the age of 4, when you were dressed in stained patchwork overalls, obviously from playing in the dirt; your hair tied in uneven pigtails because you had just had to tie them yourself. Your hands clasped some wilted old flowers he had passed while walking Bisco; you had offered them to him as a greeting gift with that cute little grin of yours.

“Hello! Want to be my best friend?”

Four-year-old Riki didn’t know it just yet, though he did have an inkling, but he would be head over heels for the girl in front of him for the rest of his life.

He had stared at the flowers in your hand, weak and slouchy in posture. He looked back up at you and didn’t have the heart to tell you that those flowers were the exact ones Bisco had decided to relieve herself on. So, he took those piss-stained flowers and nodded his head with as much agreement as his little body could give.

At the ripe age of 18, as he watched you from across his window, peering into your room, where you haphazardly flopped onto your bed with exhaustion despite only hanging out in his room all day. He could just tell you had screamed into your bed by the way you flailed around at the edge. He watched you suddenly stop, as if you had run out of battery, flip over to your back, and lay still for a while longer.

He loved you.

You could sense him staring at you, with your strangely acquired Riki-sense. You lifted your head to confirm your theory, and there he was, leaning against the window frame staring into your room. His eyes lay still on the object that was yourself, and he was filled with so much adoration, so much love, so much bliss at even the sight of you.

And yet, you scoffed at his blatant staring, feeling his chocolate-brown eyes peer into your soul like the Ghost Rider from the movies. Of course, he had that stupid love-stricken look, and of course, he was already waiting for you to stare back.

Love for you had meant many things – too many things to quite pinpoint the right meaning. As you grew up, you learnt more about love than loss, and hence, you learnt that love hurts.

Love was like the humidity in summer, where the air was too thick, and the wind stuck to your skin; love was like the dullness of autumn, where the wind was cold and brisk but not enough to complain about – just enough to be irritable; love was like winter, where it got so cold you couldn’t even feel your face anymore, the season of sickness and disease that forced you to remain indoors and watch the sky cry frozen tears; love was like spring, when hay fever was at its worst, staining your cheeks with unintentional tears and a stuffy nose.

Love was hard. Love was difficult. Love was confusing.

You remembered every single time something you had loved got lost. The very first time was when the friendship bracelet Riki had made you when you were 5, decorated with mismatched charms and trinkets, disappeared one day when you went to the park. The nights you had spent crying didn’t outweigh the nights 5-year-old Riki had spent consoling and reassuring you that he’d make another one – a better one. But 5-year-old you knew the sentiment that was put into that very first bracelet, the one made without obligation to be replaced.

You remembered wailing about how it wouldn’t be the same, that Riki would have the very first bracelet, and you’d have a stupid second version because you had been careless. Then, you remembered the sound of beads crashing onto the ground, scattering anywhere and everywhere. You were scared you’d slip and crash despite being a giant compared to a measly bead.

“Now I’ll make two new ones so we’ll both be the same again.”

You couldn’t recall a more romantic and pleasant memory, where Riki had been so genuine and cute, so willing to give up something that was his to meet your happiness.

Five-year-old Riki really had you wrapped around his finger from that day on.

Despite your own volition, your heart bloomed and blistered, so full of him. It beat to the spelling of his name (in Morse code), and you couldn’t help but pull the threatening smile down into the scowl you attempted to display.

Like clockwork, your eyes locked with the same amount of love and willingness that you gave yourself credit for. You crawled towards your window and lifted it open so you could talk to him again as if the past 12 hours hadn’t occurred.

He was waiting for you, gazing like the stars had blessed his presence – graced his very being with the holiness that was you.

You had to force yourself to calm the oh-so-obvious flush of your cheeks, putting it down to hike up to your room as the reason for your sudden flare-up.

“Aren’t you tired of looking at me all day?” you remarked, and he was so quick with his reply, “I could never get tired of looking at you.”

Him and his flirty personality. You didn’t remember where he had gotten it from, or how he had developed it. You’d grown up with him all your life, and that part of his personality was still an anomaly.

You let a scoff out, rolling your eyes and folding your arms, blatantly ignoring the ache in your cheeks that you refused to surrender to his love.

“It’s not like I’ll disappear if you blink, relax,” but Riki had never been more relaxed than when he was looking at you. Not just the plain stares he gave during his maths classes, or at the dinner table, or even when he stared at his home screen that was so obnoxiously filled with you, but the type that showed interest, that showed he was immersed, devoured, totally consumed by whatever had his attention.

He liked to think he had found the perfect balance of clinginess and distance but still unknowingly leaned towards pulling you in.

“Most girls would love it if I stared at them,” he had said.

He was right. Nearly every girl at school would have sold an arm and a leg just for the boy to even look in their direction. If you weren’t you, you would have cherished and felt blessed to even have the Nishimura Riki in your presence.

But you were you, and you had grown up with this annoying brat all your life. Even if he could be sweet and sensitive at times, or when he tried to show you he was more man than boy, he was still Riki: your first friend, your best friend, and your first love.

Besides, someone had to keep his beautiful ass humbled, or else he would have resorted to those once-targeted alpha male Andrew Tate ads.

“To be honest, I find it a bit creepy,” you had snickered to yourself as he pouted at your response.

Those cute lips of his.

You had always known how to bring his rising ego down, one way or another.

With your smart and witty remarks, you anchored him just enough so he didn’t fly away and drift into the realm of egoism.

He couldn’t get enough of you.

“Fine. I’ll stop looking at you,” he had declared, but his eyes betrayed his words, and his gaze never, not once, pulled away. He had one eye open now, tilting his head away but still, ever so slightly, gazing upon the beauty that you emitted.

And you were still looking. Of course, you were; of course, you would.

You never took your eyes off him because he was just so cute, and his attempt to one-up you in snark was quite endearing.

“Good luck with that,” you had laughed, leaning onto your palm as you watched him sigh in defeat, but not before he caught your own gaze on him.

“Oooh, why are you looking at me like that?” he had prompted, leaning over his window to be closer to you. “Do you think I’m cute?” he wriggled his eyebrows ever so playfully, that shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

“No,” you had deadpanned, dropping your palm down to the frame. He pouted again, more pouty than usual, pulling a frown.

He whined with one of those annoying squeals, something you had grown used to over the years of knowing him. “My girlfriends are so mean to me,” he had said, frowning with his eyebrows pinching and lips pouting. You couldn’t help the small pull of your lips, seeing how comical he was being.

For a split second, you had lingered on his words. “My girlfriend,” he had said with so much pride. “My girlfriend” was all you really heard because he was calling you his girlfriend like it was your name, like it was a prize, a gift, a blessing. “My girlfriend” sounded like honey-laced praises.

He had feigned a gasp at the sight of you trying to hide your smile, and then you had burst into giggles because, of course, you revelled in his misery. But it was okay because the sound of your laughter, that joyous giggle, had erupted because of him, and that was more than enough to subside the little bits of bullying you always seemed to aim at him.

His heart beat along with the rhythm of your laugh.

It was late, and the stars had been watching your tales unfold.

Of a girl whose love yearned and pined, reaching the moon and kissing the ocean. Whose love was kept sacred and scarce, and yet, a love that was sought after, searching for love like hers. One that treasured and was kept safe, a love made of steel but soft like wool. A love that comforted.

And of a boy who loved like no other, so full and so rich. Whose love poured like the rain kissing the ground – endless and fulfilling. A love so abundant, it counted for the world.

There was so much love, too much. It was overbearing, consuming, and it was eating you both alive.

It was overwhelming.

“Hey.”

Your name had left his mouth like honey.

The silence of the gap between your two homes became deafening. Your laugh had slowly died, and your attention had glued onto him alone.

It was now or never.

Riki had known that love was you. He had known that the moment his eyes met yours, his definition had been filled in an instant.

He knew, he had loved – no, he loved you.

His second pause after the call had been enough to erupt a yawn from your lips, ever so slightly slipping past your perfectly shaped lips.

“You should get to bed,” he had said, but the lovesick gaze that you were too tired to catch said everything.

You had fought the urge to ask him what he was really thinking. You were tired, but you knew Riki – your Riki. You knew how his eyebrows pinched a certain way when he contemplated, only further accentuated when he hesitated.

You had his entire face burned into your mind, and your heart.

But for tonight, you had let him and his burning thoughts wait as you slightly nodded.

“I’m not gonna wake you up this time,” you replied, smiling ever so slightly.

You had left your window open, as you always did. Your window to his – it was like you were always together, connected through a fated string that crossed from one pane to the other.

…

Act 2: between 

You had grown to find joy within nothingness—or so you told yourself.

All your life, you had searched for things to put meaning into. Simple commodities that resembled fractions of joy you attempted to keep. As a child, you had never pondered trivial things that would be impossible to find answers to.

You loved the definite, the certain, the things you knew you could hold close to your heart and never let go. Like the grudge you held for the boy who had bullied Riki when he was nine—too fiery of emotions for little you to experience. Your little face had burned red with anger, fists balled and shaking with rage. There had been no stopping nine-year-old you from unleashing divine fury upon the bully. Or like the childhood bracelet Riki made when you were kids, which you had sworn never to remove despite the horrendous combination of charms. A symbol of your eternal friendship.

As you stuffed your locker with yet another textbook you barely cared about, you heard cheers echo against the walls, ricocheting straight into your ears. The stampede of footsteps seemed to hurdle past you, racing toward an unknown presence from across the hall.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t know who that presence was. Of course you did. You couldn’t ignore it, not when his fiery gaze burned holes into the back of your head.

You subtly looked over your shoulder, and there he was, in his glorious seven-foot-something stature. You saw how all the girls crowding him seemed to be trying to attract his attention, calling for his name, asking him silly, mundane questions. Anything just for a simple glance, but all Riki could do was stare at you like you were a lost treasure he had just discovered.

His gaze alone spoke a thousand words.

"I wish I could hold you."

"Your hand is mine."

"I want you."

"I need you."

"I miss you."

Those were more your feelings than what you thought his gaze said, but you had an inkling he felt the same way.

In the space between you, from metres away across the hall, you couldn’t help but feel so full of him—him and his love. He was saying nothing, yet the whole world went deaf in his presence.

You could see, miraculously through the heart-eyed girls, how he fidgeted with the little torn hem at the bottom of his shirt, remembering how you had been the culprit for that "measly" (his words, not yours) tear.

You watched as he scratched his neck awkwardly, trying to be as polite as a boy could be when rejecting a starry-eyed girl. They gave him chocolate-covered strawberries—though you knew he’d only eat them if they were microwaved despite your protests—and little love letters he would never end up reading, also despite your pitied protests.

All you wanted to do was pull him out of the crowd of crazed girls, to scream that he was yours—despite often telling him that you weren’t an object and shouldn’t be defined as "mine." Maybe it was jealousy that rippled through your blood, burning with a touch of yearning because, of course, you yearned for him. Every second of the day.

You yearned for his touch, his words, his silence.

Despite your many reluctances to say so, you were so deeply infatuated with Riki, you might as well have sprawled it across your forehead. Every distant look, light feathery touch, gentle breath that brushed against the shell of your ear. Everything he did, you clung to like a hoarder. A stupid, love-stricken hoarder. Every thought of yours was consumed by him, captivated by his every essence. Feminists before you would have shaken their heads, disappointed by how much you thought of Riki.

Frankly, you were too smitten with your dear ol’ boyfriend, even if he claimed you didn’t show enough affection to him.

Maybe it was for the best, as your gazes left each other like strangers with a fleeting glance. Similarly to last night, there was an invisible wall separating the two of you, tension threatening to crack under the pressure.

Riki was still being bombarded by love-sick girls, his longing gaze shifting into more of a plea as he watched you with all the free space he was supposed to take up.

You ignored his plea, of course, turning back around and into your locker. You would speak to him later anyway—it’s what he gets for making you late this morning (you had waited for him, as you always did).

…

Act 3: two

The two of you sit in the silence of your room for a change. The curtains of your window that peer into his room are pulled shut, dimming the space enough that you can only tell his expressions if you’re inches away from each other.

Which you are.

Riki insisted on staying over this time, wanting to leave the musk of his room for once. But really, he misses the sight of your walls.

Plastered across from him are pictures of friends and family, some of him and your shared friend group, others of his sisters and you. He thinks to himself how you have a knack for interior design, pleased with the way you showcase your love through photographs.

You say it eternalises the memories, so even when you’re both old and rotten to match your insides, you’ll always have the days of your youth.

And there’s a little flutter in his stomach when he thinks back to this memory because you said “both.” He loves that you see him forever entangled in your life.

Riki watches you doom-scroll on that godforsaken bird app. He likes to believe he’s got all your micro-expressions down—like the slight twitch of irritation in your eyebrow, the lift at the corner of your lip when you see something funny, or the scrunch of your nose when you see a resurfaced video of Nikocado Avocado.

Riki doesn’t spend half as much time on his education as he does staring at you. You’re awfully beautiful in your (his) shirt and dirty sweatpants. You’ve never bothered putting effort into your appearance when you’re in the comfort of your (or his) room, having known him far too long to care if he thinks your shirt smells like perpetual instant ramen.

His eyes travel from your appearance back to your face, and he just loves you. Loves sitting next to you. Loves seeing your face.Loves your appearance. Loves your personality. Loves that you're the opposite of a breath of fresh air—you’re comforted in his old, musty room.

Because even if he and you were stuck back in his room, you’d never change. You’re constant.

He loves the way your voice drops when you sense your tone’s shifted higher when talking to him, saying you’ll never be caught speaking to him with a babied voice. He loves how you deny his obvious affection for you—behind closed doors, because he wouldn’t hear the end of it from his friends. He loves your loudness, your quietness, your happiness, your silence.

He loves you.

He’s going to say it.

As he stares at you, yearning for you, you pretend not to notice the burning gaze of your lover. Twitter lost your attention long ago—the nth tweet about yet another scandal circling the app. Instead, you focus on your breathing. With how wild your heart’s beating, the best you can do is control how you breathe—ensuring you don’t fold in front of the lovely boy cuddled up next to you.

If Riki really knew how much you adored him—his hair, his eyes, his laugh, his smile, him—you’d never hear the end of it.

In truth, you’re simply enamoured with him. You love him. Everything about him. Years of girlhood wasted on a beautiful and sweet boy. Girlhood never prepares you for how to love a boy so lovely, so perfect. You think about how there have only been a few moments in your life where you’ve felt nothing but bliss.

Childhood was easy; ever since that fateful day where you picked a bunch of piss-covered flowers, you had no worries other than befriending the awkward little boy next door.

You’ll be sure to thank your parents’ boss for the move.

Teenhood, not so much; it’s riddled with an array of angst and anxiety. It’s a surprise you’re not imploding from the assignment you’ve been procrastinating or having a philosophical crisis like “what is love?”. But no, teenhood, albeit filled with plenty of anger and sorrow, has its fair share of wonderful moments.

Like right now, sitting in the comfort of your room—for a change. You’ve spent time imagining how your life would unravel, always with him in it, and how it ended up. The pictures plastered across the room aren’t just for show—they’re evidence that you’re happy.

Blissful.

Without Riki, you wouldn’t know what bliss is. Feeling nothing but pure and utter love.

He’s everything perfect about love.

And of course, you’ve said “I love you” plenty of times—80% of those times were when you were just kids. But that was when you were just friends. A silly phrase, really, because if you ask anyone who’s known you two since you were kids, they’d say you guys got married at the ripe age of seven with grass-bladed rings and flower crowns, with any passing animal as witness to your youthful marriage.

But now you’re dating—the dreaded boyfriend-girlfriend status. Nothing’s really changed in your relationship. Riki remains full of love and charisma, his attitude never wavering because, as he puts it, he’s known you were “the one” since you handed him those dirty flowers. You’ve remained witty and lovely as always, retaining the same spunk you had as a kid. The only two differences (soon to be one) are that your status has changed from friends to dating, and you’ve yet to say those three words, eight letters.

The phone that sits in your loose grip almost slips out, clearly losing its purpose of mindless distraction. To your dismay, Riki catches sight of your fumble, noting that you haven’t scrolled in seven minutes.

“Did my shameless staring finally catch your attention?”

He’s shameless, alright.

You drop your phone, staring deep into his dreamy eyes. You remain silent, but your expression tells him everything.

Despite the pull of your eyebrows and the purse of your lips, you love him.

“Say… what’s one thing you love about me?” he prompts, ready to finally tell you those long-awaited words. He’s thought it all out—how he’d list everything he loves about you, like he’s about to write your biography. He’s been dreaming of this moment since you started dating.

You think thoughtfully, like you’re scrounging your brain for an answer, leaving the silence in the room to deafen him with anticipation.

“Hey! Stop thinking so much!” Riki exclaims, offended that you’ve taken more than three seconds to answer, while his response would take 0.003 milliseconds (at least in his mind).

You let out a playful giggle, something you gave up trying to hide long ago. “I’m kidding,” you say, smiling.

“I’m kidding,” he mocks you in his ridiculous, high-pitched voice.

You love many things about him, too many to count. You simply love everything about him, like a reflex you can’t control.

“I love it when you’re silent.”

Riki visibly deflates, a slight frown ghosting his plump lips. His eyebrows pinch into a “what the hell” kind of expression, and his nose scrunches cutely at your words.

But you smile knowingly, taking in his sudden silence. You tune into the stillness of the room.

A rapid heartbeat.

“If you hate talking to me, just sa—”

“Because even when you’re quiet,” you interrupt, stretching your hand out to gently caress his hair, “you’re the loudest in the room.”

Your hand travels from his hair to cup his cheek, and Riki—the ever entranced—instinctively leans into your touch.

“Because you can just look at me, and I hear everything I need to hear.”

Your words are soft, gentle, and Riki swallows the lump in his throat that he hadn’t realised had formed. He stares deeply into your eyes—a different kind of stare than before.

Normally tender and kind, full of unspoken words of love. Now, all you see is devotion.

Riki focuses on the silence you’ve created, tuning into the nothingness that you said you loved about him.

And he thinks he can hear it, the silence.

It’s so loud, it bounces off the walls, pounding in his heart—even you can hear it.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

“What do you hear?” He pulls you closer, your lips hovering above his, so close he can feel your breath.

“I hear ‘I love you.’ ”

Your lips mould against his before he can respond, but something tells him that you know. And besides, he has a lifetime's worth of “I love yous”— he’ll let you have this one.

author's note pt.2: its been more than a year since i made this wip and i finally finished it LOLLL it took me so longggg ANDDD i feel like its a bit lackluster in the second act... ENJOY THOUGH. i love the the ending

[manikas-whims]

hello i love your headcanons and was wondering if you could add sylus in some of your older ones? i was reading the "LADS men react to you dating a toxic partner" (it wasnt the title i forgot sorry) and was wondering how sylus would react. i would love it so much if you could add sylus headcanons to some of your previous ones. thankyou so much, your posts make my day🎀💓

i got you dear ♡ i’ll add Sylus to all my older HCs slowly in various posts I'll try to make throughout the coming week :)

thanks for reading my silly lil HCs ♡ hope you like this!

Sylus’s reaction to you dating someone who later on mistreats you

🐦‍⬛ He's actually quite surprised when he finds out you're dating because he genuinely believed whatever him and you had going on was far more than just being close associates. So the idea of you seeing someone else kinda shakes him off his game for a while. Luke and Keiran can see it in the way he acts— slightly distracted during serious business meetings and even when a gang war breaks out.

🐦‍⬛ He isn't the type to get jealous but he will openly express his dislike for this person. Now he may not be a saint but it feels insulting to him that you'd rather date someone else when he can give you the world if you so much as ask.

🐦‍⬛ And he will be displeased every time you come up to him for a favor with your work or anything else, saying things like, “Oh, so now you need me? I thought you'd completely cut ties with my kind.”

🐦‍⬛ If this person ever hurts you emotionally or physically, then they better start counting their breaths cause they won't be spared many.

Sylus may not like this person you're dating but he's decent enough to respect your boundaries. And it would've stayed that way. He wouldn't have involved himself in your personal matters at all until Mephisto, (whom he had still left to watch over you) catches this person yelling at you one evening.

The sight is enough to make Sylus drop whatever work he's been swarmed with.

It doesn't take him long to arrive at the residential area you reside in. He stops his bike and teleports right over to your apartment. In an instant, he's standing between you and this person, the smoky red wisps of his evol holding this person by their neck.

“Is this your type?” Sylus asks, his crimson eyes glowering at this person. “I’m truly disappointed in your taste, Miss Hunter.”

You watch with dread as the fingers of his right hand curl into a fist, his arm poised to throw a punch. And though you appreciate the gesture, you can't let him proceed with this. You have seen him in action enough times to know how strong those fists are. You know that using said fists to hurt someone would only get him in more trouble. And you definitely wouldn't want that because even if you stubbornly refuse to say it out loud, you've grown quite attached to him.

“Sylus stop!” You yell.

As expected, he does not.

But right before his fist can collide with the person's face, Sylus blinks. He can feel the amount of strength you're exerting as you hold onto his arm to keep him in place. To keep him from hurting this person who broke not just your heart but also your trust.

He doesn't glance at you but scoffs. “Even now you defend them. Why?”

“I’m not defending them.” You say. “I just think it's beneath the leader of Onichynus to be wasting time on such people.”

He scoffs again. “You’re not wrong about that, Sweetheart.”

His evol lets go of this person's neck, and he gestures with his chin towards the door. “Get lost.”

They immediately run off.

Seeing that, your own fingers slowly loosen their grip on Sylus’s arm but he grabs hold of your hand before you can completely let go.

“Let’s go for a ride.” He suggests.

And you find yourself smiling for the first time in a while. “Where are we going?”

“Guess.”

XAVIER, RAFAYEL AND ZAYNE’s VERSIONS [HERE]

» MASTERLIST «

[buckevantommy]

Buck being even more pouty about his shift because he's learned Tommy is sick which means their date is off but moreover he can't duck out early to take care of him bc Gerrard is an asshole. he vents all this to Bobby on a check-in phonecall mid-shift.. cut to sick!Tommy opening his front door surprised to find Bobby standing there with containers of homemade soup and a bag from the drugstore. and he's like, "Evan didn't need to send you over, i'm fine." and Bobby is like, "He didn't send me. He doesn't even know I'm here. He told me you were sick and he was annoyed he couldn't be with you, so I figured I'd check in." and Tommy is confused like, "Why?" and Bobby just smiles at him and says something like, "The 118 takes care of each other, and it extends past those bay doors. We're here for you when you need us." and Tommy is just. he tears up a little. sniffles. clears his throat and blames the flu that's wreaking havoc on his body. "Thankyou, Bobby." and Bobby just puts a hand on his shoulder and smiles and Tommy remembers Bobby's captaincy but it's the way Evan talks about him like a father figure and Tommy gets it. he gets it. and he's so damn touched and counts his lucky stars and maybe for the first time realises Buck's team, his family, already see Tommy as one of their own, that even though they worked together years ago he still felt a little on the outside of things, but everyone has welcomed him with open arms and he's gained the kind of family he's always wanted and is so damn grateful.

[msmk11]

Hiii!! I love your work so much and was wondering if you could do a poly marauders (and lily) x hufflepuff coded fem reader comfort fic 💛 maybe they are just having a bad day, being insecure and everyone tries there best to comfort her? thankyou (even if you decide not to)

Omg hi lovely! Thank you so much for the request. This is actually my first ever and I’m so excited and happy to write it for you! I hope it lives up to your standards - MK <3

Just Hold Me For Awhile

——————————————————————————

Poly!Marauders + Lily x fem!reader

Word count: 1.3k

Cw: low self-esteem, hurt/comfort, sad/anxious reader

A/n: Baby’s first request! Ngl I rewrote this like three times, but now it finally feels genuine and I’m very happy with it. I hope you all enjoy :)

There is no evidence to confirm your fears besides the incessant voice inside your head.

You’re not good enough.

You’re not smart enough.

You’re not funny enough.

You’re not pretty enough.

Eventually, they’re all going to leave you.

You are going to end up alone.

Deep down, you know none of these things are true. But reason is no match for your anxiety and the extraordinariness of each of your partners.

James- best Gryffindor chaser the team has had

in years.

Lily- number one in your class.

Remus- Casanova of Gryffindor tower.

Sirius- absolutely fearless in the face of adversity.

You- the ordinary Hufflepuff who just got lucky.

It consistently amazes you that you ended up in a relationship with these four bold, well-known, and well-liked Gryffindors. They all love you so much and you feel grateful that you get to love and be loved by them everyday.

But no matter how much love and care they give you, it cannot entirely soothe the deep-rooted feeling of inadequacy lurking within. You can’t help but sometimes feel out of place in your own relationship- not because your partners exclude you, but rather because your obvious ordinariness situates you outside their circular of extraordinariness.

It’s a feeling that’s lingered since the four first showed interest in you, but recently it’s been possessing you tenfold.

All these thoughts are racing around in your head as you sit at the foot of Sirius’ bed in the boys’ dormitory. Peter is off on a date, leaving you five with some much needed alone time. The moment is serene, with Sirius painting your nails a soft green, Lily braiding Sirius’ hair out of his face, Remus dangling over the edge talking to you three, and James on top of him, massaging his back.

The four are talking about some recent Hogwarts drama, so you’ve sort of zoned out of the conversation, only adding in commentary here or there.

“I mean, I’m so glad Pandora hexed him,” Lily says, “he totally deserved it.”

“I just never would’ve pinned her as the type of person to hex someone, with the way she’s so soft spoken and all,” Sirius replies.

“She does hang out with your brother and Junior though,” Remus reminds him.

“And Evan is her brother,” James adds with a laugh, “it’s in her blood. I just wish I could’ve seen Mulciber’s face.”

“It probably looked as dumb and stupid as always, if not more so,” Sirius jokes.

Everyone busts out laughing and you faintly chuckle through your anxiety-induced brain fog.

Someone taps the side of your cheek.

“Doll, you there?”

You jolt out of your trance and look at Sirius, “hmm? Sorry, what?”

“I asked if you wanted anything else done to your nails.”

You briefly glance down at your perfectly manicured nails, “oh, uh, yeah. Perfect as always, my star.”

Remus reaches down and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, “are you okay, dove? I feel like you’ve been awfully quiet today.”

You smile a little and wave him off, “oh yeah, fine. Just tired, Moons.”

“Wanna come take a nap, angel?” James asks sweetly, opening his arms.

Though you’re not actually that tired, it’s mainly just an excuse, you can’t pass up the offer from your cuddliest of boyfriends. You peck Sirius’ cheek as a thank you for doing your nails and then crawl onto James’ lap. You situate your head on his chest and curl up as he wraps his arms around you. His musky cologne eases the knots in your stomach a little and you try to focus on the steady beat of his heart.

“Better?” he mumbles into your hair.

You quietly hum in confirmation.

You keep your eyes closed all cuddled up with James as you listen to your partners quietly chat. Within minutes of your getting settled you sense movement on the bed. Remus shifts upwards to lay next to you and James- you can tell from the sudden increase in body heat- and you feel Sirius and Lily lay down at your feet.

Suddenly, you feel a pair of rough lips- Remus’ lips- against your forehead. Though he thinks you’re asleep, you hear him whisper, “get some rest, my sweet girl.”

Someone’s head falls on your knee and then you hear Lily’s voice, “she’s so pretty when she sleeps, isn’t she? All soft and peaceful.”

You recognize Sirius’ habitual stroking of your leg with his thumb as he adds, “I didn’t think she could get any softer or sweeter, but here we are.”

“Our angel,” James coos.

Though you suppose most would feel pretty lucky to hear these things about themselves, they only make you feel worse.

You hate yourself.

You hate yourself for having four wonderful, caring, and loving partners, and you can’t even appreciate them because of your own self-loathing. You despise this nasty habit of self-sabotage, but you’re not sure how to break it.

As you lay there and listen to them say such nice things about you, you feel a lump grow in your throat and hot tears spring to your eyes. The tightness in your chest is near painful, and you need some relief.

You try to shift just the slightest- as if you’re just moving around in your sleep- to bury your head in James’ chest, out of everyone’s eyesight.

But once you let one tear drop, a whole rainstorm comes. You try and keep your sobs and sniffling quiet, but your hot, wet tears give you away to James.

“Angel?” James asks worriedly. He pulls you away from his chest to look at your face and sees the snotty, tear-stained mess you’ve become.

“Dove,” Remus pleads worriedly, “what’s wrong? What’s happened.”

Your sobs are too strong for you to respond and you can only shrug your shoulders. Your eyes are blinded by tears and you can’t see their faces, but you know they’re filled with concern and worry. To make them worry like this only causes you to cry harder.

You’re not really aware of what’s happening around you. All you know is one minute your in James’ arms, and the next in Sirius’. Sirius strokes your hair away from your face and holds you in his lap like a baby. He rocks you back and forth quietly, not saying anything at all.

It’s nice, not having to say anything and just crying. Even if you had the ability to speak through your tears, you don’t know that you could. There’s no easy way to describe your feelings of inadequacy, and no amount of ‘talking it out’ could ever just solve the problem either. So you just cry. Cry because you’re angry that you feel this way. Cry because you’re sad. Cry because you’re tired. Tired of not feeling like you’re ever enough. And you cry just because you can. Because you know that your partners will be there for you for as long as you need to cry.

And when the sobs finally quiet to a hiccup here or there, you appreciate that they give you silence to breathe and just process everything.

Lily stands and wanders off, coming back with a glass of water that she presses into your hands. You sip it gently before James takes it from you and sets it on the nightstand. Remus goes and grabs a hot washcloth, wiping your face oh so gently with a soft look in his brown eyes. Sirius hands you back to James- your most tactile partner- and settles again at your feet.

Then, with the most quiet and tender voice, Sirius asks you only one thing, “What do you need from us?”

“Just hold me for awhile.”

And so, like many days before, and hopefully every day after, you five pile into bed, reveling in each other’s warmth and security.

As you lay surrounded by your lovers, you know that even though those same lousy feelings continue to reside inside of you, you will figure it out. And when you’re ready to talk, or rant, or cry some more, your partners will be there.

[skyrigel]

I’m so glad you take requests for Anthony bridgerton. I’ve been in the mood to read angst with happy endings for so looong😫 so could I request Anthony bridgerton x wife angst where they have an argument/fight because he is stressed so he takes his anger out on her so she ends up giving him the silent treatment while he basically begs for her forgiveness

Say nothing then || A.B

Pairing: Anthony bridgerton x wife!reader

Warning: hurt/angst, superstitious thoughts, Anthony doesn't think he could outlive his father. ( Happy ending and little comfort, i promise.)

Rigel's note 🪩 : Thankyou so much for requesting, absolutely heart breaking to write this one, I took inspo from book, Anthony denying love because he saw his mother going in depression when his father died and taylor swift's lyric I said, "I love you" (I said, "I love you") You say nothin' back . I hope i did justice with this one sweetheart <3

That's the way you loved Anthony, truly and completely and sometimes it was so hard to keep it in, it slipped through your lips everytime you kissed him. Pressing down in his skin and tickling his heart that was yours.

It gazed at him, dusk or dawn, ever so lovely, it scribbled down in your ink, leaving your love trailing down behind him.

When Anthony told you he would give you anything, you believed him, when he said he just wouldn't love you, you didn't.

That's not how it goes, perhaps you were naive and blinded but that, it was love that glinted in his eyes everytime he looked at you. When he would smile and reveal the book you yearned to read, hidden behind his back. When he danced more than any husband did with his wife so you didn't believe when Anthony said he wouldn't love you, that was only a matter of time.

However, there's difference between wouldn't and couldn't, Anthony was scared to love, for he knew it's a force and he would be damned if you were to be left heartbroken just like his mother, he would curse himself if he didn't wake when you would call out for him when he was dea Because Anthony was sure, he bloody knew he wouldn't be able to live past his father and in no universe he would want to see you begging, crying and slowly drifting away. Lost and sad, no.

So he wouldn't love you and he would save you from the greater grief, of getting left behind while the other is gone.

But love became too much sometimes, held too much of your heart and body and soul that it demanded to fly and then one such night, all the chains tattered and it was bleeding raw and fresh—

" I love you." You said, like you did every passing moment but oops you had said it now, in words and sound as Anthony kissed the back of your ear, it was the first time the words ever experienced by the nature, no doubt you had said it with every kiss, every touch, every gesture but this was new.

Anthony freezed above you, hands dropping whatever mischief they had in tow.

He pulled away from you in a blink of your eye and it took you a moment to realise what went wrong.

" Anthony ? Are you..you are okay honey ? " You whsipered, he didn't look at you, staring at his hands as he could see a story you couldn't.

" I.. Anthony ? " You said again because it scared you, Anthony wasn't the one to look away, all the things that scared you was nothing against the terror, the sinking gut wrenching feeling you felt when Anthony fliched at your touch and you shivered in ache. No, don't leave me. Please, please.

It was another pain to see Anthony like a stranger, like he didn't know you. He would, he promised he would know you anywhere but this, it was threatening.

" What did you say ? " You almost thought it was the voices in your head, the agony that coated the words could never be from him.

Never to you, he was drifting away with each heavy moment and the person who was at the edge of your bed, in your shared chamber, smelling like you, wasn't the person you knew.

" Anthony—" you tried, you couldn't help the choking of your throat as those eyes were fuming in rage, maybe there was love, hiding somewhere but you couldn't find it and it broke your heart. Anthony couldn't be right.

" You don't mean that ! " He was screaming, his whole body shaking as his fist slammed the mattress in fit of rage.

A strangled hiccup escaped your throat when Anthony gripped your shoulder, hard but not bruising, like he wanted to shake you out of this feeling. He couldn't.

" You don't understand, love, love, love—" he almost cried, his nose reddening, his whole face was burning.

" —its stupid ! Means nothing, does nothing, it takes away everything..." His voice tore down deep inside you, like breaking membranes and dropping vases, it could never be the same.

" You don't understand... don't say it ! You stupid woman ! " He bellowed when you worked your jaw to say something, Don't say it, I love you—

I love you, please, please, let me love you—

But just as he said it, it wasn't Anthony, it was like your mama reminding you how stupid you were, stupid, stupid girl, she would say.

Stupid woman, he had said and everything else was slowly fading, it was starting to slow down, like watching it from away, in different bodies, like you were the doorknob or the painting on the wall because you were crumbling under his touch.

Anthony mere few inches away and you wondered what he would do if you kissed him just then, would he stop this torment?

Would he pull away, back then he didn't when they were your silent ' I love you's ' instead he drank them in, tasted your love raw and wild and now refused them in sound and wave.

" What should I say Anthony ? " You were sure they never made it out, lost somewhere in void, perhaps still coiling around your cartilage but the shocked silence that echoed between the little space between you reminded you how words crawled out after all. Even those meant to be quiet. I love you.

" Say nothing then." His voice is so small that barely register and before you could, he's inhaling large gulps of air, drifting back and back and his eyes not quite meeting yours until he turned his back to you.

He was gone for the night.

Say nothing then.

He wasn't there for the breakfast.

Say nothing then.

He wasn't there the next day.

Say nothing then.

And the day next, and one that followed—

Until you reasiled you haven't said anything in days, it wasn't so bad afterall, it was, very, very bad and lonely but it was okay, as long as Anthony would come back, it should be.

It was very quiet when Anthony stumbled back, his steps shaking and vision dizzy.

He was terribly pissed. You turned the page you only half read and focused hard on the words, Anthony stripped his clothes as he climbed the bed next to you, in an attempt to kiss your forehead like he did every night.

He wasn't there to do it for days and you didn't sleep, it could surely go on, you pulled away.

Something hurt flashed through his eyes and he looked down at the sheets, chest heaving with untaken breaths.

" Good night Viscountess." He whsipered softly and You said nothing back.

Say nothing then.

You weren't sure how you did it but you managed to untangle yourself from Anthony by dawn, you slept for the first time in days and it was over with a series of dreams, each ended with you saying I love you and Anthony saying nothing back.

Silence was louder than words, it was also harsher than words.

Watching Anthony sleep was like playing we're good with him , you weren't sure if you could cry anymore than you had already.

It felt like nothing happened and it could go back to be like before, you could press your love to his skin and it wouldn't burn and leave scars.

But you didn't want that, that was something it had became unbearable, when love bled through you, it was unstoppable and you realised how you will love him enough to make it up for both of you but he wouldn't let you. He wouldn't love you either.

The hurt was visible when his hand trembled, he tried hard to catch your eye, you focused at the honey, so sweet. Anthony didn't know but it hurt you all the same. How much burden you felt in your bones when you couldn't tell him all the things you woke up with, to tell him about your dreams — nightmares now, to tell him that you hate him so much, to kiss him until he couldn't breathe and tear everything wrenched out of him, but you couldn't.

All the more heartache when Anthony brought out the third part of your beloved novel and when the smile never came on your lips, only tears that blurred your gaze so much that you turned away from him, Anthony was shattered.

It was the second day, you hadn't said anything at all, inside screaming didn't count as one. You watched ahead as the far, far away trace of green rolling grass from your balcony. It occurred to you how horizon was made, where earth met the sky and here you were, with souls of something same, whatever they were made of, and yet you and Anthony couldn't mingle.

" Isn't it beautiful ? " He looked at you like you would answer him, he hoped too much.

Say nothing then—

" Huh.." he tried to smile, it was so small.

You stared ahead because looking at Anthony only added salt to your wound, it was aggravating.

It was after some slipped moments when he spoke in a strained small voice, hurt and broken and it shivered you.

" I was so scared...still am," he said and his voice broke, a muffled cry escaped him and you looked at him, really. You wanted to wrap your arms around him and shush away every cry, every pain, every sadness.

Say nothing—

" I thought...I thought i could just keep it away, keep you safe..from me, from love—" and he was crying, not sobbing, not whimpering but crying as big warm tears steamed down his face and he dropped to his knees in front of you, hands reaching for you like moth reaching flame and you took him, held him.

Say—

" I..I..I thought.. could—" he sniffed," couldn't, i can't pretend anymore, I don't want to leave you in pain... don't want to leave you in hurt... can't can't can't keep it in." He cried more and more and more matter how much you wiped his tears, but more fell and it was then you realised, they were yours. You were crying too.

" I am sorry, I am so, so sorry for ever hurting your my sweet love—" he swallowed hard.

" Anthony.. it's okay.. it's alright." You assured him, maybe you and him could go with your love only pressed between silence and gestures and eyes and it would be enough.

But you couldn't watch him break, wouldn't and couldn't.

" I love you." He said, voice not shaking, eyes sincere behind the gleaming tears, " I love you, always had, always would." He brought your knuckles to kiss, love pressing down in your skin. It was golden in the last rays of sun.

" Anthony you don't have to say it." You understood, atleast you did. He shaked his head and smiled through his wet face.

" No, no...let me, " he exclaimed, " I love you my baby, my lady." He smiled and it reached his eyes, you giggled softly when he pressed open mouthed kisses on your hands.

" I love you, I love you and I love you." He said, " I am a fool for ever denying it, I am a fool for you my Viscountess." He inhaled, breathing after a very long time.

" I am sorry, I love you so much baby." His lip trembled and you wanted to steady them so bad.

" I love you too Anthony, truly and completely." You kissed his forehead and he melted in your touch, and you didn't know how much time ticked away with loud and whispered and blessed I love you's and that's the way he loved you, truly and completely.

--------------------------------------------------

Rigel's note 🪩 ( again) : I hope this was good, I am such a angst sucker myself<3 request through my ask box :) and can you reblog ? Please, please.

[jjscrybaby]

the birthday boy

daryl dixon x fem!reader | fluff | (cringe, cringe, cringe! i can’t help who i am😖basic gift ideas bc i couldn’t think of anything, kissing.)

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

One thing you were you would never get back was knowing the date. You’d spent the last couple years in the dark, you had a brief idea of how many years had gone by but dates? Absolutely no clue. It was when you and your group got to Alexandria that you learnt they knew the date, they’d kept track; it wasn’t like they were out killing walkers and fighting for survival, so they had the time to do such a mundane thing.

You’d asked Daryl when his birthday was a long time ago, just after the farm fell and before you reached the prison. The two of you were on watch whilst everyone else slept — or at least tried to — and you wanted to know his zodiac sign. It was silly, but you wanted to talk about something that wasn’t the hell your lives had become. He’d muttered out ‘January 6th’, and then gone silent once again. You kept that information stored in the little Daryl section in your mind, and you hadn’t forgotten it.

“What’re you doin’?” Daryl muttered sleepily, waking up to you sitting on him with a wide grin on your face. He opened one eye, looking from you to the window. “The sun ain’t even fully risen. Better ‘ave a good reason to wake me up.”

“I do,” you murmured, leaning down to catch his lips with yours. He didn’t argue, his arms loosely wrapping around your waist as he kissed you back.

“You alrigh’?” He checked quietly. You definitely weren’t the early riser out of the pair of you, in the morning’s that he had to go on an early supply run and tried to wake you to say goodbye he’d usually be cursed at.

“Yeah,” you reassured softly, running your hand through his growing locks. “Happy birthday, handsome.”

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion, before he let out a soft huh. “Is that today?”

“Yes, it’s today you idiot,” you giggled, pecking his cheek. “Do you want your presents now or at the party?”

“What…” he muttered, eyes widening.

You snorted, swatting at his chest. “I’m kidding. There’s no party. But me and Carol are baking a cake and you can’t say no, I already had to talk them out of finding a birthday banner.”

“Mhm, appreciate it,” he smirked lazily, drawing circles into your thigh. “Can we go back to sleep now, darlin’? I appreciate the birthday wake up, but ‘m exhausted.”

“You don’t want your presents,” you pouted.

“Thought you were kiddin’?” He questioned, leaning on his elbows to sit up slightly.

“About the party, yeah. You really think that I wouldn’t get you presents? Have you met me?” You teased. He smiled softly at you, a quirk of a lip that you were sure no one else was ever on the receiving end of.

“Didn’t even kno’ it was my birthday, so I wasn’t expectin’ presents,” he muttered.

You rolled your eyes fondly, switching the bedside table lamp on before getting off of him to rush over to the closet. You pulled out a paper bag, handing it over to him. “I couldn’t find any wrapping paper,” you sheepishly explained.

“That’s alright,” he chuckled, reaching out for your hand. You sat down next to him as he sat up, looking between you and the bag. “You know you didn’t ‘ave to get me anythin’.”

“I wanted to,” you argued. “Now, open it, please. I’m getting impatient.”

He let out a quiet laugh, opening up the bag. First he pulled out a knife; it wasn’t new, or even very sharp — although he’d be able to sort that out — but there was something on the side of it. Both yours and his initials carved into the side. You knew that wasn’t really his thing, something so cheesy, but you wanted his gift to have meaning. It was difficult to find things for anyone’s birthday in an apocalypse, but Daryl? Well, that’s pretty much impossible.

“Thankyou, darlin’.” He ran his fingers over the messy carving you’d done, a fond look in his eyes. “I love it.” He leant in and pressed a peck to your lips, making your eyes twinkle.

“Really? I know it’s not much…” you said, about to go on a classic ramble.

“Stop. I love it, seriously. I ain’t ever— I’ve never gotten a birthday present before, ‘least not one that I can remember,” he admitted, squeezing your hand.

Tears brimmed in your eyes, but you kept the smile on your face. You hadn’t expected that Daryl had many fun birthday’s growing up, not with the family he had. Maybe Merle took him to a bar on his 21st to have his first legal drink, but that was probably it. You kissed the corner of his mouth, stroking his hair.

“Well, now that we’re not fighting for our lives constantly anymore, expect presents every year. Christmas, too,” you said softly.

“Wouldn’t expect anythin’ less from you,” he responded, caressing your cheek lovingly. He placed the knife on the bedside table, moving to switch the light off.

“What’re you doing?” You asked.

“Goin’ back to sleep?” He answered, looking back at you over his shoulder. “That alright with you?” He teased.

“But… you haven’t opened your other present,” you explained. There was something in your tone, nervousness, shyness, he wasn’t sure.

“Another one?” He looked at you in confusion.

“Don’t be dramatic, Dar. It’s not like I spent any money,” you giggled. You went behind you, opening the drawer and pulling out something. You held it in your hand, not letting him see. “It’s a bit stupid, but I wanted to give you this for awhile. Since you gave me mine, at least.”

You opened your palm and revealed the silver band, a shy smile on your face. Six months ago, Daryl had gone on a week long supply run and he’d returned home with a ring. It wasn’t like you could have a proper wedding, not like the one you used to dream about when you were younger, but you wanted to marry Daryl. You wanted to tell people he was your husband. So, of course, you’d cried your eyes out and said yes. Ever since you’d wanted him to have a ring, too. Your engagement ring would probably be your wedding one as well, it wasn’t like you could go shopping. If you were going to get married, both of you needed proof of the wedding.

It was silent, you stared at him waiting for some sort of reaction. Slowly, a smile made its way onto his face. “You ain’t gonna ask me?”

“What?”

“I ain’t acceptin’ a ring without a proposal,” he joked.

You giggled, moving to straddle his waist once again. “Daryl Dixon, will you marry me?”

“Mhm,” he hummed, cradling your cheek in his hand as he brought your face down to his. “‘Course I will, baby.”

His lips moved against yours, arms wrapping around your waist to tug you to lie down on top of him. You pulled away first, grabbing his hand to slip the ring onto his fingers.

“Wouldn’t want to spend my birthday’s with no one else.”

[awrkive]

For the milestone bash

No. 23 from the smut list with any of your jks please and thankyou ☺️

23. "I saw on your Amazon wishlist you wanted a dildo. You know I got a dick, right?"

note: last drabble im posting for awhile and also the reqs are closed!! thank u sm for participating in the follower milestone game and im sorry if i wasnt able to write the req that you sent in 😔! dw im still going to go over them once in a while, one of these days.

wc: 1.3k

warning/s: p in v s*x, himbo!jk (hes so stupid i have a crush on him)

Jungkook can be infuriating sometimes. Your friends assume that the reason you dislike him is because he’s a big himbo who can’t even say the word misogyny right and has a GPA lower than a minor earthquake magnitude, but you find that’s the least of your concern when the man has a problem with privacy. 

He doesn’t know it. He absolutely has no concept of it and you thought – upon the first month of being roommates with him – that he’s just the typical fratboy who likes flaunting his body to any audience because he knows he looks good, but he genuinely just doesn’t like hanging around with clothes on and would always forget that you exist and he can’t just parade around with nothing but his tight boxers on during the weekends. 

Jungkook’s the type to not lock his bedroom. He’s the type to not knock when entering the bathroom, the type to not shy away when he sees your underwear in the laundry room. He doesn’t have shame – and it’s exactly why he sticks his nose into your phone charging at the outlet by the island counter with the Amazon app opened while you go and take out the trash real quick. 

In his defense, he didn’t mean to. He just walked past it when he was making his toast – but a very neon picture on your lit up screen caught his attention and when he squinted his eyes, he almost couldn’t believe it. 

A dildo. There’s a pink dildo in your Amazon wishlist, sandwiched by a list of otherwise beige-colored stationery items that included a lot of… notebooks.

And you definitely could not miss it. Not when it’s neon! And not when… what? Eight inches? 

Jungkook scoffs.

That's exactly his size! 

He couldn’t believe his eyes. You… a dildo in your Amazon wishlist? Hah. Jungkook didn’t expect that. He’s always seen you as this… prude, somewhat innocent librarian. And you are actually a part-time librarian at school. And you kind of act sort of prude-ish, and there’s nothing wrong with it – not really, Jungkook thinks. You’re still hot and sexy to him – although, he tries to not think of you that way because you’re really nice to him even though he knows he can be a bit too much sometimes and he knows he isn’t exactly the type of person you keep in your circle.

He kept a rowdy set of friends (except Yoongi) while you go out with your intellectual friend group who are all members of an intelligent club at uni. You know, debate club, the school paper, maths and sciences… Jungkook’s just shocked you even entertain him because boy, do your friends kind of hate him. 

Anyway. The dildo. Oh wow. This definitely changes things – but Jungkook doesn’t know what exactly. He never thought about whether you’re still a virgin or not, but finding out about the dildo in your Amazon wishlist is definitely making him think things.

Can you even handle the eight inches anyway? You’re kind of small. The girls he’s been with had always commented on how big he is but he’s very efficient with it and he knows well enough to make the girl cum twice before putting it in so the stretch doesn’t hurt. Would you use lube if you used that plastic dick? You must, you should… but like, Jungkook is also really good at cunnilingus because no one loves pussy as much as him so maybe, you’d need someone’s help to prep you and—

“Jungkook?” 

Jungkook feels every hair on his body standing up when he hears your voice behind him. In quick succession, he manages to make it seem like he’s checking out the chip on the edge of the counter instead of your phone. 

“Hey!” he greets you with a smile. 

His heart skips a beat when your eyebrows furrow, eyes landing from his face to your phone. None of you say anything until you walk further into the kitchen. Then, you grab your phone and turn it off. 

“I’ll head out in fifteen minutes. I’m sleeping over at Yena’s for a group study. Can you lock the door later?” You ask him. 

It’s weird because it isn’t the first time you went around in a tank top and a pair of short shorts inside the apartment, but right now all Jungkook can think of is how tight your shorts are. And also how smooth your skin is – and how nice your chest looks.

“Jungkook?” You call again, and Jungkook snaps out of his trance. 

“Uh… yeah, sure.” 

“Okay. Thank you.” 

It’s the last thing you said before you take out your charger and go straight to your bedroom. 

Jungkook stands there in the kitchen wide-eyed, a bit stunned at the turn of events. 

———

You knew Jungkook saw that. And you ranted about it to Yena – how embarrassed you were for having him see the damn dildo in your wishlist. You weren’t embarrassed about wishlisting a dildo – you’re just embarrassed that Jungkook has seen it out of all people. 

Ever since that day, you’ve been trying to avoid him. Not that it’s hard because your schedules don’t align most of the time but Sundays are always free and you have no choice but to face him over dinners. 

What you’ve noticed, though, is that… Jungkook is being a little different, too. He usually has that suave, easy-going vibe to him, and it’s fine if his approach to other people has changed as well but you realized it’s only you he’s being weird to. 

So you decide to confront him. 

And it ends up this way. 

“Oh my god–” You gasp audibly when Jungkook inserts the first inch of his cock in your pussy, mouth agape as you stare into his eyes while he continues to get in deeper. 

“Jesus fuck.” Jungkook moans, tightening his hold around your waist. “Tightest pussy I’ve– ah, shit, stop clenching, pretty.” 

You look absolutely delicious with your mouth hanging open, pleasure written all over your face. Jungkook would lie if he says that he hasn’t thought about how you’d look like during sex – especially over the past few weeks but for some reason, the universe has pull its strings for you two to end up this way and the Academy really ought to give him an award for not nutting just right after putting his dick in you because phew, you’re more than what he imagined. 

“Oh, that– that feels good,” you pant, hands reaching out for his biceps. “Harder, Jungkook.” 

And he does go harder, pulling out for a moment and slamming right back into your tight pussy which welcomes and grips him like a vice he swears he’s popping veins over how much he has to constraint himself from going crazy. 

But maybe he’s giving himself too much credit because one second you’re moaning and it sounds like music to his ears but then the next he’s saying something stupid like, “I–shiiit– I saw on your Amazon wishlist you wanted a dildo. You know I got a dick, right?” 

Jungkook’s got to stop running his mouth. Namjoon tells him he’s way too chattery sometimes and he’s right but he can’t help that he has a lot of thoughts in his head! So what if he thinks that he can outdo a dildo in any way? From the looks of your face right now, it seems like he can!

But you have a deadpan look on your face, a contrast to how you looked just seconds ago.

He’s prepared himself for something that would ruin this moment, but you only stare at him and say, “Yeah. So put it to good use and shut up.” 

Jungkook thinks he’d cum in the next ten seconds. 

“Yes, ma’am.” He grunts as he slides in and out, picking up his pace, sweat forming in his temples. He greedily lets his hand wander over your breasts and squeeze one, making you moan.

“Good.” 

You don’t know where you began and ended, all you know now is that as much as Jungkook can be infuriating sometimes, at least he can make you cum. 

And oh, he was definitely way better than the dildo Amazon had just dropped into your door three days ago. 

[kazumist]

Hi its my first time requesting so idk if im doing this right, after i saw that s fire is issuing a pre order for a hoshina figure, and that figure made him look absolutely stunning, his biceps,abs, thighs, the lines are just impeccable, so i would like to request hoshina x fem!reader, they are a couple and the reader bought the figure and was unpacking it, then hoshina saw it… what would be his reaction??? I really love your writing btw and it would be cool if the reader just loves buying hoshina’s merch, thankyou !

✩ — includes: hoshina x f!reader (but no fem terms actually used uh). fluff. cw: cutter mentioned (reader opens up a package). wc: 512. reblogs and feedback are much appreciated !!

✩ — note: took me a bit of a while sorry TT but here you go!!

hoshina didn’t expect anything when he opened the door and received the package that the delivery man gave him.

“love, did my delivery arrive yet?” you asked him, calling him out from the kitchen since you were busy preparing lunch. it was your turn today—soshiro’s turn to cook would be tomorrow. “oh, this was yours?” he says, entering the kitchen area.

with a playful eyeroll, you washed your hands and went to see the package. the food was still busy cooking by itself so it’s safe to leave it for a moment. “who else would it be, silly?” you said, grabbing a cutter to open it up. hoshina would be lying if he said that he wasn’t curious. he wonders what piqued your interest this time since it’s been a while since you last ordered something online.

he had a few options—it could be something funny that you just wanted to try. or perhaps something useful that will help with your current lifestyle. it could be anything, really. but hoshina stared blankly when you opened the box.

soshiro never expected for you to buy a figurine of him of all things.

“oh my god, it looks perfect!” you squealed, completely forgetting about the man beside you. he looks at you and the figurine back and forth, trying to comprehend the fact that you actually did get a figurine of him. it was like those superhero figurines that you’d see in toy stores—something that parents would buy for their kids.

and soshiro would be lying if he said that this doesn’t make him sulk, even just a little bit.

“eh? is that me?” he asks dumbfoundedly.

you didn’t hear him at first; he was too excited to open and let the figurine out of the box. “hm? oh, yeah! it’s you, it looks so good, right?” you asked him, carefully pulling out the figurine now. he could feel a small vein on his head, but he took a deep breath to keep his composure. you looked so happy right now; why would he ruin it? 

but he didn’t really expect that you’d buy it. especially when you actually have him by your side.

hoshina goes behind you and gives you a backhug as he rests his chin on your shoulder, peering over to inspect the figurine more. “it looks real nice, but i didn’t expect you to buy something like this,” he says a bit lazily. “why? it’s you.” you turned your head to look at him with a pout.

“that’s exactly it. it’s me, and i’m right here.” he replies with a pout as well. you deadpan at him, “don’t tell me you’re jealous of a literal figurine of yourself, soshiro.”

“so what? i don’t see why you have to buy this little thing when you have the real deal right here.”

“oh, you mean the real deal that has his arms wrapped around me right now?” you giggle.

“is there any other man that goes by hoshina soshiro in this world? get rid of it.”

“you’re so petty—and no, i won’t!”

[clarkeyhill]

Sentimental | George Clarke

Fluff.

Christmas was a time in your life you dread to come around, your dysfunctional family made celebrating and being festive a chore ever since you all grew up. George knew how much Christmas time raised your anxiety levels and decided he'd do something to make you realise that, Christmas is still as magical as it was when you were a child.

Christmas Day was in full swing, the time was 8am, you roll over to face George, already laid smiling at you.

"Merry Christmas baby" he says with a soft smile

"Merry christmas my love" you say back planting a soft kiss on his lips

Without hesitation he wraps your body in his arms, engulfing you like a warm blanket. You snuggle for a few minutes as you decide to get up. You had stayed at George's family home for Christmas this year, you felt out of place but more sane that you would if you were at home right now.

You make your way down the stairs in your watching pjs as you're the first ones down.

"I feel like a little kid again" you smile, cheeks rosy from the excitement as you look at the presents scattered into piles with your stockings on top of them.

"You deserve it, I know Christmas is a touchy thing for you, we wanted to make it special" he smiles, snaking his hand around your waist.

You perch yourself on the sofa as George heads to go wake his sister and parents. You decide to motion yourself towards the kitchen and make everyone a brew, setting them up for the day ahead. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the window as you smile, a feeling of your warmth gushes over you. You finally felt like you belonged somewhere at this time of year, no pressure to stir conversation or keep a brave face.

You place at the drinks on a tray and slide them on the coffee table, you sit and wait. George had been gone a little while you thought, furrowing your brows. Just then he returns, as his smile broadens.

"Follow me" he holds out his hand

You take it, unsure of the reason but you trusted him.

"Trust me a second, I'm going to cover your eyes for this" he says with a soft tone, placing his hands over your eyes

You nod as you shuffle down the hallway, George directing you as you make your way to what seems like the back door. All of a sudden the patio door slides open, the cold December air wafts your face as you grab the door frame, lowering yourself down the step.

"George, what's going on?" You ask giggling

"You'll see, two seconds" he snickers, his tone giggly as if he couldn't contain the excitement about to burst through him.

"Okay, 3,2,1-"

He removes his hands as you blink, suddenly you see what looks like snow, falling from the sky.

"Snow?!" You say shocked

George giggles, you turn round to him to face him. A broad smile plastered on his face.

"I know this time of year takes a toll on you and I understand that. But I will do anything in my power to make sure that every Christmas you have is special and memorable, even if it means buying a thousand snow machines and hiring reindeers" he chuckles as he places a thumb over your cheek

Your eyes swell with tears threatening to drop, you speak no words, instead you crash into George's chest. Gripping him tightly as the tears fall, his hand rubs the back of your head as he rocks you to and fro.

"Thankyou George, I-i don't know what to say" you sniffle

"You're more than welcome beautiful, merry Christmas" he smiles as he looks down at you, planting a kiss on your forehead

"Merry Christmas baby" you reply back as you look in to his baby blue eyes.

-

🫶🏻

Merry Christmas guys!!! 🎀✨🩷

[ihopeiexplode]

BasketballPlayer!Sukuna Headcanons

(he's your boyfriend in this)

Content: Fluff(?) . Slight Angst(?) .

A/N: okay guys u can send in threats again I forgot about Abt denial 🔥🔥(I also have no knowledge Abt basketball what so ever🧍‍♀️🧍‍♀️)

. BasketballPlayer!Sukuna is the type to make it publicly known that both of you are dating, he could be interviewed by someone first thing he'll mention is your name, most of the time he isn't even talking about how the preparations for his game went, he's just talking about you

Safe to say everyone who tries interviewing him knows he'll just be talking about you instead of himself...

. BasketballPlayer!Sukuna who would always make sure you're there during his practices and games with the excuse of you being there is his good luck charm he just likes to show off how good he is in basketball

. BasketballPlayer!Sukuna who hates it when you two have an argument right before a game, he absolutely hates it when his girl is mad at him how could he play well when you're not there to watch him and cheer him on? But surprise your there watching him just making sure to stay seated somewhere far so he won't see you

But of course His mood would change when one of his teammates told him they saw you somewhere in the crowd

. BasketballPlayer!Sukuna who always always plays roughly and aggressively whenever you two have another petty argument

. BasketballPlayer!Sukuna who gets easily jealous and possessive when another man talks to you while you're giving him the silent treatment, just because of that he'll always make sure to flirt with the girl interviewing him and making sure you'll see the whole thing

. BasketballPlayer!Sukuna who loves seeing you wear his jersey, I mean why would he? Your wearing a shirt with his signature number and his last name

. BasketballPlayer!Sukuna who hates it whenever you act sad because of some stupid rumor you heard ever since you two started dating

Sure he was a playboy before you two started dating, but the only reason for that is because he never met you yet, seriously the term that your friends keep telling you is ridiculous.

“Don't date basketball players or they'll play your heart like they play basketball” as if he'll do that to you. (Thankyou @/aireia for this line also double credits to rais friend for making the line‼️‼️)

. BasketballPlayer!Sukuna who destroyed his own teammate during a practice just because he asked if Sukuna could set him up on a date with you? Doesn't he know you're taken?

Safe to say the guy never spoke to you or Sukuna ever again 🗣️🗣️‼️🔥

. BasketballPlayer!Sukuna who loves it whenever you overpamper him just because he got hurt during a game, so whenever he gets hurt he won't accept any help unless it you who's helping him,

he'll even purposely hurt himself if your giving silent treatment just so you could pay attention to him again but if that doesn't work?

He could play with a broken ankle and refuse any medical help unless it your helping him, he'd rather play with a broken ankle than receive help from someone that isn't you

. BasketballPlayer!Sukuna is the type to say "This one's for you" whenever you watch him practice, and every time he does this he's always looking right at you due to how confident he is that he won't miss If he ever misses he'll blame it on you saying how you distracted him

. BasketballPlayer!Sukuna who hates it whenever his teammates tease him on how he changed and became less aggressive when you two started dating, there right of course he just doesn't wanna admit how he takes his games much more seriously just because you're watching him and how he'll always win every game just to see that stupid smile on your face.

. BasketballPlayer!Sukuna who only lets you and you alone interact with him whenever he loses a game, only because he gets absolutely aggressive whenever he loses and his teammates are aware of this of course, so imagine their surprise when Sukuna isn't verbally degrading you while you talked to him

[⛩️] @: Likes & Reblogs R appreciated! ^^