#but if that is the case‚ then it’s best I backed out early | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joelmillerisapunk · 1 day ago

Text

sweet surrender

Clint x f!reader // 6k

summary: your sleazy boss convinces you to fuck in the break room to a shitty porn tape he rented

warnings: mdni, 18+, porn with minimal plot, sleazy!clint, daddy kink, oral f! and m! receiving, unprotected p in v, fucking at work, fucking to a porn video, reader has titties, edging, orgasm denial

notes: a big huge thank you to @itwasntimethatdidit40 for reading this and being the sweetest cheerleader and for making me a moodboard when I was going through this crisis I love you so very much, @milla-frenchy for reading and leaving me the best comments you are the sweetest bb <3 and a big thank you to @evolnoomym for reading this over too. You are all the best and I love you veryyyyy much. // ty @/darkissoulmybody on Pinterest for the clint pic <3

masterlist

The bell above the door jingles as you step into the dimly lit video store, the scent of old VHS cases and cigarette smoke lingering in the air. The neon glow from the ADULT SECTION sign flickers in the back, casting shadows over the rows of tapes Clint probably hasn’t dusted in a decade.

You spot him behind the counter, feet kicked up, flipping through a magazine like he’s got all the time in the world. His aviators rest low on his nose, and when he glances up at you, a slow smirk spreads across his face.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up.”

You roll your eyes, tossing your bag onto the counter. “I’m five minutes early.”

Clint shrugs, shutting the magazine with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Coulda fooled me. Felt like I was sittin’ here all alone for hours.”

“Tragic.”

“You have no idea.” He leans forward, elbows on the counter, eyes raking over you in that way that’s become annoyingly familiar. “Lucky for me, I’ve got entertainment.”

You don’t have to ask. You already know. Like clockwork, there’s a VHS case sitting right by the register, an X-rated title in bold, red letters across the front. He picks out one every damn week like it’s just part of his routine. Sometimes he even makes you ring it up for him, just to see if you’ll get flustered.

Clint taps the tape with two fingers. “Think this one’s gonna be good?”

You glance at it. Sweet Surrender. Jesus.

You arch a brow. “Didn’t take you for a romance guy.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Clint drawls, grinning like he’s got you right where he wants you. “I got layers.”

You scoff, moving past him to clock in. Clint watches you go, the heat of his gaze pressing into your back. It’s always like this—him looking, teasing, toeing the line just enough to make you wonder if he’d ever actually cross it.

You haven’t figured out yet if you’d let him.

The night drags on slowly, the hum of the old fluorescent lights blending with the occasional creak of the front door. A couple of regulars come and go, renting their usuals, nodding at Clint. You organize the counter, stock a few shelves, and pretend you don’t notice the way Clint always seems to be near.

At some point, you duck into the break room, craving a moment of quiet. The tiny space is cluttered—half-empty soda cans, an old couch that smells like dust, and a mini fridge stocked with questionable leftovers. You lean against the counter, letting out a slow breath.

And then Clint’s there, filling the doorway.

“Escapin’ from me already?” he muses, arms crossing over his broad chest.

You don’t look at him, reaching for the fridge instead. “Just needed a break from your endless charm.”

He chuckles, low and rough. “That so?”

You grab a soda, cracking it open. “Mhm.”

Clint takes another step closer, and this time, you feel it. The heat of him, the scent of cigarettes and cheap aftershave, the way his presence always seems bigger than it should be in a room this small.

"Y’know, sweetheart," he drawls, voice dipped in that slow, southern thing he does when he’s feeling extra cocky, "I don’t think you appreciate me enough."

You take a sip of your soda, deadpan. "So sad."

"That’s what I’m sayin’." He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "I’m here, night after night, keeping this fine establishment running—"

"You sit behind the counter and read Hustler."

"—And in return, do I get so much as a thank you?" He sighs, like he’s been personally victimized. "No, I do not."

You roll your eyes, setting your soda down with more force than necessary. "Thank you, Clint, for gracing this dump with your presence."

He smirks. "Anytime, sweetheart."

You turn to leave, but before you can, Clint starts talking.

"You ever get curious?" he asks, voice all low and knowing.

You frown. "About what?"

Clint taps the VHS tape in his hand. The one he brought into the break room with him. The one he’s now pushing into the old, busted TV set in the corner like this is the most normal thing in the world.

Your stomach drops. "Clint—"

The screen crackles to life. A grainy, oversaturated image flickers on—the unmistakable opening of Sweet Surrender, complete with cheesy saxophone music and a woman moaning through the static.

You stare at the TV. Then at Clint.

"What the fuck, dude?"

Clint just grins, sinking down onto the old couch like this is all one big joke. Like he planned for this reaction. He stretches out, legs spread wide, arm slung over the back like he owns the place.

Like he’s settling in.

"What?" He gestures lazily at the screen. "Figured we could do some, y’know, quality control."

You gape at him. "You did not just put on a fucking porno in the break room."

Clint shrugs, completely unbothered. "Looks like I did."

You’re about to cuss him out, maybe throw your soda at him, when he takes it a step further—because of course he does.

He pats the cushion beside him, smirking. "C’mon, sweetheart. Scared you might like it?"

You scoff, folding your arms tight across your chest. "Oh, fuck off, Clint."

But he just grins wider, eyes glinting. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

"That a no?" he drawls, tilting his head. "Shame. Thought we were friends."

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. "Friends don’t put on softcore porn in the break room."

"Softcore?" Clint clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "Sweetheart, you wound me. You think I’d waste my time on soft anything?"

You open your mouth to fire back, but then a particularly loud, breathy moan cuts through the static, and you feel your face heats up.

Jesus Christ.

Clint watches you, eyes flicking between you and the screen like he’s waiting—hoping—to catch you slipping.

"Y’know," he muses, stretching his arms up behind his head, "you could just not watch. Seems like you’re thinkin’ about it awful hard, though."

You shake your head, biting back the urge to tell him to go to hell. "I’m not thinking about shit."

Clint hums like he doesn’t believe you, like he can see right through you. He stays lounging, legs spread, fingers drumming lazily against his thigh as he turns his attention back to the screen.

Another moan filters through the static.

You grab your soda gripping it tighter. "You’re disgusting."

"And yet, here you are. Still talkin’ to me."

You glare at him, turning for the door. "I have actual work to do."

But before you can take a step, Clint clicks his tongue. "Ah, ah, ah—why don’t you sit down, sweetheart?"

Your spine goes stiff. "What?"

He gestures to the empty space beside him. "Take a load off. Ain’t like we’re busy."

You scoff. "Not happening."

Clint exhales, long and slow, like this is just another inconvenience to him. Then, he says it.

"You sure? ‘Cause if you’re not in the mood to be a team player…" He lets the words hang, lazy and sharp at the same time. "I could always find someone else to cover your shifts."

Your stomach drops. "Are you—" You stop yourself, clenching your jaw. "Seriously?"

He grins, all teeth. "Dead serious."

Your pulse kicks up, anger boiling under your skin. "You’re gonna fire me—because I won’t watch your shitty porn with you?"

"Don’t be dramatic," Clint says, patting the cushion again. "Just tryna boost morale. You don’t wanna be a team player? That’s fine. I’ll just start lookin’ for someone who will."

You glare at him, every part of you screaming to tell him to fuck off, to storm out and never come back.

But rent is due. Your car needs gas. And Clint knows it.

You don’t sit right away. You stand there, arms locked tight, fighting every instinct telling you not to give him the satisfaction.

And Clint just sits there, watching, waiting for you to crack.

Finally, with a sharp inhale, you place your soda down again and drop onto the couch beside him, arms still crossed.

He chuckles low, tilting his head toward you. "See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?"

Your jaw is clenched so tight it aches. "Go to hell, Clint."

Clint just smirks. "Darlin’, I’m already there. Might as well enjoy the view."

Clint spreads his legs enough to make sure you notice. His arm drapes across the back, fingers barely grazing your shoulder, like he’s settling in with you. Like this is comfortable.

For him, anyway.

For you, it’s fucking not.

"Ain’t too bad, huh?" he murmurs, voice all slow and smug.

You fix your gaze on the TV, jaw clenched. "Shut up."

But Clint isn’t the type to shut up.

He watches you instead of the screen, studying the stiff set of your shoulders, the way your arms stay locked tight across your chest. Like you think you can make yourself smaller. Like you think you can ignore him.

But he’s relentless.

He leans in, breath warm against your ear. "Relax, sweetheart. You act like I just asked you to do somethin’ real dirty."

You whip your head toward him, scowling. "This is dirty."

He grins, slow and lazy. "Yeah?" His gaze dips lower, raking over you in a way that makes your skin prickle. "Ain’t even touched you yet."

Fucking hell.

You snap your head back toward the TV, desperate to look anywhere else. The scene playing out is typical cheap VHS smut—bad lighting, a low-budget set, and a woman fake moaning as some guy runs his hands all over her. They’re both already naked, sprawled across a tacky, leopard-print couch that looks stiff and uncomfortable. Her curls bounce as she arches exaggeratedly, lips parted in an over-the-top gasp.

“Mmm, yeah, just like that,” she purrs, dragging her nails lightly down his back, though the gesture looks more like a routine than genuine pleasure.

The guy—tan lines stark against his skin, hair slicked back with too much gel—grunts, his expression unfocused. “You like that?” His voice is low, but the words sound hollow, like he’s said them a hundred times before.

She lets out another moan, forced, too high-pitched to be real. The camera lingers on his hands moving over her, on the way she spreads her legs obligingly, even as her expression flickers—boredom creeping in beneath the act. The whole thing feels mechanical, like they’re just going through the motions, a loop they’ve rehearsed a hundred times before.

“God, you feel so good,” she sighs, her voice sweet, syrupy, and just a little too rehearsed.

The man doesn’t respond, just keeps moving, his rhythm unchanged, like he’s punching a clock. The camera zooms in slightly, grainy and unflattering, the colors oversaturated in that distinct VHS way. It’s all so obvious—cheap, impersonal, bodies going through the motions for the sake of getting paid.

And yet, you can’t quite look away.

Clint hums, tapping his fingers against the couch. "Gotta say, Sweet Surrender ain’t half bad. Got a nice lil’ build-up to it."

You exhale sharply, your patience hanging by a thread. "Do you ever stop talking?"

Clint just chuckles, low and amused. "Not when I’m enjoyin’ myself."

And then—he sprawls out even more, shifting so his knee knocks against yours.

You jerk away. "Clint—"

"What?" He feigns innocence, head tilting. "Ain’t my fault there's not much room on this ratty ol’ couch."

Your hands ball into fists in your lap. "You’re the one who told me to sit here."

He grins again, wolfish and filthy. "And lucky for you, I’m real good at sharin’."

You’re about to snap, about to say something vicious—but then his fingers brush your thigh. Just a ghost of a touch, casual as anything, but pointed.

Deliberate.

Your breath catches, and he notices.

His smirk deepens, voice dropping lower. "Aw, sweetheart. You nervous?"

You swallow hard, forcing your body to stay still. "No."

Clint tsks, shaking his head. "Liar."

And then, the fucker has the nerve to nudge his knee against yours again, slow and deliberate, his fingers tap a lazy rhythm against your thigh.

"You sit here actin’ all stiff, like you don’t wanna be here," he murmurs, his voice damn near silky. "But you haven't left yet."

Your nails dig into your palms. "Because you threatened to fire me."

Clint just grins. "Uh-huh." He leans in again, voice dipping into something rougher. "That the only reason?"

Your heart slams against your chest.

You should get up. Should shove him away, tell him to fuck off, storm out and let him deal with this shitty store all by himself.

But your legs won’t move. Your body won’t move.

And Clint? He just keeps watching you, looking at you like he’s already won.

Like he knows something you don’t.

His smirk turns downright predatory, all lazy amusement and smug satisfaction. "See," he drawls, fingers still moving up your thigh, "you talk a big game, sweetheart, but you like this, don’t you?"

You inhale sharply, turning your head to glare at him. "I do not—"

He chuckles, slow and deep. "Mmm.”

His hand drags a little higher, not quite a grope, but enough to feel. Enough to let you know he’s testing you, waiting for you to stop him.

You should stop him.

But your body betrays you, staying right there, locked in place, heat curling in your stomach in a way you hate.

Clint grins like he can taste your hesitation. "See? Ain’t so bad, am I?"

You grit your teeth, trying to keep your voice steady. "You’re a fucking creep."

He hums, unconcerned. "Maybe."

The TV hums in the background, the flickering glow casting shadows across his face. Another moan filters through the static, obscene and drawn out.

And Clint? He doesn’t look at the screen.

He looks at you and winks.

"Y’know," he muses, voice all slow and smug, "coulda left five minutes ago. Could leave now." His fingers press a little firmer, teasing the edge of your inner thigh. "But you won’t."

Your breath shudders, hands curling into fists.

His lips twitch. "So, tell me, sweetheart. You gonna sit here, act all mad, or you gonna do what we both know you wanna do?"

Your whole body is burning—rage, humiliation, something else you refuse to name.

You need to leave.

And Clint fucking knows it.

His smirk deepens, hand creeping higher, his voice dipping into something rougher, darker.

"That’s my girl."

Your whole body is wound tight, muscles locked, breath shallow.

And that’s when he knows he’s got you.

His smirk turns downright wicked. "C’mon, sweetheart," he murmurs, tilting his head toward his lap. "Why don’t you get a little more comfortable?"

Your breath catches. "Excuse me?"

Clint just pats his thigh, lazy and casual like he’s offering you the comfiest seat in the house. "Ain’t gonna bite. Unless, y’know, you ask real nice."

You should slap him.

He leans in a little more, breath warm against your ear. "I ain’t making you do nothing, doll," he says, slow and deliberate. "You wanna leave? Walk. But you stay sitting here, pretending like you don’t want it? Now that’s just wastin’ both our time."

Your stomach twists, heat coiling low. "You’re so fucking full of yourself."

Clint chuckles, dark and knowing. "Yeah? You ain't gotta pretend you don't like it.”

You hate that he’s right.

Hate that your thighs press together, that your breath is shaky.

You inhale sharply.

Then, slowly, finally—you move.

You shift, hesitating for just a second before you swing your leg over and settle onto his lap.

His hands immediately slide to your hips, gripping firm, like he’s been waiting for this all goddamn night.

"Atta girl," he murmurs, voice all rough approval. His hands flex on your hips, warm and steady, holding you like he’s got all the time in the world. Like he knew you’d end up here eventually. You hate how he leans back just enough to take you in, like he’s already imagining exactly how this is gonna go.

You glare down at him. "Wipe that look off your face."

His smirk only deepens. "What look?"

You don’t answer, because if you do, your voice might shake. Might give something away. Instead, you grab the collar of his cheap button-up, fisting it tight like you’re considering shoving him away. He doesn’t look concerned. If anything, he looks even more pleased.

"Feisty," he murmurs, voice thick with amusement. "Always figured you had a little fight in ya."

You roll your eyes. And then you do it.

You yank him in and crash your mouth against his, all heat and frustration, and fuck you wrapped up in a kiss. Clint makes a sound—low, satisfied, almost like he’d been daring you to do it. His hands tighten, fingers digging in, and then he’s kissing you back, deep and consuming, dragging you under like he owns you.

It’s messy, all clashing teeth and the faint taste of cheap beer and cigarettes on his tongue, but fuck, it’s good. Too good. His hands slide up your sides, rough and sure, thumbs brushing beneath the hem of your shirt, teasing warm skin. You arch into it without thinking, and that’s all the invitation Clint needs—he groans, low in his throat, and suddenly you're moving, flipped onto your back before you can blink.

"Fucking finally," he mutters against your mouth, hands already pushing up your shirt.

You barely have time to register the old couch beneath you before Clint is on you, pressing you down, pinning you like he’s been waiting forever for this moment. His weight is solid, and grounding, and when he dips his head, dragging his lips down the side of your neck, you barely bite back a sound.

"Damn, you smell good," he rasps, voice thick, rough like gravel. "Been driving me fuckin’ crazy for weeks."

Your breath stutters as his teeth scrape over your pulse, the heat of his mouth making your head swim. You should say something, throw one last smartass remark his way—but then his hands are everywhere, tugging your shirt up, palming greedily over your ribs, thumbs teasing just beneath the edge of your bra.

"You gonna help me out here?" he drawls, mouthing along your jaw. "Or you just gonna lay there all pretty and let me do all the work?"

His voice is thick with something dark and amused, but there’s a heat behind it that makes your stomach tighten. You lift your arms, giving him exactly what he wants, and he wastes no time pulling your shirt over your head. The cool air hits your skin, goosebumps rising in its wake, but it's nothing compared to the warmth of his hands as they slide over your bare shoulders, and down your sides. Your bra follows, unhooked with practiced ease, and he groans as he takes you in—eyes dark, hands already reaching.

"Look at you," he murmurs, brushing his thumbs over your nipples, watching the way they pebble under his touch. "Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen."

Then he dips down, mouth hot and eager, dragging wet kisses along the swell of your breast before he takes one into his mouth. His tongue is slow, deliberate, circling, flicking, while one of his hands kneads the other, squeezing just enough to make you gasp.

He hums against your skin, lips dragging lower before he sucks at the sensitive underside, teeth grazing just enough to make you arch into him.

"That feel good, sweetheart?" he murmurs, voice rough, breath warm against your skin. His other hand rolls your nipple between his fingers, teasing, making you whimper. "Bet you like being taken care of, don't you?”

You let out a shaky breath, head tilting back as heat coils low in your belly. His mouth is everywhere—kissing, sucking, teasing—turning you pliant under him. His words send a shiver down your spine, and you barely realize you’re nodding before your lips part to speak.

"Yeah," you admit, voice soft, a little breathless. "I— I like it."

Clint hums against your skin, dragging his teeth along the curve of your breast. "Yeah, I bet you do," he murmurs, fingers rolling your nipple, teasing, making you whimper. "Bet no one's ever really taken care of you before, huh? Not like this." His voice is all gravel and heat, thick with certainty. "Not by a real man.”

Your breath stutters, your fingers twitching where they rest against the couch. The way he’s looking at you—hungry, possessive, like he already knows the answer—makes your pulse race.

"S’okay, sweetheart," he soothes, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss between your breasts. "Daddy’s gonna take real good care of you."

Before you can even process the rush of heat his words send through you, Clint just grins, teeth flashing, and suddenly his hands are on yours, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head in one quick, easy motion.

You open your mouth—to argue, to tell him he’s full of shit—but then he grinds himself against you, and whatever insult you were about to spit out melts into a choked-off gasp.

Clint’s breath is hot against your skin as he leans over you, the flickering light of the TV casting a sinful glow over his face. The low, breathy moans from the video playing beside him fill the cramped break room, mixing with the sound of your own unsteady breathing. His grip on your wrists is firm, keeping you pinned as his hips press hard against yours, the thick outline of his cock grinding insistently where you need him most.

“You hear that? You sound even prettier than she does.”

You bite back a whimper, but he catches it anyway, grinning like the devil himself. His free hand slips under your pants, between your thighs, fingers stroking over the damp fabric of your panties, slow and teasing. The woman on the screen lets out a desperate little cry as the man behind her fucks into her deep, and Clint groans low in his throat.

“Fuck,” he rasps. “You wanna try it?”

Your breath stutters. “What?”

His teeth scrape over your jaw, fingers curling tighter around your wrists as his other hand slides beneath your waistband, fingers dipping into your slick heat. “The way he’s got her. Bent over that couch, takin’ it like a good girl.” He drags his fingers under your panties and through your wetness, teasing, torturing. “Bet you’d look real pretty like that.”

A shiver runs through you, half defiance, half raw, burning need. “And if I say no?”

Clint chuckles, a dark, knowing sound as he draws his fingers out of you, lifting them to his lips to suck them clean, eyes locked on yours the entire time. “Then I’ll just have to fuck you right here, just like this.” His hips press harder, the thick length of him straining against his jeans. “Either way, you’re gettin’ wrecked, sweetheart.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears, breath shallow as you glance at the screen—at the way the man’s hands are gripping the woman’s waist, pulling her back onto him, the obscene sounds of slick skin meeting skin filling the air. Clint’s watching too, tongue swiping across his bottom lip like he can already taste the way you’ll come apart for him.

“Tell daddy what you need,” he orders, voice rough, commanding. “Tell him how you wanna be fucked.”

Your pride wars with your arousal, but the heat in his eyes, the way he’s holding you down, leaves you with only one answer.

“Like that.” Your voice is breathless, shaky, but firm. “Fuck me like that.”

Clint exhales a low chuckle, fingers tightening on your wrists. “Yeah? Knew you had it in you, baby. Knew you’d give in.” His voice is smug, dripping with satisfaction as he leans in, breath hot against your ear. “Say it again. But sweeter this time.” His lips brush your jaw, teasing. “Come on, princess. Call me daddy like you fuckin’ mean it.”

Heat prickles down your spine, your body betraying you as a shiver rolls through you. You grit your teeth, but the way he’s looking at you—like he owns you, like you’re already his—makes resistance feel impossible.

“Fuck me like that… Daddy.”

His eyes darken, his cock twitching against his jeans. “That’s my good girl.”

In one swift movement, he releases your wrists, flipping you onto your stomach against the couch. The cushions sink beneath you as Clint tugs your pants and underwear down in one rough motion, his large hands knead at your ass before delivering a sharp slap that makes you gasp. “Goddamn, look at that,” he groans, spreading you open with both hands, his thumbs pressing into your skin. “Can’t wait to see this pretty ass bounce on my cock—gonna make you work for it, baby.” he groans, palming himself through his jeans before undoing his belt.

He tugs the leather free with one sharp pull, letting it drop to the floor with a heavy thud. Then he slides a hand down between your thighs, his fingers spreading you open even further.

“And look at this pretty pussy,” he murmurs, his voice thick with hunger. “Fuck, baby, she’s already so wet for daddy.” He drags a finger through your slick folds, slow and teasing, before bringing it to his mouth. His groan is low, filthy, as he sucks your taste from his fingers.

“Sweet as fuck,” he mutters, gripping your hips, dragging you back toward him. He leans in and his tongue flicks out, tasting you properly this time. His groan vibrates against you as he licks a slow, wet stripe up your cunt, his hands gripping your ass hard enough to leave marks.

“Mmm,” he hums, licking his lips. “Gonna make a fuckin’ mess outta you.”

He leans back, and the sound of his zipper sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, your body humming with anticipation. He doesn’t waste any time, shoving his jeans down over his hips, kicking them off completely along with his boxers. His cock stands thick and heavy, already leaking at the tip as he wraps a hand around the base, giving himself a slow stroke while his other hand spreads you open again.

“Look at you,” he mutters, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing, making you squirm. “Just like in the video, huh?” He presses in just enough to drive you insane before pulling back, smirking when you whine.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he taunts, rubbing the tip against your clit, making you jerk. “Gonna make a nice mess for me?”

Please,” you breathe, your voice barely more than a whine.

He stills, his grip on your hips tightening. “Please what, baby?” His voice is smug, low, full of satisfaction as he waits, knowing exactly what he wants to hear.

You bite your lip, pride warring with need—but the way he’s holding you, the way he’s teasing you, makes it impossible to resist.

“Please, daddy,” you whisper.

Clint groans, his cock twitching against you. And then he’s sliding into you, slow but deep, stretching you open until you’re gasping. His hands grip your hips tight as he bottoms out, his head falling forward with a low, guttural moan. “Oh baby, she feels good,” he grits out. “Takin’ daddy so damn good, like you were made just for me.”

The video is still playing, the sounds of pleasure in the background spurring him on as he starts to move. His pace is steady at first, measured, but you don’t want slow—you want exactly what he promised. You want to be fucked like the woman on the screen, raw and dirty and desperate.

“Harder,” you gasp.

Clint growls, snapping his hips forward with a punishing thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. His fingers dig into your hips as he sets a brutal pace, the slap of skin against skin echoing in the tiny room. The couch creaks beneath you, but you barely notice—your body is burning, strung tight, every thrust sending sparks of pleasure racing up your spine.

His grip tightens as he leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Look up, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice dark and commanding. “Look at the TV.”

Your dazed eyes flutter open, and the sight in front of you makes your breath hitch. On the screen, a woman is getting absolutely wrecked, her body bouncing with every deep, relentless thrust. Clint moans at the way your gaze locks onto it, his fingers move to your neck and tighten around your throat just enough to make your pulse race.

“See that?” he murmurs, thrusting harder, deeper, making your body jolt with each snap of his hips. “She looks so pretty takin’ it—just like you.” His hand slides down to your chest, squeezing rough, fingers rolling your nipple.. “Look at how her tits bounce, baby. Just like yours. Fuckin’ perfect.”

You whimper, your back arching into his touch, heat pooling deep in your stomach.

Clint’s grip moves from your throat to your jaw, tilting your head back so you can’t look anywhere but the TV. “Bet you like watchin’ it, don’t you?” he taunts, voice thick with sin. “Bet you love seein’ how good she takes it while I fuck you just the same.”

A deep, broken moan rips from your throat, your nails clawing at the couch as pleasure coils tight, ready to snap.

Clint groans, hips stuttering as he watches your body shudder beneath him. “Shit, you’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight. You gonna come for me, sweetheart? Gonna let daddy wreck you just like that?”

You let out a choked-off whimper as the scene on the TV shifts—the man shoving the woman onto her back, spreading her wide before diving between her legs. Clint watches, his breath going ragged, and then his dark eyes flick back to you.

“Mmmm.” he murmurs, dragging his fingers down your trembling body. “Bet you want that too, huh?”

You don’t even get the chance to answer before he moves, gripping your thighs and yanking you to the edge of the couch. The sudden motion has you gasping, but Clint just grins as he kneels between your legs.

“Keep watchin’,” he orders, voice low and rough.

Then his mouth is on you, hot and wet and devastating. His tongue drags over your clit in slow, deliberate circles, teasing, making you squirm. You grip his hair, tugging hard, but Clint just groans, sucking harder in retaliation.

“Look at you,” he mutters against your skin. “drooling for me. You like this, don’t you? Bein’ my plaything while we watch?”

The only response you can manage is a desperate, breathless moan.

Clint chuckles, the vibration making you shudder. He glances up at the screen, where the woman’s back is arching, her hands gripping the couch as the man devours her. Clint growls and follows suit, wrapping his hands tight around your thighs and burying his face between them, licking and sucking you deep, messy, like he’s starving.

“That’s it,” he groans, his voice muffled against you. “Lemme hear those pretty little sounds, sweetheart. Show me who does it better—me or him?”

Clint groans against you, his tongue flicking faster, rougher, his fingers digging into your thighs as he devours you like he’s got something to prove. The filthy, wet sounds of his mouth on you mix with the moans from the TV, the whole thing makes your head spin.

You’re so close—right on the edge, your body tensing, ready to snap—when suddenly, Clint pulls away. You whine at the loss, your hips bucking up instinctively, but he just grins, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he coos. “You’ll get to come—just not yet.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s gripping your wrist, pulling you up off the couch and onto your knees in front of him. His cock is right there, flushed, thick, slick at the tip from how worked up he is. He fists himself lazily, giving it a slow stroke as he watches you, his other hand brushing through your hair.

“Open up, baby,” he murmurs, tapping the head of his cock against your lips. “Wanna feel that pretty mouth on me.”

You part your lips, letting your tongue flick over the tip, and Clint groans, his fingers tightening in your hair.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Goddamn, you look so fuckin’ pretty like this.” His hips jerk slightly as you take him deeper, your tongue dragging along the thick vein on the underside. “Knew you’d be good for me. Knew you’d suck Daddy’s cock like a fuckin’ dream.”

He tilts your head up, making you look at him as you hollow your cheeks, taking more of him. His jaw clenches, a dark look flashing in his eyes. “Fuck, baby—look at you,” he groans. “So fuckin’ eager. You like it, don’t you? Like being on your knees for me, takin’ Daddy’s cock like a good little thing?”

You hum around him, the vibration making him curse under his breath. His grip tightens in your hair, guiding your pace, making you take him deeper. You relax your throat, letting him use you, and the sound he makes is downright filthy.

“Shit, baby,” he grits out, his abs tightening as he thrusts a little deeper, a little rougher. “Gonna fuck this pretty mouth—gonna come down your throat.”

His other hand cups your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek, feeling how full your mouth is. “You’re gonna swallow every drop, ain’tcha, sweetheart?” His voice is rough, almost desperate now. “Gonna take it all like the good girl you are.”

His pace stutters, his hips jerking as his breathing goes ragged. “Fuck, fuck, that’s it—look at you, so perfect for me—”

With a deep, wrecked groan, he comes, spilling hot and thick down your throat, his fingers gripping your hair tight as he holds you there. You swallow around him, taking every drop just like he told you, and the way his body shudders from it sends another pulse of heat straight to your core.

When he finally pulls back, his thumb swipes across your bottom lip, gathering the last drop of his release before pressing it against your tongue.

You swirl your tongue around his thumb, sucking it into your mouth just to tease him, hoping he’ll get the hint—hoping he’ll finally give you what you need. But instead of pulling you back onto the couch, instead of touching you the way you’re aching for, Clint just chuckles, leaning back against the cushions with a lazy, satisfied grin.

Your brows furrow as you shift on your knees, the dull throb of your own arousal making you restless. “What the fuck?” you snap, your voice breathless and frustrated.

Clint sighs, stretching his arms behind his head like he’s already settling in for the night. “Sorry, baby,” he drawls, his tone dripping with smug amusement. “Daddy’s tired.”

Your mouth drops open in disbelief. “You’re kidding me.”

He smirks, reaching down to tuck himself back into his jeans before grabbing a nearby tissue to wipe his hand. “Nope.” His gaze flicks over your flushed, trembling body, your thighs still pressed together, desperate for friction. He lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Damn, look at you—so fuckin’ needy.”

You glare at him, gripping his knee, half tempted to crawl onto his lap and take what you need yourself. “Clint—”

But he just tuts, wagging a finger at you. “Uh-uh. Don’t be such a fuckin’ brat about it.” He reaches forward, tilting your chin up so you’re looking at him, his smirk deepening. “Tell you what, sweetheart—bring me another tape tomorrow. Somethin’ real dirty.” He runs his thumb over your bottom lip again, grinning when you shiver. “Then maybe—maybe—Daddy’ll let you come.”

Your breath hitches, your thighs clenching together involuntarily.

“Better be a good one,” he murmurs. “Now be a good girl and clean up, yeah?”

npt to those interested in the wips: @yxtkiwiyxt @baronessvonglitter @mushgloomz @arcanefox207 @gothcsz @probablyreadinsmut @iknowisoundcrazy @almostfoxglove @sawymredfox @whocaresstillthelouvre @myownwholewildworld @ace-turned-confused @jokesonthem

#clint freaky tales x reader #clint x f!reader #clint freaky tales #pedro pascal characters

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jassy2uall · 2 days ago

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– I’d Never Forget our Anniversary

“Billie forgets your anniversary”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Today marks one year since you and Billie became a couple. You've kept your relationship private, sharing it only with close friends and family. From the start, you both agreed it was for the best, knowing how intense the media and fans could be. Keeping it a secret became even more challenging with Billie on tour for Hit Me Hard and Soft—so most of your time was spent backstage or on the tour bus while she handled rehearsals and press. Even when you two were spotted together, sometimes holding hands, the paparazzi mostly dismissed it, assuming you were just one of her "best friends." It always made you both laugh at how clueless they were.

But today was different. Billie had a week off, and this Friday marked a huge milestone—your one-year anniversary. You’d been planning this for months. You booked a reservation at your favorite restaurant in LA, a place that held special memories for both of you. You ordered her favorite flowers, making sure they’d be arranged just the way she liked. And as if that wasn’t enough, you even wrote her a poem—something straight from the heart, a reflection of everything this past year had meant to you.

You’ve always been secretive about your songs and anything you’ve written. Billie always found it adorable how nervous you got when sharing your new songs, poetry, or even excerpts from your books. It never made sense to her—after all, you were a professional writer, and your books consistently hit number one. But to you, writing was personal, a piece of yourself laid bare. And that made sharing it with her both thrilling and terrifying.

Still, you wanted to show Billie how much she meant to you, how much you appreciated having her in your life. And you had the perfect date planned. Tomorrow, she was going to love it. Or so you thought.

The Next Day…

You woke up earlier than your still-sleeping girlfriend. You were always a morning person. Billie, on the other hand… wasn’t. But you loved that about her. Smiling to yourself, you placed a soft kiss on her cheek. You knew it wouldn’t wake her—nothing short of a blaring alarm at full volume could.

Quietly, you hopped out of bed and walked into the bathroom for a quick shower. Fifteen minutes later, Billie was still completely knocked out. You just laughed to yourself, shaking your head. It wasn’t until you loudly called her name that she finally stirred.

“I’m up, I’m up,” she mumbled groggily, barely keeping her eyes open. She wiped some drool from the corner of her mouth before rubbing her eyes to see you more clearly. When she did, a sleepy smile spread across her lips.

“Hey, beautiful. What’re you doing up so early, hmm?”

You chuckled, sitting down beside her. “I have an early meeting with my publishers today. And then after that, I’ll be all ready for tonight.”

Billie blinked at you in confusion. “Tonight? What’s tonight?”

It was your turn to be confused. A slight pause followed her words as you studied her face, waiting for the punchline. But then it clicked—she had to be joking. There was no way she actually forgot. Right?

You forced a small laugh. “Very funny,” you said, watching her reaction carefully.

But Billie just stared at you, still half-asleep, her brows furrowing slightly. “Wait… what?” she mumbled.

Your stomach dropped. She wasn’t joking.

Maybe she had a surprise planned too, you reasoned. Maybe she was just playing dumb to throw you off. Still, even if that were the case, she should have at least said Happy Anniversary or something.

Then, as if something clicked in her mind, Billie suddenly smiled. “Oh, I know what you mean,” she said, leaning in to kiss you. “Don’t worry, mamas, I didn’t forget.”

You let out a relieved sigh, shaking your head. Of course, she was just messing with you.

“Let me know when you get back, okay?” she murmured, her voice still laced with sleep.

“Okay,” you said softly before pressing one last kiss to her lips.

As you headed out the door for your meeting, your excitement for tonight grew even more.

Later that day, after your meeting went successfully, you found yourself checking your phone constantly, hoping to hear from Billie. But all you got were texts from friends saying, Hope you and Billie have fun celebrating tonight! or What did she get you?

That last one made you pause.

Because the truth was… she hadn’t gotten you anything.

At least, not yet. Maybe she was saving it for tonight, you reasoned. Not that gifts mattered to you—you never cared about presents in your relationship. All you ever wanted was her.

But still… something about it didn’t sit right. And as the hours passed, you started to get this sinking feeling.

This night wasn’t going to go the way you thought it would.

And you were right.

It was an hour before your reservation. You had gone home, quickly freshened up, and then told Billie to meet you at your favorite place—the spot where you had everything prepared.

The flowers were perfectly arranged. The poem you’d written for her sat neatly folded beside her gift. You had put so much thought into tonight, making sure every detail was just right.

Now, all that was left to do was wait for her to arrive.

Any time now that’d be.

You waited. And waited. Almost two hours had passed.

Your fingers kept tapping against the table as you glanced at your phone for what felt like the hundredth time. You had called her multiple times—no answer.

The waiter kept refilling your glass of wine, probably sensing your boredom and frustration. At this point, you weren’t even sipping it for enjoyment. You just needed something to do while you sat there, alone. And you weren’t alone in noticing it. You caught glimpses of the waitstaff exchanging looks, whispering to each other, probably wondering why you were sitting at a beautifully set table by yourself.

There’s no way Billie forgot our anniversary. You repeated it to yourself over and over, but with each passing minute, the words started to feel hollow.

Your patience finally snapped. With a frustrated sigh, you picked up your phone and called her one last time.

No answer.

That was it. You waved the waiter over, paid for the wine, and gathered up everything—her flowers, her gift, the poem you had poured your heart into. You shoved it all into the backseat of your car before climbing into the driver’s seat.

Then, without another thought, you turned off your phone.

Right now, you just needed to be alone. You couldn’t believe it. Billie had stood you up. Or worse… she had actually forgotten your anniversary.

End of pt. 1

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#billie eilish #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish fluff #billie eilish smut #billie eilish x you #billie elish icons #billie ellish lyrics #billie eilish imagine #billie eilish x fem!reader #billie eilish angst

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abbysimsfun · 3 days ago

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Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 158 (The Custody Hearing)

Before he planned to travel through time, Felix Psyded, Esquire, found himself inside a courtroom on the outskirts of San Myshuno. Normally at ease inside the hallowed halls of law and justice, today his friends were depending on him. This hearing was more than a case.

Judge Robin Marlow took a seat at her mahogany oak desk, polished to perfection inside the closed courtroom. She would preside over the custody hearing to determine whether Ash would stay with the Landgraabs, or be returned to Heather and Conrad in Brindleton Bay.

The Landgraabs had a pair of lawyers - married attorneys Pete and Laura Sue. Felix thought they'd legally changed their name because their court record with successful lawsuits was astounding. No one that good at suing people could actually be named Sue!

Regardless of their real names, they were real pains in his formerly transparent butt. He was certain they'd withheld evidence from discovery, but the hearing had come up faster than he could dig and he had to trust his instincts. He knew Ash was in good hands with Heather and Conrad on a personal level, he just needed to convince the judge, too.

With the Landgraabs on one side and the Gordons on the other, Ash's fate rested in the hands of the people in this room. Heather had read somewhere that blue was a good colour to wear to court, so she'd ditched her usual yellow and green for a blue pantsuit, and Conrad wore a tie.

As the judge spoke, her voice echoed off the high ceilings of the courthouse. "We're here today examining the existing custody arrangement between Malcolm Chester Landgraab and Heather Lea Gordon, following some very serious allegations of child endangerment. Due to the sensitivity of this case and the notoriety of the plantiff, today's session will take place in a closed courtroom. And before we get started, I just want to say we're not here to determine the worst place for Ash to be, but the best. Will the opposing counsels please state their cases for the record?"

Laura Sue stepped forward with a grin. "Your Honour, thank you. Our clients want it known they only want the best for their flesh and blood. He shares their last name, after all. The custody arrangement that's been in place since Ash was a year old was a good arrangement. It allowed him close access to his mother in the early stages of his development, affording the loving father, Malcolm, basic access to his son. But our clients became gravely concerned after Ash's recent kidnapping turned out to be the result of time travelling cartel members seeking vengeance on Ash's stepfather, Conrad Gordon."

Judge Marlow smiled. "Please clarify for the courts what you mean by 'time-travelling.'"

"I would if I could, Your Honour. Our clients are concerned Ash's head has been filled with fantastical ideas about time travel and ghosts, and their fear is that all of this is due to the Gordons' overwhelming influence on Malcolm's own son."

Heather and Conrad glared across the courtroom, but Nancy wasn't afraid to arch her nasty brows right back, even as Geoffrey tried to quietly chastise her for it. The Landgraabs' second attorney, Pete Sue, stepped forward.

"Your Honour, as the police report submitted to evidence shows, Ash Landgraabs' stepfather would likely just be getting out of prison if not for our client. He wouldn't be a successful police captain, at any rate. The Gordons have always relied on the Landgraabs, and when Conrad found himself in legal jeopardy after his college girlfriend turned out to be a murderous cartel runner, his father Stephen needed help convincing San Myshuno PD to drop his case and send him through the police academy, instead."

"And where did he go for that help?" Laura wondered rhetorically, playing off her husband like a vaudeville duo without the song and dance. "To the then-CEO of Landgraab Corp., Nancy Landgraab. She was pleased to do this favour for someone who worked loyally for her father for decades, but records were sealed. Not even Mr. Gordon himself knew his freedom was thanks to her until discovery for this very hearing, and now he thinks he can provide a more stable home for the Landgraabs' own grandson."

"Our clients vehemently beg to differ," continued Pete. "And they demand a revision to the custody file granting Malcolm Landgraab primary legal and physical custody. They feel their position and security will provide him with the tools he'll need as he approaches adulthood, while his mother and stepfather engage him in fantasy roleplaying as a lifestyle."

Heather and Conrad squirmed from their corner of the courtroom. Discovering that Nancy was more or less the sole reason they'd ever had the chance to meet had been a difficult pill to swallow, but considering the position they were in when they'd discovered it, they saw no reason to thank her.

Judge Marlow nodded, turning to Felix to hear the defendants' make their case. "Your Honour, my clients are as surprised as anyone to be here today. As surprised as they were the night Ash was uprooted from the home he's known since birth. Ash was born in Brindleton Bay, and for more than the first year of his life, his biological father didn't call. He didn't visit. He didn't care."

"Objection!" argued Laura. "Counsel can't know our clients' feelings nine years ago."

Judge Marlow nodded. "Sustained. Facts only, please."

"My clients have been there for Ash day in, day out, for close to a decade. Heather Gordon has provided for Ash from the day he was born, and she did it alone before she met her husband. She's a successful vet, stood as a surrogate for two of her closest friends, and a doting mother. On top of raising a well-adjusted son and daughter, Mrs. Gordon ran her clinic so successfully, she was able to buy out the Landgraabs and become completely independent within seven years of signing the lease."

Judge Marlow listened intently as Felix spoke for his clients. "They've provided a safe and stable home despite Captain Gordon's line of work. Ash has regular appointments with counselors and they've all submitted statements to the record. They attest to him being responsible and emotionally mature. Besides, Ash wasn't kidnapped while under the Gordons' care in Brindleton Bay, but while he was staying with the Landgraabs in San Myshuno."

"Counsel, is it true your clients' met because Captain Gordon was investigating a hack of Landgraab Systems perpetrated by Mrs. Gordon?" Judge Marlow raised an eyebrow and Felix nodded.

"It is, Your Honour. She's a very successful app designer, and Malcolm stole her app code before they broke up. She discovered it months later and orchestrated the hack to delete the stolen files, but the Landgraabs declined to press charges and everyone has moved on. At least, that's what my clients' thought. But perhaps my clients should have known the Landgraabs wouldn't honour a contract. It's not uncommon for Landgraab Corp. to stiff their contractors, daring them to fight their considerable resources in court or take a lesser deal. Now, it seems, they're trying to do the same to my clients, and they're using the well-being of their own flesh and blood to do it."

Across the courtroom, vicious Nancy laughed, as though Felix' words were useless against her influence and wealth. Malcolm and Geoffrey chuckled with her.

"And Your Honour, I'm not a judge, but it seems to me that Ash's own testimony - recorded by Officer Camden Romeo the night he was escorted from Brindleton Bay - should be strongly considered. He said he wanted to stay at the Gordon home with his mother and stepfather."

"Objection, Your Honour," said Pete. "It was an emotional evening and children's testimony can be unreliable."

Judge Marlow shook her head. "Overruled."

Once the attorneys had made their cases, Judge Marlow stepped away to make her decision. The wait for word felt agonizingly long for Heather and Conrad, but they waited eagerly when she called the court back in session.

The Gordons and Landgraabs waited with baited breath as Judge Marlow smiled. "I would like to start by saying, despite events, I don't believe Ash is particularly unsafe with any of his legal guardians. That being said, the testimonies from everyone, including counselors, discussing time travel and ghosts with shocking complacency is alarming. It's an atypical and potentially dangerous way for a young, impressionable person to be raised, and it does raise questions about the suitability of his primary home."

Felix anxiously pulled at the chain on his navy vest. He knew what was coming but he couldn't interrupt the judge.

"Stability is the most important thing for any child whose cases cross my desk, and the Gordons' situation is less stable than the Landgraabs, especially with another child on the way and no way to know what this will do to the family's dynamic. As such, the court sides with the plaintiffs, and I'm ordering a reversal of the current custody arrangement."

Heather and Conrad gasped, their faces pulling in anguish as the judge continued. "Primary legal and physical custody of Ash Neal Landgraab is hereby awarded to Malcolm Landgraab, with visitation granted to Heather and Conrad Gordon at the Landgraabs' sole discretion."

Nancy grinned like a cat who'd slaughtered a mouse while Heather and Conrad suffered, the judge's voice fading in and out as both sides of the courtroom processed the verdict.

"Court will reconvene in a year, at which time, I will hope the Gordons have settled into a more quiet life for the sake of all their children, but for the next year it seems quite clear the Landgraabs' will provide Ash with the best possible care."

The Landgraabs left in a hurry while Felix apologized to his friends. "I'm so sorry. I hate to lose a case and this one...We have a year, but we can try a lot of things to get an earlier hearing. I'll try every single one of them."

Heather and Conrad embraced, fighting off the numbness threatening to swallow them both. "We're going to get him back, I promise," insisted Conrad. "There's no way it's gonna take a year." ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 2.1 Summary

Gen 1 Start | Gen 1 Summary

Shout out to @matchalovertrait, who said some very nice things about all Heather has accomplished right while I was writing this post. You helped write Felix' defense without even knowing it, so thank you!! I'm sorry it didn't actually help *ducks*

WCIF Poses, Landgraab Attorneys & Judge Marlow? Several of Heather and Conrad's reaction shots were taken with Akuiyumi's Sadness poses, but a lot of this was staged by getting characters to sit or stand in one place and practice singing. They look expressive and it saves me when they're standing or sitting too far away to have a conversation. (Fun fact, I also did this when Conrad met John Brindleton at the prison for his confession, because I could not get them to sit in those chairs and have a conversation because they were technically sitting in different rooms.

I found Pete and Laura Sue on the Sims 4 Gallery by user mgq15, and it looks like they're part of a series, and yes those are the names they were uploaded with! I'm sorry they're playing attorneys for the bad guys but I thought they just had that vibe! Likewise, I found Robin Marlow by Gallery user Beths1990 while looking for a judge and put a robe on her. I really liked them all in the scene and we'll see them again - there's another custody hearing scheduled in a year, after all!

The courthouse came from a redone koomasterpc build by KPOPfan07-09, and I liked that the fourth floor looked a bit like a big city courtroom, different from the courthouse in Brindleton Bay because the Landgraabs had jurisdiction on this one, unfortunately.

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torawro · 2 days ago

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royal knight!caleb & princess!reader.

cw ━━ ! minors, ageless, and blank blogs DO NOT INTERACT. reader is written / portrayed as a curvy, thick black woman but you do not have to imagine it that way ! anyone and everyone is welcome to read <3. historical / medieval au so there will be use of language & rhetoric relative to that era ( i.e., aye = yes or indeed . . . . i did my best doing research ). caleb is a high ranking knight in the kingdom they live in and is referred to as 'sir' because of his status. reader is a princess of royal status. mentions / descriptions of blood and injuries, and contains violence sprinkled with a little bit of gore (???). depictions of murder / character death. a liiittleeee bit of religious imagery & references, not sure but adding it just in case. hints at caleb having psychological issues and / or mental instability. kind of yandere(ish) behavior if you squint; caleb is obsessed with & in love with the reader. he is also a wee bit condescending ( not to reader ). instances of caressing ( groping? ) and slow, sweet kisses. veryyy subtle manipulation (?) via intentional omission of the truth. sorry if im exaggerating with these tags lol. directly based off this post i saw a few weeks ago. i tried my best to proofread at 1am pls excuse any errors. let me know if i missed anything!

word count ━━ ! 3.9k

notes ━━ ! man…..🚬🚬🚬 i can’t believe i wrote this lmaaaoooooooooo like what. where did this come from even.....anyway hi everyone i’m back with another (short-ish) fic <3 my apologies it's been another two months since my last published work, you know what it is: it takes longer for me to put things out and i wanna make sure i put my best foot forward every time >< but whoop whoop here's to my second fic of the year! as u can see i have gotten into lads during this past month and some change....... and i swear, i really had no intention of writing for any of the guys any time soon, let alone the newest one..... i took a pause from working on my longer projects to write this LMFAOOOO. i honestly thought that if i really did have a burning desire to write about them, my first lads fic would have been about sylus cause he.....anyway i won't go on a tangent about him, but i sincerely hope u guys enjoy this one!!!!!! obviously this is my first time writing for any lads character so pls be kind to me. i also want to apologize if this characterization of caleb is weird or ooc, i haven't unlocked him yet but i have seen a lot of content of his story in relation to the mc, his lore, his voicelines, etc so i hope i did him justice!! reblogs + commentary are HEAVILY appreciated ♡♡♡.

THE SKY REMAINED DARK, BUT a deep navy hue began to seep into the heavens, soon giving way to the dawn; the early hours of the morning was nigh. The castle was silent— obviously, but still eerily so despite the hour. There was a draft that seeped through the miscellaneous cracks of the stone, the shutters, and the windows of the castle that had not been properly shut, and the brisk breeze that flowed inside caressed the walls with a whisper— quiet but forceful enough to sway the small flames of the candles. The unsteady flickering of the flames grazed and dimly illuminated the walls behind them. Upon its surface were fresh stains, which would permanently seep into the stone if not cleaned in time. The stains were red.

It was blood.

In the many corridors of the castle was a figure, trudging through the halls like a corpse that had risen from its resting place, exhaustion weighing down his every step down to the marrow of his bones. He was injured— not gravely enough to make him lose consciousness but enough to reopen the wounds he so haphazardly patched himself before returning to the kingdom.

His chambers in the keep, along with all the other higher-ranked Knights, was on the other side of the castle grounds. He should have made a left the moment the portcullis closed behind his heels so he could at least get patched up again, get some water, and something else for the pain. Instead, the soldier walked straight ahead, onward to the main structure of the castle, down the stretches of its veins, up the stairs– a path he had memorized after spending many a moon traversing it, sometimes without your knowledge.

But he needed to see you, and he was unsure if he would be able to wait until the sun’s ascension in just a few hours time to do so.

The knight was tired, and that slowed him down, but eventually he made it to your private quarters. He made sure to quiet his labored breathing and footsteps as much as he could; the king would have his head before he even made it to your chambers if he were to be discovered.

You laid underneath a thick blanket, the warmth of the fur against your clothed skin protecting you against the brisk cold. As comfortable as you were, however, tonight you had trouble staying asleep. It would greet you kindly, only to slip away from your embrace if you held it too tightly. Your eyelids were half-open, finally on the verge of drifting close again, when an abrupt but muffled thumping noise resounded on the wood of your door.

The sound caused your eyes to snap open with alertness, any waves of sleep that were about to wash over you retreated at the sound. You laid still, absently wondering if you were hearing things, but the noise reverberated in the air again, then three times— it was soft, as if the source of the sound was being careful not to be too loud.

As the sleepiness of the late hours continued to melt away, you began to remember what day it was, and your pulse quickened as a result.

He should have returned today, you thought. But could it be? It cannot possibly…

And yet, that possibility is what tugged your body forward to sit up and straight, and slide your legs out from underneath the layers of blankets. That possibility is what led you to slide your bare feet into your slippers, and move to swing the long, woolen robe on top of your nightgown. That possibility is what pulled you to the thick door of your chambers, and opened it by an inch to peek through the cracks.

The relief and subdued elation you felt when you saw the familiar features of Sir Caleb’s visage on the other side washed over you.

But that feeling faded as quickly as it came when you noticed the state Sir Caleb was in. While it wasn’t abnormal for him to have a deep scratch or a bruise somewhere, he looked . . . worse, somehow. And whatever it was seemed to reach deeper than just his physical injuries.

Without exchanging any words or outwardly questioning him, you carefully— for he winced at nearly every graze of your fingers on certain areas— led him into your room, allowing him to use your body as a crutch. Caleb let out strained puffs of air, both in relief that he didn’t have to carry the weight of his own body alone anymore, and with increasingly dwindling self-restraint.

He had hardly stepped foot in your bedchambers before; only about four steps past the threshold of the doorway at most, out of fear that his mere presence when he visited in your absence would become a noticeable, tangible thing. Like you’d be able to sense if he ventured too far in for too long, too many times.

Everything smelled like you. Your unique flowery scent was almost palpable with how it clung to every surface of your living space, even the air itself. The contrast between the fleshy softness of your body pressed against the cold, angular ridges of his armor was enough to make his breath catch in his throat and his pulse to miss a beat.

“M…milady.” Caleb croaked, his throat significantly lacking moisture to the point it almost ached to speak. At this point, the remaining strength in the knight’s body had become completely nonexistent; the sword he didn’t even have the strength to place back in its scabbard tumbled from his loosening grip onto the ground, the sound sharp and uncomfortably punctating.

“Sir Caleb”, you gasped, your grip tightening on whatever area of his stocky, towering figure you could reach. Both the suddenness of the sound of metal colliding with stone and your delayed realization of how serious his injuries were pulled your nerves all the more taut, the worried furrow in your brow growing more prominent.

Caleb’s legs gave out next, all while his heavier form still partially hung from your sleep laden frame. His arm slipped from around your shoulder as he descended to his knees, the movement clumsy enough to slightly throw you off your balance. The room was still dark enough that you did not readily see nor notice the blood that now permeated the folds of your nightdress.

The honorable knight— who did not quite look so on his knees like this— absentmindedly grasped at your calves, pulling another surprised noise from the back of your throat. It was as if making physical contact with you would steady his mind that swirled endlessly with fragmented thoughts, stained with the dark horrors that crawled from the depths of his subconscious, and keep him tethered to the plane of consciousness. The blood loss would soon catch up to him.

Silence descended upon your room, save for Caleb’s ragged breathing and your quiet, frayed inhales. He still held onto your lower legs like it was his lifeline, the mesh underside of his metal gauntlets sending a subtle shiver with each miniscule movement he made, but you did your best to silence any hitch in your breath or twitch in your muscles. Worry still festered underneath your skin, so much so that you were afraid if you moved, or even spoke, that Caleb might fall apart at your feet, considering his current state.

“Milady…” Caleb tried again, his voice still rough but a muted veneration was present underneath his words, as if your title was the beginning of a prayer. It was a thought that spurred another shudder to crawl across your flesh. “Milady, I have returned. The war with the kingdom to the east—Havencroft— is over now.”

The knight turned his head slightly so that his cheek was resting on the fat of your thigh, your nightdress being the only barrier between his skin and yours. Another stain of crimson leapt from the side of his face that rested on your leg to your clothes, but you could not see it from this angle. Caleb almost resembled a wounded animal, marking the territory that was once his after enduring an attack– not much for your sake, but purely for his own, as a reminder of sorts.

Even through the linen, you could feel the uneven puffs of warm air from his mouth fan across that small area on your thigh. Like a magnet attracted to a metal of the opposite affinity— a force yet to be explained or explored— your palm gravitated towards the knight’s armored shoulder. Whether it was an action of acknowledgement and commendation, to silently urge him off his knees, or as a means to steel yourself was unclear even to you.

“The enemies… have been defeated.” Each syllable felt delayed, each word tumbled from Caleb’s lips like a wispy trail of smoke from burning incense, and the casual hold you had on his steel shoulder imperceptibly tightened when you felt his gloved hands trail up the back of your legs. His movements were slow—almost reluctant and experimental— but deeply rooted in reverence, as if this was the first and last time he would be able to touch you so boldly.

The knight below knew better. He was well aware that his actions more than just bordered on bold, they fully reveled in it– embraced it, even. But he was having a significant amount of trouble caring enough to stop himself. It was always a difficult task reasoning with the thing that resided in the folds of his unconscious— especially and specifically when it came to you.

Caleb awaited you to halt the soft caress of his palms, either verbally or by action, but neither came. You were rendered silent, breath slightly restrained as you stared down at him from on high, your palm still resting upon his armor. A part of you was swayed by the currents of curiosity to see what he’d do next, just to see what might happen you allowed this moment to persist a bit longer.

And the other part…might have enjoyed this. It might have enjoyed the sight, the sound, the sensation of his iron skin, the subtle yet unknown metallic aroma that washed over your senses, mixed with his signature musk.

So he resumed, both his movements and his speech, which were languid and slowed. “Those that wished… to do harm to the kingdom, to you…They have been slain.”

The way his head shifted against your leg was like a cat nuzzling itself against its human companion. The weight of his body pressed upon you like this was even a bit endearing, and it began to melt your heart. Caleb’s hands glided from the backs of your knees down to the base of your ankles, only to carefully ascend back up the valleys and shores of your legs. In his ascent the hem of your dress got caught in between the gaps of his fingers, causing it to steadily rise like a curtain and expose the bare, supple brown skin hiding beneath it.

His touch was so gentle, like dragging the sharpened edge of a knife against one’s skin in fear of accidentally cutting it. As someone who has done so much damage and has scarcely been shown this kind of gentleness, it was a bit jarring to see himself embody it so naturally. “...The lot of them. I made sure of it.”, he continued, the knight’s noble heart raced so frantically about his chest, he thought it might reverberate and echo against his chest plate if it were to beat any more intensely.

Even with the sizable gauntlets weighing down his hands, Caleb was still able to tell just how delicate and cushiony your flesh was, and he released a barely-there, shaky exhale of his own when his fingers lightly clenched around it. If he didn’t know any better, he might have thought he was on the brink of death and was kneeling before the gates of heaven.

It was nearly impossible for you to distinguish the sensation of the carmine substance being smeared against your bare skin with each inch Caleb caressed, because your nerves had put all its effort into focusing on his breath fanning across your legs and the cold surface of his armor. At some point, the hand laying on his shoulder levitated to rest atop his head instead, the area unadorned without his helmet; a shiver rolled down the knight’s spine at the gesture. Sweat dampened the rich, umber strands of his hair, and the heat radiating from the crown of his head rivaled the one building underneath your face and chest.

“The army of the east kingdom, boasting numbers of over eight-thousand men, have all…. fallen. All of their strongest knights…”

Caleb’s words sounded a bit muffled as his mouth was slightly pressed against your leg, his pillowy lips continued to trail across the expanse of increasingly exposed limbs, “...their battalions, their village militia units…”

By this point, Caleb’s strong sense of rationale, his logical consciousness that usually never steered him wrong had finally caved in on itself. The void that it left in its absence would now be filled and controlled by the iniquitous thoughts that plagued him day in and day out. Such immoral, perhaps unhealthy, thoughts that always had you at the front and center of it all.

“...Even the gentry. Witnessing them …attempting to wield a polearm was almost pathetic. I would have pitied them, but one way or another, they would have attempted to harm you and our kingdom in some way, at some point…”

There was a brief pause, the surface of his parted lips and that of his artificial armor took turns savoring the feel and smell of you, even being so brash as to place tender almost-kisses across your thigh. You gasped silently at that, and the reflexive clench of your fingers in the tufts of his hair brought forth something of a purr that vibrated in the back of his throat. Embedded within that imperceptible purr in his deep voice lurked something more dangerous you did not notice— sharp, like having a dagger pressed against one’s jugular.

“And I cannot allow that.”

Caleb continued to murmur about his achievements of war into your chestnut-tinted skin as if he were talking directly into it and not you— as if it were actively listening. And with the way your nerves sparked and crackled with each syllable he pronounced, you could easily become convinced that it was.

Aye, he could not even pretend to spare an ounce of compassion for Havencroft’s gentrymen, or their local militia, their skilled battalions and armies, nor their most honorable knights. Not after their plans and intentions were discussed amongst the king’s council just months prior, which served as the reason why he and the rest of the kingdom’s army were dispatched there in the first place.

Swine, the lot of them.

The same could be said for his own king’s council members— your father’s most trusted political companions and advisors— that had the gall to speak ill of and scheme against the king and his realm.

The balls to speak ill of you when they believed there were no listening ears around; about how your future ascent to the throne would be this kingdom’s downfall, about how His and Her Majesty should have tried for more children in hopes of a young lad.

He could only thank the gods that he returned from his knightly travels when he did, for the dark-haired soldier knew within seconds of overhearing such idiotic arrogance what his next course of action should be.

Like some kind of cunning animal whose only purpose was to hunt and kill, Sir Caleb watched and waited for the opportune moment to present itself before closing in to strike. And that moment arrived when he realized the two men were making their way to the western-most side of the main castle, where the kitchen and laundry rooms were located. He sneered at how clever they thought they were being, choosing that specific place because they were aware most of the help and servants had retired for the evening.

Without a moment’s hesitation, when he had heard enough drivel, he attacked, administering two swift but fatal slashes to their vital points— one for each man. The pain from moving like that when his injuries had been previously reopened nearly caused his legs to buckle, but he remained steady and quick. This had to be quick, for it would be troublesome if they made noise or if he was too sloppy with his timing and execution. Blood splattered on the nearby walls from the sheer force of his swing, the blade cutting through the councilmen like a cleaver cutting through a slab of tender meat. He made a note to himself to come back and clean any remnants that remained later.

The councilmen fell to their knees, staring and cowering from Sir Caleb in confusion, shock, and unadulterated fear at the realization that their lives might end that very night, and that someone might have heard them.

Surely they blathered on in hushed voices, demanding to know the meaning behind his actions, begging for the knight to spare their lives, frantically questioning him if he had heard them say anything particularly controversial. But Caleb paid no mind and did not bother responding. All he did was stare at them, his eyes as empty as a weathered piece of parchment with no ink on it, his salmon-colored lips resting in a straight line that spoke nothing of his true thoughts.

Caleb’s gaze alone deeply unsettled them, for they had never seen him look like that before.

On his honor as a knight, Caleb would die before he let any harm— relative or distant, real or perceived, indirect or direct— fall upon you if it was in his power to prevent it. Because not only did he pledge his allegiance to the ruler of this land, but to you as well. And in performing his obligatory duties as a knight— guarding you from near and far, being graced with your kindness, your wit, your smile—it was inevitable that he would fall in love with you at some point along the way.

And wasn’t it a good thing, a true virtuous thing, a normal thing to do what you can for the one they loved? To keep them safe?

And so, with that resolve embedded in his heart, the knight Sir Caleb would do what he could, and did what he must when the steel of his blade at last collided with the mens’ uvula. The last thing those so-called loyal councilmen saw was his void eyes, and the slightest upturn in the corner of his lip.

But you need not worry or be privy to the gritty details. All you needed to know was that he fulfilled his duty in protecting you, in protecting this kingdom you loved dearly and would govern someday. He would see through this role until the day he could no longer.

Aye, you did not need to know that the blood that had now seeped into the fabric of your pretty lilac nightgown and smudged on his face was fresh; you did not need to know that in some other part of this very castle, two people that had been around since your youth had drawn their last breath, never to be seen again; you did not need to know that the faintest hint of guilt and regret for his actions was snuffed out the moment his eyes met your visage. You did not even need to know of the tender affection that he harbored for you– at least, not yet. A separate time for that should arrive soon, he would pray on it.

And now, all Caleb needed was to hear it from you. That you were proud of him.

“I hope my efforts in battle were satisfactory to you, milady. That my efforts …in keeping your safety and interests of the monarchy at heart pleases you.”

The knight's lips continued to drag across your skin in a lackadaisical manner, its touch at some point turning into undeniable kisses— pecks so light and fleeting you could have imagined it.

But you weren’t. You knew it to be so because the phantom sensation that was left behind after each one was as real as the ground you stood upon.

You were indeed proud of the knight before you, on his knees revering you with his mouth like you were some kind of holy thing that might disappear into thin air. For all of his years here, you have seen the scrapes, the faded scars on his ungloved hands, a limp in his gait or a straggle in his step, and you felt sympathy for him. You sympathized with him for having to sustain a number of different injuries in the name of your kingdom and its values. But seeing him hurt also inspired a great deal of gratitude within you, and you always made sure to take time at night before you fell asleep to thank the Lord above for uniting your paths– even though the two of you were on slightly different social standings. You secretly hoped that one day, that fact might change.

This is why you had no problem in saying that, “From what you have told me, Sir Caleb, your endeavors in battle are indeed quite….satisfactory to me,” Your words were momentarily interrupted with a sound that sounded suspiciously close to a pleasurable sigh, your fingers absently combing through his hair as you continued to speak, “So I must thank you, for doing your duty so well, and apologize that you were so badly wounded in the name of this kingdom. I truly appreciate all that you do.”

The words of sincere gratitude that spilled from your plush lips only excited the muscle beating wildly in Caleb’s chest, and they were enough to spur his heavy hands to glide higher underneath your gown, moving to the backs of your thighs once again. As his lips persevered in its affectionate assault of your legs, his palms mindlessly cupped the full roundness of your buttocks and gave it a slight squeeze, effectively losing himself in the suppleness of your curved body.

His name, without the proper prefix, was about to fall from your tongue, but you swallowed it down in exchange for something else. “This kingdom is— I am quite fortunate to have someone so capable…so strong and valiant at our disposal. Thank you, Sir Caleb, you have done well.”

And that was all it took for a quiet groan to be pulled from Caleb’s throat. A part of him hoped you didn’t hear it, he was already behaving so shamelessly.

But another part hoped that you did, so maybe then you’d realize without him having to potentially embarrass himself how much he cared for you, craved you, and impacted him so deeply.

“Thank you, milady. You are too gracious to me. I am unworthy of your praises, but will humbly accept them.” One palm resumed its directionless roaming to map out your lower body while the other remained on buttocks, interrupting his own reply by offering your skin doting, airy kisses in between. His reddish violet eyes were somewhat hooded when his gaze flickered up to look at you once more.

“I will continue to do my utmost…to serve you and your kingdom.... to the best of my ability.”

( # ) @smiley-babe @ramonathinks @dollwrites @valentineluvu @rinsko . my apologies if u did not want to be tagged. let me know if you want to be tagged in my future works!

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aidan-thisfine · 3 days ago

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Proseka X Twst Au - Nightcord At 25

" A mysterious music circle that operates at 1:00 AM (25:00), and whose identities are shrouded in mystery. "

Idia Shroud| Username: Gloomurai , The groups Composer

Riddle Rosehearts| Username: Rosebud, The groups Lyricist

Azul Ashengrotto| Username: Sea Witch, The Groups Manger and Artists

Cater Diamond| Username: Trick King , The groups Regular Social media Poster and Animator

Characters:

Kanade - Idia | This was a fairly easy decision just due to not going out much and a family member (in Idia's case Ortho) no longer being present.

Mafuyu - Riddle | : ) Bad mothers and Med school must go hand in hand i guess.... Anyways they're both my favs and if i have to explain more i WILL be throthing at the mouth - Since Mafuyu is the creator of the Proseka Sekai, Riddle is the creator of this Au's sekai!

Ena - Azul | I thought about this really hard causing i easily could have had Jamil as Ena instead but i felt like Azul was the right choice

Mizuki - Cater | THAT FEELING WHEN YOU HIDE BEHIND A MASK OF CHEERINESS DESPITE HATING YOURSELF - Anyways Vill was the other option for Mizuki but i have other ideas for Vill later (✿◡‿��)

General Info:

Au starts 2 years before the main plot closer to the end of Cater and Idia's first year at NRC

This Au is pretty much just a what if the Twst kids where in the music groups of proseka and how or if that would change anything in twst canon

After Riddle joined NRC (and memorised all 810 rules of the queen of hearts) the sekai started to change to more Alice in Wonderland theme - Mostly small little things like bottles that say 'drink me' and maybe some Flamigos and Hedghogs - Then post-OB more things started to become like the Heartslabyul (A place he can be himself)

Since Cater is the one who looks after the music groups social media page (Magicam) and posting on it the most i can imagine realllllly early in the morning him forgetting to switch back to his personal account (Tbh cater probably has like 4 accounts at this point...) and posting something that has ALMOST accidently revealed his identity

I LOVE IDIA'S HOODIE IN HIS SCHOOL UNIFORM AND BELIEVE HE LIVES IN IT BUT I KNOW FOR A FACT HE DOES NOT WASH THAT THING NEARLY AS MUCH AS HE SHOULD

Azul, Floyd and Jade have a shared place to help adjust to being on land - Probably near the beach to help them adjust to land

Do i believe Azul has a fashion sense outside of ✨bussiness meeting mafia style✨? No, no i do not,the only time he does not look ready to take away everything you own is first thing in the morning and when someones (cough cough the tweels force him into something else

Riddle visited (And has been visiting) the Sekai well before the others, did Miku introduce herself.... No so therefore he took matters into his own hands, ("If she does not have a name i will just have to give her one-") Unfortunatly fairtales weren't a common occurance in his showhold and therefore Bob was the best he could come up with.....

When the group finally did meet up for the first time it went .....Well... Not great (Something about teleporting to a strange dull looking world can do that to you)

Extras (First meeting) -

[Text]

Riddle: Pardon me for my eariler outburst. Allow me to intoduce myself, My name is Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle: And this is my friend ✨Bob✨

Insert Hatsune Miku who has been dubbed 'Bob'

Cater & Idia: EMO HATSUNE MIKU !?!

(Cater: Where TF did Bob come from....)

Azul: ....* Insert Azul inner monologue here *

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Reference photos used:

#ProsekaXTwstAU #idia shroud #riddle rosehearts #azul ashengrotto #cater diamond #hatsune miku #I had to go back and actually read like half of the nightcord story just to fact check somethings.....#Don't mind the artstyle change : )#unfortunatly i have NO consistancy when it comes to art #I've had this idea bouncing in my head for the past like 4 months anyways-#twisted wonderland #twst

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risingsoleil · 2 days ago

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I love the way tenzin supports lin during pregnancy/giving birth would please write more about it🥹🥹🥹🥹

ahhhh i love this!

Tenzin goes to every single health check-up with Lin. Every. single. one. He never misses. His mother is the greatest healer, so he knows that Lin is in good hands. He holds Lin's hand while his mother explains what they need to know next and how to make sure Lin stays healthy. Sometimes Katara will kick Tenzin out, in case Lin wants to share something with her without Tenzin there. He always pouts and feels so offended, but mama doesn't give a fuck and kicks him out. Then she tells him to stop eavesdropping too.

Lin has cravings at weird times and Tenzin makes sure that they always have the ingredients on hand to satisfy his wife. Sometimes Lin wakes up at 3am, hungry af. Tenzin is too worried that she's not in bed resting until he smells food in the kitchen. Lin made too much food and Tenzin eats with her.

Lin insists on working out during pregnancy so that her body is still healthy and active. Also, Katara told her it helps a lot with birth. She listens to her body and doesn't push herself too hard, but she gets frustrated when bump gets in the way of things. Meanwhile, Tenzin is easily breezing through his workout. They work out together and Tenzin gets distracted when he sees her round ass doing squats.

Tenzin always wants to create something with each pregnancy. Something for their kids to see their parents when Lin was pregnant with them. Lin finds it ridiculous bc they can jsut tell the kids stories. But Tenzin insists he wants the kids to see how much they love them when they were growing inside Lin's body.

Lin gets so irritated the way he dotes on her as if she's so fragile. But when Tenzin is sleeping with his hand on her belly, Lin gets emotional thinking how lucky she is that Tenzin loves her and baby so much. She starts crying and that wakes him up, and now Lin is annoyed at herself bc he's gonna dote on her more.

Tenzin is constantly reassuring Lin that he doesn't care about baby's bending.

When it's time for Lin to give birth, Tenzin is still there every step of the way. He's holding Lin, walking with her in the early stages of labor. He tries to keep her spirits up during labor. Tenzin helps massage her lower back and relieve some pressure there. He doesn't complain when Lin is crushing his hand during each contraction. Tenzin fights with his mom that he will be in the delivery room with Lin.

Even if Lin is in so much pain, Tenzin still gives her lots of encouragement and words of affirmation to help her get through the worst of it.

Meeting their babies is the best part of the journey 🥰

#linzin #lin beifong #tenzin #tlok

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lexalith · 3 hours ago

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SOMETHING REAL || Choi Seunghyun (T.O.P)

summary: you never expected him to matter this much. at first, seunghyun is just the annoying guy from class—the one who gets under your skin without even trying. but somehow, he becomes your best friend, the one who listens when no one else does. you both have your own lives, your own relationships. it’s never supposed to be more than that. but then the way he looks at you lingers a little too long, his touch starts to feel like something you don’t want to live without. and when love starts to feel like loneliness, he’s there. what if he was the right one all along?

warnings/this story contains: (reader discretion is advised), seunghyun and the reader are both in their early twenties, slowburn, enemies to friends to enemies (?) to friends to lovers (lmao help), smut (oral sex (f receiving), p in v, dry humping, fingering, slight overstimulation, praising, lowkey rough sex), seunghyun and the reader struggle with insecurities, mentions of cheating, emotional cheating, mild angst (miscommunication, heartbreak, ghosting, lies, bickering), fluff (toward the end, seunghyun’s down BAD), a loooot of artsy talk and an insane amount of yearning.

a/n: this is an au! seunghyun’s not an idol and he was born in the early 2000’s. this is loosely based on real events (my life, lmao), some stuff has been altered for artistic reasons and to fit seunghyun’s persona. enjoy this fragment that i couldn’t resist sharing, because it’s the most bookish thing that’s ever happened to me—basically the closest i’ve ever been to feeling like the main character. help. anyway! english isn’t my first language so mistakes should be present!! lower case is intended. reader’s dialogue is in bold. mind you, like always, this is LOOONG (it’s a whole fic)

songs: i love my boyfriend — princess chelsea || delicate — taylor swift || sure thing — miguel

three minutes. that’s exactly the time you have left before your next class starts. you’re walking briskly across campus, your coffee in one hand, your backpack slung over one shoulder, trying to make sure you don’t arrive late (again…). but then, out of nowhere, someone bumps into you. it’s not even a light brush—it’s a full-on collision that sends the hot coffee sloshing out of your cup and spilling all over you. you gasp, looking down at your favorite blouse, now stained with dark coffee, and a surge of frustration rises in your chest. the guy who bumped into you stumbles back, clearly just as startled as you are, and for a moment, you just stand there, staring at him. he’s awkward, shifting on his feet, like he doesn’t know what to do. “uh… i didn’t see you,” he says, but his voice trails off. his eyes flicker down to the stain, then back to you, but he doesn’t move to offer help. “clearly,” you huff. he seems to be about to offer something—an apology, maybe—but the words never quite make it out. this is so ridiculous. it’s not like you expected him to drop to his knees asking for forgiveness, but at least do something. instead, he just looks at you, and says, “it’s just coffee.” it’s clear he didn’t mean to spill the drink, but the last thing you need right now is him trying to downplay it. you roll your eyes, your patience wearing thin. “yeah, and now it’s on me!” he raises his eyebrows, almost amused by your reaction. “it’ll probably come out in the wash.” “i can’t go to my next class like this!” you don’t have time for this. “yeah… i—i’m sorry,” he finally says.

you stare at him for a moment, and at first, you almost want to believe his apology, but then you see it. his lips twitch. it’s so subtle, like he’s trying to hold back a laugh, but it’s enough to set you off. your blood boils with frustration, and you glare at him, your patience completely gone. “great. just great,” you snap, your voice dripping with sarcasm. without waiting for him to respond, you turn on your heel and start walking away, the coffee still soaking through your blouse, irritation simmering beneath your skin. “sorry!” you hear him call after you, but it’s distant. and just before you disappear around the corner, you catch it—the soft sound of a laugh. he’s laughing at you! what a fucking douche! you want to spin around and yell, but you don’t. you’ve got bigger things to worry about. like, for instance, the argument with your boyfriend earlier. it started as something small—just a misunderstanding, a simple disagreement about plans for the weekend—but somehow, it escalated. words were exchanged, and now you’re both giving each other the silent treatment. it doesn’t help that you haven’t had the time or energy to smooth things over. so now, you’re walking around campus, wearing a coffee stain bigger than your damn head, replaying the argument in your mind over and over. it’s like everything is spiraling today.

you’ve officially become a hater of the coffee-spiller guy. it doesn’t take long for you to realize that fate has an awful sense of humor. a couple of days later, when you walk into your ‘history of art’ class, you spot him. there he is, sitting at the back of the lecture hall. you freeze for a moment and his eyes catch yours almost immediately. you can see it—the flicker of recognition, the split second where he remembers exactly who you are. but he looks away quickly. you roll your eyes and find a seat far away from him, making a mental note to never, ever, be near him in this class.

every little thing he does in class irritates you. the way he taps his pen against the desk, that awful, self-satisfied look he gets when he answers a question correctly. then there’s his laugh. it’s loud, obnoxious. you swear you can feel the vibration of it in your chest, like it’s shaking the whole room. and god, don’t even get started on the way he taps his foot incessantly, like he’s got some sort of rhythm problem, the way he flips through his notebook with unnecessary speed, flicking each page with an irritating snap. it drives you crazy. if you could, you’d throw your notebook at him just to get him to stop. but you don’t. because, well, you’re trying to act like an adult. by the end of each lecture, you’re fuming, but the worst part is—you’re starting to remember his name. choi seunghyun.

the next week, your friend doesn’t show up to class, and empty seat where they should be. and it’s a problem, because when the professor starts assigning partners for the semester project, you don’t have one. and of course, because the universe fucking hates you, guess who also doesn’t have a partner? “choi seunghyun, you’ll be with…” the professor scans the room, and your stomach drops before she even says it. your name. you blink. “what?” “you two will be working together on the project.” “can i do it alone? i don’t need a partner,” you say, shaking your head. the professor doesn’t even look up from her notes. “it’s a paired assignment.” “okay, but my partner’s just absent today. they’re still in the class, they’ll be back.” “you’re with seunghyun,” the professor says, finally looking at you, exasperated. you turn in your seat to glare at him, and of course, the asshole looks completely unbothered. you take a deep breath, grip your notebook a little tighter, and push yourself up from your seat. if there’s one thing you know for sure, it’s that seunghyun isn’t about to haul his ass over to you. which means, unfortunately, you have to go to him. it shouldn’t annoy you as much as it does, but everything about this situation is already pissing you off, so what’s one more thing?

you drop your stuff on his desk and pull out a chair, not waiting for an invitation. “let’s just get this over with.” seunghyun barely glances up. “eager, aren’t you?” “i actually want to pass this class,” you snap, unfolding the project sheet. and then, as your eyes land on the topic, your irritation dims—just a little. “ancient greek sculpture,” you mutter, reading over the details. seunghyun leans back, stretching his arms over the back of his chair. “not bad, huh?” “could’ve been worse,” you admit, tapping your pen against the desk. “greek sculpture is foundational. proportions, movement, realism—this stuff shaped everything that came after it.” he smirks. “glad you won’t be completely miserable, then.” you huff, crossing your arms. “trust me, if i had a different partner, i’d actually be excited about this.” his grin widens. “so i’m the problem?” “seunghyun,” you deadpan, “that was never in question.”

seunghyun doesn’t know why it feels so strange, hearing his name come from you. but it sticks in his head. he keeps his eyes on the project sheet, pretending to read while his mind is somewhere else entirely. you sit across from him, your fingers lingering on the corners of each page before turning them, and every so often, you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re thinking. he shouldn’t be noticing these things. but he does. you’re pretty. no, beautiful. sitting this close, it’s impossible to ignore. the way the light catches your eyes, the faintest crease in your brow when you’re thinking, the soft curve of your cheeks when you huff in frustration. there’s something about it—something that makes him glance away too quickly when you look up. but when you start talking, it’s even worse. your voice changes when you talk about art. there’s a spark in it, something alive, something that makes him sit up just a little straighter. you don’t just like this stuff—you care about it. and he gets that. because he cares too. he watches the way your hands move, the way you gesture like your words aren’t enough on their own. the way your eyes light up when you explain something, like you’re seeing it in your head as you say it. and it’s… nice.

as the conversation drags on, you feel the irritation you’ve been holding onto slowly start to slip away. at first, you thought seunghyun’d be the type of guy who leaves you to do all the work. but as he starts talking, you realize something you hadn’t anticipated. there’s this calm reason to his words, like he’s thought about what he’s saying before he says it—a kind of maturity in the way he talks. it’s not just facts he’s spitting out, it’s a genuine understanding. he’s making connections between things you hadn’t considered, filling in gaps you didn’t even know were there. and damn it, it makes you think twice. it messes with your entire perception of him.

“so, who’s your favorite greek sculptor?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost like he genuinely wants to know. you pause, considering. “it’s hard to pick,” you say, tapping your pen against the desk. “but if i had to choose, i’d go with praxiteles. he was one of the first to really capture natural human beauty. his sculptures, like the ‘hermes and the infant dionysus’, they’re just… they look like they could breathe, you know? like they’re alive.” you glance up to see him nodding. “yeah,” he murmurs. he falls silent for a moment, his eyes drifting down to his notebook. “for me, it’d probably be phidias,” he says. “the one who worked on the parthenon. his sculptures, especially the statue of athena… it’s just incredible.” he looks up at you then, a small, almost hesitant smile on his face. “there’s something about the way he made the gods feel so… human. like they were both divine and reachable at the same time.” “mhm.” you nod slowly. it’s strange—how much you find yourself agreeing with him.

he shifts in his seat, looking at the paper between you two but not really focusing on it anymore. “so, uh…” he starts, trailing off for a second like he’s trying to find the right words. “what do you usually do outside of class?” you glance at him, a little surprised by the sudden change in topic. “outside of class?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. “yeah,” he says, shrugging slightly. “just curious. got any weird hobbies?” you chuckle at the thought, leaning back in your chair. “weird hobbies? i don’t know about weird, but i like to read. i write a lot, too. and i sing, sometimes.” his eyes widen, and he looks at you with a kind of surprised excitement. “wait, you sing?” you nod, a little unsure of his reaction. “yeah, just for fun, though.” he’s practically leaning forward now, his voice more animated. “seriously? i like to sing too! but not like—i don’t perform or anything, but i mess around with writing songs sometimes.” you blink at him, surprised. “you write songs?” “yeah!” he says, his eyes lighting up as he talks. “mostly rap songs! just stuff i keep to myself. i don’t know, it helps me get my thoughts out.” you’re taken aback, not expecting that from him at all. “that’s… actually pretty cool! i didn’t think you’d be the type.” he chuckles a little, almost shy now, rubbing the back of his neck. “yeah. i don’t know, music’s kind of a big deal for me.” “i get that. i mean, i feel the same way about writing. it’s like… the only way to really get everything out.” his smile softens, and he nods, almost like he’s relieved that you get it. “exactly. it’s the only way i know how to say what i’m feeling.” he pauses, then adds, “i guess we’re not that different, huh?” you grin, a little more comfortable with him now. “guess not.”

weeks go by, and somehow, without you really noticing when it happened, you stop dreading working with seunghyun. at first, it was just about getting the project done—tolerating his presence, keeping things academically professional. but somewhere along the way, that changes. you start meeting up outside of class—not just in the library, but in the university cafeteria, sometimes even grabbing a table outside when the weather’s nice. at first, it’s always under the excuse of we need to finish this, but little by little, the project stops being the main focus of your meetings. it starts with small things. “you drink your coffee black?” you ask one afternoon, watching as he stirs his drink. he glances up at you, raising an eyebrow. “sometimes. why?” you wrinkle your nose, shaking your head. “no sugar, no milk… nothing?” “nope. not today,” he says, taking a sip like it’s no big deal. “you think that’s weird?” “oh, definitely.” he chuckles, shaking his head. “coming from someone who drowns theirs in sugar? right.” you scoff, feigning offense. “excuse me for liking some flavor in my life.” he only smirks, taking another sip of his coffee. and you don’t know why, but you find yourself watching the way his fingers wrap around the cup, the way he always waits a second before actually drinking. “talking about coffee,” seunghyun clears his throat. “i—i’m sorry for bumping into you that day. and for your blouse.” you blink, a little thrown by the sudden apology. you hadn’t expected him to bring it up. for a second, you almost forgot about that. but the memory comes back in full color—the embarrassment, the heat of the coffee soaking into fabric, and, worst of all, the way you heard him laugh right after. you shrug, forcing a small smile. “it’s fine! stuff happens.” but it doesn’t come out as smooth as you want it to. he notices. “look, i—i wasn’t laughing at you.” you don’t say anything, just arch a brow. “i mean, yeah, i laughed. but it wasn’t, like—fuck, i just do that when i’m nervous.” he lets out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “it’s a stupid reflex. i wasn’t trying to be an asshole.” “nervous?” you echo, curiosity edging into your voice. he hesitates for a second. “i don’t know. you caught me off guard.” “it’s okay! really.” “it won’t happen again, i promise.” “what, spilling my coffee? or the nervous laughing?” you grin. “both. if i can help it.” he smiles back.

one afternoon, you’re both hunched over your notebooks at your usual table in the cafeteria, trying to put together a proper analysis for the project, when he suddenly groans, running a hand through his hair. “okay, i need a break.” “agreed,” you sigh, stretching your arms over your head. “i think my brain is melting.” he leans back in his chair, exhaling. “we should just drop out. open a karaoke bar instead.” you hum, pretending to consider it. “tempting. but i think we’d go bankrupt in a week.” “probably,” he admits, smirking slightly. then, a sudden gust of wind blows through the open door. a few loose sheets of paper fly off the table, and you both reach for them at the same time. your hands brush, just for a second. you freeze. he does too. but instead of pulling away immediately, he hesitates. it’s barely noticeable, but you feel it—his fingers just lingering before he finally lets go. you don’t look at him, just focus on gathering the papers, but your heart beats a little faster anyway. he clears his throat, sitting back. “we should probably staple these,” he says, voice a little quieter than before. “yeah,” you mutter, shuffling the pages together.

another day, you find yourselves in the campus library, tucked away in a quiet corner where barely anyone goes. at first, it’s about the project—like it always is—but before long, you’re talking about anything but that. “okay, real question,” you say, tapping your pen against your notebook. “if you could live in any painting, which one would it be?” seunghyun leans back, arms crossed. he barely takes a second to think. “anything by kandinsky.” “oohh! good choice!” “right? it’d be like living inside music.” you nod, smiling. “i guess that suits you.” “what about you?” he asks, gaze flicking to you. you think for a moment before saying, “‘the garden of earthly delights.’” he lets out a low laugh. “crazy choice.” “shut up.” you laugh too. “i mean, it’s chaotic, sure, but it’d never be boring. plus, i’d be surrounded by nature—which i love—and i’d also get to hang out with weird little creatures all day.” seunghyun has to stifle the loud laugh scratching his throat. “it’s an orgy,” he says. you blink. “what?” “‘the garden of earthly delights.’ you picked a medieval sex party. should i be concerned?” you burst out laughing and a student a few tables away shoots you a look over their glasses, pressing a finger to their lips. “okay, first of all, that is not the reason i picked it.” you whisper, biting back another laugh. “but it’s there,” he insists, raising a brow. “like, everyone in that painting is naked.” “but they’re just eating fruit,” you retort. “yeah, and fruit is like… the biggest metaphor for sex ever. come on now.” you shake your head, still laughing softly, trying to contain yourself. “i just like that it’s weird, okay? it looks like something out of a fever dream. plus, i feel like bosch was on something when he painted it, and honestly? i respect that.” “so what you’re saying is, you wanna live in chaos.” “no, i wanna live somewhere that would never be boring. kinda like you picking kandinsky. kandinsky is chaos too, just in a different font,” you tease, arms crossing over your chest. “dude’s entire thing is just shapes and color explosions. what does that say about you?” he grins. “it says i’m fun.” “it says you have the attention span of a goldfish.” his mouth falls open in exaggerated offense. “okay, rude.” your laughter spills out again, earning you another round of disapproving stares from a group of students at a nearby table. one of them—not even looking up from their notes—goes, “shhh!”

seunghyun leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the table. his eyes flicker over your face, thoughtful. “what?” you ask, raising a brow. he shrugs. “nothing. just… you’re different from what i expected.” “that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?” his lips twitch. “take it as a compliment.” he grins, but there’s something in his expression—something a little too observant, like he’s picking apart a puzzle piece by piece. “so? what did you expect?” he hesitates for just a second before saying, “i don’t know.” he does know, or at least, he has some idea. he expected someone easier to read. but you’re not easy to read, and now he’s realizing that the more he pays attention, the more there is to figure out. he just doesn’t know how to say it. but he’s also noticed the cracks, the way some days you seem a little quieter, like you’re carrying something heavier than you let on. he wonders if you even realize it, how your guard slips in the smallest ways. maybe he shouldn’t say anything. maybe it’s not his place. but the words slip before he can stop himself. “i’ve noticed some days you’re different. like… sad.” it catches you so off guard that you don’t even know what to say for a moment. you force a small scoff. “everyone has off days.” he doesn’t buy it. “yeah, but not everyone acts like they don’t.” his voice is softer now, more careful. “i just—i think you’re good at keeping people out.” “most people aren’t worth letting in,” you reply. “i get that. sorry, i’m—i mean, i notice because i do the same thing,” he admits. the way he says it, like he actually sees you, makes your chest feel tight. you press your tongue against the inside of your cheek, trying to ignore the way your pulse has picked up. “i think you like analyzing people too much.” seunghyun snorts. “only when they’re interesting.” you open your mouth to respond, but you hesitate, suddenly hyperaware of how close he is. when did he lean in like that? or were you the one who moved? “right, okay,” you clear your throat, shifting in your seat and looking down at the books in front of you. “so, back to the hellenistic period. sculptures are less perfect compared to the classical period, more real. i’ll do the analysis of venus de milo, you can work on laocoön and his sons, if that’s okay with you.” he chuckles softly. “sure. sounds good to me.”

and when you’re walking together out of campus after—the sun already starting to set outside—he asks, “wait, have you ever been to the art gallery downtown?” you blink at him. “which one?” “the modern art gallery,” he says, hands tucked into his pockets, hoodie pulled up over his head. “they’ve got an exhibit on abstract and expressionist paintings right now. thought you might be interested.” you hesitate for a second, caught off guard. “you’ve been?” he nods. “yeah. went last week.” “alone?” “yeah.” he shrugs like it’s nothing. “sometimes it’s nice to go without distractions.” “weirdo,” you joke, and he chuckles. then you hum, considering it. “maybe i’ll check it out.” “you should,” he says, then—after a pause—“i could go again. if you wanted.” you glance at him, but he’s looking straight ahead, like he didn’t just say something that makes your stomach feel weird. you don’t answer right away. but you don’t say no, either.

a few days later, you end up at a park near campus, sitting on a bench. “okay,” you say, exhaling, “this is officially the furthest we’ve strayed from our project.” he smirks. “we could talk about it now, if you want.” you groan dramatically, leaning your head back. “ugh. please, no. let me live.” he chuckles, shaking his head. then, he tugs his hoodie over his head, the fabric bunching up around his face when he pulls its strings slightly. you watch him for a second before the thought slips out. “why do you do that?” his gaze flicks to you. “do what?” “pull your hoodie up like that. you do it all the time.” he exhales a quiet laugh, looking away. “i just… i don’t know. makes me feel more… covered?” he hesitates, then adds, almost like it’s an afterthought, “and i don’t like my ears getting cold.” “your ears?” “yeah.” but you know that look on his face. and you know the feeling, too. the urge to shrink youself, to avoid giving people something to make fun of. “i like your ears.” his head lifts slightly, eyes meeting yours in surprise. “what?” you shrug. “they’re nice.” for the first time, he actually looks caught off guard. “that’s… weirdly specific,” he laughs softly. “just take the compliment, hyun,” you say, rolling your eyes with a smile. he freezes for half a second. hyun? since when do you call him that? do you even realize you said it? he clears his throat, shifting like he suddenly doesn’t know what to do with himself. it’s just a nickname. it’s not a big deal. people shorten names all the time. but there’s this weird warmth settling in his chest, and he hates how much he notices it. “it was… it was genuine,” you add. “i used to be really insecure about them. my ears, i mean. well, actually… i used to be really insecure about a lot of things when i was younger.” “really?” “yeah. and people can be brutal. i got called all kinds of things. made me not want to talk much, not want to draw attention to myself.” your brows pull together as you listen. he’s opening up, letting you see a part of him that he probably doesn’t show most people. and you don’t take that lightly. “i’m talking too much again, aren’t i? i’m sorry—“ “you can talk about it,” you reassure him. “i’m listening.” you care? he wasn’t expecting that at all. “i just… never really felt comfortable in my own skin.” “i get that. i… i feel the same way.” “seriously?” “yeah. when i was younger most people thought i was weird. and i’ve never been the prettiest either. no one really looked at me.” “that’s crazy to me.” “why?” you ask, frowning. “why? are you kidding me? look at you!” his eyes flick away, like he just realized what he said. “i mean—” he clears his throat. “i don’t think you’re weird at all. you’re—you’re kind, and sweet, and funny, and smart as hell, and understanding…” he pauses. “and i think you’re very pretty, too.” you feel heat rise to your cheeks. “thanks, seunghyun,” you smile at him. “but—“ “ah, ah.” he shakes his head, pointing at you with his index finger. and in the same tone you used earlier, he says, “just take the compliment.” and you both laugh. the conversation drifts after that. you talk about books, music, childhood stories. and at some point, you glance at him and realize—he’s not as bad as you once thought. you could even consider him your friend at this point. and before you know it, you’re kind of looking forward to these moments.

saturday morning. it’s supposed to be a normal day. just you and your boyfriend, going from store to store, him carrying the bags while you browse through clothes, debating whether you really need another sweater. you don’t expect to see him. but then, as you’re exiting a store, laughing at something your boyfriend says, you hear a familiar voice. “oh. hey.” you stop mid-step, looking up. seunghyun is standing a few feet away, eyebrows raised. and he’s not alone. next to him, holding onto his arm, is a girl. she’s pretty. really pretty. she has that effortless kind of elegance, the type of girl you’d expect to see in an old film, with delicate jewelry and a perfect smile. you weren’t expecting this. you weren’t expecting him at all, let alone with someone. for a second, no one speaks. then, because you have to, you clear your throat. “uh—hey.” he nods, glancing at your boyfriend, then back at you. oh. right. introductions. that’s what people do, right? introduce their significant others? “so uhm… this is my boyfriend,” you say, nudging him slightly. your boyfriend extends a hand. “nice to meet you, man.” seunghyun hesitates—just for a fraction of a second—before shaking it. “yeah. you too.” then, as if remembering his own situation, he shifts slightly. “and… this is my girlfriend.” girlfriend…? she smiles, polite. “hi.” you don’t know why it feels weird. you force a small smile back. “nice to meet you.”

there’s a beat of silence, awkward and heavy, before your boyfriend gestures to the shopping bags in his hand. “someone got a little carried away,” he chuckles. “hey!” you nudge him, feigning offense. “i needed all of this.” seunghyun huffs a quiet laugh, barely noticeable, but you catch it. “are you guys shopping too?” you ask, because the silence is unbearable. “not really,” his girlfriend answers before he can. “just walking around, grabbing coffee.” “oh, nice,” you say, nodding, even though that doesn’t really keep the conversation going. you glance at him, searching for something else to say. “so no shopping spree for you?” he shakes his head. “no, not today. i don’t shop that much.” “right. you’re more of a ‘spend hours in an art gallery alone’ kind of guy.” you were trying to bring some humor into the conversation but oh my god. why did you say that? was that even a joke? (literally no one laughed…) his lips twitch slightly, like he wants to smile but doesn’t. “yeah.” another silence. his girlfriend tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking between the two of you. “so… how do you guys know each other?” “we’re working on a project together,” you say quickly. “for our ‘history of art’ class,” seunghyun adds, voice quieter than yours. she hums, nodding. “that’s nice.” you don’t miss the way she squeezes his arm slightly, like a subconscious claim.

your boyfriend, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice the awkward tension, but you do. seunghyun does. maybe it’s because, for weeks now, it’s just been you and him, meeting up, talking, working together. and somehow, in all that time, neither of you ever mentioned the people waiting for you outside of those moments. “we should—” you start, at the same time he says, “well, we—” you both stop. you let out a small, breathy laugh, and he exhales, shaking his head. “see you in class,” he says eventually. “yeah,” you nod. “see you.” and then you’re both walking in opposite directions, like that wasn’t weird at all.

it shouldn’t feel weird. it shouldn’t feel like anything. but your mind keeps circling back to it a day after. to him. to her. you don’t know why it caught you so off guard. or why it lingers now. maybe it’s the fact that you spent all these weeks talking to seunghyun, learning little pieces of him in a way that felt… too personal. and neither of you ever mentioned having a significant other. why? because he never asked? because you never did? because it never felt necessary? or because, deep down, some part of you didn’t want to say it? you swallow, shaking off the thought, forcing yourself to focus on something else. you’re just overthinking the situation. you have a boyfriend and seunghyun and you are just… classmates? friends? whatever.

class feels different on monday. not in a way anyone else would notice, but you feel it. in the way you and seunghyun settle into your usual seats, in the way neither of you says anything at first. usually, by now, one of you would’ve made some kind of comment, but today, there’s just silence. you busy yourself by flipping through your notes, pretending to be more focused than you actually are. he clears his throat. “did you finish the research on the kouros statues?” you nod. “yeah. i wrote some notes about the stylistic differences over time.” “good,” he says. “we can work on the structure later.” and that’s it. just straight to business. what a great way to start the day…! it annoys you. so, before you can stop yourself, you blurt it out. “you never told me you had a girlfriend.” you try to say it in a playful tone but you fail terribly at it. he looks at you. “you never told me you had a boyfriend,” he replies in the same awkward way. there’s a beat of silence after that, just enough for the words to hang between you two. then, unexpectedly, he chuckles—soft, like he’s trying to shake off the awkwardness. “guess we’re both bad at this,” he says, half-smiling. you snort, rolling your eyes. “yeah, apparently.” he leans back in his seat a little, fingers tapping lightly on his notebook. “so, how long?” you raise an eyebrow. “how long what?” “how long have you been with him? if you don’t mind me asking.” you bite your lip for a second, debating how much to share. “like… a little under two years,” you say finally. “we met online.” seunghyun raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “online?” “yeah, on instagram. i posted a picture, and he texted me after that. i know, it sounds kinda pathetic, but that’s how it happened.” you can’t help but feel a little embarrassed admitting it, but you shrug it off. “we’ve been together ever since… he’s my first love.” “not judging,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips. you’re grateful he doesn’t make you feel weird about it. “what about you two?” “we’ve been together for a while too. a year and a few months. she’s also my first love. i met her through a mutual friend,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “we were hanging out at one of his parties, we started talking, and… here we are.” “that sounds more normal than my story.” he shrugs, a small grin tugging at his lips. “hey, it worked out, right?” “yeah, it did,” you agree, smiling slightly.

but oh, if only he knew. the last couple of months have been… hard. a constant string of arguments, over the smallest things. it’s like every time you talk, it turns into a fight. you thought it was just a rough patch, but it doesn’t feel like a patch anymore. it started small at first—just him being a little distant. but it kept growing. he used to say “i love you” all the time, like it was the easiest thing in the world. but now? it’s like those words are stuck in his throat, like he’s forgotten how to say them, or worse—like he doesn’t want to say them anymore. you’ve noticed how he’s been putting others before you too, choosing to hang out with his friends or canceling plans with you last minute without a real reason. it hurts, and you don’t know how to fix it. but you can’t tell seunghyun that.

but to your surprise, after a beat of silence, seunghyun says, “it’s funny.” voice quieter than usual, almost like he’s not sure whether he should admit this. “things have been a little… rough with my girlfriend lately.” you blink. there’s something about hearing him say that, something about knowing you’re not the only one struggling, that makes you feel a little lighter. not because you want him to be going through something hard too, but because it makes you feel like it’s normal. like maybe every relationship has its bumps.“what do you mean?” you ask, leaning forward slightly. “i don’t know. we’re just… not clicking like we used to. it feels like we can’t talk without it turning into an argument, and i hate it.” he pauses. “like—when you made that joke the other day, about me going to art galleries alone, she got mad at me for even telling you about it. she said it ‘put her in a bad light’ because she doesn’t do those things with me… but she’s the one who doesn’t want to come, even when i ask.” you feel a pang of guilt, like your joke somehow made things worse. "sorry," you say, glancing at him. "i didn't mean to stir anything up." seunghyun shakes his head, like it's not a big deal at all. "oh, no. it was just an example. it's not your fault," he says. then, he shifts in his seat, suddenly looking more uncomfortable than before, like he’s regretting saying anything at all. “look, i didn’t mean to dump that on you,” he says quickly, his voice awkward now. “i… i love my girlfriend, you know? i’m just frustrated. it’s not… it’s not that bad or anything.” you can see the nervousness in his eyes, the way he avoids your gaze, trying to brush off what he said. it’s clear he wasn’t expecting to let that out. but you can also see how much he’s trying to act like everything is fine, even though it’s obvious he’s not. just like you. “hey,” you say softly, reaching across the table just a little, enough for him to hear the sincerity in your voice. “it’s okay. i get it. relationships aren’t always easy.” you take a breath, then decide to be honest. “i’ve been feeling the same way with my boyfriend. we’ve been fighting a lot lately, and it’s… tough. we’re just… constantly butting heads.”

he goes quiet after that. like, really quiet. there’s something in his dark eyes—hesitation, maybe. or relief. like he needed to hear that he wasn’t alone in this, that someone else out there was struggling with the same messy, frustrating parts of love. and then, almost abruptly, he suggests it. skipping the rest of the day. just ditching everything and going to that same art gallery. it catches you off guard, but you don’t even hesitate before nodding.

the gallery is damn near empty at that hour, just the two of you wandering through halls lined with color and shadow, bathed in soft overhead lights that make everything feel a little more intimate. there’s something about being here, surrounded by all this art, that makes it easier to breathe. you both stop at the first painting that catches your eye—a massive canvas of deep blues, layered thick like it’s been slathered on with a palette knife, with jagged streaks of gold cutting through the darkness like lightning. you let out a quiet ‘fuck’, barely above a whisper. seunghyun huffs a small laugh. “looks like someone was trying to do rothko but got pissed off halfway through.” you smirk, tilting your head. “nah, this is too aggressive for rothko. feels more like franz kline, but with, like… a caravaggio-level obsession with drama.” his lips twitch. “yeah, i see that. but notice how the gold isn’t just random—it’s balanced. it pulls your eye across the whole thing, cutting through the shades of blue.” you’re quiet for a moment, taking it in. “dependency,” you say. “the gold wouldn’t mean anything without the darkness of the blue.” he looks at you, eyes glinting under the gallery lights. “exactly.” and that’s how it goes. you move through the gallery slowly, stopping at every piece, actually talking about the art, finding beauty in all of it. even the weird, messy, seemingly meaningless ones. it’s easy, because you both get it. you see the details, the choices, the way every piece has something to say. you pause in front of a sculpture—a chaotic mess of rusted metal, welded together at impossible angles. “brutalist, but trying to be constructivist,” you murmur, circling it. “like… it wants to have structure, but it’s resisting.” seunghyun chuckles. “or maybe it’s collapsing. like tatlin’s tower, if they’d actually built it and just let it rot.” “okay, points for that reference.” he grins. “i know my stuff.”

somewhere along the way, the conversation shifts. you start talking about relationships, about the ways they fall apart. but it doesn’t feel heavy. because you’re realizing how fucking similar your relationships are, and in a way, how similar you and seunghyun are too. it makes you feel less lonely. “it’s always the same thing,” you say, shaking your head. “getting angry when i ask what’s wrong, giving me the silent treatment, then blaming me about every bad-fucking-thing that’s ever happened to him—calling me a crazy bitch just to come back a day after, acting like everything’s fine.” “yeah, fucks with your head, makes you question if you’re actually the problem when really, he’s just deflecting.” he shifts his weight, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “guys like that, they don’t know how to handle their own shit, so they make it yours.” he glances at you, voice softer now. “but you know that, right? that it’s not you?” you let out a bitter laugh, rubbing a hand over your face. “i mean, i tell myself that. but after a while, it’s like… how many times can someone treat you like shit before you start wondering if maybe you deserve it?” “you don’t,” he reassures. seunghyun’s jaw tightens, his gaze flicking away for a second. “i know that feeling too.” he hesitates, like he’s debating whether to say it. “with my girlfriend, it’s different, but also not. it’s like—she just won’t fucking talk to me. she gets mad at me for not knowing what’s wrong, but then when i ask, she shuts down. and she treats me like shit when that happens too. she yells at me, calls me names, ignores my texts… makes me feel like an idiot for even trying.” “like she expects you to read her mind.” he nods, huffing a short laugh. “exactly. and then when i give her space, it’s ‘you don’t care.’ when i push to talk, it’s ‘you don’t respect boundaries.’ i can’t—i don’t know, everything i do is fucking wrong in her eyes.” you scoff. “god, it’s the same thing. like, just say what you want! say what you mean! don’t make me guess.” seunghyun lets out a sharp exhale, like he’s been holding that in for too long. “right?! i hate that shit. like, i’m here. i want to fix it. but how the fuck am i supposed to do that if she won’t even let me in?” there’s a pause, the weight of both your words settling in the quiet gallery. “makes you wonder if it’s even worth it,” you murmur. seunghyun’s lips press into a thin line, his fingers tightening in his pockets. “yeah.” he exhales, looking up at the ceiling like it might have the answer. “but then they apologize, and suddenly it’s like none of it ever happened. and you want to believe it, because for those few hours or days, it feels good again.” you nod, because you know exactly what he means. “and then it starts all over.” he looks at you then, eyes meeting yours like he’s searching for something. “yeah.”

silence settles between you and your gaze drifts to the painting in front of you. but your eyes don’t stay on it for long. without really meaning to, you glance at seunghyun. he’s standing there, just a little in front of you, his gaze fixed on the painting, like he’s seeing something no one else can. the soft lighting catches the sharp angles of his jaw, the high planes of his cheekbones, the slope of his nose, his dark hair falling just a little out of place—it’s almost unfair how effortlessly attractive he is. you should look away. but you don’t. and then, like he can feel your gaze, he shifts. his eyes flicker toward you, catching you in the act. your breath stumbles. but he doesn’t say anything—just holds your gaze for a second too long, a knowing smile tugging at his lips before he looks back at the painting. and you swear the air feels warmer after that. what the hell is happening to you?

months pass, and you’re closer than ever. one day, he’s just some guy you had a class with, and then, somehow, he’s your best friend. the project you worked on together? you absolutely crushed it—high marks, glowing feedback from your professor, the kind of result that makes all the half-serious arguments about formatting feel worth it. now you hang out all the time. and not just around campus—you start meeting up outside, too. going to the cinema together, picking dumb movies just to make fun of them. letting him come over to your place, where he inevitably kicks your ass at whatever game you decide to play—but then grumbles when you start getting better and actually put up a fight. some days, you just drive around aimlessly, talking about everything and nothing, stopping for food at sketchy places that somehow have the best food you’ve ever tried. you also help him with his relationship problems, and he helps with yours. well, help is a strong word—mostly, you just sit around, venting, analyzing every little thing your significant others do, trying to make sense of it all. sometimes, you’ll lie on his couch, scrolling through texts, trying to decode what a delayed response or a vague message really means. other times, he’s the one ranting, pacing the room, running a frustrated hand through his hair. neither of you have any real answers, but somehow, just saying it out loud makes it easier to carry.

the texting never stops either. even after spending the whole day together, even when you know you’ll see each other tomorrow. memes, whatever pops into your head at midnight, reminders about class or inside jokes from earlier in the day, thoughts about love and life. messages that start lighthearted but end up lingering in your mind long after the conversation ends. he’s the person you call when something good happens. he’s also the person you call when everything sucks. he becomes part of your life in a way that feels permanent. like even if everything else changes, he’ll still be there.

well, surprise! you are very wrong! it happens slowly at first, so slowly that you almost don’t notice it. a missed call here, a delayed text there. seunghyun stops responding as quickly, but you tell yourself it’s nothing—maybe he’s just busy. but then, suddenly, there’s no texting at all. he stops reaching out, and when you text first, the replies are short, distant, like he’s talking to a stranger instead of you. at first, you brush it off. maybe he’s just going through something. you give him space, waiting for him to come back on his own. but then he starts avoiding you in person, too. in class, he stops sitting next to you. when you try to talk to him, he keeps it brief, like the past few months never even happened. so you try. you crack jokes, hoping to lighten the mood. he barely reacts. you ask if he wants to grab coffee after class, and there’s always an excuse. but you’re stubborn. you keep trying, keep telling yourself that maybe he just needs time. maybe if you push a little harder, he’ll tell you what’s wrong. maybe he’ll go back to being the seunghyun you know. but he doesn’t. so eventually, you stop. because there’s only so many times you can knock on a closed door before you realize no one’s going to open it.

but fuck, you miss him. you miss seunghyun so much… in all the small, stupid ways that sneak up on you. you miss the way he used to walk you home after class, even when it was completely out of his way. how he’d always offer you his jacket without making a big deal out of it, just drape it over your shoulders. you miss how he’d send you voice notes instead of texts when he was tired, his voice soft and half-laughing as he complained about his day. like how he accidentally bought decaf coffee and didn’t realize until he’d already had two cups. or when he got locked out and had to convince the neighbor to let him climb across their balcony to reach his window—commentary and all, like he was narrating his own survival special. you miss sitting next to him during boring lectures, passing notes like you were in high school again—little doodles, sarcastic comments, the occasional ‘want to skip and get tteokbokki?’ scrawled in messy handwriting. how he’d always save you a seat beside him, even when he didn’t need to. you miss sharing your music with him, like that rainy afternoon you spent at the bus stop together, both of you soaked and laughing, sharing one headphone while waiting for a bus that never came. you miss how he’d always remember the little things—your favorite candy, the name of that song you liked for two weeks straight, the way you hated talking on the phone but would answer when it was him.

you love your boyfriend. you do. you’ve fought for this relationship, worked through the rough patches, stayed when it would’ve been easier to walk away. so why does your heart feel so heavy when you think about seunghyun? why do these stupid little memories of him make your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with losing a friend? and then it hits you. you were starting to fall for seunghyun. the realization slams into you like a truck, knocking the air right out of your lungs. your stomach twists, guilt rising up so fast it makes you dizzy. you squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head as if that’ll get rid of the thoughts. it’s nothing. just stupid feelings messing with you because you miss seunghyun as a friend. that’s all. it has to be. but deep down, you know. you don’t want to deal with this. any of it. it makes you sick. you try to shove it down, bury it deep where it can’t touch you. but the more you try to push it away, the worse it gets. anger starts to creep in, and you start resenting seunghyun. resentment is easier. that’s what you tell yourself. it’s easier than facing the awful, sinking truth—that you like him. that, somewhere along the way, he started meaning too much. so you turn that feeling into something bitter. it’s easier to hate him for pushing you away without an explanation.

you don’t say hi when you pass each other on campus. he doesn’t either. you just walk by like two people who never meant a damn thing to each other. in class, is where it’s the worst. you’re stuck two rows apart, forced to exist in the same space, forced to hear his voice, and it pisses you off. everything about him pisses you off again now. so when the discussion turns to a painting you know he’s wrong about, you jump at the chance. “that’s not what it means,” you say. seunghyun pauses mid-sentence. his jaw tightens slightly. “i wasn’t talking to you.” “yeah, well, you’re still wrong.” you lean back in your seat, arms crossed, glare locked onto him. “the artist literally said in an interview that the painting was about grief, not isolation.” “and what, you suddenly know more than everyone now?” “i know how to read.” he exhales through his nose. “interpretation exists for a reason. it doesn’t have to mean just one thing.” “so your interpretation is just better than the artist’s own words? that makes total sense.” someone snickers a few seats over. the professor looks unimpressed but doesn’t step in. “are you done?” he asks. “no, i’m not,” you reply before stating your opinion and interpretation of the painting. seunghyun shakes his head, muttering something under his breath.

the bickering continues for months. that class turns into a battlefield, every discussion an excuse to dig into each other. it doesn’t even matter what the topic is anymore—if seunghyun says one thing, you find a way to contradict it. if you make a point, he challenges it. he acts like he doesn’t care, but he does. you see it in the way his jaw tightens when you cut him off. in the way his fingers drum against the desk when your words hit a little too hard. in the way his voice gets sharper, more clipped, when he finally bites back. good! you want him to feel as frustrated as you do, as angry as you do. but one day, when the class ends and you’re gathering your things ready to leave, you feel fingers wrap around your wrist. firm, but not rough. seunghyun. your breath catches. he’s barely touched you before, but now, he’s pulling you aside, out of the classroom, into the quieter hallway. “why are you doing this?” he asks, frustrated. you snatch your wrist out of his grasp. “doing what?” he lets out a slow breath. “you know what.” you do. of course you do. “you should know.” his eyes search yours before his shoulders drop slightly, and he steps back. “okay.” you scoff. “okay? that’s all you have to say?” “what else do you want me to say?” “i want an explanation.” the words snap out before you can stop them. “you just—you just left, seunghyun.” his jaw clenches. “that’s not—” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “nothing happened.” “what?” “nothing happened.” he repeats, like that somehow makes it better. “there’s no explanation. i just—” he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “it’s nothing.” “don’t lie.” “i’m not lying.” “yes, you are!” you snap. “you don’t just wake up one day and decide to cut someone out of your life for nothing.” he doesn’t say anything. you narrow your eyes. “was it because of her?” his brows furrow slightly. “what?” “your girlfriend.” you say, sharper this time. “is that why? she didn’t like me or something?” his whole posture stiffens. “no. that’s not—” he shakes his head. “this has nothing to do with her.” “then why?” “i don’t know what you want me to say.” “i want the truth.” “there’s no—” “you always complained about her not telling you what was wrong, even when you asked. now i’m asking you, hyun,” your voice sounds almost pleading. “i’m asking you to be fucking honest with me. did i do something wrong? i just—please. please, tell me.” for a split second, something flickers across his face. something real. but then it’s gone, buried under that frustrating, detached calm of his. seunghyun swallows, his gaze dropping to the floor. “i already told you. there’s nothing to explain.” and that’s when it really sinks in. he’s not going to tell you. he’s not going to give you answers. you bite the inside of your cheek, trying to ignore the way your throat tightens. “okay,” you say quietly, almost in a whisper. “have a good day, seunghyun.”

when the academic year ends, you feel like you can finally breathe. the weight of seeing seunghyun every day finally lifts, and you don’t realize how much it was draining you until it’s gone. summer feels like a breath of fresh air. no classes to deal with, no more running into him on campus. you actually start to feel better. the long days blend into each other, and the heat is almost a relief, as if the sun can melt away the last remnants of all the mess that’s been building up inside you. you spend time with friends, with your boyfriend, with family, dive into your hobbies—things that make you feel again, instead of being stuck in that heavy, frustrating place you were in just a few months ago.

the day feels like any other. it’s one of those lazy summer days, the kind that stretches on, with no obligations in sight. you’re in the kitchen, a soft hum of music filling the space as you chop vegetables for your lunch. it’s a soothing task, one that lets you lose yourself in the rhythm while the world spins on without much thought. then, your phone rings. the sound slices through the calm, pulling your attention to the screen. the moment you see the name, your heart skips a beat. seunghyun. you freeze, knife halfway through slicing a carrot. the world feels like it slows down for a moment. it’s been months since you last heard from him, since that final conversation you thought would be the last. you can feel your breath catch in your chest as your mind races. why is he calling now? what could he possibly want? you stare at his name, watching the screen flash. your fingers hover over the phone, torn. there’s a part of you that wants to ignore it, to send him straight to voicemail. it would be easier, right? just let him stay in the past where he belongs. but another part of you wants to know why he’s calling. you’ll regret it if you don’t pick up.

with a sharp exhale, you swipe your finger across the screen. “hello?” your voice sounds smaller than you expected. there’s a long silence on the other end. you can hear faint sounds—shuffling, soft breaths, maybe a sniffle—and then, his voice cracks through, shaky and broken. “hey…” your stomach drops. there’s something wrong. something off in his tone. “seunghyun?” you whisper, suddenly feeling the weight of his name. he doesn’t respond right away, and you can hear him sniffle again. “i—” his voice cracks. “are you okay?” you blurt out before you can stop yourself, panic creeping up your spine. there’s a long pause. you wait, heart pounding in your ears. and then, his voice comes, quieter this time. “no. i’m not okay.” you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, the tension in his voice seeping into your bones. “what’s going on?” you ask, your words coming out urgent, concerned. “hyun, talk to me.” there’s a shaky breath on the other end before he finally speaks. “she cheated on me.” it’s the last thing you expected to hear. you swallow. “what? your girlfriend?” “i found out a couple days ago,” he continues, his words slow, like he’s choosing each one carefully. “she… she left her phone unlocked. and i didn’t mean to snoop i swear, but i saw messages—pictures, stuff i shouldn’t have seen. i knew something was off before, but seeing it…” you wince, not sure what to say. you can’t imagine what he must’ve been going through. “i’m sorry,” you say quietly, the words feeling too small. he lets out a shaky sigh, and you hear him breathe in like he’s trying to pull himself together. “yeah, well… it’s done now. we argued for days, but today, i… i ended it. it’s over.” “oh. i’m sorry, hyun, i… i don’t know what to say.” there’s a long pause, and when he speaks again, it’s with an almost defeated tone. “i… i didn’t mean to call you. i just—i don’t know,” he says, his words stumbling over each other. “i didn’t want to bother you. i-i shouldn’t have called. i don’t know why i did.” he’s almost apologizing, and the guilt in his voice makes you frown. “don’t hang up,” you say quickly, before you even think about it. “please don’t hang up.” “i’m sorry for calling you out of nowhere.” you feel a pang of sadness at his words. “it’s okay,” you reply. “you don’t have to apologize for calling. i’m here, okay? you can talk to me.”

seunghyun sits there, phone pressed to his ear, wondering how you can still be here for him after everything, after he pushed you away. the guilt eats at him, every part of him screaming that he doesn’t deserve to have someone like you by his side. “i thought you’d be done with me by now,” he says, almost in a whisper. you shake your head even though he can’t see you, your hand gripping the phone a little tighter. “we were friends, seunghyun,” you remind him, your voice gentle. “i know things got messed up, but… we were friends. best friends. and i told you i’d always be there for you.” you pause, chewing on your lower lip for a moment, before you finally say what you’ve been thinking. “if you want, i can come over. we can talk… or not talk. whatever you need.” you hold your breath, waiting for his response. there’s a long, stunned silence on the other end. “you want to see me?” he asks, like he can’t believe it. “yeah, of course.” “i don’t deserve your help.” “you do. please, let me.” there’s a slight hesitation before he speaks again. “okay. i won’t keep you long. i don’t want to be a burden.” “you’re not,” you assure him. “give me an hour and i’ll be there.”

as soon as you reach his place, you knock lightly, your heart hammering in your chest. the door creaks open a few seconds later. he looks awful. his eyes are red and swollen, his hair messy. he’s in a hoodie that hangs loosely on his frame, and the exhaustion in his face makes him look smaller. for a moment, neither of you move. no words are exchanged. then, without overanalyzing, you step forward and wrap your arms around him. he tenses at first, like he wasn’t expecting it, but then he just… melts. his arms tighten around you, his face burying into your shoulder as his body shakes. and then, quietly, he starts crying. you feel his tears soak into your shirt but you don’t pull away. you just hold him, one hand running soothingly over his back.

you spend the entire summer trying to pull seunghyun out of the darkness he’s buried himself in. he barely leaves his house, barely eats unless you remind him, barely sleeps. and you can’t stand it. you can’t stand seeing him like this—so broken. so you do what you can. you show up. every single day. some days, it’s just sitting with him in comfortable silence, letting him exist without forcing him to talk. other days, you try to drag him outside, finding little excuses to get him moving. “come on,” you tell him one afternoon, standing in his living room with your hands on your hips. “let’s go get ice cream.” he’s curled up on the couch, hood pulled over his head, despite the unbearable heat outside. you’re not surprised—he once told you he likes to be covered up. “i’m good,” he mumbles, not even looking at you. you roll your eyes and walk over, grabbing the hood and yanking it off. “no, you’re not, liar. you haven’t left this room in days. come on, seunghyun. you love ice cream.” he sighs, rubbing his face. “i’m not in the mood.” “that’s exactly why we’re going.” you grab his arm, pulling until he finally gets up.

one day you even made him dance with you. it was late, music playing softly from your speakers. you were already swaying to the beat, grinning at him from across the room. “come on, dance with me.” he scoffed, arms crossed. “yeah, no.” “why not?” “because i don’t dance.” you rolled your eyes. “don’t lie. you literally have like five videos on instagram of you dancing in front of your mirror.” “that’s different,” he muttered, avoiding your gaze. “is it?” you raised an eyebrow. “what about that time you started dancing in the middle of the crosswalk because that one guy’s car stereo was blasting usher?” he tried to suppress a smile, but failed. “okay, that doesn’t count either. i was just being silly.” “be silly with me now, then. everyone dances, hyun.” you stepped closer and grabbed his wrists, trying to tug him away from the wall. he resisted at first, feet planted like a grumpy little kid, but you didn’t let up. until finally, with a dramatic sigh, he let you pull him toward the center of the room. “this is dumb,” he grumbled. “you’re dumb,” you shot back. “just move.” at first he was stiff, awkward, his shoulders tense and eyes focused anywhere but on you. but you didn’t care. you kept swaying, guiding him with a light grip and a grin, your voice humming along with the music. and slowly he loosened up. just a little. “see? not so bad.” he let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, his eyes flicking down to you, soft around the edges. like he wanted to argue, but didn’t have it in him. not when it was you.

eventually, he started coming back to himself. making jokes like he used to. but the first time you heard his real laugh again, after months, it nearly made you jump out of your seat. it happened at his house. you were sprawled out on his couch, flipping through a magazine, when you made an offhand comment about his wardrobe. “you literally have like three hoodies. and you wear them every day.” “rude,” he said flatly. “i have five.” you snorted. “right. and they all look exactly the same.” “it’s called having a brand.” “your brand is sad boy chic.” he tried to hold it in, pressing his lips together like that would stop it—but the laugh still slipped out. your eyes widened. “oh my god.” you sat up, staring at him. “are you laughing?” he shook his head, even as his mouth twitched up. “i’m not.” and then another chuckle escaped. your grin stretched wide. “you are!” he groaned, running a hand down his face. “shut up.”

one evening, you’re both out on his balcony, the sun just having dipped below the horizon, leaving streaks of deep orange and purple in the sky. the air is warm but cooling down, the distant hum of the city below mixing with the occasional rustling of leaves. seunghyun leans against the railing, cigarette between his fingers, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light. he takes a slow drag, exhaling the smoke into the evening air before wordlessly handing it to you. you hesitate for half a second before taking it, bringing it to your lips and inhaling just enough for the burn to settle in your lungs. you pass it back, watching as he taps the ash over the edge of the railing, gaze distant. he hasn’t said much in the past few minutes, which isn’t unusual, but there’s something about his silence that feels different. after a while, he sighs. “i need to tell you something.” you straighten a little, looking at him. “what is it?” “i think… i think i owe you an explanation,” he says. your stomach tightens. you know exactly what he means. “you don’t have to,” you reply, even though you’ve spent months dying to know. “i wasn’t honest with you back then. and… i want to be.” he pauses, rolling the cigarette between his fingers, gaze fixed on the darkened skyline. “the reason i… the reason i stopped talking to you is because—” he hesitates, jaw clenching. “because i liked you,” he finally says. your breath catches. “what?” he turns his head slightly, just enough to glance at you. “i liked you. as more than a friend.” but even now, standing here with the truth hanging between you, he knows he’s still holding back. liked—he said it like it was past tense, like it was something he’d moved on from. but that’s a lie. he still does. you don’t know what to say. don’t even know what to feel. “seunghyun…” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “i had a girlfriend. you had a boyfriend… well, you still do.” his voice drops at that last part. he clears his throat, looking away again. “i loved her. and it was wrong. so i told myself that those feelings for you would go away if i put enough space between us.” your fingers tighten around the railing. your voice is barely above a whisper when you ask, “did it work?” “no.”

silence settles between you. you want to admit it, too. that you felt the same thing. but where would that even get you? you’re still in a relationship. and you love your boyfriend (at least that’s what you tell yourself…) you know better. you can’t complicate things again now. so instead, you force yourself to ask, “why are you telling me this, hyun?” he frowns. “i don’t know, i just—i thought you should know.” he pauses. “i’m sorry for disappearing like that.” “it’s okay—” “no, it’s not.” he sighs. “i shouldn’t have… i shouldn’t have cut you off. i hurt you and you didn’t deserve that.” the guilt has been sitting in his chest for so long, pressing down on him every time he thought about you—which was always. you know you should be angrier, that you should make him sit with the weight of what he did a little longer. but the truth is, you missed him. you missed him so much it ached. “yeah,” you say quietly, “you did hurt me. but i get it, hyun.” he frowns slightly. “you were confused. and scared.” and you know that, because that’s exactly how you felt too. “but that doesn’t justify—” “seunghyun.” you cut off, shaking your head. “no it doesn’t justify it, but you apologized. i forgive you. it’s okay. don’t be—don’t be hard on yourself.” oh man. he wonders what he did in another life to deserve you being so good to him in this one. “i’m sorry too,” you continue with a smile tugging at your lips. “for snapping at you all the time in class.” he lets out a small laugh. “it’s okay,” he replies, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. “i thought it was kinda cute.” “cute?” you snort. “yeah. but don’t worry,” he says, forcing a smirk, like he’s trying to play it off. “it’s in the past. we’re good friends.” and for some reason, that stings.

summer ends before you even realize it. the warmth starts to fade, the days growing shorter, the air losing its heaviness. you’re back on campus, slipping into the routine of lectures and assignments. but everything shifts—just a few days into the new academic year, it all comes crashing down. the fight with your boyfriend starts like any other argument. but then, somewhere in the middle of it, he snaps. says something he can’t take back. something that makes your stomach drop. he’s slept with multiple girls behind your back. you don’t remember what you said after that. don’t remember how the argument ended. all you know is that it’s over. and now, somehow, the tables have turned. it’s seunghyun showing up at your door this time, no hesitation in his eyes when he pulls you into a hug the second he sees your face. it’s him dragging you out of your house when you don’t want to move, sitting with you in coffee shops and parks and anywhere that isn’t your room, distracting you with dumb jokes and conversations about nothing. it’s him texting you at random hours, u good? or let’s go get food or just a simple i’m outside when you need it the most. he doesn’t push you to talk. doesn’t force you to open up. he just stays—sits beside you when you don’t feel like speaking, lets you cry when you need to. and slowly, piece by piece, he starts pulling you back together.

by the time october rolls around, you’re a new person. the heartbreak doesn’t sting anymore, the anger has dulled, and you’re genuinely happy after what feels like a lifetime. seunghyun has a lot to do with that. and maybe that’s why, when the invitation for a halloween party from some classmates rolls in, it doesn’t feel so strange that you and seunghyun are each other’s default plus-one. the house is packed, every room overflowing with people. music booms from the speakers, the bass so heavy it vibrates through the floor, making the half-empty bottles on the kitchen counter tremble. laughter and shouting fill the space, blending with the music, with the sound of ice clinking in cups, with the occasional crash of something breaking followed by a drunken chorus of “ooohhh!” you and seunghyun arrive together, dressed in matching costumes—him as an astronaut, you as the moon. your dress is a soft, silvery white, made of a flowing fabric that shimmers with every step, catching the dim party lights. the bodice is scattered with tiny embroidered stars, and the skirt has a subtle iridescence, shifting between silver and pale blue as you move. your jewelry is just as delicate—dangling earrings shaped like crescent moons. atop your hair sits a headband, adorned with silver moons and twinkling stars. seunghyun had grinned when he saw you, adjusting the nasa patch on his astronaut suit before reaching out to spin you in place.

you don’t separate when you step inside. instead, his hand stays on the small of your back. someone shoves drinks into your hands the second you reach the kitchen—something bright and sugary, probably way too strong—but neither of you mind. a group is playing beer pong in the living room, another is huddled around a tiny table, laughing over some drinking game with cards. in the corner, someone’s passed out in a vampire cape, an empty bowl of candy resting on their lap. the night moves in a blur. you and seunghyun barely leave each other’s side, moving together through the party, dancing till his hair starts sticking to his forehead from sweat. between songs, you weave through the party together, stopping to talk to friends, laughing at half-drunken conversations, clinking cups and playing games. someone compliments your matching costumes, and seunghyun just grins, tugging playfully at the fabric of your dress. “told you we’d have the best costumes. i mean, what’s an astronaut without his moon?”

eventually, the heat and the crowd become too much, and seunghyun leans in close, voice just loud enough over the music. “let’s go outside for a bit.” you follow him through the packed room and out the back door, the chilly night air biting at your skin. the backyard is quiet compared to the chaos inside, just the faint murmur of distant conversations and the occasional burst of laughter. seunghyun pulls a cigarette from his pocket, then offers you one without a word. you take it, watching as he lights his first, the glow flickering against his face before he leans in to light yours. you take a slow drag before exhaling. “having fun?” he asks. you smirk. “define fun.” he chuckles, shaking his head. “you took more shots than me earlier. you’re definitely drunk.” “tipsy,” you correct, nudging him with your elbow. “big difference.” he hums in response, taking a drag of his own. for a moment, there’s only silence, the two of you standing side by side, watching the way the smoke curls into the cold air. “the party is actually good,” he says. “way better than i expected. i was killing it at beer pong.” “you lost.” “okay, but it was a close game.” you shake your head, laughing. “so this is a ten out of ten night for you?” “pretty much,” he grins. “good music, free booze, and…” he hesitates for a second before saying, “you. what more could i want?” you feel warmth creep up your neck, but you keep your expression neutral, taking a slow drag of your cigarette. “drunk flirty hyun… that’s new.” he scoffs, shaking his head. “that wasn’t—” he starts, but then he stops, like he realizes mid-sentence that there’s no point in denying it. instead, he exhales, flicking ash off his cigarette. “i was just being honest.” he takes another drag, exhaling slowly after, watching the way the smoke drifts into the cold air before his gaze drifts back to you. he’s so screwed. because you’re smiling, the glow of the party lights casting this ridiculous golden halo around you. your lips are glossy, your smile lifting your cheeks, making you look even cuter, and your hair—god, your hair—looks so soft he has to physically stop himself from reaching out and running his fingers through it. you’re beautiful. and he’s so stupidly in love. you turn to look at him, brows raising slightly. “what?” you ask, amusement flickering in your eyes. seunghyun blinks, realizing too late that he’s been staring. “nothing,” he says, a little too quickly, taking another drag of his cigarette like that’ll somehow make him look less obvious. you tilt your head, the corner of your lips quirking up. “you sure?” you press, watching him. seunghyun hesitates for half a second, then just smiles, soft and a little shy. “yeah. just… spaced out for a second.” “mhmm,” you hum, clearly unconvinced, but you don’t push. instead, you take another slow drag of your cigarette. after a moment, you flick the end of it away, stretching slightly. “wanna go back in?” he nods. “yeah.” “only if you take another shot with me.” seunghyun huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “figured there was a catch.” “come on, hyun,” you grin, tugging at his sleeve. “just one more.” and he’s already moving, already following you back inside, because he’s so far gone for you it’s pathetic.

after a couple of hours, when the party starts to lose its spark and exhaustion settles in, he leans in, voice low near your ear. “you wanna head out?” you nod, stretching your arms with a yawn. “yeah, just need to grab my coat. left it in one of the rooms.” he doesn’t say anything, just follows when you turn to go. the house is still loud, music pulsing from the main room, but out here in the hallway, it’s quieter, the chatter more distant. you push open the door to a small room, stepping inside. your coat is draped over the back of a chair, right where you left it. seunghyun’s inside too, standing just a few steps away. you shake out your coat, ready to slip it on, but before you can, he steps closer. “here,” he offers, voice quieter now, more careful. “let me.”

you hesitate for half a second before nodding, handing it over. he takes it gently, holding it open as you slide your arms through the sleeves. his hands brush against your shoulders as he settles it into place, a touch so light it barely lingers, but it’s enough to send a shiver down your spine. neither of you move right away. you can feel him behind you, his warmth, the way he still hasn’t stepped back. slowly, you turn to face him. his gaze flickers over you, taking you in like he’s memorizing every detail. then, so quietly it almost disappears into the space between you, he says, “do you wanna know what i was thinking before? when we were outside?” you hum in response, nodding slightly. “i was thinking… you’re beautiful. you’re so, so beautiful.” “you’re drunk,” you say, but it comes out quieter than you intended. he exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. “i know what i’m saying.” you hold his gaze, fingers curling inside your sleeves. “you sure?” you laugh softly. his voice is quieter when he speaks again. “yeah. it’s not a bad thing. thinking you’re beautiful… calling you beautiful.” his gaze flickers, dropping briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes. “you shouldn’t look at me like that,” you say. he steps just the slightest bit closer, gaze never leaving yours. “like what?” “like that,” you mutter, looking away. he’s quiet for a moment, then—“maybe you should stop looking at me like that, too.” your eyes snap back to his, heart pounding in your chest. “i’m not,” you argue, but it’s unconvincing. he smiles. “yes, you are.” you blink, heat spreading through your cheeks. “hyun…” you start, but the words catch in your throat. his smile lingers. “what?” “don’t do that.” “do what?” “act like you know what’s going on in my head.” his expression softens just slightly, but there’s something careful in the way he tilts his head, watching you. “don’t i?” of course he does. it’s infuriating, really, the way he can pick apart your thoughts without you saying a word. his eyes search yours, and then, he studies you for a long moment, like he’s trying to decide if he should even say what he’s about to say at all. but the words escape his lips before he can stop them. “i still have feelings for you.” “hyun—” “they never went away,” he cuts in. “you never noticed?” “i don’t—i don’t know.” “i thought you did,” he murmurs. “sometimes, it felt like you did. but maybe i was just seeing what i wanted to see.” he pauses. “sorry, i don’t want to make things weird, i know the breakup is recent for you, i just—i needed to say it,” his voice is quieter now, like he’s already made peace with whatever answer he thinks is coming. you glance up at him and he looks like he’s already preparing himself for the worst. and that’s what does it. that’s what makes the words slip past your lips before you can overthink them. “i… i do too.” “what?” “i have feelings for you too,” you say. “for a while now.” his expression softens, something flickering in his gaze—relief. “really?” “mhm.” you nod with a shy smile.

he exhales, like he’s been holding in the breath this whole time. and then, before you can process it, he takes a step closer, hand reaching up to brush against your cheek, gentle. your breath stutters as his face inches closer, his eyes flickering to your lips, giving you time to pull away if you want to. but you don’t. except, just as his lips nearly graze yours, panic flares in your chest, and you instinctively turn your head. “wait—” he freezes immediately, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “oh. sorry. too fast?” “no, no.” “what’s wrong?” you press your lips together. “i just… i haven’t kissed anyone other than my ex before.” your voice is small, embarrassed. “i don’t know—i don’t know how to do this. i’m nervous.” his brows lift slightly before a small smile tugs at his lips, understanding. “you think i have?” “what?” “you’re the only person i’ve liked other than my ex. i haven’t kissed anyone either.” the confession eases some of the nerves coiled in your stomach. “it’s okay to be nervous,” he says softly. “we don’t have to rush anything.”

you chew on your bottom lip. the way he’s looking at you makes you feel a little braver. seunghyun hesitates, then asks, “do you want to try?” he’s waiting—patient, not pushing, just letting you decide. and that just makes you want it more. “yes.” your voice is quiet. “i want to try.” his lips twitch up in a small smile, and he nods once. his gaze dips to your lips for just a second before meeting your eyes again, waiting for you to make the first move. you take a shaky breath before you lean in. it’s barely a kiss, just the softest press of your lips against his. you pull back almost immediately, nerves sparking in your chest. he stays close, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at each other. “you okay?” he murmurs. you nod quickly, cheeks burning. “yeah.” a small, shy smile on your lips. his own smile widens just a little. “can we—can we try again?” you whisper. this time, when you lean in, he meets you halfway. the second kiss is different. his lips fit against yours like they were always meant to. you feel his hand slide to the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing your skin so delicately that it makes your stomach flip. your fingers find the fabric of his costume, curling slightly as you let yourself lean into him, let yourself fall into the moment. the kiss deepens naturally, neither of you rushing, just learning each other in quiet, stolen seconds. he tilts his head slightly, and the shift makes it even better—your lips molding together, the warmth of him surrounding you. his nose brushes against yours as you part. your lashes flutter open, meeting his gaze. “was that okay?” he murmurs. you let out a breathless laugh, nodding. “more than okay.” “good.” he laughs too.

you spend more time with each other after that night, if that’s even possible. it becomes routine. you wake up expecting to see him at some point in the day. if you don’t, it feels off, like something’s missing. sometimes, you’ll spend hours together without saying much, just existing in the same space. other times you’ll talk for hours, trading secrets you’ve never told anyone, laughing until your stomachs hurt. seunghyun is so in love. oh, so in love… sometimes, when he’s lying awake at night, staring at his ceiling, he feels almost angry at himself—for waiting so long, for not realizing sooner. he thinks about the time he wasted, stuck in something that was never meant to last, convincing himself that love was supposed to be hard, that it was supposed to be painful and exhausting. but with you, it’s so fucking easy. he’s starting to believe what people say. first love is beautiful, sure. but second love? second love is real. second love is unforgettable. seunghyun is down bad. your presence alone is enough to set every nerve in his body on fire. and when you laugh—god, when you laugh—he thinks he could live off that sound alone. and maybe it’s crazy, but sometimes, he finds himself thinking—this is it, isn’t it? this is the kind of love people write about. he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that no one—not his first love, not anyone—has ever made him feel like this. he’s never felt love like this before. but he never wants to go another day without it. without you.

the way you kiss him it’s intoxicating. seunghyun has kissed before, obviously. with you, it’s different. because when you do, slow, like you’re savoring every second, it makes his head spin more than anything else ever has. because the way you pull back just to look at him, eyes flickering between his—your hands on him, like you need to be touching him—makes his chest ache in the best way. makes him feel like the most important person in the world. sometimes, it starts soft, just a lingering press of lips. other times, it’s urgent. but you don’t push for more, and neither does he. not because you don’t want to, but because that’s already enough.

that’s why he doesn’t expect that, one day, while you’re making out on his couch, you straddle him—your knees pressing into the couch on either side of him, your hands settling on his shoulders. and seunghyun? he forgets how to breathe. his brain short-circuits. like, completely shuts down. his hands hover awkwardly at your waist, fingers twitching, unsure if he should actually touch you or just die right then and there. because holy shit. you don’t seem to notice his internal crisis, too caught up in the moment, too focused on the way his lips and tongue move against yours. but he notices—notices the way your body presses flush against his, the way your weight settles onto his lap, the way your fingers thread into his hair, tugging slightly. his self-control? hanging by a thread. your breath is uneven when you pull back to meet his gaze, your lips a little swollen. “is this okay?” you ask, voice soft. he exhales, hands smoothing over your waist. “yeah,” he breathes. “is it okay for you?” “mhm,” you nod.

you kiss him again, and this time, it’s different. it’s charged. seunghyun feels it in the way your hands slide from his shoulders to the nape of his neck. he feels it in the way your lips move against his. but most of all, he feels it when you shift in his lap, pressing down. just the slightest movement. he inhales sharply, his grip on your waist tightening as his body tenses beneath you. it’s not even really a movement, more of a hesitant roll of your hips against his, but fuck, it sends heat straight to the bulge in his pants. his brain barely has time to process what’s happening before you do it again. this time, he can’t stop the quiet groan that slips past his lips, low and almost pained, his hands digging into your hips on instinct.

he lets you. lets you move against him however you want, lets himself feel you. your movements start slow, almost experimental, like you’re figuring this out as you go, like you’re getting used to the feel of him beneath you. but when you find a rhythm—when you finally press against him fully, rolling your hips down just right—oh boy. his head tips back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut, a shaky breath slipping past his lips. he’s done for. you lean in, pressing a kiss just under his jaw, and he groans, low in his throat, his hands sliding down to squeeze your ass like he’s trying to keep himself together. “fuck,” he mutters, half to himself, half to you. “you’re gonna kill me.” you smile against his skin, and it’s unfair, so unfair, because you know what you’re doing to him. you know, and you keep going. the friction is perfect—every movement sending a pulse of heat through his body, enough to drive him crazy, enough to have his dick twitching in his pants.

his breathing comes out in short, uneven gasps as he grits his teeth, trying to hold on, trying to stay in control. but he can’t. because the way you sound—soft, breathy little moans escaping your lips—paired with the friction of you against him? it’s too fucking much. he’s already so close, already on the edge before he even realizes it. and when you press down just right, his stomach tightens. “shit—!” his whole body tenses as the pleasure hits him, crashing over him before he can stop it. his breath catches in his throat, a choked moan slipping past his lips, his fingers gripping your ass hard. he stills completely, chest rising and falling against yours, and it takes a second before he realizes what just happened. he ruined his pants. fuck. his face burns as the reality sets in. you blink at him, confused at first, before realization dawns in your expression. “oh.” seunghyun groans, tilting his head back, dragging his hands down his face, mortified. “don’t.” his voice is muffled against his palms. “don’t say anything.” but it’s too late. you giggle, and that just makes his ears go even redder. you lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and whisper, “cute.” “i’m sorry,” he says, embarrassed. “it’s okay, baby,” you giggle again. after a moment, he laughs too.

the physical side of your relationship isn’t something either of you are shying away from anymore. the kisses get longer. deeper. and there’s more touching now. it starts happening more often, too. you’re figuring each other out, taking your time. memorizing the way each other moves, the way each other reacts. you’re learning him, and he’s learning you.

it’s natural that you start wanting more. that’s why, one night, late in his room, you find yourself lying beneath him, bodies tangled in his sheets. hands are everywhere. his lips leave yours only to trail down your jaw, down your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. he loves this—loves the way you shiver, loves the way your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging slightly when he nips at the sensitive spot just below your ear. “seunghyun,” you breathe, and he swears he could die happy right now. his hands slide lower, fingers on your right thigh. you shift beneath him, pressing closer, sighing when his hand finally trails higher. his fingers move along the fabric between your legs. his touch featherlight, barely-there, but still enough to make you squirm. oh lord jesus, he nearly loses it right there. “you’re so fucking pretty,” he mutters against your skin. “my pretty, pretty girl.” you’re warm and soft, reacting to every little touch, every slow drag of his fingers. he can feel your heartbeat beneath his mouth as he kisses along your throat, your chest rising and falling a little too fast. his own breathing is just as uneven as yours now. he’s so hard it’s almost embarrassing. “tell me what you want, baby,” he murmurs. “i’ll give you anything, just—” “touch me, seunghyun,” you say softly. oh, you don’t need to tell him twice! he unbuttons your pants, sliding them down slowly. his fingers hook into the waistband, knuckles brushing against your hips as he tugs the fabric down, past your thighs, past your knees, until they’re bunched at your ankles. he takes his time pulling them off completely. his fingers slip beneath the thin fabric of your underwear next, dragging them down until they’re gone.

his hand goes right back where you want it. two of his fingers slide against you, teasing. feeling exactly how wet you are for him. the way your juices coat his fingertips, makes him groan, the sound vibrating low in his throat. his thumb drags over your clit, rubbing slow circles, and the reaction is immediate—your breath catches, your thighs twitch and your hips jerk slightly, a soft moan escaping your lips. oh that sound… his cock throbs in his jeans. “tell me if it’s too much. or if you want more.” your response comes fast—a shaky, desperate whisper. “more.” you beg, voice trembling. “more, seunghyun.” “more what, baby?” he teases, his thumb still working your clit. you whimper. “y-your fingers.” he chuckles softly, one of his fingers gently parting your folds before he pushes it in, sinking into your pussy with no resistance. “like this?” you nod, biting your lip. he begins pumping his finger slowly in and out and your breath comes faster, mingling with the wet sounds of his finger fucking you. when he adds another finger, your hands grip his arms, trying to hold onto something. he watches you, completely transfixed by how beautiful you look right now—lips parted, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. “that feel good, hm?” he asks as he curls his fingers inside you, pressing against that one spot “y-yes! o-oh my—!” so he gives you more. his fingers thrust deeper and faster, curling just right, and your moans turn into whimpers. your thighs tremble and seunghyun can feel how close you are, how your body is tensing, your gummy walls squeezing his fingers. “hyun, i-i’m—i’m gonna—!” “i know, baby… give it to me.” one more thrust of his fingers, one more firm stroke of his thumb against your clit and your back arches—a sharp, desperate moan spilling from your lips—your body shuddering, clenching down around his fingers. he gives you a moment to catch your breath before he leans in. he presses a kiss to your forehead. “next time,” he murmurs against your skin, pressing another kiss, “i’m using my mouth.”

and he keeps his promise! it happens on a lazy sunday morning, right before your scheduled museum date. he shows up at your place a few minutes early, too excited to see you, too impatient to wait. maybe he had good intentions, but the second he sees you in that dress… he almost wishes to be a father. because what the fuck—you just look so good. soft and pretty, hair still slightly messy from getting ready in a rush, your perfume fresh in the air… his hands are on you before he even realizes it, pulling you in by the waist. you blink up at him, confused at first, lips parted, breath hitching slightly at the way he’s looking at you. that man is hungry. and he shows it with his kisses. “we—” you try to speak in between them. “we’re gonna be late—” “don’t care, i wanna taste you,” he mutters against your lips, hands sliding beneath the hem of your dress. “can i?”

and not even three minutes later, his head is buried between your thighs, his grip firm as he holds you in place. the first taste of you nearly ruins him—his low groan vibrating against your skin as his tongue works with a hunger that borders on desperate. your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging when he flattens his tongue against you. “s-seunghyun!” you moan loudly. music to his ears. he loves the way you whimper, the way your body shudders when he flicks your clit with his tongue, then sucking it just enough to make your thighs tremble. his grip on them is borderline bruising, but you don’t care—not when he’s got his mouth on you like this. “fuck, you taste so good,” he mutters against you, breath hot, voice thick with need. “so fuckin’ sweet.” “y-you always this needy?” you manage to tease, but your voice is shaky. he chuckles. “says the one trying to suffocate me with her thighs.” you open your mouth to fire back, but he circles your clit with his tongue, and whatever you were about to say turns into a sharp gasp. he grins against you, pleased with himself. and god, you’re already so close. he can feel it in the way your body tenses, the way your legs try to close around his head, the way your breath stutters into these soft, broken little moans. but he’s not done. he slides one hand up, fingers teasing at your entrance before slowly sliding inside. “fuck! f-fuck, hyun!” you cry from pleasure. “yes—ngh!—y-yes, baby, just like that! just like that!” your whole body jerks as his fingers move in perfect rhythm, tongue working you over even faster. “c’mon, baby,” he coaxes, pulling away just for a moment. “be good for me.” and that’s it. you choke on a moan, back arching as pleasure crashes through you. you cum on his tongue and he works you through it. licking and sucking even when your thighs shake. and when you try to pull away from the overstimulation, he doesn’t let up—not until he’s sure he’s gotten every last drop of it. finally, he pulls back, lips slick, eyes dark as he looks up at you, taking in the mess he’s made of you. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking before crawling up to press soft kisses to your jaw, your cheeks, the corner of your lips—gentle, like he’s trying to bring you back down. “you okay?” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “mhm,” you nod, still breathless. “yeah… just feel like jello.” he chuckles. “you’re so cute.” there’s something soft in the way he’s looking at you. your heart stutters, warmth blooming in your chest. “you’re such a sap,” you tease. he just grins, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips. “only for you.”

when valentine’s day rolls around, seunghyun makes sure you have the best one yet. he remembers—of course, he does—how you once mentioned that your ex never really cared about it, brushing off the day like it meant nothing. seunghyun, though, he isn’t like that. so when you walk through the door after a long day at university, you almost miss it at first. your brain is too tired to register the burst of color sitting on the living room table. but then, your eyes land on it, and for a second, you think you’ve walked into the wrong place. a massive bouquet of flowers sits right in the center, petals soft and vibrant like they belong in a fairytale. two—no, three—boxes of chocolate are stacked neatly beside it, ribbons tied in perfect bows. you blink, then blink again. “what the…” you murmur, stepping closer, fingertips grazing the velvety petals. there’s a small note tucked between the stems, and when you pull it out, your lips part into a slow, disbelieving smile. ‘because you deserve to be spoiled. i’ll pick you up for dinner (make sure to wear that beautiful smile of yours). happy valentine’s day, baby. — your hyun.’ you don’t even realize you’re smiling so hard until your cheeks start to hurt. warmth spreads through your chest, making you feel a little ridiculous, a little too giddy, but you don’t care. grabbing your phone, you call him immediately. “hi, baby—” “you’re insane,” you cut in, still staring at the bouquet. “this is—seunghyun, what the fuck?” his soft chuckle comes through the speaker, warm and just a little shy. “so, you liked it?” “liked it?” you echo, shaking your head. “i love it. i—how did you even—when did you—ugh. you didn’t have to, baby.” “i wanted to. your parents helped me set it up.” his voice is so sure, so simple, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. and maybe it is—to him, at least. “thank you.” your fingers play with the edge of the little note, eyes flicking over the words again. “did you read the note?” he asks. “yeah,” you nod, even though he can’t see you. “i read it. where are you taking me?” “surprise.” “hyun—” “you’ll see later.” “i need to know so that i can—” “huh? wait—hold on, i think you’re cutting out.” his voice suddenly sounds distant, like he’s holding the phone away from his mouth. “hello? can you hear me?” you narrow your eyes. “don’t even start.” “ah, damn. i think my signal’s bad.” he makes a few static noises with his mouth, so ridiculously fake you almost drop your phone from laughing. “you’re a dork, you know that?” more static—or at least his sad attempt at it. “what? i—i can’t—losing connection—” “seunghyun, you’re literally at home.” he clears his throat. “gotta go, baby, see you at seven!” the call ends before you can say another word. you stare at your screen, completely unimpressed, but also grinning like an idiot. he’s gonna be the end of you.

he takes you to one of the fanciest restaurants you’ve ever been in, which makes you wonder how the hell he managed to afford all this. but knowing him, he’s probably been saving up for weeks, quietly planning everything down to the last detail. dinner feels like time slowing down in the best way. seunghyun watches you more than he eats, eyes crinkling whenever you ramble about something or get too caught up in telling a story. and when the check comes, you barely get the chance to reach for your purse before seunghyun is already handing over his card, like every time you go out. stepping outside, the cool air wraps around you, crisp and refreshing after the warmth of the restaurant. seunghyun is close beside you, his hand brushing against yours before he finally just takes it, fingers slotting together. you squeeze his hand lightly, glancing up at him, but he’s already looking at you, eyes soft under the glow of the city lights.

as you settle into the car, seunghyun doesn’t start the engine right away. instead, he reaches into the pocket of his coat. you stare at him, curious, but before you can ask, he pulls out a small, velvet box and holds it out to you. “i got you something,” he smiles, voice a little quieter than usual. “what—? hyun—” “shh, let me spoil you,” he chuckles. your fingers hesitate for a second before you take it, the soft material cool against your palm. your chest tightens slightly as you flip it open, revealing a delicate necklace inside. the pendant is small, understated, but beautiful—exactly the kind of thing you’d pick for yourself. you exhale, running your thumb over the tiny charm. “oh my—i love it!” “i saw it and thought of you.” “it’s perfect, baby. thank you.” his lips twitch into a small smile. “let me put it on you.” you turn slightly, gathering your hair to one side as he takes the necklace from the box. he fastens it behind your neck, his fingers brushing lightly along the back of your shoulder. he lingers, adjusting the clasp, making sure it sits just right before letting his hands drop. you glance down, fingertips brushing over the pendant as a soft smile tugs at your lips. seunghyun leans back slightly, eyes flickering over you before settling on your face. “my pretty, pretty, pretty girl.” you shake your head with a small laugh, warmth blooming in your chest. “okay, your turn.” his brows furrow slightly. “my turn?” you reach into your bag, pulling out a small, neatly wrapped package before placing it in his hands. “yeah. you didn’t think you were the only one with surprises tonight, did you?” “you got me something?” he’s not used to being on the receiving end of surprises. “of course, i did,” you say, handing it to him. “now, open it.”

as soon as the paper wrapper falls away, his expression shifts. a hardcover book with a deep, star-speckled cover. his fingers graze over the title—the art of the cosmos—a collection of celestial-inspired artwork, paintings, sculptures, and photography, all centered around space. he flips through the pages slowly, carefully, eyes taking in the images of galaxies captured in oil paint, nebulas carved into stone, planets sculpted from glass. “i know how much you love space,” you say, watching his reaction closely. “and art, of course. so… i wanted you to have something that combined the two things you love the most, something that feels like you. it’s not—it’s not as fancy as… everything that you’ve prepared but—” before you can finish, seunghyun leans in, pressing his lips to yours. when he finally pulls away, he stays close, forehead barely an inch from yours. “don’t ever say that again.” “say what?” “that it’s not—” he exhales, shaking his head. “you could’ve given me a damn rock, and i’d still love it because it’s from you.” your heart stumbles a little, and you let out a soft laugh. “this is perfect, baby,” he says, flipping through the pages again. “you’re really the best.” you smile, watching the way his eyes soften as he takes in every detail. “i’m just glad you like it.” he sets the book down carefully on the dashboard before turning fully toward you.

he smiles, but there’s something behind it—something hesitant, like he’s trying to work up the courage to say something else. his knee bounces slightly, and his fingers tap against his thigh, a sign that there’s more on his mind. you tilt your head. “what?” he exhales sharply, shaking his head before letting out a soft laugh. “nothing, just…” he looks down at your hand resting between you, then, as if on instinct, reaches for it. he rubs his thumb over your knuckles, staring at your joined hands for a second before finally speaking. “let me be your boyfriend,” he says. “i know we haven’t really put a name on what this is, but i want to. i want you. i don’t want there to be any doubt about where we stand.” you must’ve started smiling like an absolute idiot because the second he sees it, he starts smiling too. “seunghyun, you’ve been my boyfriend in my head for months now,” you laugh, shaking you head. “so… that’s a yes?” “of course it’s a yes!” without giving him time to react, you press a quick, fleeting kiss to his lips. but before you can even pull away, seunghyun tugs you back in, kissing you with a much deeper intensity. your lips part instinctively, letting him in, his tongue gliding against yours. your fingers find his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, thumb brushing gently over his cheek as you do everything in your power to keep from moaning into his mouth. he’s such a good kisser… his lips hot and soft against yours, tilting his head so that you fit just right… his lips leave yours only to trail along the corner of your mouth, before sliding down to your jaw. he takes his time, lingering there, and then he makes his way down. his face buries into the crook of your neck for a moment, and you can feel his smile against your skin. you run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck before pulling back just enough to look at him. “i love you,” he says. your lips part slightly, something swelling in your chest so big it almost hurts, and then you’re smiling. “i love you too, hyun.”

you can’t lie—loving seunghyun is kind of terrifying. not in a bad way, not in the he’s going to hurt me kind of way, but in the this is real and i don’t want to mess it up way. you’ve both been through it. cheated on, strung along, left to piece together whatever crumbs of affection your exes were willing to throw your way. it’s hard to unlearn that, hard to trust that someone wants you without expecting you to beg for it. and even though this is different—he’s different—it’s hard to shake the nerves, the fear that if you let yourself have this, really have it, something will go wrong. maybe that’s why, even now, after a long, perfect night, when you’re curled up with him on the couch, a movie playing but barely holding your attention, you still feel jittery. and when things start heating up (like they usually do) you feel embarrassingly new to it all. like you’re back at square one. like you’re a virgin all over again. “you’re shaking,” says seunghyun quietly, breath shuddering when his condom-wrapped tip presses slightly against your entrance. “we don’t have to do this—“ “i want to,” you reassure him. “i really do. i’m just… nervous.” intimacy can be scary, especially when it’s with someone new. “i know, baby. me too,” he admits. “i’ll go slow. just hold onto me.” so you do. your hands find his arms, gripping them lightly as he hovers over you, his eyes locked onto yours. “kiss me,” you whisper. he smiles before he leans in, pressing his lips to yours. then, as he moves, as he pushes into you, a sharp gasp escapes your lips, breaking the kiss. your fingers tighten around his arms, nails pressing lightly into his skin as you adjust to the stretch, the way he fills you so completely. he’s holding himself back, he’s trying to let you set the pace. his lips brush against your jaw pressing soft kisses on your skin before he kisses the side of your neck. “hyun… you—” your words falter as he presses in deeper, your back arching instinctively. “shit! you feel so good.” “tell me what you need, baby,” he says. your body already knows the answer before your lips do. you move your hips slightly, urging him deeper, making him exhale. “deeper,” you reply. “and faster. please.”

the room turns into a mess—moans, heavy breathing, the sharp slap of skin against skin. seunghyun’s fucking into you like he’ll never get another chance, and all you can do is take it, legs wrapped tight around his waist, nails dragging down his back as he fills you over and over again. he leans in, mouth hot against your neck. “you like that, baby?” his teeth graze your skin before he presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss just beneath your jaw. “y-yes!” he’s deep, so deep, hitting that perfect spot that makes your eyes roll back, your mouth falling open, too lost in the way he’s ruining you to say anything coherent. “can f-feel you squeezing me—a-ah! fuck, baby!” he moans. and the desperate sound you make back only seem to push him further, make him rougher. your body responds instinctively, meeting his thrusts, rolling your hips slightly against him. oh, fuck. oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. he’s barely holding it together as it is hearing you moan under him like that, but that thing you just did? it almost sends seunghyun to an early grave. his hips snap into you harder, completely abandoning whatever self-control he thought he had, grip tightening on your hips so hard he’s pretty sure he’s leaving marks. “shit!—h-hyun! ah, fuck! f-fuck, y-yeah! baby, mmph!” you sound so fucking good, all needy and breathless, and he wants to loop it in his brain forever, build a shrine to the way you just moaned his name like that. he knew sex with you would be good, but this? this is some life-altering, religious experience type shit.

the pleasure is intense, rolling through you in waves so strong it’s almost embarrassing how quickly you start feeling your orgasm build up in your lower stomach. seunghyun’s entire body is tight. muscles straining, his thrusts turning more desperate, more frantic, because he can feel how close you are, the way your thighs are shaking, the way your moans are turning higher, almost pleading. and fuck, he’s so close… but he needs to take you with him. his grip shifts, one hand sliding between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. the second he rubs tight, messy circles over it, your whole body jerks beneath him, a gasp breaking from your lips. “that’s it, baby,” he breathes, “cum… cum with me.” your walls flutter around him, clenching so tight it nearly sends him into another dimension. and when you finally snap, it hits hard—your back arches, your thighs shake, and your moans are loud enough to make your neighbors hate you. thank god your parents aren’t home. seunghyun groans, slamming into you a few more times before he loses it, burying himself deep as he follows right after, cursing under his breath. for a second, all you can hear is the sound of your ragged breathing and the rapid thud of your heartbeat. his forehead drops against your shoulder, both of you still panting, his hands lazily running over your skin. his body feels wrecked in the best way, his mind still floating somewhere between reality and the aftershocks of the best orgasm he’s ever had. his lips press against your temple as your breathing slows. “come on, baby,” he murmurs. “let’s shower.” you groan in protest, making him chuckle. so fucking cute. he kisses your lips. “you wanna sleep like this?” he teases. you sigh dramatically, blinking up at him with that hazy, fucked-out look that makes his stomach clench. “fine, let’s go shower,” you laugh softly.

the bed is soft, the sheets cool against your skin as you sink into them, your body still warm from the shower. you barely have time to settle before seunghyun climbs in beside you, immediately pulling you against him. his arms wrap around your waist, tugging you close until your back is flush against his chest. his body is warm, solid, and when he exhales, you feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing against your spine. one of his hands slips beneath the hem of your shirt—his shirt, really—his fingertips tracing patterns along your stomach. his lips press against the back of your neck, soft, before he nuzzles into you, his nose brushing against your hair. you smile, closing your eyes. nothing else has ever felt this right. your fingers move against his hand, barely tracing over his skin, and he hums in response, shifting slightly to bury his face further into your hair. “comfy?” he murmurs, voice lower now, sleepier. “mmhm.” you squeeze his hand, barely awake. “you?” he presses another kiss to the back of your neck. “always. i love you.” “i love you too,” you whisper. “sleep, baby.” and right before you drift off, you feel it—his lips pressing one last kiss to the back of your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin.

two years have passed. but it doesn’t feel like two years. it feels like forever. like there was never a version of your life before him, only with him. when you sleep together, mornings always start the same: seunghyun wakes up first, but he never gets out of bed before you. instead, he buries his face into your neck, pressing lazy kisses against your skin until you finally stir. you’ve built a life together in these little rituals—the way he always holds your hand when you walk anywhere, the way you sit between his legs on the couch when you watch movies, your back pressed against his chest, his arms locked around your waist. the way he’ll randomly pull you onto his lap while he’s studying at his desk, murmuring “i concentrate better like this.” knowing damn well he doesn’t. and talking about studies… you two can barely focus, study sessions always turn into giggling messes where he pretends to be paying attention to his notes but spends half the time sneaking glances at you instead. cramming for exams together is another challenge, he makes flashcards and tries to quiz you, only for you to distract him by climbing onto his lap, trailing kisses down his neck until he groans and tosses the cards aside. you’re both exhausted half the time, pulling all-nighters with caffeine and takeout, but he’s there, and that makes it bearable.

you travel together, not often but enough—weekend getaways, road trips that always start with him in control of the music and end with you fighting over who gets to dj. there was the time you went to a cabin in the mountains, curled up by the fireplace with wine, the two of you getting way too competitive over board games. or that one chaotic trip where you completely missed your bus, got lost trying to find your hotel, and ended up walking for miles in the rain. you were so close to breaking down, but seunghyun just pulled you into a convenience store, bought you a hot drink, and said, “we’ll figure it out, baby. we’re together, that’s what matters.” and somehow, it turned into one of your favorite memories.

his mom adores you. always sends you food, always texts you on random days asking how you’re doing. one time, she pulled out his baby pictures, and now you will never let him live them down. his dad always cracks jokes about how he’s never seen seunghyun this soft before. your family adores him too, inevitably hyping him up for any polite gesture, since they’re not used to you having someone so nice by your side (your last boyfriend was a questionable human being…) they always gush about how sweet seunghyun is, how he takes such good care of you.

two years of love slipping into every part of your life—small, everyday things turning into your things. you have a shared playlist called ‘let me spill your coffee’. it’s a mix of songs you love, songs that remind him of you, and stupid meme songs he adds just to annoy you. the bookshelf in the corner of your room is overflowing, pictures of the two of you and a few stuffed animals he’s gifted you shoved in between. a small framed picture sits on the very top shelf, one from a winter night when the world outside was covered in snow. you’re bundled up in his scarf while he stands behind you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. there are tiny snowflakes caught in his hair, and even through the blur of the picture, you can tell he’s smiling. there’s a strip of photo booth pictures tucked behind a stuffed bear he won for you at a carnival. in the first frame, you’re both grinning wide; in the second, he’s caught off guard as you surprise him with a kiss on the cheek. by the third, he’s laughing, and in the last one, he’s holding your face between his hands, pressing his forehead to yours. another picture taken on your second new year’s eve together. you’re curled up next to him on the couch, confetti still in your hair. he’s looking at you instead of the camera, a small, stupidly in-love smile on his face. you hadn’t noticed it at first, but when you did, it made your chest ache in the best way. and then, tucked behind a row of books, there’s the oldest one of all. the very first picture you ever took together, when you were only friends. it’s a little blurry, the lighting terrible, but you remember everything about that day. how he made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt. how you didn’t know then what you know now—that this would be the first of many.

above your bed, there’s a painting. one he made for you on your first anniversary. deep blues and purples, swirling together like a galaxy, with tiny flecks of gold scattered like stars. in the bottom corner, barely noticeable unless you look closely, he wrote ‘us’. you didn’t see it at first, but when you did, you nearly cried. the record player he bought you for your birthday sits by the window, a vinyl still on it from the last time he was over. and your toothbrush sits next to his in the cup by the sink. there’s also an extra charger on your nightstand—his, since he spends so much time at your house. there’s a worn-out polaroid tucked into the frame of your mirror, slightly bent at the edges from how many times you’ve taken it out to look at it. it’s your favorite picture of the two of you—summer night at the beach, your hair messy from the wind, his arm slung over your shoulders, both of you grinning like you have the entire world in your hands. because it felt like you did. and it still feels like you do. because somehow, even after all this time, nothing has faded. two years of love wrapped around your life, yet every touch, every glance, still feels like the first. and every single day, in a million different ways, you keep choosing each other.

i hope you enjoyed! thank you for reading <3

tag list: @kaerasti49

#choi seunghyun #seunghyun x reader #top bigbang #big bang #big bang top #top x reader #smut #kpop #t.o.p #t.o.p x reader #t.o.p fanfic #t.o.p bigbang #bigbang x reader

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whenthegoldrays · 3 months ago

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thinking perhaps I may have done to flan boy the same thing I suspect he did to my bestie months ago (show interest out of the gate and then think it over, decide I didn’t like him after all, and cease communications)

#but maybe that’s also what he did to me? hm.#to be clear I don’t know if that’s what happened or if she only read some actions of his as interest when it wasn’t really there #but if that is the case‚ then it’s best I backed out early #maybe he’s just a flirt ????#(sorry to smack talk you flan boy. I shall give you the benefit of the doubt but keep my distance anyway)#elly's posts #🍮

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fictional-worlds-are-exquisite · 3 months ago

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my mum's Christmas present has just arrived into the country I might actually receive it before Christmas omg

#maybe not JUST but sometime in the 12 hours since I last checked the scanning has updated #It is no longer in Canada #It was coming from Ukraine but decided to stop in Canada for a holiday #so if it's currently Wednesday #It'll need to make it through customs #Then get transported to the nearest city to me #Then a smaller van will take it to my town #Then it'll go out for delivery to me #Well fuck let's hope the post/courier system is on top of things 😭😭#If I'm being optimistic #Wednesday evening it has cleared customs #Thursday it'll show up in the nearest city #Friday it'll be transported to my town #IF it's early I could get it Friday #If not. Saturday or Monday #Okay best case scenario it makes it #I'm not thinking about worst case #Not in NZ but I legit had a transport company in aus tell me a parcel had been delayed due to back Friday backlog the other day #said package. Was due to be delivered. THREE WEEKS PRIOR. mf that's not black Friday delay that's your system failing tf #Fortunately I'm not in aus so things may be better

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rosykims · 1 year ago

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like out of all the many, many traumas ive given elspeth my favorite has gotta be the deep roads lol. and specifically the way she never really got OUT of them. yeah so maybe her body did but not HER. shes still down there with ruck and helspith every time she closes her eyes. and during future expeditions when she goes down into the deep roads for real, it doesnt feel like some horrible nightmare it feels like REALITY and its the surface and love and warmth and alistair thats nothing more than a pleasant dream. one shes always going to wake up from. bc even in her happiest moments she's never not aware of the darkspawn digging up towards her just a few miles under her feet. and never not feeling the eyes of the deep roads looking at her, gleefully waiting for her, and knowing its not going anywhere

#i love shale but for elspeth's worldstate i dont recruit her bc im so obsessed w the dynamic of it being elspeth/alistair/oghren/the dog lol #oc: elspeth #tay plays dao #she got SEVERE shell shock being down there in the dead trenches after the realization that came from helspith's poem #why shes never seen any female darkspawn and why there apparently arent as many female wardens either #and like. Understanding that death is the absolute best case scenario for her.#alistair had to 100000% step up as the leader because she was completely out of commission. barely able to breathe let alone fight or lead #going from this unstoppable warrior who NEVER loses her nerve or control on a battlefield #to nearly dying to the broodmother bc she was so fucking terrified. bc all she could see was her own fate mirrored back at her #finally FINALLY understanding what it means to be a grey warden. and then trying to reject that reality with her entire body and soul #she pulls herself out of it enough to get out alive but she never had a moment of like... triumph over the deep roads where she had a burst #of courage and saved the day or whatever. thats not usually how trauma works and so alistair carried them thru that #thru the broodmother and the anvil and branka and back to orzammar just as elspeth was beginning to put herself back together #afterwards the lack of closure to what was one of her ''weakest'' lowest moments rly weighed her down with guilt and shame #and its only a year later during awakening when she finally reconciles with having NO choice but to go back into the deep roads #and being able to kill the mother. THAT helped. that restored some small part of her #gave her the strength to start going back down there when the need arose. resigned to an early death but ready to put up a fight #but ye. still such a fundamentally devastating thing she went thru which altered her entire personality to the point where she starts fully #embracing being a warden (bc how can someone who's seen what shes seen and done what shes done be anything else???)#and INSISTING alistair take the throne despite having always been supportive of his desire not to. even if it means she loses him.#bc its a last ditch effort to save him from the fate she's completely surrendered herself to #sigh. this game man.#i need dadw to Confirm that the grey wardens have found a cure and alistair and hof are safe because jesus christ. my girl NEEDS a win

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swordmaid · 11 months ago

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act 1 shri’iia/astarion dynamic where she just walks away every time he tries to hit on her makes me cackle. love pressing the leave option anytime it’s available with her bc I imagine the moment she senses someone is abt to beg for her help (for free????) or someone is gonna clown on her she just straight up leaves 😭😭

#i have to draw early act 1 shri’iia….. first couple of days she is more reclusive and quiet bc she’s figuring out what she should do and if #she can trust these people or not… also she is so scared and paranoid out of her mind she can’t even trance properly #and she can’t communicate well either she’s not fluent in the surface language so there’s a lot of frustration and fear from her ….#only in the third day where she has a better grasp of the situation and the other’s characters that she starts to play up her persona #bc if she doesn’t know how to get back and sticking w the herd is her best bet of survival… she might as well start using these people and #getting them in her side just in case something happens .. she can always get rid of them when they’re not useful anymore 🤭#<- was her line of thought but somewhere down in the underdark lolth is like girl are you fucking stupid #shut up about bg3.

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nereidprinc3ss · 5 months ago

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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.”

#spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer Reid fluff #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic

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pencil-n-pen · 2 months ago

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ALL I DO IS TRY, TRY, TRY

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post prison! spencer x genius fem! reader

masterlist | ko-fi | next

summary: all your life, you’ve been second-best. Even now that you’ve been chosen to be an agent of the BAU, you’re just a replacement for Spencer Reid. What could change now that’s he’s out?

cw: there is a bit of an age gap, i imagined reader in her early to mid 20’s, nevermind how it isn’t accurate for working at FBI. this is a criminal minds fic, so there are graphic depictions of violence, as well as implied/referenced child neglect/abuse in readers childhood, reader is somewhat a genius

tropes/tags: slowburn on readers end, Spencer is flirting from the beginning, HURT/COMFORT, angst, bit of a sick fic in one scene, bit of soft dom! spencer as a treat

a/n : this came to me in a prophecy. full disclosure i haven’t actually seen the prison arc yet so if there’s any inaccuracies shhhhhh look at the fluff

also !! this is a LOOOOONG one. strap yourselves in. grab snacks and drinks

slipped in some very slight father figure Hotch bc that’s my crack

title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift

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Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.

From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.

And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.

He was also really, really, really hot.

It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.

But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?

He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.

You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”

And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.

It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.

With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.

So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.

All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.

And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.

It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.

Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.

—

The case is going terribly.

What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.

And now she won’t stop calling.

Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.

“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can’t just come out to see you—“

“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“

“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”

A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“

“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”

You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.

Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.

The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.

Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.

You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.

So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.

“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”

“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”

He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.

“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“

“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.

“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”

Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.

“You don’t want to see her.”

He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.

It is a fact.

“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”

You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”

He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”

“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”

He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.

“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”

His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.

And then it’s gone.

“Of course.”

—

For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.

You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.

Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.

All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.

It’s a win because you saved the evidence.

It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.

Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.

Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.

The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.

“Hotch, I’m sorry—“

He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.

“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”

“I just thought—“

“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”

You frown. “I do follow your orders.”

He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”

That… doesn’t make any sense.

Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”

“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”

Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”

You shake your head, your world turned on its head.

He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“And agent?”

You look up.

“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”

He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.

So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.

So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?

You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.

“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.

“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”

He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.

Oh shit.

“Sorry, what?”

His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”

You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.

You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”

He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”

You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”

The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”

“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”

“To help people.”

“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”

Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”

He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”

The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”

He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.

A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.

It should concern you, unnerve you.

It doesn’t.

“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”

You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”

“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”

“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”

“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”

“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”

You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.

But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.

“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”

“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”

You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”

He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”

That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.

You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.

—

You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.

“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”

You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”

Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”

You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.

You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.

You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.

“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”

“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”

“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”

To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.

“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”

“But I’m still coughing.”

“Have you given it any time to work?”

“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”

He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”

You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”

“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”

“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”

“You never joke.” JJ says.

“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.

You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”

“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“

Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”

JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”

Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“

“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”

“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”

“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”

JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”

You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”

“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”

“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”

“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”

“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”

Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.

Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.

“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“

“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“

“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”

You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”

He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”

You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”

He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”

The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.

The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.

The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.

“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“

“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”

“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”

He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”

You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”

“Drink it anyway.”

You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.

You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.

With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.

“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”

Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.

“Ah, there she is.”

“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”

“Cold medicine must be working.”

There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—

You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”

“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”

Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—

“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”

You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.

You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”

“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”

“We’re both profilers.”

“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”

“I do not!”

You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.

A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”

If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.

“Who said anything about dragging?”

“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“

“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”

“They keep staring at me.”

“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”

You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”

You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”

Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.

Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?

Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.

You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.

Just for a few minutes.

—

“She out?”

“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”

A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”

A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”

A beat passes.

“You got her?”

“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”

—

When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.

Oh god you fell asleep on the table.

You jackrabbit up in place, knees knocking against the underside of the table. Hissing in pain, you tug the warm thing further around your shoulders which is—

Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.

Said man is nowhere to be found, and the conference/briefing room you’re in is dark. Not only did someone turn the lights off (you’re pretty sure you can guess who) but it’s dark outside. Meaning you didn’t just take a short nap.

You slept the entire day away.

Cold dread seeps into your shoulders. “Oh my god I’m so fired. Oh shit. Fuck, Hotch is going to be so pissed—“

The door opens and you stand, whirling around to face the doorway and then instantly regretting it when spots dance across your vision and your head swims.

You stumble, grabbing the edge of the chair for support and squinting at the figure in the doorway.

“Hotch?”

“Nope,” Spencer’s voice rings out in the room, “Guess again.”

You groan, sinking down into the chair. “Am I fired?”

He snorts. “Seeing as Hotch bet that you’d fall asleep before dark, I’d say no.”

“He bet against me?”

“Actually, everyone else thought you’d only last an hour. He bet for four.”

“How long did you bet for?”

He sets a mug in front of you, steaming tea wafting up and warming your face. “Three hours. You metabolize cough syrup better than I thought.”

You take the mug in your hands, warming your fingers but not actually taking a sip. “Mmm. Told you I’ve done this before.”

“I don’t think that’s the brag you think it is.”

You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.

“Drink your tea,” He commands softly from across the table, sleeves pushed up around his elbows and papers spread about him.

You dutifully take a sip, something restless growing calm in the back of your skull.

You eye is forearms, hoping the look-over you’re giving them is subtle. (It probably isn’t, but come on. A button down with the sleeves rolled up while you’re wearing his sweater is practically sinful.)

“Do you… want the lights turned back on? I’m awake now, so.”

He flips over a piece of paper, then scribbles something on a sticky note. “You were sleeping. And you have a headache. I can see just fine.”

“My headache isn’t that bad, really, I’m fi—“

He levels you with a look, and you sink a little lower in your chair. “Do you at least want your sweater back?”

“No. Keep it.”

“Careful, maybe I’ll just keep it forever,” You joke.

“I’d be fine with that.”

What. The. Fuck.

You stand, pushing out the chair with a loud screech. “I’m just gonna— bathroom,” You splutter, your face blazing and stomach doing a gymnastics routine, “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Bye.”

You’re screaming internally the entire way to the bathroom, and once you get there, open-mouthed silent screaming in the privacy of a stall.

Because. He said. He didn’t even look up. He just. And he. Maybe he—

No, no, no. You are not about to entertain that notion. Not again. He was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all.

Collecting yourself takes about five more minutes, and then you’re walking back to the conference/briefing room when you realize you never took the damn sweater off. He watched you scramble out of that room to the bathroom he has to know you weren’t using, with his sweater on.

This is the end for you, then. That’s it. It’s over.

You mentally slap yourself. Get it together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

You re-enter the room marginally calmer than you left it. You slide into your seat, sip your tea (that he made you!) and keep working on the case.

You pretend you can’t see him smirking from across the table.

—

The case doesn’t last too long. The team catches the guy in the act of beating his next victim. Thankfully, you manage to save the poor woman before he finishes his plan, and with being caught red-handed, it’s fairly open and shut. Case closed. Which is great, because you really aren’t sure how many more nights you can suffer through trying to sleep in the hotel bed.

You have this thing, when you’re sick. You can’t sleep anywhere but the couch. Your couch. You figured (apparently foolishly) that it wouldn’t be too bad, since the crux of the issue is that you hate sleeping in your bed when you’re sick, but no. You’d spent every night of the case tossing and turning and coughing yourself out. Your lungs were tired. Your body was tired. You were tired.

Spencer raises an eyebrow at you when you board the jet. “You haven’t been near-overdosing on cough syrup again have you?”

“No,” You grouse, rubbing your face with your hand. “I’m like, not even sick anymore. I just didn’t sleep well.” For several nights in a row.

“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.

You practically collapse into your usual seat on the jet, hunching in yourself and attempting to make yourself comfortable in the seat.

You blink your eyes open when you feel the seat jostle next to you. “Reid?”

He’s already pulling out a book. “What?”

“This isn’t your seat.”

“We don’t have assigned seats.”

“No, but you always sit over there.”

“And now I’m sitting here.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if you want to argue him on the point or not. You decide against it, because arguing will draw attention to the fact that you’re sitting next to each other having this conversation at all.

You settle back into your seat. “Whatever. Hope you’re not a loud page-turner.”

“Is that even a thing?”

You shrug, eyes falling shut again.

After a few minutes, you shiver, unconsciously scooting closer to the warmth of the person next to you, your sleep-addled brain barely processing the fact that it’s Spencer you’re pressing your shoulder into.

He repositions next to you, shoulder jostling you. You grumble, dropping your head to his arm. Now much closer, your nose fills with the smooth, all encompassing smell that is Spencer.

The dull chatter that fills the plane, the warm body next to yours, and, despite your earlier complaints, the quiet, gentle page-turning lull you into an easy sleep.

—

“Are you drugging her or something? I’ve seen her sleep more this week than I have in her entire time on the team.”

“The only drugging she’s done was voluntary.”

“Her neck is going to be so sore when she wakes up.”

“Sore? Mine would be broken if I did that.”

“Ah, the joys of youth.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

“Emily don’t start—“

“Just saying, Spence. HR would get a kick out of this.”

“Not like it never happens. We’ve all walked into supply closet B at the wrong time.”

“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”

“…No.”

Silence.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

A deft hand re-adjusts your head to a more comfortable angle. “I will be.”

—

Landing jolts you into wakefulness and off Spencer’s shoulder. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not. It’s only weird if you make it weird.

When you’re all back at HQ, you pull Hotch aside.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He nods. “In my office.”

You stalk up the stairs, aware of the eyes following your back. You step into the office, shutting the door behind you and pretending it doesn’t feel like sealing your doom.

He sits, gesturing for you to do so too, but you shake your head.

“I won’t be long. I just wanted to apologize.”

He blinks. “For?”

“I shouldn’t have come in. I was a liability, and it was unprofessional. Next time I’ll act with more discretion.”

Selfish, Your mother’s words echo in your head, your father’s words following suit: Try harder.

He laces his fingers together, resting him on his desk.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

“Because Reid was gone, and you needed a ge— someone smart.”

“Every member of my team is intelligent. That’s not why I chose you.”

He reaches down, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a newspaper clipping.

Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.

“Garcia found it,” He says, scanning the piece of paper. “‘Professor’s Assistant saves college class from school shooter’. You were sixteen.”

You look down at your shoes. “It was the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t— he came in, and I was behind the door getting paper, and he didn’t see me. He… I knew people would die if I didn’t do something. I tackled him. He shot me twice before I managed to kick the gun away. I almost bled out.”

He nods, putting the clipping down. “That’s who I chose. Not the genius. Not the consulting data analyst. Someone who wants to help people.”

He puts the clipping back in his drawer. “I’m not going to write you up for not having a healthy work-life balance. No one in this bureau does, and if they say they do, they’re lying.”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Now I look stupid for asking to talk.”

“It’s not an imposition. You’re a member of my team. That makes your wellbeing when you’re on the job my responsibility.”

Unable to form a response to that, you manage to stutter out a thank you, and then flee from his office, collapsing into your chair at your desk with a sigh.

A mug is set in front of you. Different mug, same tea, same hand.

“I think you need to reevaluate your opinion of Hotch and what kind of person you think he is.”

You take the mug with a glare. “I was reasonably concerned.”

“You thought you were going to get written up for coming to work sick?”

“It was a logical conclusion to draw,” You pause, taking a sip of the tea, which is just as good as it was last time. Actually, it’s slightly sweeter, and it soothes your throat more. “And stop profiling me. What’d you put in this?”

“Stop being so easy to profile,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. “Honey. They didn’t have any at the station.”

It’s quiet for a few moments: him staring at you, you pretending he’s not staring and sipping your tea.

“You should go home.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re still sick. Don’t tell me you just can’t wait to write all this paperwork.”

“Maybe I am.”

“No you’re not,” He picks up your jacket from where it’s hanging off the side of your cubicle and plops it in your lap. “Go home. I’ll sick Hotch on you.”

You stand, shrugging your jacket on and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re a cruel man.”

“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”

You grumble all the way to the door, but quiet when you look back to see him watching you fondly. He gives you a little two finger wave, and with the sheer amount of heat that rushes to your cheeks, you have no choice but leave immediately.

Stupid genius co-workers.

—

The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.

Unfortunately, that also means you don’t have an excuse to put off your paperwork any longer.

Spencer taps the top of it with a slender finger. “Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?”

He’s hanging around your desk for… some reason. He came to drop off paperwork from your last case, and then stuck around for some unknown purpose.

“No,” You groan, setting your mug of coffee aside and grabbing the first paper off the stack. “Still the same pile I’m procrastinating on.”

“Good luck,” He huffs, finally turning and walking back to his own desk. It’s still in your eyeline, if you crane your neck a little.

You sigh, grabbing your earbuds from your desk, knowing you can’t put the paperwork off any longer. You’re pretty sure Records is going to start sending you death threats soon.

Making your way through the pile is slow going. It’s terrible. The only part of working with the BAU you hate is the paperwork. It’s tedious and never-ending and it always gives you a headache.

The only times you get up are to use the bathroom and get more coffee. JJ kindly tells you that you should probably leave your mug in the break room after your sixth or so trip. Spencer, somehow, appears in the room, and rattles off the symptoms of caffeine overdose.

You leave the mug there.

You continue working well after everyone else leaves. It gets dark, people go home, office lights go off, and while the pile has largely decreased in size, it’s still not finished.

You have to finish. Hotch had made an offhand comment about turning in your paperwork on time and now you have to finish it. To show him you’re not lazy.

You’ve only got a little bit of paperwork left when a hand taps you on your shoulder.

You yank your earbuds out, blinking blearily. “Wha?”

Spencer’s face swims into view. “Come on, time to go home.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you didn’t fall asleep and forget to go home. They do lock the doors at a certain point. Ask me how I know.”

Your brain is moving like sludge, and it takes you several minutes to process what he says. He continues standing in front of you, patiently waiting for you to respond.

“But… the paperwork.”

“Will be here tomorrow. Come on, up we go.”

You whine as he takes your hands, hauling you to your feet. You attempt to scrub the sleep out of your eyes while messily moving papers about so your desk doesn’t look like a copy machine threw up all over it.

He pushes your jacket into your hands and you shrug it on, grumbling all the way through the doors and out to the parking lot, Spencer in tow. He follows dutifully behind you, and everytime you look back at him to voice your complaints all he does is smile.

“It’s cold.”

“That does tend to happen in winter.”

When you get to your car, he reaches out, tugging on your wrist.

“Hey,” He says, looking down at you, eyes deep pools of some emotion you can’t identify, “Drive safe, okay? It’s icy.”

“My commute isn’t that bad. And I’m,” You break off with a huge yawn. “Not even that tired.”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, smarty-pants.”

“Oh, so we’re locked into the smarty-pants thing, huh?”

“Yep.” He says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and popping the P.

“Well then what am I supposed to call you? Robot-Reid?”

“How about Spencer?”

His words hang in the night air, mingling in the puffs of air from both of your mouths.

“…What rhymes with Spencer?”

“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“

“Dis-Spencer,” You say, smiling to yourself. “I like the sound of that one.”

“You know dis comes from—“

“The latin word dis, and the prefix is used to denote a reversal of absence of an action, expressing negation, or expressing completeness or intensification of an unpleasant or unattractive action.”

He chuckles, smiling down at his shoes. “That’s why you’re the smarty-pants.”

“Oh please. You know all of that and then some.”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You both stand in the cold of the parking lot, neither willing to leave yet.

Before you can think better of it, you dart forward, throwing your arms around Spencer’s neck and mumbling “Goodnight, Dis-Spencer.”

You step away quickly, awkwardly giving him a small wave before hurrying into your car and driving away.

Smooth.

—

The next case is… really rough.

Two spree killers, working as a team. A father and a son; the son was groomed into the lower position.

Not anything you haven’t seen before. Trained for. Studied.

No amount of studying could have prepared you for the cold grip of dread that gripped your throat like a vice when you finally confronted the unsubs, and heard eerily familiar words uttered from the father:

“You’re a good for nothing son! I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t such a disappointment of a child! Why couldn’t you have just been more like your siblings?”

The son was killed before anyone could intervene.

Wrapping up the case left you shaken— you’d watched with hollow eyes as the boy’s body was zipped in a body bag.

A hand landing roughly on your shoulder shoves awareness back into your body and you flinch, hard, whirling around with your shoulders raised to meet the oncoming threat.

Only it’s not a threat. It’s Hotch. And he looks concerned.

You force your body to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll go help question the rest of the family—“

“Are you okay?”

You blink. “What?”

“Are you alright?” He asks again.

“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. It just… reminded me of something.”

Hotch purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. He looks he’s going to say something, but then decides against it.

“Help Reid get the last of the evidence. Once you two are finished head back to the station. We’ll meet you there.”

You nod, inwardly relieved about not having to deal with the family members. You might start actually crying.

You sidle up to Spencer who’s tagging blood splatters on the carpet. He wordlessly hands you a pair of gloves. He doesn’t ask. You don’t tell.

You work side by side for the better part of two hours, occasionally conversing with the local police or helping the crime scene investigators tag evidence.

If he knows what’s bothering you, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t have an answer anyway. You’re far too gone in your own head.

You follow Spencer to the break room back at the station, watching him quietly make two mugs of tea. He presses one into your hands with a gentle command to let it cool for a few minutes. The mug is warm in your hands. Spencer is standing next to you, a mug of his own in his hands. Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

You chant this mantra in your head while you wait for the rest of the team to come back.

Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

Spencer doesn’t ask before sitting next to you on the jet. He just does. He hands you a book, then opens his own.

You don’t read a single page. He must know. Still, he says nothing, just presses a little closer to you when he sees your hands shaking.

The team gives the two of you space when you finally land. You stumble off the jet, trip backpack slung over your shoulder, legs wobbly and breath uneven.

You’re not sure why the case upset you this much. Your parents don’t upset you this much. They just— they make the same kind of comments, and so did that father, except now his son is dead because he killed him—

“Hey,” Hotch approaches you slowly, makes sure you can see him. You hate that he feels the need to do so. “Take tomorrow off. Stay home. Recuperate.”

“I’m fi—“

“We all have tough missions and I would do the same for any agent,” He says, clasping you gently on the shoulder. “Besides. We both know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Your lips twitch. “Isn’t there a rule against profiling each other?”

“That rule is for all of you. Not me.”

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.

You manage to haul yourself into HQ and out to the parking lot, cursing as your cold fingers fumble with your keys. Frustrated tears begin to well in your eyes and you press the heels of your hands to your face, sucking in a shuddering breath and begging it all to just stop.

Someone gently pries your hands open, pulling your keys out of your clenched grip. Your shoulders shake as you heave, gasping for cold night air that burns on the way down.

A hand finds its way to the back of your head, pressing it forward into something warm and solid. Another arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close, while the hand on your head drifts down to your neck, squeezing and rubbing intermittently.

“I’m sorry,” You cry, rubbing your face and smearing your tears across your hands, “I don’t know why, it just—“

“You don’t need a reason,” Spencer says, spreading his hand out wide so it covers the entire nape of your neck, “Sometimes it all just gets to you.”

You nod into his chest, lowering your hands from his face to wrap around his torso, clutching it like a lifeline.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” You whisper, ashamed. “I’ll dream of it. And them. And it’ll be cold and alone—“

“Come home with me,” He says, voice a little breathless while he holds you closer, “Come home with me.”

He says the last part a little desperate.

You sniff. “Okay.”

You hesitantly pull away from the hug, but not before Spencer’s hand moves from your neck to your face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on your face. He drops his head down, and you feel the gentlest brush of lips against the skin in between your eyebrows.

“Let’s go home.”

He tugs you along by the hand, helping you into his little old car, tucking your bags into the backseat. He lets the radio play softly while he drives, loud enough to quiet your thoughts a bit but not so loud as to overwhelm you.

He helps you out of the car when you arrive to the apartment building, carrying one of your bags up the stairs- you’d insisted on carrying the rest of your stuff.

He unlocks the apartment door, ushering you into the warmth and comfort that is Spencer’s home.

It’s exactly like you pictured, if not tidier. A bit more modern than you’d imagined. Books are everywhere of course, but so are knick-knacks and trinkets and other little bits of things that are so decidedly Spencer. There’s even a quilt on the couch.

He sets your bag down by the door. “The shower is down that hall to the left. Use whatever products you need to. Do you have any clothes to change into?”

You chew on the inside of your lip. “In my luggage, yeah, but they need to be washed.”

“I can put them in the wash while you shower. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.”

You shuffle in place. “I don’t wanna impose—“

“Please let me do this for you.”

The raw, rough edge to his tone makes you pause. You nod in acquiescence.

He takes your hand in his again, tugging you into his bedroom. With one hand, he opens drawers, handing you his smallest pair of sweatpants, and a large, worn, and incredibly soft Caltech sweatshirt.

“I’ll have to cuff these,” You mumble when he hands you the sweatpants, “My legs are half the length of yours.”

“You’ll make it work, I’m sure. Now shoo. I’ll have laundry and food finished when you get out of the shower.”

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is clean and neat, and to your relief, houses more than just a five-in-one in the shower. Spencer actually owns multiple products for you to choose from and it hits you while you’re lathering the body wash you chose because of how good it smelled that you’re in Spencer’s shower, showering with his body wash, about to put on his clothes.

You’re going to smell like him. His clothes will smell like him. Everywhere in the apartment smells like him.

You decide to blame the near permanent flush on your cheeks on the heat from the shower.

When you exit the shower, fresh and drowning in Spencer’s clothes, he’s standing at his kitchen island, putting the final touches on two bowls of soup.

You almost tear up again. “You made me soup?”

“It’s widely regarded as a comfort food for people who are ill or otherwise sad, and is most commonly made in the wintertime.”

He gives you a little jazz hand, gesturing to the soup as if saying ta-da!

You really do tear up then.

He’s in front of you in an instant, hands poised to help. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Do you not like soup? I can make something else, or we can order in, or—“

You scrub at your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re just, you’re just really sweet.”

His face softens. “Oh, honey.”

He envelops you in the second hug of the night, except this time you’re crying in earnest now. Your crying about your parents, about the nights you went to bed hungry because your Dad told that you were smart, and to figure something out, but you were too young to work any of the kitchen appliances. You’re crying about your first best friend, who ditched you the second your brother asked her out. You’re crying about all the classes and friendships you missed out on while you were in the hospital with gunshot wounds. You’re crying about how your parents didn’t visit you once. Not even when you were in the ICU.

Spencer holds you through it all, a steady rock against the battering waves crashing in your head.

After a few minutes, you wear yourself out, quieting down to sniffling, your shoulders hitching.

He pulls back, studying your face. “Are you ready to eat some soup now?”

You nod, blinking the final tears out of your eyes. “I got snot on your shirt.”

“That’s why we invented washing machines.”

He keeps up a stream of idle chatter while you eat, explaining all the different major soups in the world and where they came from. It’s a balm against your weary mind, lulls you into peace and safety.

Or maybe that’s just the effect Spencer has on you.

When you finish your food, he takes your bowl, deposits it in the sink, and then takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom.

“I don’t have a guest room, so you can take the bed,” He says, voice soft. “There’s extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom if you get cold.”

He turns to leave, but a stab of panic slices down your chest, and your hand is reaching out and grabbing his wrist before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, turning back around. “You want me to stay?”

You take your lip between your teeth. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He studies you in the dark of the room— clad in his clothes, face puffy from crying.

The muscles in his jaw work.

“I can’t do this platonically. If we do this—“

You surge up on your toes, grabbing his face and smashing your lips together so quickly your teeth clack.

He goes rigid, then kisses your right back, hands coming up to cup your face, squeeze your neck, smooth over your shoulders.

You pull away first, looking at him through your lashes with hazy eyes. “I can’t do this platonically either.”

He traces the planes of your face with his thumb. “You have no idea how long and how much I’ve wanted to have you right here, just like this.”

“Crying and sad?”

“Dressed in my clothes, in my apartment, in my bed.”

You pause. “You know, tonight, I can’t, I’m not going to have—“

“I’m not interested in sex with you tonight,” He says, reading your mind, “I just want to get that empty look in your eyes gone.”

“Just?”

“Well,” He says, tugging you down onto the bed with him, crawling under the covers and covering you both, “There are other things. A lot of other things, Like this,”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“And this,”

He pulls you flush against him under the covers, tucking your head under his chin.

“But mostly this.”

He presses one last kiss to the crown of your head.

“Really?”

“Really.”

It’s quiet for a moment before his voice breaks the silence.

“After I got out, all I wanted was something soft and gentle. Having something, someone soft and lovely to hold was all I looked forward to. And then I came back and I met you, with your polite introductions and the way you care so deeply about so much and I knew. I knew who I wanted to hold.”

“Wow,” You breathe, “Yours sounds so poetic. Mine is much less so.”

“Mmm,” He hums, “And what might that be?”

You press your face against his chest and mumble so quietly you’re wondering if he can ever hear you:

“I just wanted you to choose me. I wanted to be someone’s first choice.”

He’s so quiet after that you think he must not have heard you.

You’re on the verge of sleep when you hear his whisper:

“There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”

જ⁀➴

EDIT: if you want to be tagged in the sequel when it’s posted, please comment “tag me please!” or some variation of THE POST LINKED HERE !! if you comment asking for a tag on this post, you will not be added to the tag list. tag lists are hard to keep track of, so please keep them all in one place !! :)

EDIT TWO: THE SEQUEL IS UP !! It is linked at the top of this post under “next” :)

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