#ask to tag. just in case i missed something

[wholoveseggs]

Dark Star {Part Four}

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

Part Four

{Elijah Mikaelson x f!Reader} In the present day, Cami takes matters into her own hands by going to the police, urging detectives to search for your killer. Meanwhile, Rebekah and Kol return to Mystic Falls to seek Bonnie Bennett’s help...and run into an old friend. In the past, your church has a watchful eye on your every move as fear of demons brew among the villagers, risking your exposure and ruin.

5.4k words - Warnings: so much angst, Cami trying her best, Kol and Rebekah being an iconic duo in Mystic Falls, murder investigations, pain with a sprinkle of more pain on top, hallucinations, demons and Klaus having a little treat...

{Part One}{Part Two}{Part Three}{Part Five}{Part Six}

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Cami sat nervously in the waiting area of the police department, wondering why she ever thought this was a good idea. What was she going to say? That she knew a vampire that was murdered? They would want details she couldn’t give… like, where’s the body? How does she know there was a murder?

She could already hear them laughing her out of the office.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus. This was the right thing to do. She had a hunch, and it was her job to follow through.

A door opened, and a tall, no-nonsense detective stepped out, scanning the room until his gaze landed on her. With a slight nod, he motioned for her to follow him, leading her to a small, windowless room.

“How can I help you, Miss O'Connell?” he asked, settling into a chair across from her.

Cami took a breath, the uncertainty bubbling up again. “I… I have a friend who went missing, and I was hoping the police could help me find her.”

“Missing?” The detective’s brow lifted, his expression shifting to mild skepticism.

“Yes, I��m afraid so. She’s been missing for several months…” Cami replied, realizing too late how wrong that sounded.

“Months?” His skepticism deepened, one eyebrow arched.

“Yes,” she repeated, trying to sound more confident.

“Miss O'Connell,” he said, softening his tone just slightly, “you’re aware that most missing persons cases aren’t solved. Many aren’t even reported until it’s too late.”

“I understand,” she replied, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap.

The detective sighed, studying her closely. “Do you have any evidence of foul play?”

Cami’s mind raced. “No… I don’t have evidence, but I know something is wrong. She wouldn’t just disappear.”

“Alright,” he said, pulling out a notepad. “Let’s start with her name and tell me what she looks like.”

Cami swallowed again, steadying herself as she described you: the color of your hair, the shade of your eyes, the way you always wore that silver bracelet. She felt the lump in her throat grow as she spoke, picturing you more vividly with each word.

The detective listened, his expression hardening slightly. “Did she have any enemies?”

A nervous laugh escaped her lips. “She… well, she had a lot of enemies,” she admitted, immediately regretting it.

He raised an eyebrow, jotting something down. “Enemies?”

“Yes, but she was… a private person. I don’t really know who they were,” she said, guilt pricking at her as she lied.

The detective’s patience began to wear thin. “Miss O'Connell, if I’m going to help, you need to be honest. What aren’t you telling me?”

Cami hesitated, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. She glanced down, trying to find the words. “It’s a long story,” she managed, her voice small.

“We have time.”

“It’s a very long story,” she repeated, almost pleading.

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Listen, I have several open murder cases on my desk. I’m not going to spend hours on a missing person unless you can give me a reason to. So if you have something to tell me, spit it out. Otherwise, we’re done here.”

“Right, sorry,” she stammered, her cheeks burning. “It’s just… my friend was married into a very powerful family of vampires, and she is one herself. And she was murdered, I know where and when, so I need your help collecting forensic evidence.”

He stared at her, his face blank. “Are you kidding me?”

“I wish I was,” she said softly.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he said, gesturing toward the door. “Please leave.”

“But-”

“Miss O'Connell, unless you want me to throw you in jail for wasting police time, I suggest you leave now,” he said, his tone cold.

Cami rose, shame washing over her. “I’m sorry. I was just hoping-”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, his expression hardening.

She hurried out, her heart pounding, a mix of anger and humiliation clouding her mind. She had been foolish to think the police would help. As she walked down the hallway, she caught sight of a bulletin board covered in photographs and reports. Missing people. Her heart sank as she stared at the faces.

“Hey!” she called out as a young officer passed by.

“Yeah?”

“What’s this for?” she asked, nodding to the board.

“Murder victims, same motive. Possible serial killer,” he said.

A chill ran down her spine. “Can I look at the case file?”

The officer raised an eyebrow, giving her a wary look. “Sorry, ma’am, but those files are confidential.”

“Right. Thanks.” She forced a polite smile, walking quickly out of the building. Once outside, she pulled out her phone and dialed Klaus’s number.

“Cami?” Klaus answered, his tone warm.

“I’m at the police station. They’ve got a case on a possible serial killer,” she said, her words spilling out. “All the victims… Klaus, they look just like her.”

There was a long, tense pause on the line.

“Stay where you are,” he said finally, his voice low and serious. “I’ll be there in minutes.”

Relief washed over her as she hung up, the weight of fear lessened. Maybe, just maybe, they were onto something real.

“Rebekah, darling, be a dear and pass me that bottle,” Kol gestured lazily toward the expensive bourbon behind the bar.

She raised an eyebrow. “Planning on getting wasted? We’ve got work to do, Kol.”

“Oh, don’t be such a killjoy,” he replied, grabbing the bottle as soon as it was in reach. He poured himself a generous amount, then one for her. “I died in this town. I’m entitled to a drink.”

Rebekah sighed but accepted the glass, taking a small sip. “Technically, we both did. Though, you managed to do it twice.”

Kol smirked, savoring his drink. “Ah, yes. I nearly forgot how much fun it was the first time.”

He turned, leaning back against the bar, surveying the Mystic Grill’s bustling crowd. Music hummed in the background, laughter and chatter filling the air along with the scent of alcohol. The place had changed, yet a strange sense of familiarity lingered.

“This place brings back memories,” Kol mused, his tone light. “There was a lovely little spot nearby where I’d... relieve myself. Quiet, private.”

Rebekah grimaced. “You’re disgusting.”

"What? Like you didn't have your spots, Rebekahhh," he scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I liked the view, nothing makes the bowels move quite like the morning sunrise,"

She let out a sound of disgust, and tossed back her drink, setting her glass down and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Not much has changed about this place, still a glorious shit hole," He quipped, taking another gulp of his drink.

She rolled her eyes, leaning back against the counter and scanning the crowd. Her eyes landed on a familiar face sitting in a booth, and she smirked. "You can't be serious,"

"What?" He asked, arching an eyebrow, turning to look at where she was staring. "Oh, for fucks sake,"

Stefan Salvatore was sitting in a booth, alone, sipping on his drink. He was watching them, his expression carefully neutral, his body tense.

"I'll deal with him," Kol muttered, standing up.

"Kol, behave," Rebekah warned, elbowing him.

"When have I ever not behaved?" He shot back, smirking.

"Do you want a list?" She snapped, grabbing his arm and pulling him back. "We are here to convince that Bennett witch to help us, not cause trouble."

"I'm just going to say hi," he defended, holding his hands up. "If anything happens, it will be entirely his fault,"

She rolled her eyes and released his arm, giving him a pointed look.

He winked at her and strode towards Stefan, a grin spreading across his face, sliding into the seat across from him. "Well, well, if it isn't the famous Ripper of Monterey. Seems you have a new hobby of stalking people,"

Stefan smiled faintly, swirling the bourbon in his glass. "I'm just enjoying a drink at my local bar,"

Kol chuckled, shaking his head, a sly smile tugging at his lips. "How long have you been following us, hm?"

"Since you showed up," Stefan answered, taking a sip of his drink. "I thought you and your family moved on to New Orleans."

"Oh, we did," Kol grinned, tilting his head. "But, we've always had a fondness for this place. We are sentimental like that,"

"So this is just a vacation then?" Stefan asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"In a sense," Kol shrugged. "Family business, you know how it is,"

Stefan hummed, raising an eyebrow. "Does this have anything to do with the death of your sister-in-law?"

"Oh, you're a busy little birdie," Kol drawled, his smile widening. "Where did you hear that?"

"It's not everyday that a Mikaelson dies," Stefan replied, his tone light. "That kind of news gets around."

"Ah, yes, the supernatural grapevine," Kol sighed, rolling his eyes. "A dreadful thing. So, have you heard anything useful?"

Stefan stared at him, his jaw clenching, Kol could tell he was afraid, even though he made great efforts to hide it. "Like I said, just rumors."

Kol laughed, shaking his head. "Don't worry, Stef. You're safe, Rebekah would have my head if I killed you."

Stefan raised an eyebrow. "I doubt that would stop you,"

"Oh, don't flatter yourself," Kol scoffed, tilting his head. "Your neck is intact, isn't it?"

"Why are you really here, Kol?" Stefan asked, his eyes narrowing.

"Looking for a friend of yours, perhaps you could help me," Kol replied, a smile tugging at his lips. "We need to speak to a young Miss. Bennett."

Stefan frowned, his eyes darkening. "What do you want with her?"

"Relax, Stefan," Kol sighed, shaking his head. "We're not planning on harming her. We just need her help, that's all."

Stefan leaned back in his chair, his gaze flickering to Rebekah who was walking towards them. "And if she says no?"

Kol's smile widened, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Then we'll convince her otherwise,"

Stefan tensed, his expression hardening, his hand tightening around his glass. "Is that a threat?"

Rebekah let out an annoyed sigh and leaned over the table, pinching Kol’s arm. "Stop being an ass."

"Ow," he whined, rubbing his arm. "You're supposed to be helping,"

She glared at him, then looked at Stefan. "Don't mind my brother, he was dropped on his head when he was a baby,"

"I was not," Kol protested, frowning.

She rolled her eyes and moved to sit next to Stefan, placing her hand over his, smiling sweetly. "Tell me, what is Bonnie up to these days?"

"Bonnie isn't going to help you," Stefan answered, his voice hard. "She's not exactly a fan of your family,"

"We aren't looking to be friends," Rebekah said, shaking her head. "All we need is a little help,"

"Help with what, exactly?" Stefan pressed, his eyes narrowing.

Kol and Rebekah exchanged a glance, and Rebekah gave him a nod.

"The death of my sister-in-law was a bit unexpected," Kol explained, his voice low, his smile fading. "We want to fix that, bring her back,"

Stefan let out a dark chuckle, leaning back in his chair, shaking his head. "So it's true? Elijah has gone off the deep end?"

"You are hardly one to judge, darling," Rebekah remarked, glaring at him.

"Look, I have no interest in being dragged into Mikaelson family drama," Stefan replied, his voice tight. "And neither will Bonnie,"

Rebekah let out a soft sigh, and glanced at her brother, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. "Brother, will you get me a drink?"

"Sure, Bex," he said, giving her a wide smile before heading up and walking to the bar.

Rebekah leaned in, her voice lowering. "I think you have misunderstood us, this isn't a request. We are asking politely for you to tell us where Bonnie is... Or I will force the answer out of you,"

"I would like to see you try," Stefan replied, his words laced with challenge.

"I'm stronger than I look," she murmured, her gaze lingering on him, her smile turning sly. "You of all people should know that."

Stefan stared at her, and she could see the tension in his shoulders, the wariness in his eyes.

Kol returned and set a glass of whiskey down in front of her, sliding back into his seat, sipping on his own drink.

"One last chance, love," Rebekah purred, taking a small sip, her gaze locked on Stefan's. "Tell us where to find Bonnie, or things will get ugly."

"You can do whatever you need to do to me. I'm not giving up my friends," Stefan said, his jaw clenching, his eyes flashing.

Rebekah let out a long sigh, and reached over, her fingers trailing along his jaw, tilting his head to the side.

"Look around Stef, all the people in this bar, they have interesting looking drinks in front of them, don't they?" She asked, her voice soft.

Stefan stiffened, his brow furrowing, his gaze sweeping over the bar. All the glasses in front of the patrons seemed to be filled with a bright blue liquid.

"What are you doing?" He asked, his voice strained.

"Those drinks aren't exactly... safe," Kol chimed in, his tone full of amusement. "It's absolutely horrid what antifreeze can do to a human's internal organs."

"Antifreeze?" Stefan repeated, his eyes widening, a hint of fear flashing across his face.

"Mhm, it's actually a rather effective poison," Kol added, grinning.

"To Stefan Salvatore," Rebekah said, raising her glass, her gaze locking with his.

Stefan watched in horror as all the patrons raised their glasses with her, some holding their cups to their lips, poised to drink. She had compelled the whole bar, and it was a terrifying sight.

"Wait, stop," he stammered, panic rising in his chest.

Rebekah smiled and put her glass down, everyone else doing the same. "Where is Bonnie?"

"Fine," he said, swallowing hard, his pulse racing. "I'll give you her address,"

"Good boy," she said, her smile widening, patting him on the cheek.

"You're psychotic," he muttered, shaking his head.

"Oh, darling, I'm a Mikaelson, this is just a Tuesday for us," she replied, winking at him. "Write down the address,"

Stefan glared at her, but obliged, quickly scribbling down the address on a napkin.

She snatched it from him, and tucked it into her purse, before getting to her feet. Her blonde hair swayed behind her as she turned and headed towards the exit, not looking back.

"Lovely seeing you again, Stef," Kol called out, smirking. He got up and followed her, leaving a defeated Stefan sitting alone.

13th century Europe

Evening mass was almost over, and you were growing more and more bored, wishing you were anywhere else. Your attention was drawn to the window, the full moon hanging low in the sky. It was a beautiful sight, reminding you of your night with Elijah, and the promise he had made. You smiled faintly, a faint blush coloring your cheeks.

You could feel Mother Mathilde's stern gaze fixed on you, and you tried to look serious, straightening in the pew. But the thoughts wouldn't leave your mind. You wondered if he would ask you to marry him, if he would take you away from the convent. A strange sort of longing gripped your heart, and you realized, more than anything, you wanted to be his wife. You wanted to live by his side, grow old with him, share his bed, have his children. The realization surprised you, a wave of panic rising within you, and you swallowed hard, trying to calm yourself.

As the priest finished his final prayer, you joined the others, standing and reciting the closing hymn. Your voice faltered as Mother Mathilde stood, moving to the altar, her expression unreadable. She nodded to the priest and turned to face the congregation.

"There has been some troubling news," she announced, her voice loud and clear, filling the sanctuary.

Your brow furrowed, and you listened, waiting for her to continue.

"There is reason to believe demons may be among us," she continued, her eyes sweeping over the crowd.

Murmurs erupted from the congregation, and you felt a chill run down your spine, your stomach twisting into knots.

"Two of our children were nearly attacked last night in the forest," Mother Mathilde's voice rose, silencing the crowd. "We must be vigilant and pray that God will protect us from this evil."

Your heart was pounding, and you were certain that you had heard her correctly. In the woods? Was it near the same place you had spent the night with Elijah? 

"Be wary of those who tempt you into sin," Mother Mathilde's gaze swept over the room, her eyes stopping on you. "Be mindful of those who wish to lead you astray,”

Your stomach sank, and you felt a rush of embarrassment, a sudden urge to run out of the chapel. You stared at the ground, heat rising in your cheeks, shame burning within you.

"Have any of you been tempted? Speak now so we can root out this evil," the priest called out, his eyes searching the crowd.

You swallowed hard, keeping your head down, your heart racing. You knew it was a trap, and yet, you couldn't resist the urge to look at her. You raised your head, catching her gaze, and immediately regretted it. She was staring at you, her expression full of judgment. You felt like a child being scolded, your eyes falling back to the floor, unable to look at her anymore.

"For those who lay with demons are anointed by evil, and must be cleansed," she declared, her voice full of conviction. “We must prevent this sickness from spreading by all means that we possess,”

You couldn't move, frozen in place, panic rising within you. You didn't know what to do, or where to go, so you sat there, waiting, hoping she wouldn't come for you.

The priest began speaking again, and the rest of the congregation joined in, reciting a prayer. You closed your eyes, trying to focus on the words, but it was useless. All you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears, the sound of your heart pounding. You were terrified, and all you could think about was running.

Suddenly, there was a commotion behind you, and the chapel door swung open. Several of the nuns rushed in, their faces pale, their eyes wide. They were carrying a limp body between them, and as they laid it on the ground, you realized with horror, that it was Sister Claire.

The other nuns gasped, and several cried out, crossing themselves. You couldn't look away, transfixed by the gruesome scene. Her throat had been torn out, and her blood was everywhere, pooling on the stone floor, staining the white robes of the nuns.

"Dear God," Mother Mathilde exclaimed, her eyes wide, her face ashen.

The priest crossed himself, his voice shaky. "It seems the demons have claimed their first victim."

Elijah was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, studying his reflection. His hair was damp and tousled, his cheeks smooth, his chin freshly shaven. His deep, dark brown eyes, full of secrets and sadness. He could see the weight of his years etched in the lines on his face, the shadows beneath his eyes that refused to fade.

He could feel the ghost of your hands wrapping around his shoulders, see your smiling reflection in the mirror as you gazed at him, your face radiant with happiness. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, allowing himself the dangerous comfort of imagining your touch. It was like being caressed by a shadow… your fingers tracing the contours of his body, exploring the planes and ridges. Your voice echoed softly, teasing and affectionate, calling his name as if you were still there.

"It’s okay to be sad, Eli," you had once told him, pressing a kiss to his neck, your fingers resting over his heartbeat. "You don’t have to carry it all alone."

He felt the sting of tears behind his eyelids and swallowed hard, forcing the memory back. He had been vulnerable enough already, and he couldn’t afford to give in further. Opening his eyes, he steadied his gaze in the mirror, his grip on the sink tightening until his knuckles turned white, his jaw clenched. He had promised to always protect you, and yet, here he was. A failure. The ache in his chest spread, crushing, unrelenting, leaving him feeling like a ship adrift, helpless in the abyss.

He avoided looking at the wedding ring on his finger, a sharp reminder of what he had lost. It felt wrong to take it off, yet the temptation to cast it aside was almost overwhelming.

Turning away from the mirror, he grabbed a towel, drying himself off before wrapping it around his waist. Returning to the bedroom, he saw you. Your phantom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, a mischievous smile playing on your lips.

"You know it's your fault, right?" you teased, tilting your head. "If you had just left me alone, none of this would have happened."

"I didn’t have a choice," he replied, his voice hoarse, tight with emotion. "I loved you. I couldn’t let you go."

"Liar," you laughed, shaking your head. "You didn’t love me. You wanted to own me, possess me."

"No, I-" he started, but the words caught in his throat.

"You turned me into a monster, corrupted my soul," you hissed, your eyes flashing, a cruel smile tugging at your lips. "You destroyed me, Elijah."

He closed his eyes, turning his face away, unable to look at this twisted version of you. "I’m sorry," he whispered.

"Pathetic," you sneered, contempt dripping from your voice.

He couldn’t bear it anymore, his heart breaking all over again. Retreating to the bathroom, he shut the door behind him, pressing his back against it as he took a shuddering breath, eyes stinging with unshed tears.

"Go away," he whispered, his voice strained.

"No," your voice answered, the doorknob rattling, the door shaking as if it would break under your rage. "You promised to love me, to protect me."

"I know," he murmured, his voice thick with grief and regret. "I know."

"You lied," you spat, the doorknob rattling harder, the door creaking and straining against its hinges.

"Please," he begged, tears slipping down his cheeks.

"Open the door," the voice hissed, rattling the knob with renewed violence, the door cracking under the pressure.

"Go away," he whispered, his heart pounding in his chest, every muscle tensed.

And then, abruptly, there was silence. The only sound was his own heartbeat, thudding in his ears, drowning out everything else.

He stayed still, afraid to move, unsure of what might happen if he did. His entire body felt frozen, rooted to the spot, waiting.

From downstairs, he heard the sounds of Cami, Klaus, and Marcel entering the compound, and he took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to regain his composure. He couldn’t let them see hin so weak and broken. He knew he couldn’t stay in the bathroom forever.

"Elijah?" Klaus’s voice echoed through the compound, laced with worry.

Clearing his throat, Elijah steadied himself and opened the door. The bedroom was empty, the ghost of you nowhere in sight. He let out a long, uneven sigh, then went down to the courtyard, where Klaus, Cami, and Marcel waited for him.

On the table were at least forty photographs, each one of a different woman. They all looked hauntingly like you.

Elijah frowned, stepping closer, his gaze sweeping over the pictures, brow furrowing as he took in each face.

"What’s this?" he asked, his voice low.

"It’s the list," Klaus answered, his tone grave.

"Of what?" Elijah asked, his confusion mounting.

"Victims," Marcel explained, watching Elijah closely. "Louisiana has a serial killer."

Elijah stiffened, his eyes darkening as he picked up one of the photos, staring at it, his stomach twisting. It was an image of a woman lying in the woods, stab wounds in her hands and feet, her face pale and ashen. She had the same hair as you, the same shape of your mouth. He swallowed hard, anger rising in his chest.

"Why are you showing me this?" he asked, his voice strained.

"We think there might be a connection to your wife’s death," Cami said softly, her eyes full of sympathy.

"This has nothing to do with her," he growled, his fingers gripping the picture.

"They all look just like her, brother," Klaus pointed out, his brow furrowed. "It’s hard to ignore."

"No," Elijah muttered, shaking his head, refusing to accept the implication. "You’re wrong."

"Look at the pictures," Klaus insisted, his voice firm. "It’s too much of a coincidence."

Elijah’s gaze dropped back to the photos, the truth sinking in. It felt like looking at countless versions of you. And yet, none of them were truly you.

"The killer has been operating in Louisiana for years," Cami continued, her voice gentle. "No one has ever gotten close enough to identify the suspect, much less stop them."

"There was a pattern to the murders, at least until recently," Marcel added. "They were all killed in or around churches,"

"My wife wasn't murdered in a church," Elijah said, his voice hard.

"As far as we know," Klaus argued, his eyes flashing. "You found her body in the streets, but it doesn't mean she was killed there."

Elijah let out a frustrated sigh, his jaw clenching. He knew his brother was right, and the thought made his blood boil.

"Whoever did this is a sick bastard," Marcel said, his voice edged with anger. "They take their time, torture their victims for days, even weeks before they kill them."

Elijah's stomach churned, and he set the photo down, his eyes closing, a wave of nausea hitting him. The thought of you suffering like that made his skin crawl, his heart ache.

"I compelled a very friendly detective to let me borrow his files," Klaus said, smirking. "The last crime scene was not too far from here,"

Elijah's eyes snapped open, his gaze locking with his brother's.

"We could take a look," Klaus suggested, his tone cautious. "Maybe there's something there we can use,"

"I'll get my coat," Elijah said, his voice flat.

Klaus nodded, a grim smile tugging at his lips.

Cami sighed, her shoulders sagging, worry etched on her features. Marcel squeezed her shoulder reassuringly, his expression solemn.

"Let's go," Elijah muttered, moving past them, his thoughts racing.

There was no way this was connected to your death, it couldn't be. And yet, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was a chance. He didn't know what he would do if it was true.

13th century Europe Since the announcement of demons in the village, Mother Mathilde had increased her scrutiny over the sisters. You knew she was watching you, waiting for you to slip up, hoping to catch you in the act of sin. But you were careful, keeping your distance, staying out of her way. Still, she found excuses to punish you, giving you extra chores and longer hours.

"She's going to work you until your fingers bleed," Sister Margaret said, her voice hushed.

You shrugged, trying to look nonchalant, though you felt anything but. "It's nothing I can't handle,"

Sister Margaret looked at you, her eyes full of concern. "Still, it isn't right. You haven't done anything wrong."

You swallowed, thinking of the night you spent with Elijah, the promises he made. Had you been foolish? Had you led him to Sister Claire, causing her death? A wave of guilt washed over you, and you shook your head, trying to push the thoughts away.

"I'll be fine," you insisted, forcing a smile.

"If you say so," Sister Margaret sighed, turning her attention back to the task at hand.

You worked in silence, scrubbing the floors, your thoughts drifting. You couldn't stop thinking about Elijah, the way he held you, the promises he made. A part of you feared him, what temptation he had brought into your life. Another part was drawn to him, the desire still lingering within you.

You felt tainted, dirty, knowing that he was a demon. Still, there was a part of you that longed for him, the desire pulsing deep within you. You couldn't explain it, the way he made you feel, the way he changed your life. It was like a force of nature, powerful and all-consuming.

A knock on the door interrupted your thoughts, and you looked up, surprised to see Sister Margaret rushing towards it.

"I'll get it," she called, hurrying to the front of the convent.

You continued working, but your curiosity was piqued, wondering who had come to the door. You heard the muffled voices of Sister Margaret and the visitor, but you couldn't make out what they were saying.

"She's here, she'll see you," Sister Margaret said, her voice sounding surprised.

You straightened, wiping your hands on your apron, wondering who the visitor was.

Sister Margaret returned, her eyes wide, a hint of panic in her voice. "There is a nobleman here to see you... Lord Mikaelson,"

You swallowed, feeling a mixture of dread and excitement. What was he doing here? Why did he want to see you?

"Tell him I'm not available," you said quickly, trying to keep your voice steady.

Sister Margaret frowned, studying you. "Is something wrong?"

You shook your head, unable to meet her eyes. "No, everything is fine, I just... I don't feel well. Tell him I can't see him,"

She hesitated, her eyes full of concern. "I'm sorry, but he's very insistent. He says it's urgent."

You took a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart. "Fine, I'll speak with him. Just give me a moment."

Sister Margaret nodded and turned, leaving you alone. You took a few moments to compose yourself, knowing that whatever Elijah had come for, it wouldn't be good. You smoothed your hair, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach.

You walked down the corridor, stepping into the reception room. The space was sparsely furnished, with only a few chairs and a small table. The walls were bare, save for a cross and a painting of the Virgin Mary.

You could see Elijah standing by the window, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked out of place, dressed in a fine tunic and cloak, the sunlight casting a glow on his pale skin.

You stood in the doorway, unable to move, feeling a strange mixture of emotions.

"You shouldn't be here," you said finally, your voice trembling slightly.

He turned, his gaze locking on yours. "Neither should you,"

"What are you doing here?" You asked, your voice barely a whisper.

"I need to speak with you, in private," he replied, his voice low.

You glanced around, looking for Sister Margaret, but she was nowhere in sight. "This isn't the place," you said, shaking your head.

He approached, a hint of desperation in his eyes. "Please, just give me a moment of your time."

You hesitated, your mind racing. You knew you should send him away, but your gaze dropped to his lips, remembering the way he had kissed you, the way he had touched you.

"Tonight, in the place we went before," he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours.

You felt a flush of heat, the memory of that night washing over you. "I can't,"

"You have to," he said, his voice urgent. "Meet me there."

You bit your lip, torn between fear and desire. Finally, you nodded, unable to deny the pull he had on you.

"Tonight," he repeated, a flicker of relief in his eyes. He turned, walking towards the door, then paused, glancing over his shoulder. "I'll be waiting."

You stood rooted to the spot, watching as he disappeared through the doorway, the sound of his footsteps echoing down the hall.

"What did he want?" Sister Margaret asked, startling you from your thoughts.

"I'm not sure," you lied, swallowing hard.

"Well, he seemed upset," she said, her voice full of concern. "Perhaps you should talk to Mother Mathilde."

You shook your head, the thought making your stomach churn. "No, it's not necessary."

Sister Margaret studied you for a moment, a hint of suspicion in her eyes. "Don't stray from His light, sister," she warned, before turning and walking away.

You watched her go, her words echoing in your mind. You had already strayed, you thought, a wave of guilt washing over you. But what choice did you have? Your heart was drawn to Elijah, despite the danger, despite the consequences. He had stolen your heart, and you knew there was no going back.

{Part One}{Part Two}{Part Three}{Part Five}{Part Six}

[onepiece-writting-forest]

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 11 - ʙᴜʀᴅᴇɴ

Summary: It had been weeks since you had talked to Law, feeling drained from the past events. You needed time to figure the relationship out, which caused you to run away from talking completely and be confronted with a storm, none of you were ready to face.

tags: Law x Reader, Modern AU, angst, a lot of tears baby, confessions,

a/n.: I wanted to write about Law expressing more intense emotions, hope all of you enjoy this cuz I rewrote this so many time ;; (i fkn cried writing this omfg send help;;)

>>[ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ɪɴᴅᴇx]<<

The last two weeks had passed in a haze. You couldn’t quite put words to it. Somewhere between numbness and exhaustion. Since that incident at the ceremony, you kept your distance towards Law, hoping time might help you make sense of things.

Slowly however, you started to question whether this thing with him was worth pursuing. You knew being with Law wouldn’t be easy. You were ready to face any storm he was battling. But the way Law kept you at arm’s length—never letting you in, yet exposing you to his world without a warning—cut deeper than you’d expected. The idea of ending things twisted painfully in your chest; you didn’t want to let him go. But maybe it was for the best… or maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t.

“Miss Y/N!”

The sharp voice jolted you back to reality and ripped you out of your thoughts. Startled, you looked up to see the clinical professor staring you down through her thin glasses, an impatient expression on her face. You felt the eyes of your classmates on you as well, and even the patient in the hospital bed, a faint trace of amusement in his gaze. Your stomach twisted with embarrassment as heat crept up your neck.

“I asked you a question,” the professor said, her tone laced with disapproval. “If you’re serious about becoming a doctor, you don’t have the luxury of drifting off in your head.”

The comment stung, and you forced yourself to hold her stern gaze, giving a small nod of acknowledgment.

“Apologies, Professor,” you replied, quickly gathering your focus. “For a Pseudomonas infection, kanamycin.”

The professor’s expression softened slightly as she nodded, and a flicker of approval crossed her face. You’d gotten it right—barely.

Clinic hours were proving to be tougher than you’d expected. Instead of simply memorizing facts, you were constantly moving from one department to another, shadowing doctors, working alongside nurses, and having to think on your feet with real patients in front of you. Every case was a test of your knowledge and intuition, and every question was a reminder that this wasn’t just theory—it was real.

And there was clearly no space to be distracted by personal matters.

With a quiet sigh, you finished up your tasks and left the patient’s room together. The professor gave you a few last-minute reminders, her voice fading into the background as you fought off the wave of fatigue. All you could think about was going home, collapsing onto the couch, grabbing something to eat, and letting your mind go blissfully blank.

As you made your way back to the lockers to hang up your white coat and grab your belongings, a flash of movement caught your eye.

You paused, squinting down the hall, and felt your stomach twist. Just for a second, you thought you saw him. Law.

He passed by with a group of students, their chatter filling the hallway as he trailed a few steps behind. You couldn’t see his face, but his posture told the story—you could tell he was drained. You’d come to know him well enough to notice the subtle signs.

You felt a pang of concern. A part of you wanted to walk over, to stop him, maybe even say something. But then the memories from the ceremony flooded back, bringing with them a surge of tension, of unresolved words and feelings. You hesitated, torn between the impulse to reach out and the instinct to keep your distance.

In the end, you turned away, your heart heavy as you continued down the hallway. The hospital doors closed behind you, a finality that sank in as you stepped into the cool evening.

The walk home was uneventful, the same routine of passing streetlights and faded storefronts. By the time you reached your apartment, you felt like you’d run on autopilot the whole way. You kicked off your shoes, let your bag slide off onto the floor, and grabbed your phone to order takeout. Cooking was out of the question tonight.

The moment you hit the order button, a thought flashed through your mind: there was a chance Law could be the one delivering it. You were pretty sure he still worked that job. For a brief, dizzying second, your heart skipped, a mix of nerves and anticipation stirring in your chest. But you quickly suffocated the feeling, refusing to let your thoughts linger on him. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that it was just an order—nothing more.

“Ah, fuck it,” you muttered, flopping onto the couch with a heavy sigh. You weren’t about to change your plans just because of the awkward, unresolved tension hanging between you two. You knew a conversation was inevitable, but for now, avoiding it seemed easier.

A few quiet minutes passed, each one stretching longer than the last, until the doorbell rang, making you jump. You cursed under your breath—maybe you weren’t as good at pretending as you’d thought. The thought that Law might stand in front of your door made you freeze at the spot. The seconds dragged as you sat there, heart pounding, almost daring yourself to ignore it. But the bell rang again, sharper this time, each chime pulling you closer to the reality you were trying to ignore.

You took a deep breath, got up, and crossed the room, your pulse hammering louder with every step. What would you say if he was there? Would he say something, or ignore you completely? Each footfall seemed to echo the questions swirling in your mind, but you shoved them down, focusing on the task at hand. With one last inhale, you gripped the handle and pulled the door open.

...it wasn’t him.

A strange mix of relief and disappointment washed over you as you started at the stranger, hitting harder than you’d expected. You let out the breath you’d been holding, managing a polite smile.

The delivery person gave you a confused look, irritated by how you had just swung open the door and seemed relieved.

Weird chick, he thought, yet stretched out the warm paper bag of food towards you and waited for you to pay.

You took the bag and handed over the money with your usual tip before closing the door. For a moment, you simply stood there, as your heart was slowly settling back to it's calm rhythm. Did you actually want him to show up? You’d been so anxious about it, and yet… here you were, feeling let down that some random guy brought you your food.

Why hadn’t you reached out to him, did you want things to end like this? Law had tried more than once, always patient, until you’d finally told him you needed some time. And, true to his word, he’d respected that boundary, hadn’t pushed or chased after you, as if he understood you better than you understood yourself.

Setting the food on the coffee table, you absentmindedly grabbed your phone and opened your chat with him. The last message was from Law, two weeks ago. Just a single word: "Ok."

Nothing more.

You bit your lip, staring at the empty message box, fingers hovering over the keys. Before you could think about it, your fingers moved on their own.

You typed a simple “Hey,” then deleted it. Typed a different message, something longer, only to erase that too. You could practically feel the weight of the unsent messages pressing down on you, the silence between you two growing louder.

Avoiding him had only made reaching out harder. Now here you were, caught in a web of your own hesitations, unable to even send a god damn text. The thought of finally talking it all through tightened its grip on you, a knot of anxiety you couldn’t shake. You stared at the empty message box, frustrated with yourself, wondering when—if—you’d ever find the words.

“Fucking hell…” you muttered, letting your head drop, shoulders sagging under the weight of this shitshow. You were on the verge of losing him, and that thought scared you more than you’d allowed yourself to admit. You didn’t want things to end, not like this. But you needed answers—an explanation that only Law could give you. And you’d never get it if you kept silent.

A flicker of courage rose within you, shaky but determined.

You typed out a simple, “Can we talk?” and hit send before anxiety could tighten its grip on you again. The message was out there, hanging in the ether between you, irreversible.

Staring at the screen, your heart pounded in your chest, each beat growing louder, more urgent, as you waited. You couldn’t stop your leg from bouncing, a nervous twitch you couldn’t shake. Your eyes stayed glued to the phone, biting your nails, praying he wouldn’t leave you hanging.

A minute passed. Then another. Five minutes.

This was torture.

Frustrated, you tossed your phone aside, hoping the noise of the TV would drown out the growing anxiety. But it didn’t. Your appetite had vanished, and the food sat untouched on the coffee table as you mindlessly flicked through streaming services. Every few minutes, you glanced at your phone, your stomach sinking each time the screen remained dark.

An hour passed, then another. It was getting late, and the hope that he’d respond had dimmed. You were just about to turn off the TV and drag yourself to bed when your phone finally lit up.

"When?"

The message startled you so much that you almost crashed against your coffee table as you reached for your phone. Heart pounding, you unlocked it, fingers hovering as you processed his reply. Before you could reply, the typing bubbles appeared, and you held your breath, leg bouncing in anticipation.

"I have time if it’s not too late."

“Now?”

A pause. Then, simply: "Yea."

You felt like your heart was going to jump out of your chest as you stared at his response. This was it. The nerves churned in your stomach, but you felt a small spark of relief—he was willing to talk. You didn’t know where this would go or if it would make things any clearer, but at least you wouldn’t be sitting in silence anymore.

“I'm home. Come over.”

Law arrived quickly. You opened the door, and for a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you felt heavy, thick with all the words that lingered but hadn’t yet found their way out. His eyes met yours, a flicker of something unreadable passing between you before he looked down.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

“...hi."

He slipped off his shoes with a familiar ease but without his usual energy, and you gestured toward the couch. He nodded, moving past you, the faint sound of his footsteps almost disappearing into the silence. You followed, sitting down beside him, both of you careful, leaving a strange, deliberate space between you on the cushions.

Now that he was here, you saw him more clearly. Law looked… rough. Dark circles sat under his eyes, his hair was disheveled, and a stubble cast a shadow over his jaw. His eyes were dull, as if they couldn’t bear the weight of whatever he was holding inside. His shoulders slumped, the tension in his frame draining him.

A tense silence stretched between you, filling the room with a charged stillness. Law’s gaze was fixed on his lap, his fingers tracing slow, restless circles on the back of his hand. At first glance, he looked calm, almost still, but a closer look revealed the tension woven into his every movement.

Finally, he drew in a shaky breath, the silence cracking as he let out a heavy sigh. He forced himself to look up, his eyes meeting yours.

“I’m sorry…” His voice was low, almost hoarse. “For what happened. For all of it.”

You stayed silent, arms wrapped around yourself as you pulled your legs close. The memory of that day crept back, clear and sharp—the way he’d exposed you to his family’s turmoil without any warning, leaving you to navigate a situation you hadn’t been prepared for. As much as it pained you to see him like this, you still needed answers.

“I’m sorry about…” Law continued, his voice faltering. “...about leaving you alone in that situation.”

You tilted your head slightly, absorbing his words. It wasn’t quite what you’d hoped for. Law, who seemed to understand others so well, still struggled so much with his own emotions. You’d expected him to say more—to address the actual issue.

“...That’s it?” you asked, voice soft but pointed.

Laws eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked almost hurt, like he hadn’t realized how his apology might come up short. He blinked, seemingly searching for what else he could tell you, but for once, he was at a loss. He had two full weeks to think what to say, and the only thing he came up with was a cheap sorry.

“I know what I did was wrong. Just… give me some time to work on it. Please.” His voice softened, almost pleading, his gaze searching yours for a sign of forgiveness.

More time? You bit your lip, hesitating, and the silence seemed to weigh on him, making him sink even deeper into himself. Everything depended on what he had to say, and the start of this conversation wasn't convincing you yet.

“I’ve been patient with you, Law. But … I’m not sure. I don’t even know what we are.” You gave him a sad, brittle smile that faded almost as soon as it formed.

He leaned forward, desperation flickering in his eyes. “You know I care about you,” he said, his voice thick, as if willing you to understand. But his words felt hollow in the face of everything that had happened. This wasn't what you wanted to hear. It was the same answer you had gotten at the ceremony.

“Do I?” Your voice starting to quiver as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. The frustration of him being so emotionally dense was finally catching up to you. “Because it sure as hell didn’t feel like it. You left me to fend for myself, in a situation you knew I wasn’t ready for.” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t look away, holding his gaze steady with a simmering mix of pain and defiance.

Fuck.

He was making it worse. Law closed his eyes and let his hand run over his face as if the weight of his own mistakes pressed down on him. Why couldn't he get this right? He wanted to fix this, truly, but he couldn't find the right words to convince you. “I know,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper. “I know I messed up, alright? But it’s not easy for me.”

"Easy for you?" Your voice trembled as you took a shaky breath, forcing the words out even as anger and hurt fought to spill over. You couldn't believe what you just heard. Was he serious?

"You didn't tell me how fucking crazy your ex was, so crazy that she'd put me into danger just to make sure I was out of the picture. Or that your parents didn’t even know I existed, that they’d look down on me and my friends. And then there’s...,” you said, voice wavering. “There's the way your family looks at Yuki, like she’s everything I’m not. You threw me into all of this without a warning, without even a way to defend myself!"

Law’s expression crumpled, torn between guilt and helplessness as he slightly flinched at every point you made. Valid ones, he had to admit. He looked away, his fists clenching so tightly his knuckles went white. He opened his mouth, then closed it, clearly wrestling with himself before muttering, “I never wanted it to happen this way.”

“If you actually cared about me, you could have just told me!” You threw your hands up, unable to hide the frustration building inside you, the desperate feeling that no matter what you said, he was refusing to hear you. “If you would have told me I could have prepared myself! I wouldn’t have followed Yuki blindly, I wouldn’t be so fucking hurt at what your parents said! Non of their behavior is your fault, but you made it worse by hiding this from me!”

“Okay, what if I fucking tell you, huh?” Law’s voice rose, the edge sharp, almost dangerous. His eyes flashed, but you didn’t look away, holding your ground. “Tell you how fucked up this whole situation is?” He let out a bitter laugh, almost scoffing at the thought. “You think I’m going to drag you into this shit? This is my burden. I carry it. Not. You.”

His words hung in the air, a raw, jagged tension between you two. His shoulders were tense, his jaw tight, as if he was trying to push you away—to protect you, or maybe to protect himself.

As much as his words made sense to him, you could see right through them. You knew the damage he was causing by holding onto this alone, and you aimed your response straight at the heart of it.

A scoff escaped you as fresh tears welled in your eyes. “You didn’t drag me in, you threw me into the fire for fucks sake! Multiple times! You are hurting others by trying to handle it alone, can’t you see?“

Your words seemed to knock the wind out of him. His whole posture shifted—his shoulders sagged, his jaw unclenched, and the fire in his gaze softened as he looked at you, stunned, as if he’d never considered this before.

He was hurting you. He’d done this to you.

You could see it—how torn he was. He didn’t want to hurt you, but something deep inside kept him from letting you in. His eyes flickered around the room, as if he could find the answer somewhere in the empty spaces. But there was no escape. He was trapped, caught between the fear of losing you and the fear of letting you get too close.

Swallowing hard, you pushed on. “Why?” you asked, desperate, the question trembling as it escaped. “Why is it so impossible for you to let me in?”

Law stayed silent, but you could see him tense up, his composure unraveling with each word you spoke. His leg bounced restlessly, and his brows knitted together in frustration. It was as if every sentence you spoke struck a nerve, pressing him closer to a breaking point he clearly wasn’t ready for. But you didn’t give in.

“Seriously?” You let out a bitter laugh, a shaky, painful sound as tears streamed over your face. “You’ve had two weeks to think about this, and you still can't tell me?“

He exhaled sharply, looking anywhere but at you, as if his mind was already miles away, trying to escape the conversation. His fingers dug into his knee, and his jaw clenched, but you didn’t waver.

„Why even try to fix something if you can't give me an answer! Why are you even here, Law?”

“Because I fucking love you, okay!”

It ripped out of him like it hurt to say, as if every syllable was dredged up from some dark place he’d kept locked away. His chest heaved with labored breaths, and the walls he’d held up for so long were suddenly, violently crumbling.

You froze, his confession hitting you with the force of a tidal wave. For a moment, you were lost. Completely speechless.

He ran a shaking hand through his hair, pulling at it, as he struggled to contain the overwhelming emotions. His voice, now quieter but still shaking with intensity, softened, almost pleading.

"I love you...," he repeated, barely a whisper now, but the words were filled with so much pain it felt like they could break you. "And I can’t… I can’t let you drown in this with me. I can’t watch you suffer with me."

Law took in a shaky breath, you could see tears forming in his eyes, before he hid his face in his palms.

"I don't want you to see me like this-” He broke off, his voice thick with self-loathing, muffled as he whispered, “I didn’t want to drag you down with me. I can barley handle it, how are you supposed to?”

He was unraveling, his breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. Every word seemed to crack something deeper within him, and he looked up, desperation spilling over.

The look he gave you was everything—so broken and vulnerable, that you knew, it would be burned into your memory forever. You saw it then, in his glassy eyes, the battle he was fighting, the fear he couldn’t outrun, the love he didn’t know how to handle nor believed he deserved.

“I want to protect you not hurt you, I-” He shook his head, not able to speak as choked sobs left his throat.

You moved closer, hesitantly reaching out and placing a hand on his arm. Law stiffened, the tension practically vibrating from him, his shoulders hunched, fists still clenched. But he didn’t pull away.

“Law,” you said softly, feeling your own tears slipping down your cheeks. “This isn’t handling it. This is letting it destroy you.”

He looked at you, eyes wide and filled with an almost childlike vulnerability. There was no resistance left, no armor, only the shattered young man he was.

“Let me help you carry it. I can’t stand by and watch you tear yourself apart, just because you think you have to go through it alone.”

He closed his eyes, tears still slipping down his cheek as he let out a broken, shuddering sob. Your words hit deep, right where it hurt the most. He hid his face in his palms again as shame washed over him. He never wanted you to see him like this. But Law couldn't control it any longer. It was too much.

You pulled him into your arms, holding him close as if anchoring him to solid ground.

“Hey… I’m here,” you whispered softly, one hand stroking gently through his hair, the other rubbing soothing circles on his back. “You don’t have to do this alone. Not anymore.”

Seeing him like this, so raw and vulnerable, hurt to witness—but it also felt like a bittersweet gift, a piece of him he’d never shown anyone else.

You held him close for what felt like forever, letting him pour out everything he’d kept buried, everything he’d held back for so long. His broken sobs, the way his breathing came in ragged gasps, and the warmth of his tears soaking into your shoulder—all of it shattered your heart. Every sound and shudder cut deeper, each one a reminder of the weight he’d been carrying alone.

But you knew you had to hold steady, to be his anchor. Right now, he needed your strength. So you tightened your grip, pressing a gentle hand against his back, letting him know without words that you were here, that you weren’t going anywhere.

As Law’s breathing finally steadied after a whil. You loosened your hold on him and slowly pulled away, giving him some space. He rubbed his eyes as he glanced down, a flicker of shame shadowing his gaze. His vulnerability lay bare, and you could tell how uncomfortable it made him, exposing himself like this.

But to you, it was anything but uncomfortable. You reached up and gently cupped his face, your thumbs brushing softly over the rough skin of his cheeks, grounding him. You gave him a small, reassuring smile, letting him see the love in your eyes—the acceptance, the gratitude that he’d let you into this part of him.

“Hey…” you whispered, your voice gentle as you held his gaze, unflinching. “I love you too.”

He looked back at you, and slowly, a weak but genuine smile broke through his exhaustion. He gave a small nod, leaning into the warmth of your touch, his shoulders finally relaxed. And as he let himself fall into the moment, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his in a kiss so soft and tender, it made your heart ache. It was a promise, an unspoken vow to stand by him through whatever storm lay ahead.

“I won't do this again...I promise.” Law’s voice was tentative, a hint of vulnerability still lacing his words. He knew he owed you more—a real explanation of the tangled mess of his past relationships and complicated family. It wasn’t an easy conversation, but he was determined to get everything out this time, to rip off the bandages before another wound formed. He couldn’t risk putting you in another situation where his silence hurt you.

You nodded slowly. The weight of the conversation hung between you, leaving both of you visibly drained—but Law looked even worse. His eyes were bloodshot from the tears he’d shed, and he was still letting out soft, stifled breaths. He seemed calmer now, the tension in his shoulders released, but he was unmistakably exhausted.

For a while, you both just sat there in silence, staring at the blank TV screen.

“Wanna go to bed?” you asked quietly, your voice soft and reassuring. Law’s gaze flickered to you, and for a moment, something like relief washed over his face.

He couldn’t believe he’d almost lost you because he’d been too closed off, too guarded. His head was still a mess of thoughts, spiraling in countless directions, but he was too worn out to follow any of them. He just nodded and got up with you.

He followed you down the hall, each step heavy and slow, and the confidence he usually carried seemed to be missing. You knew that tonight’s talk hadn’t solved everything—far from it—but it was enough for now.

When you reached the bedroom, he sat on the edge of the bed as you rummaged through your closet. You found a pair of his spare clothes and tossed them over to him.

Law caught them, looking almost… surprised.

“What?” you asked, a little confused by his expression.

He shrugged, looking down at the clothes in his hands. “Just… kinda thought it was over between us. Figured you’d thrown my stuff out by now.”

You let out a sigh, sitting down beside him. “Couldn’t bring myself to do it,” you admitted. You weren’t holding a grudge against him; you were just hurt. Seeing his things around the apartment while there was so much tension between you had been painful, but even then, you hadn’t wanted to let go completely.

Law twisted the fabric between his fingers, seemingly a bit lost in thoughts as you watched him. His shoulders rose and sank as he let out a sigh.

“Guess I’m just… used to different shit,” he muttered with a short, bitter laugh.

You scooted closer to him, your hand lightly touching his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“Wasn’t rare for me to have to grab my stuff off the street after a fight… with her.” He kept his eyes fixed on the clothes in his hands, as though they brought back memories. He wasn't sure if mentioning his Ex was the right thing to do, yet after the conversation he was so drained it just slipped out of his system.

You blinked in surprise. You’d heard bits and pieces about his ex—never anything good—but you’d never understood why he’d stayed with her or endured the emotional punishment she put him through. Law was sharp; he could read people better than anyone. So why had he missed it with her?

“Why?” you asked softly, not accusingly, just… curious. “Why did you stay with her?”

Law’s gaze drifted, his shoulders slumping slightly. Though he wasn’t one to open up nor understand his own feelings too well, he seemed to have thought about this one a lot, maybe even rehearsed the answer to himself. “I met her when someone in my family got sick,” he murmured, a distant look in his eyes. “Guess it was… desperate times.”

You swallowed and didn’t press further. Instead, you watched as he stood up and pulled his hoodie over his head, folding it with that meticulous care he always had. Then, to your surprise, he went on, as if talking helped ease the ache a little.

“It was my sister,” he said, his voice softer now. “There was no cure. And I’d just started uni, miles away from home. I met her around that time. She was…” he paused, choosing his words carefully. “She was a distraction. Gave me comfort when I was too far from my own family. But things… fell apart after my sister passed.”

You felt the weight of his words settle in, understanding now just how much he’d been carrying. The realization hit you hard, and you understood what he meant with not wanting you to drag you down with him.

This was heavy, and you felt it.

“Law…” you whispered, voice choked. “I’m… I’m so sorry.”

He nodded and sat back down beside you, running a tired hand through his hair. You deserved to know, especially after what happened moments ago. Even though, exposing himself like this, twisted his gut.

Silence between you settled. Law couldn’t help feeling a pang of regret. He hadn’t meant to leave you speechless. He wanted to tell you about his sister one day, but not like this. Seeing you at a loss for words was exactly what he feared.

Fuck, why did I tell her this out of nowhere?

His teeth grazed the inside of his cheek as doubt crept in. He was starting to feel uneasy about opening up. He could see the empathy in your eyes, the way you seemed to feel even a small piece of his pain—he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to pull you down with him or make you feel sorry for him.

But then, you placed a gentle hand on his cheek, pulling him back from that spiral of doubt. “You should tell me more about your sister sometime." Your touch, light and reassuring, calmed him, and your smile—warm and unwavering—let him know that you could handle this. You weren’t going to pity him or wallow in his grief; you were here to help him bear it, to remind him that he didn’t have to carry it alone.

It was like you were telling him that his memories could stay, just as they were—the good ones to cherish and the bad ones to heal from, but not to hide.

A soft, almost shy smile crept onto his face, the edges of his mouth lifting in a way that was both loving and grateful.

taglist: @mars-mizuko , @tadomikiku , @hopelesslover06 , @loraleiii @mwhahahalasagna , @ttalgi , @metonimia-de-bellota , @parkquimin , @ephemeress , @not-a-glad-gladiator , @littleleelee , @chillerkiller

(Let me know in the comments and I’ll add you)

[xlatrina]

(Pt. II.2) Friends to Lovers HCs w/Homicipher x GN!Reader

Tags: Platonic + Romantic HCs, Friends to Lovers trope for basically every LI, Likely OOC for some LIs*, Mini Scenarios (so HCs are kinda plot-driven), *Multi-Part Series, entirely SFW

Also, changing tenses in some cases + not proofread again... sorry!

*Some of the LIs are likely written OOC (Out Of Character) mainly due to a lack of substantial in-game appearances (at least in my opinion!). 

*Split into multiple parts because I’ve come to realize that these HCs are muuucccchhh too long 😅 BUT!! I’m too lazy to shorten them sooo… YEAH lol

Part I (Big ���‍♂️)

Part II (Mr. Chopped 🪓)

Part III (Mr. Crawling 👣)

$$$

Mr. Chopped (First Half/Second Half)

Cont.

Mr. Chopped is the type to get super lost in his stories. So lost that his face often morphs accordingly based on whatever he’s babbling about.

When he tells you about the state of his missing body, you watch his face morph from shock to sadness, to confusion, to an adorable pout, and then to excitement.

When he tries to explain his first few encounters with Mr. Silvair (which were rough, since Mr. Silvair appears to be the one who separated Mr. Chopped from his body in the first place), Mr. Chopped’s face morphs from fear to distrust to shock to joy.

This little man is just so darn expressive!

His feelings for you grow as you open up to him more and more.

You tell him about your experiences at work, and you tell him about an internship you finished some time ago (relative to whenever you ended up trapped in the Apartments).

You then tell him about some of your hobbies.

When you suggest doing one or two with him, he beams up at you with the biggest smile you’ve ever seen on him!

He’s probably blushing so baadddd at the thought of it lol

One-on-one personal time for an even longer period of time than usual???

An activity you enjoy that you choose to only ever share with him and him alone??

Even though he’s just a head and you have literally so many other options who all possess bodies and can get around on their own to at least some extent??!

WHAOXOANALXNDLFLDBAHAGVSBSKCKFLDM

At some point, he convinces you to follow his directions to a particular room. 

When you get there, you find yourself feeling a little uncomfortable.

“Here darkness,” you say. “We together go find light?”

“Is okay,” Mr. Chopped says. “Go that way! Hurry! Fast!”

You listen and approach a small square in the wall.

Briefly, you wonder if Mr. Gap might be in there, but it seems like the hole is empty.

“Enter! Enter!” Mr. Chopped bounces in your grasp excitedly.

You enter the crawl space and pull yourself through.

Soon, the darkness morphs into a faint whitish color.

Your heart jumps at the senses being triggered as you approach.

You finally come across a small hole, and through it, you peer at a sight you haven’t seen in a long time, your mouth agape as Mr. Chopped watches you excitedly.

The sound of clicking on stones draws your eyes to the heeled shoes strutting back and forth past the hole.

There’s the sound of chatter, laughter, shouting, horns, music…

Something smells good. Sooooo good…

Fresh food. Something’s being grilled…

Damn! Your mouth is starting to water!

“This place where?” You ask, pressing Mr. Chopped closer to your face. It was a super small space, after all.

“This place go to other area! Not know where area is, but if possible, me want to go!” Mr. Chopped grins at you, and you can’t help grinning back.

“Wow…” you say. “This is so cool. I wonder if those people will notice me if I reach out to them, though?”

Mentally, you waved the thought away just as quickly as you thought it.

After all, you promised your friends here some weeks ago that you’d stay. And while you could certainly always change your mind, well…

At the moment, you don’t really have a desire to leave.

“I’m happy you decided to share this with me, Mr. Chopped.” You smile sweetly at him.

“What you say? You happy?” He asks. You giggle at him.

“Am happy together we come here. Am grateful you bring me here. Am lots happy!” You say.

Mr. Chopped's face grows into a deep purplish color.

Mr. Chopped lets out a happy sound, his eyes pressing up into a cute squint.

“You happy!! Me lots happy to see you happy!! This place here for you and me now. We come together here now! You understand??” Mr. Chopped asks.

You giggle, and say “Okay, me understand now.”

…

I think I got carried away there LMAO

Anyway, I feel like with all of that being said, after hanging around you for a while and developing a mutual crush, there will eventually come a time when Mr. Chopped gets tired of this long period of unknowing…

Like, you two are OBVIOUSLY super close to each other —much closer than either of you are to anybody else there!

Y’all are at a point where y'all hesitate to even call each other friends!!

And to be so real with you, my guy…

Mr. Chopped has just straight up stopped calling you his friend!!

And it’s kinda awkward for others…

Cuz like… what exactly are you two???

At some point, Mr. Chopped will probably more or less ask you.

“You enjoy me, and me enjoy you. But together we not friends. You and me together what??”

Because you didn’t immediately answer in like 0.02 seconds, he immediately became fussy and demanded to be taken to Mr. Silvair.

And once you take him there, Mr. Chopped dismisses you, so… yeah…

A few days pass and you start to really miss Mr. Chopped.

I mean, he can’t possibly be that mad, right?? What even happened back then anyway to get him so mad in the first place??

You decide to go see him.

You don’t plan on apologizing because, like… what exactly would you be apologizing for??

But!! You want to get to the bottom of your sudden dismissal that day!!

And if come to find out you did offend him somehow, then you’ll apologize—because it most certainly wasn’t your intention.

Anyway, he wasn’t hard to find, thankfully. He was chilling in the lounge next to the infirmary room, which means Mr. Silvair was likely in the operating room doing… Silvair things in there.

He’s nodding off, going in and out of sleep.

It’s literally soooo adorable to look at.

But you’re here on a mission, so no getting distracted!!

Anywho, you startle Mr. Chopped, and he fusses at you accordingly.

But you cut to the chase, demanding to know why he was so upset the other day and dismissed you like that.

He pouts and says something like, “Me give question, and you not answer!” 

Suddenly, he smiles at you. “But is okay, I give answer for you!!”

“Huh?? What you mean?” You ask.

Joyfully, he responds, “You and me together now! You understand?”

OH WOW.

Erm…

Well.

You now have a boyfriend, and that’s just what it is. 

But hey!!

At least your boyfriend is super cute!! And fun!! And connected to a pretty smart, innovative guy like Silvair!

And!! Mr. Chopped absolutely adores EVERYTHING about you!!

You and Silvair are the closest people to him.

But, between you and him…

You’re obviously a little more special to him than Mr. Silvair!

[Part I (Mr. Big 🙆‍♂️) | Part II (Mr. Chopped 🪓, First Half/Second Half), Part III (Mr. Crawling 👣)]

[quanticowrites]

A DiNozzo Surprise (Anthony DiNozzo x Reader)

•• Hello, hello! I wrote something real quick for my birthday today! Enjoy! ••

“Make way! Special delivery coming through!” You turned your attention from the case report you were typing up towards the elevator, where Tony was pushing a cart with a large pink box on top. You wondered what it was before you froze, remembering what today was.

“Oh my god.” You said as Tony turned into the bullpen. “Tony, you didn’t.” He smirked.

“What? Did you forget your birthday?” He said it jokingly, but after seeing your face he blinked. “Seriously?”

“It’s been a busy week!” You stressed before leaning back. “I can’t believe I forgot!” You sighed. “At least somebody remembered.”

“Not just me, (y/n).” He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. You cringed at the sharpness of it. You jumped out of your chair as confetti cannons went off on each side of the bullpen before Ellie and Tim stood up.

“Happy Birthday!”

“As a fellow woman, I won’t ask how old you are.” Ellie winked and you smiled.

“Thanks, I appreciate that.”

“I know how old you are.” Tony cooed.

“Yes,” You started, coming around your desk and taking Tony by the tie. “You do. But, if you want any chance of having some fun later, you’re not going to share that.” He growled.

“Oh. Feisty today, are we?” You leaned in closer.

“You could say that.” You pecked him on the lips. “Thank you, Tony.���

“I couldn’t just let you NOT celebrate! It would go against the DiNozzo way!”

“The DiNozzo way?” Ellie chided as you stepped back from Tony.

“Yes, the DiNozzo way!” Tony acted like he pulled out a sword from his hip. “A DiNozzo never misses an opportunity to party!” You laughed. Knowing Tony, and knowing his dad, that was a true statement.

"Dinozzo." The three of you jumped at Gibb's sudden appearance at the other side of the bullpen. "You plan on cutting that cake today or what?"

"Right on it, Boss." Tony opened the box and started taking out already pre-cut pieces. A hand squeezed your shoulder and you looked up at Gibbs. He smiled down at you.

"Happy Birthday, (Y/n)."

"Thanks, Boss."

Tag list:

@stanathanxoox , @nikkiwierden , @malindacath , @havlindzk , @countrygal17a , @memyselfandmaddox , @octobersmog , @mizzezm , @diaryofafan17 , @emmitheacefangirl , @a-sad-excuse-of-everything , @marennnx, @dressed-up-just-like-z1ggy

[polyphonial-old]

if you ever feel silly for being scared of your psychosis i want you to know that two days ago i could see a human sized white amogus that looked like it belonged in the yt thumbnail for amongus drip following me in my peripheral. with the fucking shoes n all. i was so scared i had to run

[miwtual]

im so fucking tired of the disrespect gifmakers get on the gifmaker website

[betabiodiskreader]

BROKER ⛓ PHIGHTING heavily self-indulgent board feat. some TVs and taking inspiration from a moodboard i made a long time ago :3

🔷 ⛓ 🔷 | 📺 👁 📺 | 🔷 ⛓ 🔷

[crimsongrimoire]

no outright spoilers, but like. prior to act 5 i was like "lmao what if furina didn't know neuvillette is a dragon. maybe she never really questioned how he's lived a suspiciously long time and took that at face value. that'd be funny"

...and now there's maybe a sliver of a possibility that could be true and it's still kinda funny

[theflyingfeeling]

Please do share all the brainworms I want to hear ALL OF THEM!!

and I haven’t watched the pre-recorded stream yet (gonna watch it now) but aaaaaa 🥺😭💞 not Olli’s riff inspiring him to remix a love song 🤧

Okay so just as a disclaimer, this is VERY heavily based on just my imagination running wild as per usual and should be taken with a massive grain of salt, so please I beg of y'all, don't take this as anything more than just another headcanon of someone who's so unbelievably delusional (and proud of it), in fact I'm hiding it under a cut just in case 😅

So idk but to me it feels as if Olli has been a little...off, recently? This is solely based on the fact he's been so much less active on social media during this US trip so far than the rest of the guys, which is nothing unusual I guess, since he's never been super active to begin with, but when even Tommi is more active than him, it's a little suspicious 🤨 to me there's just something... melancholic about Olli's presence? Maybe it's just the fact that he's wearing sunglasses all the bloody time (which is also something I find weird, but again it's probably just me imagining stuff and in reality he's not, in fact, wearing sunglasses any more than he normally does), so it's harder to... read him, you know?

So naturally I'm now imagining Olli being sad because of something going on in his personal life, and Aleksi supporting him through it, or, alternatively, Aleksi being the very reason why Olli is sad; he's either in denial of his feelings for Aleksi or having finally accepted them, only to feel miserable because he thinks Aleksi doesn't feel the same, OR because he knows Aleksi does but they can't/shouldn't be together because x, y and z 😭

Okay thanks bye 🤧

[olive-is-a-jim]

Showstopping Sabrina

Episode 1: "Stairwell Sabrina"

This is a rework of a story concept I’ve had for a while called “Self-Insert Sabrina”, where Sabrina travels through different fandom universes and has misadventures and such. It has been taken in a different direction.

Sabrina one day visits an antique shop with many curious items priced at nearly extortionate denominations. Near the back in a section with vintage but still wearable clothing, there’s a box. Its price tag is $2.50 and feel very out of place. It’s made of what seems to be bronze and tin, with 100 tiny glass light bulbs arranged in a circle on top, none of which are lit. The design all over the box is a simple square wave, the top section in bronze with the bottom in tin.

Sabrina decides to take it, as well as a nice locket that’s displayed near the cash register. She pays for her items and walks home, letting her mind empty out as the day slowly fades into evening.

After a good hour and a half of walking (she’s gotten used to it at this point due to living up in the hills) Sabrina sees her family home. She goes to open the door and one of the lights on the box starts to glow as Sabrina is suddenly teleported to another universe.

She finds herself in a dilapidated house not out of place of something built and decorated in the 1970’s besides three things:

1: It’s been trashed and broken in numerous spots.

2: The box is annoyingly heavy enough to be straining but not enough to be incapable of carrying.

3: The foyer extends nearly endlessly, only having the sight of a stairwell to betray this idea.

Sabrina nervously walks her way over after noting that the wall behind her has no door. The hall feels like it loops, even the trash and gashes in the architecture repeating and disorientating. She reaches the stairwell after what feels like thirty minutes, her stomach dropping as she looks down.

The stairs spiral in both directions endlessly, the geometry distorting the further down she looks. There’s trash everywhere and Sabrina takes a moment to notice that all the ruined objects are her childhood toys, each one more mutilated than the last. It’s utterly disturbing and she doesn’t know why she’s here nor if whatever pushed her in this twisted world did so with intent. There’s a good chance it wasn’t made with her in mind, perhaps being just a reflection of her own psyche the moment she appeared.

But it doesn’t matter to Sabrina, not in the slightest. She determines that, no, there is not time enough for introspection when in this bizarre place. Or any uncomfortable situation, though calling right now uncomfortable is quite the understatement. Sabrina does continue to pause, trying to decide which direction to go- up… or down.

She takes the stairs upwards and while the contents nor the shape of the steps are able to be predicted from her line of sight, it’s not going further into darkness the deeper down you go. Sabrina places one foot on the musty carpeted flight, stepping on a pocket between the fabric and the wood, and curls inward as hundreds of dust particles and moldy spores get catapulted into her face. The wood creaks as if stepping on a plastic skeleton, squeaky and shiversome.

She goes up and tightens a hold on the box, the light in the room getting brighter. It’s a good sign, right? At least she can see where she’s going, right?

It gets brighter. The trash is still everywhere and the surrounding walls are still grody and decayed, but it’s getting brighter. The ruined toys start losing details that make them recognizable to Sabrina: Stuffed bears without faces, fashion dolls wearing simple white cloths, and music boxes all playing the same note over and over.

Eventually she guesses she’s reached the very top of the building as the step extends wider in all directions. It’s still cramped and she can’t help but trip over objects that are now just rounded geometric shapes. Most notably is the light. It’s the exact opposite of pitch black, a brightness so bright and colorless yet it distinctly does not hurt her eyes. It’s as if everything that exists was invisible and this is what is left.

Sabrina feels around with one arm, the other firmly gripping the box, for a wall. Through the trash she find one with strange ridges, divots and bumps in the wooden boards giving an uncannily familiar impression that-

Oh wait, it’s just a door.

…

Sabrina lunges, arm rapidly tossing trash to clear out a path for her. She scrambles to find the handle, and after forever she does. The box is gripped between her neck and upper arms, her head bent forward to keep it in place as she shakes the handle as if were a comatose loved one.

Insects singing. Splintery wood. Molded, musty air. Droning clicks. Bright. Nothingness. And Sabrina.

Her energy is nearly spent and the box about threatens to fall from her clutches. She keeps one hand on the door handle, and the box in the other. She uses her free, shaking fingers to wipe away budding tears. The door won’t open. Her senses now allied against her. The box is poking her ribs.

Sabrina is tired. Why was she here? What caused this? How much time has even passed?

It was this box. This stupid box. She grows infuriated on the spot, kicking at the door with what little left she has in her muscles.

The wood breaks, dust and termites flying out. The door’s hinges snap and the entire plank falls down with a resounding thud.

She’s done. Sabrina is done, she’s had enough. There’s not an ounce of pride left but she swallows it regardless, and grimly steps through the broken doorframe. As she finally steps out of the stairwell her vision is restored instantly. Sabrina looks around.

She’s at the foyer again. The destroyed door is gone, the wall the same as she saw originally. Sabrina leans against the wall to the left of the false entrance, sliding down and surely staining her shirt yellow-brown. She holds the box tightly, arms folded around it. She squeezes it, unsure if for some sick comfort or to try and punish the damned thing.

Slow and shallow breaths leave her lungs which fill with dust and mold. Sabrina will die here, won’t she?

She closes her eyes, thinking about how normal her day was. At the edge of a slow, slow death- now is the time to self-reflect.

Sabrina was just shopping. Sabrina was just looking. Sabrina was only really going to get the locket in the end. Sabrina was going to go home and show her friends. Sabrina was going to enjoy the rest of her night with company. Sabrina was going to be content where she was.

Sabrina was going to be content where she was.

Sabrina was going to be content.

Taking a deep breath Sabrina prepares to fall asleep here, not even caring if it’s daytime or if there will be daytime at all if she wakes.

She goes to lay down on the disgusting carpet. The box clicks and another tiny light bulb glows.

Sabrina is falling, and rapidly too. It’s sickening, spinning out of control and in every direction. Her hair flies in her face, her grip on the box a struggle to maintain. It gets faster and faster until she

 falls

  down

    into the

       ocean.

[set-wingedwarrior]

Now, I swear it's NOT my intention to bring negativity in the dragon prince tag or stuff like that (I do really like the show!), but is it me or the pacing of season 5 was really weird?

Like, I was interested in all stories and plotlines but having 5 minutes of each every episode, jumping constantly from one to another, kept distracting me. And that's a damn shame.

I think that if they focused just on a couple of those each episode it would have had a better flowing, giving the right attention to each one. I don't think it's a coincidence that the last two episodes are my favorite of the season, lots of stuff and exposition was already dealt with and they flow much better.

I don't know, maybe it is me, but it does sadden me because as much as I am interested in the story and love the characters I can't just lose myself in it like I did with the first 3 seasons.

[tinystarbites]

accidents pt. II | Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Summary: during a long case away, Spencer accidentally sees Reader's nudes on her phone and can't cope because he is a MESS for reader whoops pt.II The Reckoning /j, this is basically just 10k words of porn with feelings yikes

Warnings: SMUT MDNI, 18+ only, fem!reader, fluff, some angst (still Spencer feeling he isn't good enough 😔), EMOTIONSSS, Spencer STILL loves you so much, he gets a hug, and so much more!, talk about sex, detailed asking for CONSENT (be safe people), sex (piv), some frottage, uhhh what else, dirty talk, some dom/sub understones (sub!Spencer ofc), little bit allusion to subspace, Spencer discovers so many kinks in this awww we're so proud of you bby (mentioned kinks: praise kink, squint of liking being embarrassed, tiiny bit of a voyeristic thing), also I made him a virgin whoops so virgin!Spencer, proofread but prolly not perfect lol. Tell me if I'm missing any tags I am so tired

(also, Spencer will be bisexual in all of my Spencer fics because I am not a coward like the writers were and I will honour Spencer the way he was intended to)

HERE you can read pt. I, I do recommend it to have context and all but do whatever you want lmao I'm not your mother anyway have fun being completely wrecked like I was while writing this!! also thanks so so MUCH for 400 followers and almost 2k likes on the first part, you guys are the best and I hope you enjoy this fic as a thanks!!<333

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

Spencer’s never sprung from his bed faster in his life before.

His heart is a jackhammer in his chest, chipping away at his ribs one bone splitter at a time because-

It’s you. In front of his door. And Spencer is so hard it hurts but- he can’t just-

“Spencer?”

He sucks in a haggard breath, hands reaching up and messing up his hair even more. His thoughts are everywhere and nowhere at once and he just needs to- needs just a moment to-

“Uh, yeah, just a second!”, he calls back, voice scratchy and used from the- the moaning Jesus Christ because he was about to come with your mental image and he somehow, magically, managed to apparently conjure you up in front of his door with his pathetic pining and oh god-

He has to- ugh- has to wash his hands and make it go away and –

“Okay, I’ll just…chill with that weird plant here.”

An overwhelmed whimper slips past his lips and he just, stands there for at least another five seconds before something in his mind snaps back into place and he rushes to the small, adjacent bathroom of his room.

After he thoroughly washed his hands, his erection has flagged off enough so that it’s not the first thing greeting you when he opens the door and thank god for that.

And oh- seeing you after doing that actually knocks the wind out of his lungs because you are just so goddamn lovely it makes Spencer want to do stupid, stupid things like cry or kiss you or spontaneously combust into a million pieces.

For once, he does something okay-ishly sensible though.

“Hi.”

You look at him, one eyebrow raised in amusement or scepticism, he doesn’t know for sure. Your eyes hold mirthful sparkles in them when he finally manages to meet your gaze, so he settles for the former of the two options.

You’re not wearing your work clothes anymore. Rather, you went for a cozy looking, oversized sweater and funkily patterned leggings. Your fashion sense outside of work always reminded Spencer of Penelope’s.

“Hi to yourself”, you chuckle, “Can I come in or are you too busy reading ten books at once?”

Spencer feels himself flush under your gentle teasing.

“Only seven books. But, yes, of course you can come in.”

He turns out of the way, creating room for you to pass him into his room. As soon as you are inside, you don’t hesitate to jump onto his bed and flop on your back with your arms spread wide.

Spencer’s breath hitches and he has to do some very extensive mental gymnastics to supress all the inappropriate thoughts from escaping the box he banished them into. Controlling his body’s response to seeing you in the same bed he was just jacking off in is… a different story. He pulls down the hem of his shirt as discreetly as possible, as he takes a seat next to you. Making sure that there is not too much distance between you two as to raise any suspicion and make it obvious he’s trying to get some distance between you, but also enough space so that he isn’t enticed to do anything unwise. Like, reach out and feel your warmth underneath his fingers. Or the softness of your skin. Or anything else really.

The more seconds tick by in which neither of you say anything, the more nervous Spencer becomes. He starts fiddling around with his fingers, aborting more than one move to steal a glance at your face to see what you’re thinking.

“Spencer”, you then finally say, voice kind of pout-y and if that didn’t make Spencer whip his head around to face you, the next thing you say for sure does. “Do you hate me?”

“Wha-“, he sputters your name, “No- no! Of course, I don’t- whe- why would you think that?”

You let out an exasperated groan, moving around until you are lying on your side, head propped up on your arm and frowning up at him. “Because you’ve been acting hella weird these last few days and you won’t tell me whyyyy”, you drag out the last syllable, pout on your lips and Spencer has to look up at the ceiling or else he’s just going to confess everything without second thought and that will definitely not happen.

“I haven’t been acting weird, really, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You remain silent again and Spencer feels the judging glare you send his way without having to look at you. Yes, he has been acting weird, he knows that, but you can never ever know the reason why tha-

“Is it because you saw my nudes?”

Spencer almost breaks his neck with how fast he whips his head down to look at you again. A strangled noise escapes him without permission and what. What.

“Because, that would actually explain so much, especially the way you’ve been acting and really, that’s probably on me because I’ve always been telling myself to put them behind a password block but I somehow always manage to forget that because apparently I have only one braincell left that’s stuck spinning on the deep-fried version of Funky Town and well, I guess I’m glad it was you that found them and not someone else and-“

“What? No, no, I didn’t- What- that’s not- what-“, Spencer cuts off your rambling with a horrified, screeched version of a protest because how- how could you have guessed what’s going on with just one try? Is Spencer so- so absolutely besotted with you that he’s so obvious? Spencer is so very confused and overwhelmed with whatever the hell is going on, he kind of misses the slight twitching of your mouth.

“Come on, Spencer. I said it’s fine and basically my own fault. Uh- well, actually… sorry. Because, well, that’s probably not very work-appropriate… I will pay for your therapy session, just send me the bill.”

Spencer thought he’d reached the limits of confusion seconds ago but apparently, he hadn’t. What. What are you even saying?

“Therapy sessions?”

You just- ignore him.

“Oh, also, please don’t tell Hotch? He’ll be pissed, despite me literally just doing hot-girl shit, y’know-“

Oh, Spencer cannot take it anymore.

He says your name and, “Stop, please, please, just-“

You snap your mouth shut, pulling your lips between your teeth and Spencer definitely doesn’t miss the way you have to force your mouth to stay still this time.

“Are you- is this a joke?”, Spencer asks, frazzled and desperate and so confused he just wants to bury his head under the duvet and never come out again. Because if you don’t actually know but- are just joking around, oh Spencer is overwhelmed, alright.

Your expression changes into something panicked then. “No, no, Spencer, sorry. I’m- sorry. Of course I’m not joking, I’m so sorry. It’s just a little bit too easy to tease you. Sorry.” You actually look apologetic now, lips downturned and frowning slightly.

“Not joking- so… so, you know?”, there’s something big and anxious pressing inside of Spencer’s chest. The urge to hide away and never face daylight again intensifies tenfold. He’s flushing before he realizes, hands trembling and breathing a bit too fast to be considered normal. Oh god, you know, you actually know, you’re going to- you’re never going to speak with him again you are probably here to tell him how weird and- and-

You must’ve noticed the frenzy he is thinking himself into, because you reach out with one hand and gently nudge his thigh with one knuckle. “Spencer”, you say, voice serious and steady and not the slightest bit disgusted or harsh and it snaps him out of his anxiety spiral.

“I knew the second I walked back into that room after you basically fled the precinct. I am, really, genuinely, sorry for making you uncomfortable. Like, it wasn’t actually my intention for you to see them. And then, after I realized what… I just wanted to wait and see what you’d do, if you came to talk to me or, well…”

You sigh, the hand that nudged him ruffling through your hair.

“I didn’t handle this situation very well. I’m really sorry. So… “, you trail off, scrunching your nose in that adorable way of yours that makes Spencer want to kiss it until it scrunches even further because you’d laugh and try to fight him off.

“We can just- forget about this. Forget that it ever happened, or-“, you hesitate again.

Spencer feels suddenly breathless. Like he stands in front of a cliff face, seconds before taking the step to send himself careening towards something immeasurably great or devastatingly fatal.

“Or…?”, he breathes, voice small and unsure.

You meet his eyes again after what feels like hours. There’s something intense in them, burning, and it’s like an electric shock to Spencer’s system. He’d give anything for you to keep looking at him like that forever.

“Or”, your hand returns to his thigh, but this time you let your fingers travel along the shape of it and Spencer whimpers. The burning in your eyes intensifies and Spencer feels hot, suddenly, so hot he’s burning with it. “Or we can do something else.”

“Something else?”, Spencer basically croaks because his throat is so dry and it’s difficult for his body to function properly when you are touching him like that.

You hum in agreement. “Whatever you want. You can tell m-“

“You.”

You look a bit startled when he cuts you off with that one, desperate syllable. Startled but also endlessly amused and Spencer just- his mind is apparently turned off, what the-

You laugh quietly, and your eyes soften, and it does something to Spencer that leaves an ach-y feeling in his chest. Oh, he loves you so much he can’t take it.

“Sure. You can have me”, you say simply, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world for you to admit, “Tell me what exactly you want, because I’d give you the world if you asked.”

And suddenly there’s hot pressure behind Spencer’s eyes, at the back of his throat. You’re just- just- amazing and so lovely and so kind to him, no one has ever said something like that to him, he doesn’t know how to handle it.

Spencer blinks up to the ceiling, desperately willing these stupid unwelcome tears away because crying about you treating him kindly is so on the bottom of the list of acting casual about this, so he rather feels than sees you sitting up next to him. Your hand slips from his legs and he feels the loss of your touch as if someone sucked the marrow from his bones. Before he can say something embarrassing like ‘please touch me again’ he feels your hand covering his. It fills him with a heady kind of courage.

“I want…”, Spencer starts, feeling entirely too uncomfortable with having to state his deepest and darkest desires. There’s the old familiar urge to start picking at his nails nagging at him, but you just interlace your fingers with his and start tracing random patterns into the skin there with your thumb. Spencer melts against you and tenses up at the same time because it’s just so- so nice. It feels so nice and Spencer never thought he’d ever get to have things like that with you but you’re here. You’re here, with him, and basically offering Spencer the entire world on a silver platter but it’s still so so unfathomably difficult just saying what he so badly wants.

“You want…?”, you hum slightly, voice soft and so tender as you continue painting patterns on his skin and Spencer would literally die for you. And that’s the entire problem. Spencer doesn’t know if you’d do the same. Well. Maybe not die die for him but. He can’t just sleep with you, and it not meaning anything to you. It would kill him. It would kill him, if after you give him tenderness and pleasure and acceptance in a way he’s never dreamed of receiving, you would go back to normal. Always politely distanced, close, but never close enough and it already twists his chest just thinking of that possibility.

“I just-“, he tries again, but when the words are stuck in his throat, sticky molten sugar that tastes like bile and fear, he pulls out of your grip and buries his face in his hands. He’s so bad at this. He’s the worst. No wonder he’s never had- had something like Morgan has, one night stand after one night stand (not that he particularly wants that, god no, but just-) because Spencer is just so bad at spilling all of the things that plague his gut and keep his thoughts in overdrive at night. No wonder he’s never even had a girlfriend or boyfriend before.

“Hey, hey, Spencer”, he feels your hands cupping his own, still over his face. Not taking them away, but just – there. “It’s alright, penguin, we can always come back to this another time. I’ll wait.”

Spencer’s face crumples and his breath hitches a little because- penguin. That’s the frankly ridiculous nickname you’ve been using for him ever since he apparently once looked like one, with that white scarf and knee-length black coat he wore during one of your cases where a blizzard surprised not only the team, but also the unsub. Spencer, like most of you, wasn’t prepared and thus, had to make do with what the helpful officers provided them with. And well, Spencer drew the penguin stick it seemed.

It’s ridiculous but sweet and it always makes him feel so loved, loved by you, because it’s adorable and theirs and he just loves it irrationally much, okay? And also, penguins are just really fascinating because-

“Did you know that most penguins live monogamously? The Emperor penguin is actually one of the only ones that mate seasonally, they only have one mate per breeding season. But most others have a mate for life, like, like swans and bald eagles.”

Before Spencer even opened his mouth, he was aware of the fact he was going to ramble on about some unimportant stuff. It’s always like this, it always feels like a breath he’s been holding in for too long, like an itch somewhere in his weird brain that only stops when he opens his mouth and infodumps and he cannot stop it. No matter how consciously he is telling himself to cut it out or screaming at himself to shut the fuck up you weirdo, it’s unavoidable. As soon as his brain latches onto a statistic or a fact it is reminded of, it’s an unstoppable force.

Like now. He is kicking himself. Why, oh why can’t he ever be normal? He feels himself flushing bright red from embarrassment and shame and frustration. He can’t believe he is rambling about birds while- while whatever the hell you two are doing right now. While in the middle of a conversation that started out with you confronting him about him seeing your nudes, jesus christ.

Spencer is about to suffocate himself with a pillow when you let out a graceless snort.

It confuses Spencer so much he lowers his hands to look at you and- oh.

Your eyes are shining with something that looks so close to what he would call affection, and it makes him want to bawl his eyes out and at the same time, smile so hard there’ll be laugh lines on his cheeks for the rest of the week.

“Well, that fits perfectly then”, you say, and Spencer doesn’t understand.

“What do you mean?”

You smile just a little wider, a little more teasingly but in a nice way, in a kind way and it leaves Spencer’s chest blooming with warmth.

“If you’re my penguin, I’ll be your penguin.”

Youryouryouryouryour-

Spencer feels entirely braindead. Only the fact that you called him yours registers. Because yes. Yes. Spencer is so yours he’d gladly let you make every decision for him from now on in his life and yes. That’s not exactly a very normal thing to think. Or to want. Spencer doesn’t care. He’s never felt normal about you for a day in his life and he definitely won’t start now.

“You- you mean- like, as, as mates?”

You scrunch your nose in disgust. “If you want to call us that, I think I’ll take back my offer.”

It punches a giggle out of Spencer, sudden and kind of light-headed. He watches your face break into a wide grin.

“But you- you’d like that?” You’d like me?

You pull a face, sniffing in a nonchalant way, direct your face to your nails in fake disinterest.

“Sure. Whatever.”

And Spencer can’t help himself. He sobs out a laugh- laughs out a sob or, whatever that weird noise he makes is, because you’re so ridiculous and he loves you more than anything in the world.

You roll your eyes, fondly, shake your head slightly.

“Of course, Spencer. I’d like that very much because I like you a very unnormal amount. Literally. On my knees, crying, screaming etcetera”, you say just like that, smiling just like that.

Spencer feels like he’s dreaming. He must be. There’s no other explanation for it. He just can’t wrap his head around the fact that you could like him. You. You’re so, so lovely and amazing and you deserve everything good in this world and Spencer is just. Spencer.

“You- you like me? Me?”, Spencer can’t hide the incredulous tone that seeps into his questions because you like him?

There’s no traces of humour in your eyes anymore. Your eyes look painfully honest, face suddenly serious, and it steals Spencer’s breath away.

You lean closer to him again, grabbing his hands with yours. Your gaze bores itself into his, intense and steady and he can’t look away. “Spencer. I know it’s- I know life has been hard on you for way too long. And that leaves its marks on you. That’s fine. It’s human. But. You do not deserve any less love because of that, do you understand me? Of course I like you, what isn’t there to like? You’re kind and funny and sweet and just so- Spencer. You’re so lovable and it kills me to know that you don’t see how you are so worthy of being loved.”

Oh.

Oh.

You can’t just- can’t just say things like that and expect him to not cry a little. Can’t expect him to act completely nonchalant and cool about all of this when you say things like that to him. Are you trying to kill him? Because it sure does feel like that.

Spencer is so completely at a loss. He doesn’t know what to say to that- not to mention what to do. How do you always do this? How can you see straight to the hidden, bruised core of him, littered with all these ugly and bad things and. Just. Figure out what to say to strike him exactly there.

It should scare him, being known so deeply. It should, but it doesn’t because it’s you. You are warmth and acceptance like his favourite place in front of a fireplace, book in hand and rain gently knocking against windows. You are quiet mornings at work, you are soft rays of sunlight in his hair, you are gentle hands helping you up when you fall and bruise your knees. You are –

A touch to his cheek startles him. He opens his eyes – when did he close them? – to your fingers brushing some stray tears away, so softly as if he’s something precious, something to be held delicately. That thought sends new tears spilling down his cheek. He can’t believe this is affecting him so much, so completely he simultaneously feels like he is going to shatter and be stitched back together again.

He never knew he needed this so much.

“Sorry for making you cry, penguin. I didn’t think this discussion about my lack of nude etiquette would get this emotionally damaging”, you say, voice hushed in the big silence of the room, a small smile on your lips and eyes so kind.

Spencer snorts, despite himself. This has really been a very bizarre evening. He feels almost drunk on the weirdness of it all, on the rollercoaster that his emotions have ridden all evening. That’s probably why he does what he does next.  

“Neither did I, especially after you interrupted me while I wa-“

Spencer shuts his mouth so fast he clicks his teeth together, eyes wide and suddenly horrified. He- what-

Why?

Why can’t Spencer ever keep his big mouth shut? Is he completely and utterly insane?

There’re alarm bells going off somewhere in Spencer’s head and a concerning warmth settling deep in his stomach when your grin takes on a slightly devilish edge, one he knows all too well and. And. Oh. He’s in trouble. So much trouble. Why did he have to say that?

“After I interrupted you while?”, you prompt him, eyes electric and hot and oh god-

Spencer is so dumb. An idiot. Of the highest order. High IQ, where?

“Nothing”, he says, voice high-pitched and rushed and he curses himself and his ability to act everything else but nonchalant. He’d be the worst actor of all time.

“Spencer.”

The tone of your voice rearranges something in his neurons. He can feel himself sit up just that little bit straighter, can feel his mind buzz at the edges. He’s never felt like this before.

He loves it.

“Hmm?”, is all he gets out. Trouble, so much trouble.

Suddenly you’re standing up, away from him and Spencer wants to whine because you should stay there next to him, forever fixed to his side. He doesn’t have to despair long, because you take one of your knees and gently nudge his legs apart with it and okay. Okay. That definitely didn’t just send Spencer’s mind reeling. That wasn’t just totally the hottest thing that ever happened to him.

You slot yourself between his legs as if you own that space and. In his humble opinion, you do. You so do. Spencer is willing to give you a map of his entire body and a marker and tell you to please demarcate every part of him you want. He’d give it to you, no questions asked.

He is looking up at you, at your burning eyes that still hold something so soft in them that makes the lump in his throat bigger again. And by god, Spencer just needs to hear you say it again-

“You like me?”

You move closer to him, lifting one hand and placing it underneath his chin. Your thumb traces along his jaw and Spencer feels like he is going to burst into a million embarrassed pieces.

“Yes”, you say simply, but the way you say it. Spencer can’t help but shiver and exhale shakily. He feels so warm, everywhere. His skin burns where your fingers are touching him. He never wants this to stop.

“You- You want me?”

Your hand grips his face a little stronger, your other fingers splaying over and down his throat and there’s a high noise coming from somewhere and there’s goosebumps on his body everywhere and oh, wait- it’s him. The noise. Well, how embarrassing but. He doesn’t care. Nope. Not at all.

…Okay maybe a little. His face feels warm, suddenly, warmer than the rest of him and yes. He’s blushing, okay?

“Spencer”, the way you say his name it- god, “I want you. I said it before, but. I will give you anything. Tell me what you want, Spencer, and you will get it from me.”

Your eyes are so dark and your voice so low and Spencer actually whines and. He’s hard again, so hard, because he didn’t come before and now, he’s even more pent-up and his thoughts are a mess, but you haven’t even touched him more than this and he’s already so worked up from you just saying these things to him-

“I want you”, Spencer pants, currently finding no other English words in the dictionary of his mind. And well. Emily was right about him. IQ slashed to zero when pretty person do thing.

He watches you take a deep breath, as if to steady yourself, as if this whole thing is affecting you as much as it affects him but that’s- ridiculous. Impossible. Because. Have you seen yourself?

“I know that, Spencer. But what do you want from me? Do you want me to kiss you?”, you ask, face suddenly so close to his Spencer feels your breath fan over his skin, and he whimpers because yes he wants that wants that- “Do you want me to touch you more?”, your other hand grabs his side, gentle but just a little bit roughly and Spencer is suddenly vividly reminded of the fact how strong you are and he feels kind of lightheaded-

“Do you want me to fuck you, Spencer?”

Spencer is going to pass out. And die. And moan and say, “Please yes yes yes”. Maybe not in that particular order.

“Okay, angel, anything you want”, you say, smiling softly at him as if he’s the best thing in the world and angel. Angel. Angel.

Before he’s even started to process you calling him angel, he sees a glint in your eyes, that edge in your smile again and before he knows what’s happening, you’re kissing him.

You’re kissing him and it’s- everything.

Your mouth is soft against his, and Spencer’s insides twist and flutter and his brain is kind of lagging behind, but he wants to be closerclosercloser-

It’s so good Spencer completely blanks on everything. There’s nothing in his mind except the feel of your lips moving against his. There’s no insecurity, no embarrassment tainting this moment even though this is literally like, only the sixth kiss or so of Spencer’s life and he has no idea what he is doing. But it’s so good.

A noise somewhere between a moan and a whimper escapes him when you lick into his mouth and Spencer’s soul almost leaves his body. He feels you shudder where you are pressed together, chest to chest.

“Spencer, Spencer”, you breathe against his lips, in between wet, hot, kisses. You rub your nose against his, eyes closed.

“Hmm?”, he hums, his voice somewhere in Canada or wherever. His mouth is too busy smiling so wide it hurts, anyways. No time for articulating anything.

“You’re amazing, Spencer, amazing.”

And he wants to shake his head, no, because the only one amazing here is you. But it’s impossible to disagree with you when your mouth has returned to his in a way that is probably ruining him for anyone else. (He’s okay with that.)

You peck him on the lips once, twice more, before you press your lips against his jaw, exactly where you had your fingers before. Your hands are basically the only thing holding Spencer up in a sitting position, because he feels like molten chocolate in your hands. Muscles apparently forgetting to do their job and well. Who can blame them? Spencer has stopped thinking in proper sentences the moment you had walked into his life, so. Only a matter of time until you broke the rest of him as well.

You kiss his neck and Spencer gasps. It’s really been a hot minute - three years, one hundred, twenty-one days and twenty hours to be exact – the last time he made out with someone. Everything feels heightened on his heated skin, especially you opening your mouth against him and licking him oh god-

It almost feels like a reward when you gently bite at his skin next. Spencer almost screams.

“So good, so so good for me”, he hears you whisper into the skin of his neck and this time, Spencer does make a noise. Because yes. He wants that. Be good for you. That’s the only thing in his fuzzy mind that feels clear, that feels graspable.

He can see your pupils dilate. Can see the wicked lilt to your lips. “You like being good for me, don’t you, angel?”

ANGEL. Spencer is nodding his head before he knows he does so. “Yes, yes.”

“Fuck”, he hears you breathe against him and it’s strange, seeing the effect he has on you. Did really he do that? “I can’t believe how incredible you are, sweetheart.”

And you need to stop. If you keep calling Spencer these things- he’s pretty sure he won’t survive this. The team would need to find another genius to solve cases with. His cactus Greg would dry out and wilt and die. You and Penelope would need to find another victim to send confusing memes to.

“Did you like my pictures, Spencer?”, you then ask and that’s so not fair. You can’t just ask him that while he’s so utterly in your hands that he’s sure he’d tell you about every little fantasy he’s had about you ever if you asked.

Because Spencer wants to be good, feels that need so deeply in his bones, he nods frantically. “Yes, I- I liked them.”

At the same time the words leave his mouth, something feels wrong. There’s an ugly thing twisting in his stomach, so unpleasant it momentarily occludes the high-octane bliss-fuzz fogging up his mind.

You notice the shift in mood almost immediately. “What’s wrong, angel?”

And well. It’s just- that guilt. Of not saying anything to you about Spencer seeing your nudes, of just ogling you like that without your permission. That wasn’t very good of him. Actually, the opposite. He’s been bad and he hates that. Hates that so severely that there’s suddenly tears on his cheeks and oh no. That’s mortifying. Who cries before sex? Jesus Christ he’s such a virgin it is genuinely embarrassing.

“I’m- I’m sorry”, he stutters, a little bit hysterical, creating distance between you, arms slung around himself, “I should’ve, should’ve said something, I’m so so sorry, I’m the worst friend and now I’m- I’m crying, oh god, I’m so sorry-“

“Hey, hey hey whoa. Spencer, darling. Penguin. Look at me, please?”

But he shakes his head. He doesn’t deserve to look at you again. What was he even thinking? He was- so creepy and now- now-

Two warm hands grab his face and then Spencer is looking into your eyes again. He squeezes his own shut, but all that it does is send more tears spilling over his cheeks and he’s so fucking stupid-

“Baby, please.”

Spencer sobs.

Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. That’s the best thing he has ever heard but he doesn’t deserve these things.

“Of course you deserve it, silly goose”, you say and oh. He’s said that out loud.

Your thumbs brush over his cheeks and Spencer can’t not lean into your touch, despite everything. Because that’s just the way it always is. He’s drawn to your warmth and tenderness like a moon revolves around its planet.

“I thought we’d established that it was an accident? And if it was someone’s fault, then mine, because no password, remember?”

Spencer opens his eyes. The deep affection swimming in yours makes him sob again. He’s a mess. A crying, horny mess and Spencer definitely fucked this up. Why does Spencer always ruin the few good things in his life?

“Spencer, Spencer. Hey. It’s okay, I promise you. We wouldn’t be doing this, if it wasn’t, okay?”, you kiss his nose. “Do you want to lay down, maybe?”

He nods, not really thinking clearly. He moves up the bed, under the covers and curls up on his side. He waits for you to get up from the bed, for you to walk over to the door and leave. To say that this was a mistake, he was a mistake. To say that you take back everything you said to him in the last half hour.

He’s not just a little surprised to feel your weight dip the mattress, to feel even more sudden warmth engulf him when you spoon him from behind. You start tracing swirly patterns over the skin of his arm and he feels goosebumps spread all over his body.

Some minutes tick by, you still holding him, when his tears have finally dried up. He doesn’t remember crying so much in one day. Spencer feels miserable.

“Do you still like me?”, he asks, and yes, it’s pathetic and stupid but. He doesn’t care if you never have sex or if you’re not going to be more than his friend now. Because the thought of you not being in his life in any capacity anymore- just no.

He can feel you freeze and take in a sharp breath. “Wha- Spencer. Of course, I still like you. I don’t care what we do, I just want to be with you. In any way you’ll have me.”

You sound so understanding and sincere and actually confused about his fear as if you’d never even think of not liking him anymore and and and-

And something in him just- snaps. He wants you, needs you so much he’s going to die if he doesn’t-

He shuffles and turns in your arms until he’s face to face with you. You look at him, eyebrow raised in question but so beautiful and lovely and you still like him-

“I want you so bad”, he says and then he presses his lips against yours again.

You respond immediately, low moan escaping you and Spencer is greedy, he wants to hear more, feel more, feel everything with you.

He’s kissing you as if he’s going to die if he ever stopped, which, yes, he absolutely would, and you kiss him back as if you can’t live without him. It makes everything become hazy again, like before, and every bad feeling suddenly feels eons away. Like he’s underwater, floaty and relaxed. Safe, he feels safe in the way you kiss him and hold him. Like you always do.

You move your kisses to his neck, sucking and biting and Spencer is moaning and moaning and can’t stop and then suddenly, you’re gone, what –

“Spencer, Spencer, wait”, you pant, out of breath and flushed and he wants to cry again, “Sorry, sorry I just-“

You frame his face in your hands, a little bit roughly. “I’m so sorry for making this so hard, you’re being so good for me, but Spencer. Have you done this before?”

Somewhere in the fog that is his minds, Spencer finds his voice. It’s high and airy but he doesn’t care. “No, no, I haven’t.”

He watches you take a deep breath, feels your fingers digging into his skin a little bit more.

“Tell me. Do you want this, Spencer?”, your voice is shaking as if you need to keep yourself in check and Spencer can’t believe he’s getting to see you like this.

“Yes”, he says because he can’t ever want anything else, and, “Please make me feel good.”

You inhale sharply, your grip on his face bordering on painful. “Spencer, you’re incredible, amazing, the best- I’ll make you feel good, okay? I’ll make you feel so good because you deserve it.”

“Yes”, Spencer is not ashamed of how whiny he sounds. No. He’s owning it now. This is his thing now, okay? He’ll gladly be your pathetic wet cat, or whatever the term was that you sometimes use to describe him with. Whatever it even means.

“Good”, you grin, and then you push on his shoulder hard and he’s on his back. And you. Sitting on top of him, thighs on either side of him. Straddling him exactly where he wants you most and he exhales a needy ‘ah’. His hypothesis of liking being manhandled is… yet to be disproven. He’s discovering so many things about himself today.

Pleasure radiates in waves from where you’re passively giving pressure to his hard cock and yeah okay. This is good. Amazing. He’s never felt better. But-

“Please.”

“Please what, angel?”

“More?”

“More what?”

Your fingers trailing along his throat and jaw, down his chest and teasing ghost-like over his nipples are not really helpful in finding the right words to what he wants. You take pity on him.

“More touch?”

Spencer nods his head, so fast he almost gets dizzy because he’s at that point again where everything feels liquid, hazy, a little bit unreal. So, speaking is already quite the task.

You smile at him as if he just solved the most difficult equation. “Doing so good, Spencer. Incredible.”

He moans. Okay. Another hypothesis to add to his ever-growing list of scientific discoveries today.

“Where do you want touch, Spencer? Here?”, there’s hands in his hair. He shakes his head.

“Hmm… Here?”, fingers drawing circles on his chest and yes, that feels nice, so nice but he wants-

“Here?”, you ground your hips down and jesus-

“Yes!”, Spencer almost chokes on the sound. Pleasure shoots up his spine and he whimpers. “Please.”

You exhale shakily, looking flush. “Okay. Because you ask so nicely.” There’re two little taps on his lower stomach through his shirt. “Do you want to take this off first? Or no?”

The way you give him the chance to say no- the way you respect his autonomy so deeply-

It’s basic human decency, yes, but it’s also the hottest thing and Spencer feels so valued and understood and safe that he’s not even hesitating when he mutters a quiet yes.

You help him sit up because he’s currently not really heir over his body like he usually is. Help his head out of the shirt and thread his arms out. And then, he’s half naked in front of you and suddenly, the doubt and insecurity that’ve been so quiet so far are back with a vengeance.

The urge to cover himself is so big it’s impossible to stop his arms from wrapping around himself.

Spencer knows he’s not ugly. He’s not that bad looking actually. Can’t be too bad if Morgan keeps insisting on calling him pretty boy, even though Spencer sometimes still has the sneaking suspicion that he’s teasing him. But his friend wouldn’t be so cruel.

But other people like to be. Pipe-cleaner, leek, straw, big-eyes. He’s heard it all before. He has matured enough and grown into himself so that these things don’t bother him like they used to. But still. Still. These things are arduous to scrub from under his skin.

Your gaze on him though- he’s never felt so, cleaned from all of these mean words before. You look- you look reverent while mapping his skin and maybe that’s the reason why he lowers his arms again.

“Spencer. You’re a dream”, you say, almost in trance. Almost as if you’re hypnotized by him, and he’s flushing. But. Being watched so intently, being admired like that. He feels his dick give an indigent twitch against your clothed core. Another thing for the list.

“So impatient”, you tut and Spencer flushes more. He thinks he’s waited long enough for this. But he doesn’t say that. If you stopped now- he would definitely combust spontaneously.

You lean down, over him. Hands trailing along his sides like you did earlier, but without any clothes between your skin and his. It’s almost too much. And not enough. He feels electrified, where you touch him. His heart is hammering against his ribs so hard you must be able to feel it. His stomach is in knots, fluttery. He’s never felt more alive.

You connect your lips to his throat, placing kiss after kiss along the arched length of it. Follow the same path with your tongue and Spencer whines, curves up against you a little. Everything feels so good Spencer is floating in it.

You shift your attention to his collarbones next, kissing but then gently biting and Spencer feels the indents of your teeth all the way through to his back and he hopes, wants, you to sink them into him so deep they’ll leave marks. So that he carries the evidence of this with him for the rest of this case, so that there’s absolutely no more doubt to who he belongs to. That thought alone makes him whimper, makes him feel that tiny little bit more lost in you.

You start kissing along his chest, down his stomach. Open mouthed, wet kisses and Spencer shivers when the places you put them feel cold after because of your spit. The lower you get, the noisier he becomes and at one point, Spencer would’ve been embarrassed. Well, he kind of is, but he’s also so turned on that the embarrassment doesn’t feel as stifling like usual. Rather, in a weird way, it makes everything hotter, and he does not own enough brain capacity right now to decipher that. But he does add it to the list.

When your face is dangerously close to the waistband of his pyjama, Spencer tenses, holds his breath. Being shirtless is one thing, but… well.

“It’s okay, Spencer. We only do as much as you feel comfortable with”, you murmur, giving a small peck to the left of his belly button. You calmingly follow his sides with your hands, smiling at him with so much affection in your eyes that Spencer feels speechless, breathless, until the tension releases his muscles again and he melts into the sheets.

“’m just…”, he tries, he really tries so hard to tell you that he wants this more than anything he’s ever wanted but that he just feels… insecure.

You kiss his stomach again. “How about we only take off the pyjama? For now? If you want to take off your underwear too later, we can still do that.”

That… that’s actually a good idea. So, he nods.

“Words, angel.”

“Yes, yes. That’s- good.”

You look so proud of him. “You’re so good, Spencer. Perfect.”

He moans embarrassingly loud. He really should be more concerned about this. About how you are basically pulling him apart, thread by thread and he just lets you, willingly. How you know which threads to pull to reduce him to a sweaty mess in what felt like 0.2 seconds.

There’s a finger dipping beneath the waistband, moving back and forth along the newly exposed skin. Your eyes watch him intently, almost predator-like. A question is in there somewhere as well and Spencer nods again.

You help him lift his hips, help him pull down the pants. Spencer is kind of busy kicking his legs a little to shake them off completely but when he looks back and down himself to where you are hyper-focused on the outline of his cock through the thin fabric he blushes.

Even more when he notices the big, dark blue splotch in front of his underwear. That’s definitely never happened before. How embarrassing.

When you look up at him again, you’re also flushed. Eyes dark, wide, voice kind of unsteady. “Spencer, Spencer, can I?”

“Please”, and then you palm him with your hand, and it feels so good it takes all of his concentration to not come on the spot. He doesn’t know if he’ll survive this until you arrive to the main thing.

It’s not the first time someone has touched him like that, but it is the first time you are doing it, and it already feels better than anything he’s ever felt before. You’re either a wizard or Spencer is just biased because he thinks everything you do is ten times better than the same thing done by someone else.

Probably the first reason.

He has his head angled back, one of his arms thrown over his eyes. If he looked at you now, he’s pretty sure, he’d come. Visual stimulation on top of physical would probably be the end of him. It’s already too much, just feeling your hand move up and down his dick in various pressures. Almost as if you are testing what he likes best, and Spencer is definitely here for it. Definitely. He’s happy to just let you experiment with him until you know all the different ways to drive him mad with pleasure with just a few moves.

Which, you apparently already figured out, judging by the way Spencer can’t form a single coherent thought anymore. It’s already, so good, so freaking good holy shit, and you’re still not touching him. Still a layer of fabric between your hand and him and he kind of- just-

“Take it off?”

You still your hand, looking up at him. You look kind of crazed, almost a little pained. It takes two deep breaths for you to process what he just asked, eyes a little unfocused before they fix Spencer to the bed with an intensity that makes him feel unfocused. “You sure, angel?”

Spencer literally can’t do anything but nod. You stay in your position for some moments longer, before you sigh out a long breath, mumbling something that suspiciously resembles you’re gonna be the death of me. Spencer misses your warmth on top of him the second you hoist yourself up. It’s kind of crazy and destitute of him. You are literally right there but he’s waited for this for so long it feels like he’s suffocating without your weight pressing him down. Which is ironic and also, insane.

Your fingers are gentle, when they move under the stretchy fabric of his underwear. Even gentler when they pull down and down and down until Spencer is entirely naked in front of you.

Oh, he feels so exposed. While he has been the recipient of a mediocre hand job before, it’s been in his trousers. This is kind of the first time someone sees him naked like that, because school locker rooms and his mother don’t count.

He doesn’t dare look at you. If there’s anything akin to disappointment, not to mention disgust on your face- Spencer probably would have to jump out the window, stat. His gaze is frozen on his cock, steadily leaking precum on his stomach (which, embarrassing). He’s abashedly trying to insert himself into your point of view, tries to imagine what you think about seeing him like this. What you might think about his dick, if it’s too short or too thin or if it looks weird, if he should’ve shaved. If his legs look strange and too gangly now, or if his stomach connects to his pubic area wrong or-

“Holy shit”, you say, and Spencer is too curious for his own damn good sometimes, because he can’t force his gaze to stay away from you.

You look at him- like before. Reverent but more, so much more. He almost feels like a deity, the way you look at him. Someone to be awed by, someone that should be worshipped. Spencer feels his already in overdrive heartbeat quicken even more, blood flushing his cheeks so much it leaks down his throat, to his chest.

Spencer would literally kill to have you look at him like this for the rest of his life.

“Holy shit, Spencer”, you repeat, eyes now meeting his, “You’re like- a literal fucking dream. I cannot believe- you’re so beautiful, how are you so beautiful everywhere?”

Spencer whimpers and he needs you to touch him kiss him fuck him anything please now or he will absolutely die from heart palpitations.

Some of his despairing thoughts must’ve come through to you, because the next thing you do is moan, which is the best thing he’s ever heard. Then, you take off your sweater. Second to go is your cropped tank top and you aren’t wearing a bra and good heavens.

Pictures could never compare. Not even Botticelli could’ve adequately committed you to canvas.

Spencer must’ve taken some brain damage from seeing you half naked. He doesn’t remember you taking off the remainder of your clothes, nor does he remember you straddling him again. But, fuck.

Spencer kind of doesn’t use the f-word that often but-

fuckfuckfuckufuckfkcufuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckcufkc-

You’re warm against him, and wet, so freaking wet, and it feels so mind-blowingly good- it’s a miracle he’s still holding on. But-

“Won’t last long”, he gets out, breathy and whiny and just so goddamn fuzzy from pleasure. The world could literally perish right now, and he wouldn’t care. He can’t care, because this is the best thing that ever happened to him and he won’t ever care about anything else ever again other than feeling you, you you you you, against him.

“Spencer, Spencer”, you breathe, gasp, and fuck, the way you keep using his name. “Are you okay? Do you still want this?”

It’s ridiculous you even ask. But the warmth in his chest, the feeling of comfort and safety and ease – because everything with you is so easy, so natural - he feels with the way you look after him-

He feels your thumbs caressing his wet cheeks. You put small, sweet kisses all over his face. Take the time to brush away some of his sweat-sticky hair from his forehead. Place kisses there too. You end with a drawn out, gentle kiss to his lips.

“What do you say, sweetheart?”

There’s really only one way for him to answer that. He trusts you. Plain and simple. There’s no one else he could ever do this with.

“Yes, I want. Please.”

You kiss him again. “So good Spencer, you’re so fucking good to me. I can’t believe you are trusting me with this. You are incredible, angel.”

Spencer doesn’t know how it’s anatomically possible, but he blushes even harder. Also, feels his cock twitch against you because he apparently likes to be called good almost as much as he likes being good. For you. Only you. Jesus Christ.

“Do you have a condom?”, you ask and ah. Well.

“Suitcase”, and wow. First word with more than one syllable since you straddled him the first time. He’s being so brave right now. He deserves a medal. Proof of Being Able to Speak Polysyllabic Words While Getting Fucked (Almost).

There’s humour glistening in your eyes, when you hide a fake gasp behind your hand and say, “Oh my god, Spencer you dog. Can’t believe you planned this entire thing.”

Spencer almost chokes on his own spit. “N-no! I just- uh, like being prepared.”

You grind down a snort, drive your teeth into your lower lip. “In case you accidentally saw your coworker’s nudes and them being down to fuck you about it?"

Oh my god, you’re the most ridiculous person he’s ever met. He can’t stop himself from grinning because seeing you trying to keep your laughter at bay-

“Yes. That.”

“But what if- what if it was Rossi instead of you seeing them? How would’ve your plan worked out then, huh?”, you wheeze, shaking from literal suppressed laughter and Spencer makes a sound like a dying horse.

“Rossi? Rossi?”

“Oh my god, imagine it would’ve been Hotch. He would’ve probably fired me so hard and then called me a week later to disappointed-dad-talk me to come back but to please, refrain from bringing personal files to work in the future.”

Spencer laughs. He’s still rock-hard underneath you, but he’s laughing because that’s what you always do. Being so absurd and silly that he’s shocked to laughter.

He adores you with every fibre of his being.

“What the fuck?”, you ask, incredulous but laughing yourself, “Is my misery amusing to you?”

And Spencer feels like being a little bit of a brat. “Very.”

You flick his nose. Grumble something like I’ll show you misery and then you move your hips against his and Spencer sees stars. Let’s out an embarrassingly high whine.

Ah well. It was still worth it.

“Don’t move”, you order, when you climb down from him to retrieve a condom. Spencer watches you, lets himself look at you. All the times he’s wondered how it would be, how it would feel like, being in this kind of situation with you. He’s never in a million years thought it would feel so familiar. Like you’ve done this before, so many times that it’s just become something normal between you two. He’s actually relaxed. So turned on it feels like he’s going to burst any second, but he’s calm. He feels comfortable, so much so that it doesn’t even matter that it’s the first time he’s doing this and he’s so clueless about all of this.

But he knows, if it’s with you, he never ever has to worry about anything.

“Do you have lube as well?”, you ask, rifling through his suitcase and distracting him from his sappy thoughts.

“Hmm. No, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, angel”, you say while returning to Spencer, and the nickname kind of switches something off again in his brain. Perfect. He’s never going to be able to be normal again about that word.

“We’ll have to get some, for next time. Always feels better with it.”

Spencer hasn’t really registered more than next time next time next time-

He’s pulled out of his daze of knowing your intentions of this not only being a one-off thing, when you straddle him again, a bit lower on his legs. Spencer moans, loud and high, when you grab him by the base and god, fuck, his skin is tingling with anticipation.

With your other hand, you grab the condom and then use your teeth to open the packet, and his cock jumps in your hand. How are you so hot. How does everything you do turn him on so much, what.

He watches you take out the plastic ring as if he’s watching from above, out of his body. He watches as you position the condom over his tip and then pull it down, down and Spencer’s brain must be lagging because he feels everything with at least a two second delay and shit, god, son of a-

“You ready, baby?”

He makes a noise between a sob and a whine. He’s losing his mind. “Please please please-“

“Fuck, Spencer”, you whine, lift yourself up a bit with your legs and then you are sinking down on him, inch by agonizing inch.

It’s so good, it’s so good, you are so warm, so hot, and Spencer can’t stop making noises until your hips are flush to his and he’s inside you.

You let out a loud, drawn-out moan above him. “Fuck, fuck, Spencer. You feel so fucking good, holy shit.”

He feels like he’s one move away from coming. God, oh god, it feels so incredible.

“Can I move? Spencer, please?”, your voice is wrecked, you’re flushed down to your navel, and you’re the best thing he’s ever seen.

“Please please please please”, it’s the only word he remembers how to pronounce.

“Fuck”, you almost sob, lifting yourself almost completely off him. You lower yourself back down again, one swift move, and you both moan.

You pick up the pace a little, fucking him with still languid but purposeful thrusts. Every time his cock sinks back into you, Spencer feels bits and pieces of his sanity crumbling away. He can’t think, can’t speak, his mind so fogged up and fuzzy he’s having troubles remembering who he is. He’s so completely at your mercy he’d let you do anything to him.

That turns him on a worryingly huge amount. List, something about a list somewhere.

“Oh, god, look at you. Spencer, baby, angel. You feel so good inside of me, so good.”

He keens, grabs at your strong thighs bracketing his slim hips. Arches up into you, closerclosercloser-

“You like being good for me, right angel?”, you ask, hips slowing down to a gentle grinding that absolutely drives Spencer insane and he’s too far gone to even nod, “It suits you. Being so wrecked for me, moaning and shaking. God, fuck, you’re divine, Spencer, fuck.”

The pressure behind his cock, low in his stomach, that’s been building all evening, all week, holy shit, it’s too much. Spencer feels delirious, feels your hotness around him, feels your hands pressing his chest down into the bed. He’s going to die it feels so good.

“You going to come for me, Spencer? You gonna be good for me and come inside of me?”

Please please please please- it’s all he can think, all he can feel, because because-

You give a particularly hard thrust and-

Spencer’s coming, moaning and moaning, shaking everywhere. He’s coming and it feels so good, so fucking good. He’s never come so hard in his life before.

He might have blacked out a little. The next time he’s aware of something, it’s you cleaning him with a wet washcloth. Slow, and gentle and Jesus.

“What?”, is the first thing he manages to say, and you snicker beside him. You caress his face, hand running through his hair, down his chest. Peck his lips. You’re both still naked.

“Feeling good?”, you ask and what kind of question even is that. You just fucked the soul from his body, and you ask him-

“I almost died”, he says, tagging your name at the end with an incredulous tint to it.

You snort, setting the washcloth on the nightstand behind you. You lie down close to him, cuddling into his side. “That was the plan.”

“Killing me with sex?”

“Yep. That’s for ogling my nudes without my permission, you creep.”

He says your name again, exasperated but so fucking fond it’s a miracle you’ve never noticed his pining before. You shrug, pull a ‘what can you do face’. Spencer rolls his eyes and then, unceremoniously, flops on top of you.

“Uffff”, you press out. “You’re smothering me, penguin.”

Spencer shrugs and copies the expression you just did. You bark out a laugh.

“Ha! Didn’t know post-sex Spencer is such a cheeky little shit. I’ve created a monster.”

He can’t entirely control his face, some parts of a smile slipping into his features. He does manage to poke out his tongue at you though, before he buries his face in your neck.

Some minutes tick by, you both enjoying the other’s presence and warmth and idleness, before something in his brain-

“Wait-“, Spencer splutters, pushing himself away from you so that he can look at you. “Did you- did you even finish?”

He’s kind of horrified. He was so focused on his pleasure- he- how did he forget? He doesn’t remember you coming and oh no, he’s such an asshole, who doesn’t make sure the other person has come as well and-

“Spencer, Spencer”, you shush him, fingers trailing along his back, and he shivers, eyes rolling back.

“I made myself come right after, don’t worry. You were kind of busy in your post-orgasm, pussy-drunk coma.”

Spencer flushes. “But I wanted to…”

You laugh softly. “You can do whatever to me, next time, sweets. This was about you. We’ll go on a date as soon as we’re back home. Fucking Florida is driving me nuts.”

Oh, he suddenly feels shy. A date? You want to go on a date with him?

“Really?”, he asks, and he hates how insecure he sounds.

You send him an unbelieving look. “Uh, what about the last hour makes you think otherwise? Seriously, Spencer, we need to work on your confidence.”

“Okay”, he mutters, a little bit pout-y and you scoff, pulling him down on top of your chest again.

There, with your hands painting patterns on his back and him completely lost in your warmth and familiarity, Spencer thinks that maybe, Florida isn’t that bad.

--

Bonus

“So, then. Made any scientific discoveries last night, pretty boy?”

Spencer chokes on his coffee.

“What?”

“Nothing”, his ‘friend’ says, smirking and leaning against his table, “You just seem to have figured out that little problem that’s been keeping that pretty head of yours all messed up.”

Spencer feels himself flush. Stupid body and stupid involuntary, physiological reactions. Morgan picks up on it, of course.

“Ohhhhh, want to share with the class what those discoveries were?”

Briefly, so very briefly, Spencer thinks of his self-compiled list but- no no no no.

“Shut up, Morgan.”

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

tags: @sebastiansstanswhore @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @wasitforrevenge @wannabewolf @tommorecommendedfics @winterhi09 @theoraekenslover @chaewondrful @okeyhoezayy @busy-buzzing @laurakirsten0502 @redros3y @trashxqueen @kitty-kei @so-long-daisymay @hayleythecannibal @jsnsnsnszjzj @reeidsluv @kayane28 @moonysreid @desperately-seeking-serotonin @munsonslunchbox @tul1p-mimi @anuttellaa @pinkgomie @elizabethmidnight2017 @evrmorets @cyanidebitsg @bangchansdog @pinterestwhore145 @some-one-yiu-dont-kno @emma-e-a

i hope these work lmao, also let me know if you wanna be on my eternal tag list for any future Spencer fic ;)

[nereidprinc3ss]

bambi

in which spencer reid and fem!reader fuck like they missed each other (because they always do) and he teases her for her shaky legs

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: softdom spencer, piv sex (riding, a first for nereidprinc3ss) /oral f receiving (in that order) mentions of him accidentally grabbing her hips too hard, slight somno SORT OF like he starts going down on her while she’s sleepy and then she kind of goes in and out but its all consensual, sorry haters i fucking love sleepy sex and I always will, teasing, lots of praise, fluffy, established relationship, he loves her badddd, aftercare, literally nothing bad happens no angst for once they just are having sex cause they are in love which is arguably the most superior kind of sex! a/n: I don’t think I’ve ever written smut that is so wham bam thank you ma’am like really we just get RIGHT into it!! also no gif no pics we r going old nereidprinc3ss on this one I hope you loveeee!!!

You roll over onto Spencer and kiss once, long and deep and sweet. He hums into it, too whipped to pretend like he’s got self control or respect, hands finding the soft skin of your bare waist and settling there. 

How it got to this point so quickly, no more than fifteen minutes after he walked through the door, you can’t say. Usually the two of you are a bit more domestic when he gets home from a case, but eight days is a long time to be apart, and the trail of clothing leading from the welcome mat to the foot of the bed attests to that. 

So does the lack of teasing, of begging—at least, a lack up until this point. Right now, there’s only him, patient and content to let you play at being in charge. You pull back and reach down to grab him gently, aligning him at your entrance with a trembling hand. This part, you’re not usually responsible for. 

He assures you with a hand to the small of your back, rubbing soothing circles. “You got it. Slowly.”

You do as he says, brow furrowing in focus as you sink down an inch or two onto him. Spencer’s breathing grows erratic as you take more and more of him, and in a heroic display of overachieving, you take the rest of him at once with nothing but a squeak. He laughs breathily as his fingers dig into your hips. 

“Fuck—I said slow.”

You can’t think. The overwhelm of it all is too much as you crumple forward onto his chest. The subtle rocking you’re doing to try and alleviate some of the pressure in your core is apparently too much as he stops you by the hips, fingers pressing into those same tender spots.

Spencer’s breath is ragged. “Don’t… do not move.”

“Fuck,” you breathe into his shoulder, long and drawn out as despite his wishes you wriggle around, trying to get comfortable. “Oh my god.”

“My lovely girl, please… please don’t move,” Spencer gasps, a plead, and you try to stop for him, nuzzling even deeper against his neck. “I need a minute.”

“It’s too much,” you slur, dizzy as you try to adjust to the feeling. “Please.” You don’t know what you’re asking for. Maybe relief from the sensation that he can’t offer you. Maybe more. 

Spencer is undone by you—the way you writhe on top of him, the way your voice shakes, the way you’re so totally and completely overwhelmed and he can feel it and he loves it. 

“Baby,” he breathes, and he meant to say a lot more than that, but it’s the best he can manage when he is this overstimulated. “Baby,” he whispers again, wrapping his arms around you in an effort to ground you, to give you something else to focus on as you both get used to the feeling. 

It’s going well—for a moment, before your back is arching. 

“Spence, I need to move, I can’t—”

“Okay, okay.” He takes a deep breath, returning his hands to your waist and mentally preparing himself not to cum early. He’s desperate to give you want you want, to feel you like this. “Go ahead. Move, honey. Please.”

By the time you slowly lift your hips up and drop back down with a low cry, Spencer’s lost. His head falls back against the pillow and his eyes squeeze shut. 

“Fuck,” he groans. “Oh, angel, I missed you.”

You do it again, motivated by his praise, and he can hear your little gasps and desperate gulps of air. 

“I missed you so much,” you whine and clench around him, pleasure so intense it’s a resounding ache in the far reaches of your body. “Oh, fuck, Spencer.”

Spencer shivers. He loves when you make it personal, when you say his name like that and it becomes clear this isn’t just about the physical.

“My girl. Just like that. Doing so well, baby, just like that.”

Each pass of your hips has you whining. Your lips skim over his neck, not cognizant enough to actually kiss—only to know that you want the contact. 

“Please can I go faster?”

Spencer almost doesn’t realize you’re speaking to him he’s so lost in pleasure. The idea of faster is as compelling as it is troublesome. Spencer doesn’t know if he can’t take faster, not when he has you like this, but he certainly wants to find out. 

“Yeah, lovely. Do whatever feels good.”

You readjust and begin to pick up the pace, stumbling over a few false starts as it’s clearly more sensation than you’d been prepared for. 

Spencer, on the other hand, has his eyes screwed shut tight, and is attempting to draw a two-dimensional Császár polyhedron on your back, but he loses his place with every twitch of your hips, so eventually he decides to trace imperfect Mandelbrots down your spine—anything to avoid thinking about how the pH of your body interacts with sweet vanilla perfume to create a scent so deeply intoxicating he’d leave his entire life behind just to trail after it, or how you fucking feel against him, on top of him, around him, how miraculous it is that you keep letting him touch you—

“Oh—” you whine quietly, a strangled sort of noise that has his heart skipping. Your hand tangles desperately in his hair as you rock your hips faster and faster and he lets out a tortured groan. “Spencer, oh my fucking god.”

“I know, baby,” he manages, endeared by the fact that you feel so good you have to share it with him. Even now you’re trying to explain it because you want him to be part of it—as if he doesn’t know exactly what you’re feeling already. “That feels good, huh?”

“Mm—f—eels—” you cut yourself off with a cry into the crook of his neck, and he holds the back of your head, vision greying as he stares unseeing at the ceiling because if he looks down this’ll be over too soon. 

“You’re so good,” he breathes, “you’re perfect.”He hears you gasp at the same time as your rhythm falters, and presses a kiss somewhere indiscriminately on your head. “Gonna cum?” He murmurs in your ear, and you nod desperately, rutting against him hopelessly as your thighs tremble from exertion. 

Even the smallest drop-off in friction has his head spinning like he stood up too quickly, so he gives himself enough leverage to start fucking you. You cry out and shift your weight like you’re going to try and evade the feeling—self-sabotage, you always do this—and he again has to hold your hips in an iron vice, just to force you to feel it. 

“You’re okay, I’m gonna get you there.”

“Fuck!” You very nearly yell, still trying to wriggle away up until the very last second like the tide going out before the tsunami comes. When you do cum, your demeanor instantly changes—you get heavy and clingy and whiny as you rock back and forth through your orgasm. 

“Good girl,” Spencer murmurs, being careful in the way he continues to fuck you until he reaches his peak as well, not long after. You shudder, and Spencer feels the way your entire body tenses the way it sometimes does after a particularly strong orgasm, and he fights his way out of the brain fog to rub your back with the skimming tips of his fingers. “Shh. You’re okay. Relax, baby.”

And you do, unwound by the dance of his hand and with a few shallow breaths that gradually deepen, until you’re once more slack on top of him. 

“You’re incredible,” he exhales, with his lips pressed to your hairline. 

So clearly overwhelmed, the only response you can muster is a soft squeak. Spencer laughs fondly, still mapping the soft curve of your back. He feels the way you’re still attempting to train your breathing and kisses your hair again. “What do you need, angel?”

“I’m s’posed to be taking care of you,” you slur. Spencer chuckles again and his brow knits. 

“According to who?”

“According to… I was on top…”

“Yeah. You did all the hard stuff. Your legs are shaking.”

You whine softly. “No they’re not.”

His hand slides down to your thigh, and he rubs the trembling muscles. 

“No? No Bambi legs for me this time?”

You squeeze them around his waist like you could shrink away from his touch. “Spence…”

“I’m teasing you, honey,” he murmurs, pressing kisses wherever he can reach. “You’re cute.”

“Hm.”

“Look at me,” he murmurs, angling his head expectantly as you slowly raise yours. The look on your face is so sweet—eyes half lidded, lips swollen and much higher in color than usual. Your cheek is warm to the touch. His heart flutters like it did on your first date, and the first time he kissed you, and the first time you fell asleep on his shoulder. This view will never get old. “Wow. Look at you, beautiful girl. Can I have a kiss?”

And you grant him his wish, with a long, soft kiss that’s worth every second of that burning feeling in his lungs, every time. 

Eventually you huff out the remainder of your air against his well-kissed lips and your head flops to his chest. 

“I’m sleepy.”

“So go to sleep,” he murmurs, so warm from your kiss he feels nothing could be wrong in the world at this moment. 

“I can’t.”

“Why’s that?”

“’Cause you just got home ’nd I missed you and I wanna spend time with you.”

“We have three days to spend together. If you go to sleep now, we’ll actually get more time together tomorrow.”

“But it’s more about, like, how it feels—how much time it feels like we spend together right when you get home, and if I go to sleep now, it’s gonna feel like less time, and—basically you’re just not understanding my math.”

“What math?” He laughs, continuing to rub your legs all the way up to your hips, at which point you hiss and buck—a very visceral feeling when he’s still inside of you. “What? What hurts?”

“You tried to fucking tear my hip flexors from my body, is what hurts,” you grumble. 

“Tender?”

“Mhm.”

“I’m really sorry, angel. Tylenol?”

“Mm-mm. Can you kiss me better?” Sleep stains your voice. Spencer smiles to himself. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Lie down.”

Again you whine as you slip off of him, landing heavily on your back. He sits up, watches with so much affection the way you squeeze your thighs together and arch ever so slightly against the empty feeling. 

“Spencer?” You whisper as he cups the top of your knees. 

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

He pushes your legs apart gently so he can settle in between them and kisses you again. “I love you. So much.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

He presses a kiss to your head, down your neck, taking the scenic route to your hip bones, but you don’t seem to mind. 

The feeling of his lips gentle on the tender flesh has you humming softly, eyes fluttering shut as he showers you with gentle kisses. His traces every place his fingers had pressed earlier—feels the way you relax further underneath him. Nobody’s ever let him in this deeply before, but you trust him with everything you have; your body, your soul, in life or death, awake and in sleep. He’ll never take that for granted. He will never pass on an opportunity like this, to be the one who takes care of you, who puts you back together, as long as you’ll let him. 

Still dancing the line of consciousness, you part your legs, the slow drag of your bare thigh like a jumper cable to his heart. Fingertips trace desirous paths up your inner thigh and back down again. He recognizes this invitation for what it is, and he knows exactly how to give you what you want, but he asks first anyway. 

“Was that on purpose?”

“I d’know what you mean. I’m so sleepy,” you slur, and he believes the second half of your statement to be fact. 

Spencer pushes your thigh a little higher, and you’re completely pliable for him, completely gorgeous. As soon as he skims your thigh with a barely-there kiss, exactly the way you like, you’re lacing a hand in his hair. 

“Please, Spence…” you murmur, and he can’t argue with that. He especially can’t argue when you widen your legs just that slightest bit more, and your arousal is opalescent between your legs. 

He hums, trailing more kisses up until he’s setting the softest one yet against your clit. “Beautiful girl…”

The following gasp is so tiny he could’ve missed it if he wasn’t so attuned to your noises—and then he gets lost in you, making sure to keep his ministrations light as you already came twice recently and are sure to be sensitive. He doesn’t want to wake you from whatever twilight half-slumber trance you’re in, either, sensing that if he does you’ll fight all over again to stay up.

And admittedly, he adores being trusted to take care of you like this.

Your back arches as much as you’re capable of in this state, and he can’t help the way he just barely suctions onto you at that moment, coaxing a sighing moan so sweet and vulnerable and open it gives him chills. Fuck. He really wants to make you cum. But instead he practices patience, tracing you with the tip of his tongue, pressing gentle kisses everywhere you need them—he draws it out. For he doesn’t know how long. 

The first time you get close, your hips begin to roll, and you spout little ah’s, but he talks you back down again, laughing lightly at your angelic cooing, your little sounds of sleepy pleasure. Even now you’re so responsive, moving against his mouth as he slips a finger into your soaked entrance, fucks you for a moment, and then retreats. Maybe he’s being unfair, but you don’t seem to mind. 

In fact, you’re slipping in and out of sleep as he devours you for what feels like hours, one hand pressed lovingly to your stomach, stroking the soft skin there. Spencer’s never had this long to explore you with his mouth and he takes full advantage of every moment, but he keeps all his kisses and licks and touches gentle and reverent and so loving. 

You don’t know how long it’s been, or how many times he’s made you cum when he finally retreats—you half-wake just as he’s finishing cleaning you up. Soon he tosses the towel aside and presses feather-light kisses to each of your cheeks, tear-stained and warm with pleasure. You feel completely drained and completely loved. 

“Hi, sleeping beauty,” he murmurs, climbing into bed with you, at some point having gotten dressed. 

You manage an embarrassed little laugh. More tears crawl down your cheeks as you roll to your side. Spencer brushes them away and pulls you into him, slinging your thigh over his waist. He chuckles. 

“Shaky?”

“Stop,” you whine, embarrassed by his teasing, and hide your face against his chest. “That’s not my fault.”

“It’s nobody’s fault. It’s sweet,” he insists as he rubs your back. And then, a moment later, “So—do you think we’ve spent enough time together for tonight?”

“No.”

He sighs good-naturedly. 

“You’re gonna wear me out, you know that?”

“’F you… can’t handle the heat… get outta the kitchen.”

When he next speaks you can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Go to sleep, Bambi. Let’s see if you can walk in the morning.”

[trans-leek-cookie]

vague thought but I feel like we and I mean like. Everyone of us needs to learn to like. Idk self reflect and learn not to be voyeurs... Like this is abt myself as well. Specifically in cases of real life tragedy, like, when do we go from learning abt something to using it to feed a sort of entertainment (in a similar way to a horror movie)? How do we learn to identify when something is excessive? Sure, details can be important, but when do they stop teaching and start just being fuel for a morbid fascination?

[osaemu]

GOJO SATORU: ❛❛ IS IT OVER NOW? (IT ISN'T) ❜❜

.ೃ࿐ streamer!au: all good things come to an end, including your relationship—but don't worry, broken hearts can be mended, but only if you're both willing to try.

contents: fem!reader. you two break up and make up! you guys fight/break up over something that coulda been resolved with better communication. kinda suggestive ending, maybe i'll drop a part two if this does alright. satoru announces your break-up on his stream. longest fic i've posted so far, 4k words (kms).

author's note: the long awaited angst has finally arrived.. big thank you to @screampied for beta-reading!! tagging @yunymphs who read it early and @sutorus + @kentopedia who i both miss very much!!

ever since you first joined satoru on his stream, it’s gotten way more popular than either of you could’ve ever expected. before he brought you onto his live, he was averaging about eight thousand views per stream. now, his average was well over fifteen thousand—and that wasn't even including the publicity he got from other websites. when satoru accidentally left the camera on while you two made out, you two went viral on twitter. and when another user tried to swipe him away, the clip got over a hundred thousand views on youtube.

at first, satoru didn't mind the change his stream was going through—in fact, he welcomed it. but lately, things have been… different.

last week, while satoru was playing in some competition, he won first out of hundreds of equally proficient players. had it been anyone else, their comments would've been filled with congratulations and good job's, but in his case, all satoru got were messages asking where you were. that wasn’t the first time—ever since that very first day, when you showed up on his stream, satoru’s audience has entirely shifted. and honestly, if you were in his position, you'd be a bit annoyed. anyone would be. 

but you had never expected that it would be so big of a deal that you and satoru—the "cutest couple on the internet"—would break up over it.

you walk along the chilly, suburban sidewalk up to your boyfriend’s house. satoru had just sent you a message asking if you could come over, and like always, you answered with an immediate yes. a flock of crows fly by, raven feathers providing a stark contrast between them and the pale gray sky around you. it’s gray and gloomy, but not unpleasant. 

a sweet, romantic song plays in your ears as you knock three times on satoru’s front door. his familiar voice calls out “coming!”, and you can hear his footsteps grow louder and louder until he swings open the door. satoru smiles down at you, cheeks already rosy from the cold winter air. “hey.”

you tilt your head and smile back at him. “that’s all i get? hey?” you huff, walking into his living room behind him as the door closes behind you. “d’you have any hot chocolate? i’m freezing,” you say, licking your lips. satoru turns and pauses, an unreadable expression on his face. “satoru?”

after a moment, your boyfriend snaps out of it. “oh, yeah, sorry,” he says ruefully. satoru rubs his eyes with one hand and uses the other to open the door to his bedroom, and as you follow him in, you’re hit with a blast of warm air. “i’m just kinda tired, but yeah, i have some hot cocoa in here. c’mon.”

“anything i can do for you?” you offer, sitting down on the corner of his bed. you’ve been to his house so many times that it feels like home—maybe even more so than your own place. everything about satoru’s room is comfortable, from his plush chairs to the faux-fur blankets draped over every single piece of his furniture. you could probably fall over at any given point and it wouldn’t actually hurt—you’d just land on something soft and/or fluffy.

but that wasn’t all that made you so in love with his home. it was just the way it felt—words couldn’t describe the way everything was just so right and just so perfect, and you really did hope that you’d never have to see a time where you wouldn’t be able to spend time with your boyfriend here.

it really is a shame that all good things had to come to an end. at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself as satoru finally told you why he called you over. unlike nearly every other time, it wasn’t because he missed you or wanted to cuddle—it was quite the opposite, really.

“i don’t think this is working.”

six words that shattered the life you had come to know and love.

“is this a joke?” you try, an unnerved smile spreading across your lips against your will. he doesn’t reply instantly, which is so out-of-character for him that it makes you stiffen up. “satoru, this isn’t funny—”

“i’m not kidding,” satoru murmurs, looking away. he refuses to meet your eyes, and some part of you is still desperately trying to find reason in the chaos that’s slowly taking over your mind. how could it be that everything was just fine two minutes ago and now it’s anything but that? did something happen? did you say the wrong thing? did you—

“it’s not funny,” you insist, still somehow clinging onto your slowly-dwindling hope. maybe you’re in denial, but still, you were sure that everything was fine—no, that everything is fine. there was no past-tense, right? how could the glass home you’d built with your bare hands just crash down at the throw of a pebble?

satoru finally meets your eyes, and your breath catches in your throat. there’s no amused glimmer in his eyes, no “just kidding” in sight, and even worse, you can’t even see an ounce of the love or adoration you’d come to grow so attached to in just a couple months.

“what happened?” you whisper, miraculously managing to keep yourself together. you’d never forgive yourself if you just started crying over a breakup you weren’t even sure was happening—what little’s left of your pride is holding on. you allow yourself to wrap your arms around your chest, curling into your own embrace. 

satoru doesn’t reply for a long second. right when you’re sure he just won’t reply, he does, and it all comes spilling out in a messy stream of words. “it’s just… i can’t do this anymore. i can’t keep going online and seeing everyone on my stream talking about you. i love you, i really do, but it’s just—” satoru shakes his head frustratedly. “i don’t know how to say it, but you know what i mean, right?”

your eyebrows furrow and you shake your head. “you’re breaking up with me because you’re tired of seeing me?”

“no, fuck,” satoru groans, running a hand through his hair. his previously cool and collected demeanor starts to fall apart as he takes a step back. “i don’t know how to explain it, but— shit, you wouldn’t understand.”

you swallow and start to stand up, still willing to try. “then help me understand, satoru, i—”

“you’ve seen the comments, and you’ve seen all the posts on twitter,” satoru says, tilting his head back and glaring at the ceiling. “it’s not your fault, but i really just can’t stand everyone disregarding me and turning my own stream into a youtube channel starring you.”

his words sting like alcohol in an open wound, and you fight the battle of your life to prevent the thousands of tears hiding behind your eyes from being visible. even so, your voice wobbles ever so slightly as you say “that’s a bullshit reason to break up, satoru—”

your boyfriend—is he even still your boyfriend?—scoffs and shakes his head, stumbling back and falling into his chair. "for you, it isn't. you wouldn’t understand. for me, it's like everyone's just... invalidating the three years i've spent on this shit. and i can't do it anymore, i just can't."

you blink slowly, backing away towards his bedroom door. "what does that mean?"

satoru exhales a bitter laugh and turns away, the back of his chair facing you. you think you can hear him take a soft, shaky breath as the room falls silent. neither of you make a sound before satoru turns back toward you, a blank look on his face.

he looks up at you, azure eyes devoid of the sparkle you've become so familiar with. satoru smiles sadly, but to your dismay, there's no real emotion behind it. it's almost like he's already accepted it when he says, "it means we—" he pauses and looks away. "this is over."

you reach out toward him, desperate to hold on to him—to the invisible string that ties you and satoru together, but he's just out of your grasp. "satoru, it isn't even that big of a deal, why are you—"

satoru turns and fixes you with a stern glare, and just like that, the string that kept you and satoru together for months, maybe years snaps, and you're left with a limp strand of what it once was. taking the hint, you walk out of his room in a daze, hardly noticing the way he says "i'm sorry".

and the worst part? he said he still loved you. but apparently that wasn’t enough.

satoru has every right to be annoyed that his stream is only growing because of you—his stream was the way he made money, and after all, it was never meant to be about you. 

and maybe he was never meant to be for you either.

the walk home is cold and lonely. you slip a hand into your pocket—the pocket of satoru's hoodie, which you should probably return to him—and extract your earphones. it probably isn't a good idea to wear both outside as you walk home, but you do it anyway—this day can't possibly get any worse.

a soft voice murmurs words of sorrow and encouragement in your ear as the music takes you to another world. maybe this—the breakup—was meant to happen. maybe it was a mistake to date a boy with thousands of fans.

as soon as you get home, your phone dings softly. you pick it up and frown when you see it's from toru. you'd have to change that name later.

toru: idk if u blocked me already but i still have a lot of ur things, do u wanna come pick them up later?

toru: or i can drop them off tmrw ig

you miss the way he used to text you—with an obnoxious amount of exclamation points and an even worse amount of emojis. now, it's like all of the flavor's gone from his words, and it hurts. that's when it actually settles in, that this is really over. it hurts like an icicle being driven straight through your heart, and it stings like one, too.

satoru's texts are left on delivered for five whole minutes before you reply, and it's only with an "i'll come by tmrw". he likes the message less than a minute later, and you're left to wallow in your misery alone until you finally drift off to sleep.

the next morning, you open your phone to a notification alerting you that satoru’ll be live on stream in ten minutes. curiosity kills the cat, but in this case, maybe it’d be worth it to see what he tells his viewers about your breakup. after all, there’s no way he wouldn’t tell them—he always had something to say about you, and he’d probably rather tell them for sure rather than let them come up with ridiculous theories on their own.

so you hastily make a new account using some email account you haven’t touched since middle school, trying a couple different passwords until you remember the one that works. the website hits you with a hundred questions, asking you about your favorite games and who’d you like to subscribe to first. you choose satoru, albeit after a second of hesitation. two minutes later, sparklingzebra672 joins your ex-boyfriend’s stream. you wait a second, holding your breath as the live loads. a brief moment later, satoru’s painfully familiar face appears on your screen.

“hey guys,” satoru says, forcing a smile on his face. even from behind a screen, you swear you can feel his eyes on you. “how’s everyone today?” 

the already unstable smile on satoru’s face falls when he opens the comments and gets greeted with a flurry of where’s your girlfriend’s. had you been anyone else, you probably wouldn’t have noticed the way satoru’s eyes dulled ever so slightly or the way he curled into himself, but being the girl who once knew him best, you could tell.

“oh, she won’t be back on here for… a while,” satoru starts, dancing around the topic. he leans back against his chair and tilts his chin up, azure eyes focused on the ceiling. “we broke up.”

nothing could’ve prepared you for the way satoru’s comments explode. it’s almost like you can hear the shocked gasps coming from all fourteen—no, twenty thousand viewers as the words nobody thought would ever they’d hear from satoru are spoken.

suguru-geto: holy shit im so sorry 

toji-fushiguro: wait wtf r u kidding?? that's fuckin crazy

yuuji-itadori: omg i thought u guys were together forever :(

inumaki: chat is this real??

satoru shrugs, averting his eyes from the hundreds of comments pouring in, but you scroll through and read them all. everyone, even satoru’s haters, seems genuinely shocked. in fact, had this not been your own breakup, you would’ve been one of them, begging and pleading satoru for more details.

“yeah, we did,” satoru murmurs, eyebrows furrowing just enough for you to read his expression. now that you’re looking closer, you can see the subtle redness underneath his eyes—had he been crying too? and maybe you’re imagining it, but his hair seems a bit dishelved too. your ex-boyfriend shrugs, forcing his face back into his usual lighthearted expression, but it’s not fooling anyone.

satoru scowls at the new flood of comments asking him why you two broke up. some people are already hypothesizing—maybe it’s because you got jealous of his fame, or maybe he got sick of you. maybe you left him to go date some other streamer, or maybe—

“i’m actually gonna end the stream here, ‘cause i don’t really want to deal with all of this right now,” satoru says with a frown. his eyes are narrowed irritably as a couple users protest, still begging for more details. “you guys know that i’m a real person with my own life, right? fuck off.”

and just like that, the stream ends. you’re left with a blank screen and a message saying that satoru’s ended the live, so you shut your laptop. your stomach turns as you groan, just remembering that you have to go over to his place later to retrieve your things, and somehow, you’d have to pretend that you didn’t just stalk his stream to see if he’d say anything substantial about the breakup.

a couple minutes after the stream ends, your phone blows up—every mutual friend you and satoru have is messaging you about what he said, but you can’t bring yourself to open any of them. except for one.

suguru: r u ok?

you: yeah ig

suguru: do u want anything?

satoru’s best friend’s question catches you off-guard—there are a lot of things you want. you want this whole situation to go away. you want the world to disappear. and most of all, you want satoru back, without the online world attached.

but suguru can’t do any of those things, can he? so you leave him on read. 

somehow, you fall back asleep, tossing and turning in your bed without satoru’s steady arms to accompany you. a couple hours later, you wake up again, wincing from the dim sunlight that pours through your windows and directly into your eyes. it’s just past five, so you figure that you might as well go down to satoru’s house and get your things. better to do it now than drag it out for an uncertain amount of time.

the walk is shorter than you remember, but maybe it’s just the absence of music pouring into your ears that makes it seem that way. you watch the wilted autumn leaves flutter in the wind, falling down onto the sidewalk like pieces into place. once upon a time, you had walked these very streets with satoru—it’s a fond memory you remember only all too well.

when you finally step onto your ex’s doorstep, the door opens before you even have a chance to knock. and there he is—the boy who’d once been the love of your life. satoru looks down at you with an unreadable expression. “hey.”

you think you’ve seem this film before, and you didn’t like the ending.

satoru spares you from having to reply by opening the door wider and beckoning you inside. “i already put most of your stuff into a couple boxes, but i thought you’d wanna check on your own. just in case i forgot something.”

you nod and walk past him, not trusting your voice to be steady. this was harder than you expected—much harder. in fact, you’re practically on the verge of breaking down when you step into satoru’s room and look around and see just how different it looks without the touches of you everywhere.

the fortnite poster you’d given him as a joke for the second anniversary of his stream was gone from his wall, and so were the two mini succulents that used to sit on the corner of his desk. the white cat plushie that used to rest on his pillow was gone, too—probably stuffed somewhere in one of the boxes outside his bedroom door.

after nearly a minute of looking around, you decide that whatever satoru possibly could’ve missed wasn’t important enough for you to have to stick around any longer.

you turn and start to exit satoru’s room so fast that you nearly crash into him when he suddenly appears in the doorway. “shit, sorry about that,” you mumble, trying to walk around him. but of course, because the universe is actually praying on your downfall, you and satoru both walk the same way at the same time. you awkwardly try to go around each other, and eventually, the humiliation is over.

“so, you got everything?” satoru asks, walking beside you with his hands in his pockets. you nod, bending over to pick up one of the two boxes. it’s pretty heavy, but not unmanangable. you just don’t really seem to know if you’ll be able to carry both back home at once. 

“oh, uh, i’ll be right back,” you say tentatively. a flash of confusion appears in satoru’s eyes, so you clarify, “i’m gonna go grab my car. that’ll make it easier.”

satoru’s eyebrows furrow and he shakes his head. “no, it’s alright. your place isn’t far from here at all, i’ll just take the other and walk back with you.”

“no, really, it’s alright.”

“it’s the easiest option, ba—” satoru cuts himself off, stopping himself from calling you baby for the first time since you two had started dating. “sorry.”

“let’s just go.”

the walk back to your house is brutal. you walk side by side with satoru since the path is wide enough for you to do so, and you two just keep bumping into each other. had you still been dating, satoru probably would’ve dropped the box and scooped you up instead, kissing your cold face to warm it up. of course, that would’ve added five minutes to your walk, but it would’ve been better than the tense silence dividing you and satoru right now. 

the wind whistles around you, brushing at your skin and making you shiver with every gust—there’s nothing more you’d like than to go home, plop on your couch and cry while watching the titanic for the hundredth time. 

after what seems like three hundred awkward hours later, you and satoru finally make it to your house. “thanks,” you say quietly, setting down your box in front of the door. 

satoru places his next to yours and slips his hands back into his pockets. he nods and replies, “no problem,” but still doesn’t leave.

you cross your arms, and tilt your head, meeting his eyes hesitantly. “umm, do you need anything else?”

satoru coughs tensely and shrugs. “oh, uh, not really, just—” his eyes drift down to your top, and your face grows warm when you realize you’re still wearing his hoodie. 

“shit, my bad,” you mumble, internally cringing and resisting the urge to say every curse word you know. could this day really get any worse?

well, at least satoru looks equally as embarrassed. he shakes his head and gestures for you to keep it on. “it’s fine, it’s kinda cold anyways. keep it.” satoru hesitates, shuffling his feet before continuing, “if you want something… to remember me by.”

what you say next was done entirely against your will. “do you still love me?” you ask suddenly, not sure what otherworldly force prompted you to do so. you instantly regret it when satoru’s face goes even redder, and you can tell it’s not from the cold the way his blush spreads to his ears.

“i— uh, i mean—”

“answer me, satoru, i think i have a right to know.”

he looks away and mumbles something about needing to go back home, to feed his fish or something (he doesn’t have a fish), and you grab his hand just as he starts to turn away. “please, satoru, i need to know,” you breathe, squeezing his hand harder when he flinches. 

ten silent seconds tick by, but you still don’t let go. so satoru sighs, a soft white puff of air coming from his lips. “yeah.”

your heart breaks again.

“then why did you—”

“because i don’t know how to do this,” satoru says, blue eyes darting all over the place. “i love you, i really do, but i just can’t— i don’t like having thousands of people thinking that i’m only worth looking at if i’m with you, it’s annoying and it pisses me off and i don’t want to accidentally take it out on yo—”

you cut him off with a kiss, ignoring the way he yelps a little in surprise. but thankfully, he doesn’t push you away—instead, his arms instantly wrap around you and pull you closer into his warm, warm chest. satoru’s lips are a little dry, but still minty as ever from the peppermints he’s constantly munching on. he kisses you back like a man starved of affection, and when you two finally break apart, his eyes are just as hungry.

“you idiot,” you whisper, trailing your fingers through his hair as tears prick at the corner of your eyes. “you shoulda just talked to me about it first.”

“i know,” satoru mumbles, looking down bashfully. “‘m sorry.”

“you should be.” you pause, watching satoru’s lips curve into a pouty frown. “i’m sorry too,” you murmur, and he looks up, confused. “i should’ve seen this coming.”

satoru shakes his head and presses his lips to your forehead, lingering for a couple seconds before pulling back. “i missed you.”

“i was gone for less than a day, satoru.”

“oh, so you didn’t miss me?”

“i did,” you admit, exhaling a puff of air when satoru smiles smugly. “shut up, it’s not a competition!”

“yeah it is, but fine, you win,” satoru gives in with a dramatic sigh, reaching down and twining his fingers with yours. his hands, which are significantly bigger than yours, instantly warm you up. “but only ‘cause i don’t want you to break up with me next.”

“i hate you, y’know that?” you grumble, leaning into his side and letting satoru kiss the top of your head. he hums in agreement, reaching out and opening your front door. 

“i’m sure you do, baby. now c’mon, let’s get inside n’ warm up. i wanna make it up to you,” satoru says with a grin, bending over and scooping up both boxes. 

“oh, yeah? how do you plan to do that?” you challenge, going inside first and holding the door open for satoru. once he’s inside, you close the door and instantly get pinned against it by satoru, whose hands are already creeping underneath your clothes. “satoru, your hands are col—”

he cuts you off by pressing his equally cold lips to yours, smiling against your mouth as he tugs at your clothes. “i know, baby. but i’ll keep you nice n’ warm for the rest of the night, i promise!”

[parfaitblogs]

false god ❀ s. reid x reader

in which spencer (literally) cannot wait to show you how pretty he thinks you are tonight. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: smut (18+ mdni) tags: established relationship. public stuff. fingering. the team is there. readers wearing a skirt. he looooves you. they're at a bar. kinda soft dom!spence but like only if you squint. i have never posted smut before if im missing tags tell meee word count: 1.9k a/n: biting the bullet. posting smut (shudders). i have a singular roman empire and it is spencer reid plus fingering. i think about it sooo often. i do not think he would be the type to actually do this in public so yes it is self indulgent yes u can all call me crazy!! idgaf!!! i feel like the pacing in this is kinda weird pls forgive i never write smut :< if it's bad don't tell me let me be blissfully ignorant thank YEW!!

You were pretty sure there was something wrong with him (Spencer Reid). Something fundamentally broken in his brain, because he had not said a word to you that made sense from the second he picked you up from your apartment that evening. 

A lot of 'mhm's' and 'yeah's', which from maybe any other man would be normal, was not from him. He didn't speak incredibly eloquently, per se. But he did always respond to you in sentences. He liked to talk, so this lack of it was concerning you. 

He was seated next to you, in the booth Penelope Garcia had scouted out the second she stepped foot into the bar you were all meeting at. It was supposed to be a simple evening. Some drinks, some talking, winding down after the awful case you had just come back from. Spencer's lack of talking had you feeling anything but (simple). 

"Are you okay?" you had asked him when half the team stood up to go purchase the second round of drinks for everyone, and he wordlessly nodded his head, staring at the glass of water on the table in front of him, condensation sweating down to the wood. 

He wasn't. But there was only so much you could do for him when he was shutting down, especially in a public setting, so you nodded your own head, and settled into conversation with JJ instead. 

His hand found your thigh at some point during the conversation, and while you had flinched at its first contact, you didn't think much of it — he was never one for huge displays of affection, but he loved having his hands on you. An act as simple as a hand on your back had you swooning now, because you knew in his mind, he was thinking everything there was to possibly think about you. 

What you did think much of, was the way it crept higher as the team returned with drinks, and the noise from your booth got louder as conversations clashed with each other. 

Your head turned to the side, eyebrows furrowing, but he was still staring at his half-drank glass of water, with no real expression on his face. Frustratingly so.

He was never cruel, you learned. It was why his next action didn't occur until you had finished your sentence to JJ, as if to prevent what would've been your vocal chords tightening and lifting the octave of your voice as you spoke. 

It was such a featherlike touch it was hardly there, and you probably wouldn't have noticed it if he didn't do it again. And again. And again. One of his fingers brushing delicately over the centre of your underwear in a quick swiping motion, that had your head snapping to the side, meeting his jawline and his unwavering gaze with his glass of water. 

"Spencer," you muttered, and it was only then did he tilt his head down to look at you, raising an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

His hand wrapped around the side of your inner thigh and tugged you across the seat, closer to him, his head ducking down to speak. 

"You're really pretty," he murmured, and your eyebrows only furrowed further at that.

"Thank you," you decided to say. "But what are you doing?"

"I just wanna touch you. Is that okay?"

You were silent for a moment. Maybe a moment too long, because he was already pulling his hand off your thigh, nodding his head.

"I mean, yes," you quickly say, catching his wrist before it could stray too far. "I was just confused where this was coming from."

"I really like the skirt," he explained, and your lips parted and an amused huff of air left them. Of course.

"Me too."

"Need you to wear it more often," he then said, his hand finding its way back between your thighs. "Please?"

"Maybe," you said, because it was all you could say, considering he was moving things along a little bit faster now that you had consented (not that you think you would've denied it). 

His ministrations were small enough that you could keep your voice steady as you kept conversation going with JJ, but firm enough that you squirmed every thirty seconds. He, on the other hand, was acting as though he was doing nothing to you, engaged in a conversation about the origins of pasta, with David Rossi. 

"I mean, in Greek mythology, it suggests that the Greek god Vulcan invented a device that made strings of dough. Which could be classified as the first spaghetti," he said, and at the same time, his fingers slipped beneath your underwear, brushing over your embarrassingly wet folds. 

You watched him stiffen, only because you had killed your conversation with JJ with one too many 'uh-huh's', and his jaw locked.

You were merely observant as he circled your clit a few times, until you were picking up your drink and forcing yourself to sip on it in order to keep your mouth busy — instead of releasing a moan that you really didn't want the team to hear. 

His gaze flicked to you for only half a second, and you met his eyes with an embarrassingly desperate look, and he laughed, oh so quietly, before a finger slipped into you. 

It was so gentle you thought you would go insane, and he rested the finger there for a few seconds as he responded to an argument Rossi had made about the Italian's inventing bolognese or whatever. You weren't really listening. 

The internal war you were dealing with; a pool of fiery butterflies in your stomach and the constant screaming to stay quiet in your brain was a stark contrast to Spencer's relaxed state. Because he had lazily began to move his finger like it was Sunday morning and he was easing you awake, and not in the middle of a Virginia bar with conversations amongst the team happening around you. 

You hated him for that.

Your hips squirmed when he crooked his finger, and your free hand bolted to his wrist, holding his hand still just before he could do it again, and elicit a sound from you.

The second Rossi had become immersed in something Morgan had said, Spencer's gaze was returning to you, an amused smile stretched across his lips. 

"You okay, honey?" he murmured, ducking his face down to kiss your cheek, heat blossoming on the spot. 

"I am trying so hard not to make a noise," you said, and he smiled, and you could feel it against your skin, wonderfully so.

"And you're doing an excellent job of it."

"You know, if you just took me to the bathroom..." you trailed off, eyes flickering up to him. 

"Not happening. Do you know how many germs are in public bathrooms?"

"Probably as many as the seat you're currently fingering me on," you hissed, voice hushed. 

At that, he pushed the heel of his hand against your clit, and you choked out a mewl. 

"I can stop," he said, though it didn't come out as a warning. You knew he only offered it because he would get the reaction of you violently shaking your head. "Right. No bathroom."

"No bathroom," you agreed with a flip of your stomach. 

His attention was captured by a conversation again, and with it, his finger began moving again. He was moving it with such an expertise that if this was any other situation you'd be impressed. Unfortunately, you were a little preoccupied with trying not to make a sound to appreciate how well he knew your body. 

Lazy pumps of his finger had you reeling and he was hardly doing anything, which was definitely going to be embarrassing to think about later on when he brings this up. Like you knew he would. 

Your A+ streak of making no noise was interrupted — quite rudely — by him slipping another finger in, the uncomfortable stretch that only lasted a second eliciting a whimper you couldn't keep to yourself. His eyebrows shot up and you were thankful Rossi had not been looking at him when his gaze rested on you again, and that the music in the bar was loud enough to drown out the sound to anyone who wasn't listening for it. 

"Too much?" he asked, but the second you felt him slowly pulling that second finger back, you were shaking your head, nails digging into the wrist that you still had captured. 

"No. It's not. Promise."

He smiled, and wordlessly nodded his head as he allowed the finger to straighten inside of you. Then, he moved them in and out of you a few times, achingly slowly. 

"Spencer," you breathed out, frustrated. 

"Yes, angel?"

"Can you please... just... go faster," you bit out, heat flushing your cheeks. Again.

"That would make it obvious," he answered, and you let out a huff of air. You knew he was right. "But," he added, upon detecting your annoyance. "I can do this."

He was once again proving how well he knew your body, because his thumb so easily found your clit, and circled it in a way that shot sparks up through your body.

"Yes you can," you agreed, nodding your head eagerly, and he breathed out a chuckle.

It seemed to be a lot easier to do that fast enough and hide what he was doing to you at the same time, because his fingers bent upwards at the same time he flicked his thumb over your clit, and whatever self-control you thought you had was swindled.

Your teeth bit down on the disintegrating paper straw, just to stop the moan that caught in the base of your throat from leaving it, and at that, he did it again. 

Spencer Reid was good at a lot of things. Making you come from the lightest of touches seemed to be joining that long list. Your head buried itself into the forearm of the hand that was touching you, at the same time he used it to push your hips back into the seat when they had begun to lift upwards. 

"You're making it obvious," he said to you, and what you're sure would've been a wonderfully eloquent argument died in your throat when he flicked your clit again. 

"I can't," you managed to get out, shaking your head as your fingers dug perhaps a little too hard into his wrist. 

"No?" he mused, though didn't stop his movements. You shook your head. He smiled. "So you want me to stop?"

"No."

"Mm, you're conflicting yourself, angel," he said, and you groaned for more than just how he was making you feel because you knew that. 

You bit down on his arm through his shirt to silence another moan when he pushed his fingers in a little harder than before, and if it hurt, he didn't say anything. You decided it must not have, because he repeated that movement. 

You were fighting against the need to squirm as your stomach tightened. And he must've figured out what was happening, because he masked your incandescent need to moan by using his opposite hand to entangle within your hair, bringing your face into his chest, acting as a hug to anyone who could see you. 

"There you go," he murmured, awfully gently, in your ear, as your walls fluttered around his fingers. 

You weren't sure if you were imagining your hips jerking until he was slipping his fingers out of you and pushing them down into the seat again.

He wiped his fingers against his pants, and your lips parted, eyes staring at him, dumbfounded. 

"What?" 

You shook your head, regaining a little self control as you settled down. "Nothing. I'm wearing this skirt again, though."

"Good."

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