#did he have to lug this thing around

[feroluce]

So I've already seen this one pointed out, but in the new CG, Boothill's older human form doesn't really match what people thought it should. Of course it could just be neglect on Hoyo's part like I've seen speculated, but personally? With the other lore we got from this patch, combined with some of the stuff we already had, I'd love to think there is a possibility that is way, WAY more fun.

(fun for me and all the other whump enjoyers, anyway, RIP Boothill fjkasjkdj)

In Boothill's lc, we see him in the middle of his surgery where he threw away his flesh and bone body for steel and cybernetics. We know it was The Big Surgery and not just like some sort of tune up or modification because of the description attached to the lc:

Which is where a lot of the dissonance comes in, because in this lc, Boothill's hair is much, much longer than in the cg.

And as someone who also has super long hair, I can tell you that it would take like. Multiple years to grow it out to this length.

There's also the fact that these cybernetic arms don't even match, the lc is the one that looks like our Boothill does now. And there's no reason for Boothill's shirt to be ripped up and in tatters like that; it even states he takes off his clothes before the lc surgery. If it were a matter of Hoyo needing to censor nudity, there were plenty of other methods they could have used that would make more sense, like a hospital gown, a blanket, surgical partition, etc

When will I get to see Boothill with all his scars, Hoyo, when, quit cockblocking me!!! OTL

But there was also another piece of new lore this patch that hit me like a fuckin' brick- the fact that Boothill was tortured by the IPC.

He just drops this out of nowhere! Just says it and then moves right along!! BABY, PLEASE. I WANNA KNOW MORE SO GODDAMN BAD.

But anyway as Hydrachea pointed out to me, this means the torture definitely had to happen before the lc surgery, because being whipped with a belt soaked in saltwater (fucking OUCH) wouldn't work on someone with metal skin.

So, we know that the IPC did, at some point, capture Boothill. And this is reaching further back to previous patches, but we also know from the Luminary Wardance event in 2.5 that the IPC also dabbles in cybernetic arms, because of the one they foisted on Luka.

The model there is a new one they're debuting, but we see in a flashback sequence that the IPC has been part of the cybernetics game for at least 700-800 years, because they also manipulated Igor into getting one too, and this could have only happened before the Eternal Freeze on Jarilo-VI.

It's never stated just how old Boothill is, or how long ago the genocide on Aeragan-Epharshel took place.

But I doubt it was more than 700-800 years ago.

I really don't think Boothill is that old, or has been doing this for that long. So he definitely would have been captured at a point that the IPC was manufacturing cybernetic arms, and had a known history of amputating perfectly healthy patients to use them.

I wonder if all their test subjects were willing.

(This part is entirely unnecessary for the new cg showing Boothill being a forced lab rat as part of the IPC torturing him. But it is a fun, delightful, bloodily gruesome twist of the knife nonetheless.

Boothill was also betrayed by his own brothers-in-arms on Aeragan-Epharshel. For the IPC. Just saying.)

[moonstruckme]

Who's That Girl

summary: after Peter moves out due to unspecified reasons suddenly, the marauders have a room to fill. Luckily, you've just arrived in the UK and are happy to sign the lease

cw: modern au, reader has a mother/maternal figure

roommate!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

“Okay, mom.” You rub your eyes, arm still sore from lugging your suitcase around half of London. “No, I really don’t think so. It’d be a pretty elaborate scheme just to kill me. Our names are all together on the lease, there’d be a paper trail.” 

There’s a quiet snicker from the doorway. You look over to find James, one of your new roommates, standing in the threshold of your room. You grimace, miming waving your mother’s concerns away. 

“Seriously, you don’t have to worry, I—fine, here. Listen.” You put your hand over the speaker. “I’m so sorry about this,” you tell James. “Can you tell her you’re not going to murder me, please?” 

“Why would we murder you?” he asks in an easy, jovial voice. It’s the sort of voice moms love, which is perfect for what you need right now. “We need you alive to pay rent, and anyway we’ve nowhere to hide a body. They started being rather vigilant about the Thames some time ago.” 

“He’s joking,” you say quickly into the phone. “Yeah, I’m sure. They do that here, too. Now will you please go to sleep? I’m good, I promise. Okay, call you later. Love you.” 

You click the button to hang up with a sigh, dropping back onto your mattress. 

“Your mum?” James asks sympathetically. 

You hum. “Yeah, sorry. It’s four in the morning for her right now, and she’s all wound up. I appreciate the help.” 

Despite your best efforts, you can’t seem to convince your body it’s not four in the morning for you right now. You thought taking the red eye to London would help you adjust quickly to the time change, but a sleepless flight has only made you weary and disoriented. You screwed up the route from the airport to your new flat, realizing only around Richmond that you’d gone the complete wrong direction on the wrong tube line. It took you a solid hour longer to get to your flat than you planned. When you saw Sirius, who’d posted the flat in an online roommates group, waiting on the other side of the door you nearly collapsed into his arms in teary gratitude. 

With the haze of fatigue still clouding your thinking, it takes you a few moments to wonder why James has come to stand in your room. 

“Did you need something?” 

“I was just wondering if you might like breakfast,” he says. His big frame fills the doorway, his shoulder leaning against the frame like it’s a familiar stance. 

You try to hide your wariness, your mind filling with images of black pudding and beans smeared on toast. “What are you having?” 

“Omelets.” 

“Yes, please.” You hop out of bed. It’s less bouncy than lurching, but you’re trying to affect vivacity in the hopes you eventually start to feel it. 

James leads you towards the kitchen. Your room, you discovered when you arrived, is even duller than the pictures online. The previous tenant either hadn’t decorated at all or had moved out in a hurry, leaving only a bed and some trash on the floor. The room is small, with peeling white paint and a tiny window situated oddly in the corner, the scraggly tree outside eclipsing half of the view. 

The rest of the flat is a different thing entirely. The common spaces are mostly open; you can see the kitchen from the living room, with everything lit by two large windows looking out onto the street. There’s a funny mishmash of decorations, some pieces hinting at unity and others not so the way it all comes together seems almost like a happy accident. A nice, plush couch sits next to a chair that looks like it was dragged in off the street; there are books stacked against walls and album covers being used for coasters; a collection of vinyl records sits on the mantle next to a bluetooth speaker and above stockings seemingly left out since Christmas. It’s definitely a space decorated by boys, but you like it. It feels homey. 

“My mum would be in a right state if I up and moved continents,” says James, walking into the kitchen. He takes up position behind the stove, next to where Remus is making tea. “Is it the city she’s worried about?” 

“It’s everything,” you admit, lingering awkwardly at the edge of the kitchen. You don’t want to be in the way. “It’s the city, it’s the male roommates, it’s the Facebook post she saw about muggings…” 

“Flatmates,” Sirius corrects you from the kitchen table. “We’re not roommates, we don’t share a room. Maybe you ought to clarify that, might calm her down a bit.” 

“Flatmates,” you amend. “She does not like that I have guy flatmates. Can I help?” 

“Don’t,” says Sirius. “Remus is a control freak in the kitchen. Real finicky.” 

“I’m not finicky.” Somehow, you can tell Remus is rolling his eyes even without him turning it around. 

“You nearly took my head off over the way I cook chicken last week.” 

“The way you cook chicken nearly burned down the flat.” 

“Y/n,” Sirius says, seriously, “do as I do.” He pats the seat next to him at the table. 

You glance at James hesitantly, but he waves you off. When you join Sirius in sitting down, you forget to suppress the sigh that collapses out of you. 

Sirius tuts. “Jet lagged?” 

Lag feels too kind a word for what your body is doing to you. “Yeah. Think I’m gonna take a nap after this.” 

“Oh, don’t do that,” he says. “I’ve done the whole international travel thing—” 

“You’ve been to France,” says Remus drolly. “The time difference is an hour.” 

“—and it really is best to just push through,” Sirius finishes as though the interruption went unheard. “You’ll only make matters worse for yourself if you sleep now and then can’t tonight.” 

You hate how sound his logic seems. The idea of waiting at least ten hours to put your head to a pillow makes you want to cry. 

“So,” James says brightly, “what doesn’t your mum like about you having guys for flatmates?” 

Perhaps it can be chalked up to exhaustion that you have so little control over the expression that crosses your face. Luckily, James is too concentrated on his omelet to see it, but Remus isn’t; he grins at you. 

“She doesn’t really love the idea of me having roommates at all. Flatmates,” you correct yourself when Sirius gives you a look. “I think because you’re guys, she just sees it as even less safe. Don’t take it personally. Oh, thank you.” 

You accept the mug of tea Remus sets in front of you. Sirius has one already half drunk in front of him, and Remus sits down with his own, taking a long sip like it’s the most relished part of his morning. You look into the brown, half-opaque liquid skeptically. 

“Has she been this upset since you decided to live with us?” Remus asks. 

“Oh, um.” You bob your teabag aimlessly, twisting the string around your finger. “I…sort of assumed she would be. That’s why I didn’t tell her until now.” 

You don’t have to take your attention off your tea to feel the stares of all three boys snap to you. 

“You didn’t tell her?” James asks, incredulous. 

“I didn’t want to give her the chance to argue with me about it.” 

“Asking for forgiveness instead of permission.” Sirius nods approvingly, picking up his mug for a sip. “Knew I liked you.” 

James appears in distress. “Your mum’s gonna hate us!” 

“Don’t mind him,” says Remus. “He’s used to all mothers fawning over him.” 

“Not mine,” Sirius objects happily. 

“She’s across the ocean, if that helps,” you tell James. 

“I can feel her hatred crossing borders,” he says, expression growing increasingly fretful. 

“Well, all you have to do is not murder me,” you offer, “and she’ll see that she’s wrong.” 

Sirius gives an insouciant shrug. “Pay your rent on time, and we ought to be fine there. No promises, of course.”

[push-the-heartbrake]

𝙄 𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙖 𝘽𝙚 𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨 // 𝙎.𝙍

Second instalment | Series masterlist

Summary: “Tell me what you’d like for us to do together.” — or the one where Spencer finds in himself his first serious relationship and must navigate intimacy for the first time too.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader (she/her)

Word count: 14.2k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ♡ Virgin!Spencer, dry humping, Spencer cums in his pants bc why not, fingering (f! receiving), some insecurities and sex used as a coping mechanism mentioned but otherwise very fluffy.

A/N: Happy (belated) Valentine! Set in the same universe as THIS, so go read that first if you want to know more about how they met and their dynamic. English is not my first language and please tell me what you think? That's all for now ♡

The early morning light seeped through the heavy curtains—thick and dark, softening the edges of the dawn—yet still, the light found its way, spilling in through the gaps, casting pale, golden shadows across the unmade bed. You stirred beneath the weight of the blanket, tangled around your bare legs, drifting in that fragile space between slumber and waking. The air was cold—the kind of raw, unrelenting cold only January could bring—lingering in the room, palpable even beneath the warmth of the sheets.

Sheets. They were Spencer’s dark green sheets. 

You stretched, finally waking up. The room was filled with nothing but the low hum of the radiator and the audible breaths from the man beside you. The world outside is still asleep. Soon, car engines would rumble to life, footsteps would slap against wet pavement, and the sky would brighten into daylight. But for now, your tired eyes had nothing else to focus on but his steady breathing. 

You shifted onto your side, the mattress dipping slightly beneath your weight. Spencer was lying there, still soundly asleep. His hair was a mess as it fell over his forehead, lips parted with the slow rhythm of his breath. Your heart did a… thing—an erratic, fluttering thing that Spencer would probably have a precise physiological explanation for. To you, it was just nerve-wracking. You wanted to reach out, to brush the hair from his face, to trace the line of his jaw, to simply exist closer. Alas, a small space remained between you, as if you’d drifted apart in the night. Cuddling wasn’t off-limits, but whatever was unfolding between you two was still new. 

So new that it was scary for you both.

New in the sense that touches didn’t come instinctively, that words didn’t fall from your lips without second-guessing yourself—that every. single. advance. felt like a make-or-break moment. 

Like—whoops—you kissed him too hard, too long, and now he was going to think that all you wanted was to sleep with him. 

You didn’t. Or you did, but it wasn’t why you liked him. 

You liked that he was smart, that he could ramble on for hours just like you could—except he usually made more sense. You liked that he was sensitive, that it felt like you could tell him anything (even though you never did). You liked that he was observant, that he noticed the small things most people overlooked. Like how he’d bring you dinner from your favorite restaurant during your evening shifts at the library. How he’d carry your bag on the way home because bringing work home with you meant lugging around a fuck-ton of books. How he knew you liked honey in your tea but couldn’t stand when it was substituted with sugar. The little things.

That he was stupidly attractive and that you had raging hormones inside of you truly came second to all of that. 

Right on cue, Spencer’s eyes fluttered open, pulling you from your train of thought. With tired movements, he stirred around in bed, finally finding you to look at. 

Your heart clenched at the sight of him. 

“Your hair is getting long, Spence,” you mumbled, your voice gruff from not having spoken yet today. 

Spencer’s lips pressed together in a small, sleepy frown as he blinked at you in slow, uncoordinated intervals. His hand moved from underneath the blanket to softly tug backwards at the hair that hung before his eyes. 

He’d gone from being terrified of you seeing him shirtless to almost always sleeping without wearing anything on his upper body. You heard yourself sigh at the view of his exposed neck and collarbones as the covers slipped down. His skin looked so soft. You knew that it was. Yet it wasn’t just yours to touch. You didn’t dare to. 

Flipping onto your stomach, you smushed your face into the pillow, breathing in the scent of the laundry detergent he used. A simple, clean, and understated scent that went up your nostrils and clouded your brain like it was a fucking drug. 

You saw in your periphery how Spencer rested his hand next to your face on the mattress, casually with his palm flat against it. It almost tickled in your fingers, wanting to reach out and touch him. 

A sound slipped from him, something between a sigh and a groan, low and strained. He shifted, but not closer. His hand twitched against the mattress, fingers flexing once before going still. Freezing, almost.

Your brows furrowed. “Why do you look so uncomfortable?” 

“No, uhm—” 

You pushed up slightly, watching his expression. “Spencer, is something wrong?” 

“Stop talking, please,” he muttered, eyes squeezed shut.

You blinked at his sudden plea, concern creeping in just as he bolted upright, sheets falling from his body and landing messily on the bed again. 

“I need to go to the bathroom,” he announced. 

You propped yourself up on your elbows, brows drawing together. “That’s all?” 

Spencer didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his hand shot out, grabbing his pillow with a clumsy sort of urgency. He held it in front of himself, almost like a shield.

Your gaze flickered between him and the pillow, realization hitting like a slow burn. “You’re taking your pillow to the bathroom—oh!”

Heat flooded your face as the truth settled. A grin threatened to pull at your lips, but you bit down on it, trying to keep your expression neutral. Spencer’s back went impossibly straighter, his grip on the pillow tightening like it had betrayed him. You fought the urge to tease him. His entire body radiated embarrassment, his cheeks a deep shade of red, and for all the things Spencer was—brilliant, logical, analytical—he was also so deeply, painfully shy about certain things.

Morning wood was a normal phenomenon. You knew that Spencer knew that. In a weird way, you felt a sense of pride because of it. It had happened while he was sleeping next to you. Sure, it was an involuntary response many times. But Spencer had also literally asked you to stop talking because you affected him. Didn’t make it any less mortifying for him, though. 

“Spencer, you don’t have to be embarrassed,” you said gently.

He didn’t respond. Instead, he all but rushed into the bathroom, shutting the door with a sharp, definitive click.

You exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking your head, falling back onto the mattress. “Did you just lock the door?” 

From inside the bathroom, you could hear rattling. His voice came, muffled but unmistakably miserable. “Can we please forget that this ever happened?” 

“I mean, yeah we could do that. Or we could talk about it like adults.” 

Silence.

Your lips formed into a grin.

“Are you at least taking care of it in there?” 

More silence.

Then, finally, a defeated, “I’m—I’m gonna wait it out.”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled up, rolling onto your side to cuddle back into the covers. “Suit yourself.”

A few minutes passed before the door creaked open again. Spencer hesitated in the hallway outside his bedroom, looking both exhausted and like he wanted to disappear. His face was still a little pink, his hair a mess from sleep and, presumably, from pressing his forehead against the cool tile of the bathroom wall. The pillow was no longer needed as a shield. No imprint could be seen through the flannel of his pajama pants, because of course, you looked. 

You tilted your head, your smile softening. “Over now?” 

“I need to get to work,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “But we’ll talk about it later, okay?”

You sat up fully, resting against the headboard, watching as he moved toward his dresser, already reaching for a change of clothes. “You’ll get a case and be gone for a week,” you pointed out. “I know how this works.”

His hands stilled for a moment.

“So,” you continued, “can I talk while you get ready?”

Spencer hesitated, then gave a slow nod. He kept his focus on his dresser as he changed out his sleepwear for his everyday attire. 

You took a breath. “I know that we’ve… experienced different things—” 

“I haven’t experienced anything,” Spencer cut you off. 

“You made out with Lila Archer in a pool. That’s something.” 

He huffed, throwing you a look over his shoulder. 

“Okay. Low blow. I’m sorry for that.” 

One drunken night out with the team (well, sober for you and Spencer), and you had found out so many things about Spencer that he probably would’ve never told you himself. 

You sort of knew to not make fun of him because of his lack of experience, but you also had this thing where your brain just said the first thing it could think of in every goddamned situation. It got you in trouble, but in this case it almost felt necessary to show him how casual a conversation about intimacy could be. 

You kicked the covers off of your legs and sat on the edge of the bed before you continued talking. “We’ve lived different lives, done different things, but if we want to figure us out together, then we have to talk about the sexual stuff too—” 

“But I don’t know how,” Spencer pointed out, walking around the room to face you, standing so close but not close enough. A few inches forward and his legs would be touching yours. 

You sighed. “I’m not saying we do it all right now. I guess I’m more asking how you feel about it. If you can explain it without running off to hide the next time you wake up with a boner?”  

Spencer’s face twisted at your direct use of words, and you could easily spot it. All for being casual… when your crude words might actually do more harm than good. 

He sat down next to you, still half-dressed with a button-up shirt undone and his tie in a tight grip in his hand. 

“I don’t take opportunities,” he simply stated. 

You frowned in confusion. “Yeah, you do.” 

He hadn’t reached his level of success without recognizing opportunities and pursuing them. His intellect alone wouldn’t have guaranteed anything. He had to view the world as something to learn from, to make something good or at least knowledgeable from it, which he had in your eyes.  

“No,” he corrected, turning slightly. “I mean, like social ones. I don’t put myself out there. And now I’m a grown man with no experience. That feels wrong.”

“Wrong in what way?” 

Spencer’s jaw clenched as he swallowed, his gaze dropping to where your hands rested in your lap. He exhaled, his fingers curling against his palm. “It feels like I should’ve just gotten drunk in college and gotten it over with.”

A surprised snort came from you before you could stop it. “Spencer, you were a child when you went to college.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah,” he admitted, “the first time.”

You shook your head, smile lingering. “Well, you still shouldn’t have done anything you weren’t comfortable with. And if you aren’t comfortable now either, that’s fine. But please, talk to me about it before you push me away.”

Spencer’s fingers flexed once before he reached for your hand, threading his fingers through yours. You liked when he was the one to initiate contact because that meant you weren’t crossing any of his boundaries. 

“I don’t want to push you away. I’ve just never felt this way before,” he murmured, voice hesitant. His grip on your hand tightened slightly. “And it scares me. Honestly. But the idea of never moving past this, of never trying for something more… that scares me even more.”

You squeezed his hand in return. 

“Okay. That’s good for me to know. We can work with that.” 

You hadn’t realized how tense the mood was until you saw Spencer visibly relax at your words, his shoulders slouching down as he let go of your hand to start buttoning his shirt. 

“I guess I should get ready too,” you murmured. 

Before your legs could even hit the floor, Spencer’s palm pressed against your bare thigh, his touch gentle but firm, halting you in place.

“You know you don’t have to leave just because I am,” he said. His gaze, soft and lingering, traced over your face. “You’re allowed to stay. Sleep some more. You’re working the night shift, right?” 

You hummed in confirmation, only focused on the warmth from his hand spreading through to your skin, creating a ball of fire in your stomach. Your little sleep shorts did nothing to cover the skin he was touching. He probably wasn’t even aware of how he was affecting you, seeing the contact as simply innocent. 

“Mhm, so stay,” he urged. “There’s stuff in the fridge to make breakfast.”

Spencer shifted, scanning the dimly lit room until he spotted his bag on the floor. Leaning over the side of the bed, he rummaged through it before pulling out his keys. With a small jingle, he dangled them in front of you.

“I’ll leave you my home keys. Lock when you leave and throw them in my mail slot.” 

Your fingers closed around them, the metal cool against your palm. He had a little keychain with the Las Vegas welcome sign. That the sweetest man you’d ever met was from Sin City was still a juxtaposition you almost couldn’t believe. 

“Spence?”  

He tilted his head, looking at you musingly. 

You smiled, your fingers treading to tug lightly on the sleeve of his shirt. 

“Kiss me before you go.” 

For a second, he just sat there. 

Then, slowly, the bed dipped as he braced himself against the mattress, his palm planting next to your waist. His nose brushed yours, and the warmth of his breath ghosted against your lips. There was a pause—a heartbeat—before he closed the space between you.

He kissed you, soft and hesitant at first. 

If you asked Spencer, he probably knew the exact amount of kisses you’d shared. Or he could at least calculate some sort of estimated number. You just knew that it was still a new, almost paralyzing feeling for you. You couldn’t even begin to fathom the nerves that he was feeling. 

But when you kissed him back with more intent, when your fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt, you felt it. The way he melted, just a little.

When he pulled back, his forehead lingered against yours, breath unsteady.

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

Then, with a reluctant sigh, he straightened, stepping back to finish getting ready. You crawled back beneath the covers, letting your head hit the pillow once again. 

You watched him with quiet amusement as he pulled on a sweater, smoothing it down with precise, almost methodical movements. His hands moved quickly—buttoning his cuffs, slipping on his watch—but there was an unspoken hesitation in the air, something that made him pause every so often. 

“You’re staring,” you pointed out. 

He huffed a small breath through his nose, shaking his head as he picked up his bag. “I’m… acknowledging.”

You raised a brow. “Acknowledging what?”

Spencer didn’t answer. He simply smiled and swung the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder, adjusting it absently before making his way to the front door. Just as his fingers curled around the handle, he hesitated.

And then, slowly, he turned back.

You were still in his bed, tangled in the sheets, looking entirely at home. He almost wanted to laugh at how it made him feel, seeing your bare foot stick out or how your hair was a little messy from sleep. 

Spencer wished he understood why his heart did a… thing every time he looked at you. The thing, where it felt like it was doing somersaults around in his ribcage. 

He swallowed, forcing himself to speak. “I don’t do this,” he admitted. “I don’t casually wake up with someone and… feel okay about leaving.”

You smiled, smushing your cheek against the pillow. “You’re not leaving. You’re going to work.” 

“You don’t mind me rushing out?” 

“I love having a big bed all to myself. Go to work, genius. I’m a phone call away.”

Spencer’s grip on his bedroom door tightened before he finally turned to leave. He stepped into the hallway but couldn’t help himself—one last glance. One last look at you in his bed, at the imprint he had left beside you, at the way you had settled into his space so effortlessly.

As he walked to the train station, a pep in his step, he had the time to reflect on what had actually happened this morning and how it was something that he had never actually experienced before. 

Someone else seeing him aroused. 

And his stupid inability to talk about sex. Well, he’d had to do it for a few different cases. But that was objective facts about the human psyche and sexuality as a concept. This was as subjective as it could be. It was literally about his own… penis. 

His inability to have sex was an even worse subject for him to think about. Inability was maybe the wrong word. Was it more about how he hadn’t wanted to? 

You were right, though. He hadn’t seen the point in doing it in college, not because he was emotionless and only focused on his studies and career, but because if he had done it, it wouldn’t have been meaningful. He needed sex to be meaningful to serve the purpose he felt like it would have in his life. 

It’d be pointless for him to have pointless sex. That was clear, and still true. 

But then you’d stormed into his life with your unapologetic way of being—your sharp wit and easy laughter. You had your own layers he had yet to peel back, but it didn’t scare him as much as it did excite him to know you that way. You, with your warmth and your patience, with the way you made him feel wanted without expectation, like he wasn’t some puzzle missing too many pieces to be worth solving.

And you were the furthest thing from pointless to him. Intimacy with you didn’t feel like something to analyze or rationalize. It felt like something to want.

Life felt futile without a sense of contribution, without the feeling that his experiences grew with him rather than passing by like scenery outside the window of a bus. The people around him changed, but he remained the same as he had been at age fifteen—only more rugged, more worn-out, and with a face that now bore the knowledge of what Dilaudid did to the body. He couldn’t let that stay the same anymore. He had to learn to see it differently.

Fuck, he needed to figure this out.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

Spencer turned off the engine as he parked, letting the windshield wipers go one more time to take away the last lingering raindrops. It was late in the evening, and the streetlights reflected gold through the windows. He sent you a quick text that he had arrived before stepping out of his car. The cool February air hit him as he adjusted his scarf, his own breath fogging up his glasses that he had to wear when he drove. 

He scanned the street for the house number in the address you had texted him, spotting it quickly. The building itself was a modest townhouse. A little worn down but full of character, with overgrown and leafless rosebushes lining the front of it. The windows of your friend’s apartment glowed warmly against the night, the silhouettes of moving figures behind sheer curtains. He could hear muffled voices, occasional bursts of laughter, and the faint notes of an indie song playing scratchily from a speaker. He recognized it as something you’d listen to, but nothing more distinct than that. 

He hesitated near the entrance, slowly walking up the stairs to the front door, taking in the view showing through the curtains. 

Girls' night. Spencer was no stranger to the concept. He and Morgan had been turned down plenty of times when they’d tried to tag along with the women of the BAU after work. He’d also seen them the next day—giggly, whispering, exchanging knowing looks about whatever had happened. He wondered if you’d be the same. Would you come back all giggly, or did girls' night mean something different depending on the group? He didn’t know your friends, after all.

A second later, the door swung open, and there you were—stepping out into the night, huddled in your coat. You didn’t notice him right away, busy adjusting your bag over your shoulder as you waved something off behind you, closing the door with a thud. 

Something being one of your friends that Spencer could just about see a sliver of. 

Turning around, he watched as you almost got scared of his presence, not expecting him to be standing so close. You lifted your hands to your face in mild shock, and Spencer couldn’t help but let out a little laugh. 

“Red?” he asked, tilting his head in mild curiosity.

Your nails. Newly painted a bright red color. So painting nails was part of girls’ night. For weeks after you started seeing each other, Spencer had quietly wondered how your nails were always so perfectly done. He now knew that one of your friends was training to be a nail technician and would gladly accept anyone whose fingers she could practice on. 

You glanced down at your hands as if just remembering them. “For Valentine’s Day,” you replied matter-of-factly. 

Spencer hummed, taking the opportunity to hold one of your hands in his own. Was he supposed to ask you to be his Valentine? Before he could respond with anything more, the muffled sound of laughter and movement from behind the door stopped him in his tracks. And he watched you shift uncomfortably because of it. 

“Can we walk to the car, now?” you asked, almost dragging him down the entrance stairs, your eyes flickering between the door and where his car was parked. 

“Why are you in such a hurry?” he croaked out, almost immediately clocking what he thought was embarrassment from your side. Down the stairs, he gripped your hand stronger, making you unable to walk further. “Do you not want your friends to see me?” 

The way you instantly turned to face him, eyes wide with disbelief, made something tighten in his chest.

“You really think that?” you asked, voice soft, a little breathless, like the idea alone was absurd. “Spencer, no—it’s the opposite, really.”

He blinked, lips parting slightly, but before he could ask what that meant, you sighed and pointed with your free hand up to the apartment again. “My friends are standing in the window trying to get a look at you.” 

Looking up, the sheer curtains betrayed them. All of them huddled close to the window to see… well, what were they supposed to see?  

“I’ll get a text in approximately 30 seconds where they will guesstimate the size of your penis and how you are in bed.” 

You deadpanned the words. Spencer would never understand how you did it. It didn’t faze you in the slightest, as you moved to get your phone from your coat pocket. 

Spencer choked. “What? But we’ve never—”

Sure enough, your phone buzzed with a new text message. He didn’t get another word in before you read it out loud. 

“Grower, not a shower. 4 inches soft. Probably kinky in a subtle way, like he’ll tie your hands up while asking about your day.” 

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, adjusting his glasses like that would somehow hide the way his flustered blush was spreading up all the way to his ears. He barely managed to form a coherent thought, let alone a response. 

Instead, his brain short-circuited, flashing between two equally mortifying thoughts: (1) The fact that your friends—people he had never even spoken to—were speculating about his sex life. And (2), the fact that you were standing here, repeating it all so casually, without any indication that it embarrassed you in the slightest.

Did they really think that? Did you?

And worse��could they be right?

Because, if he was being honest, Spencer had thought about it. A lot. Maybe more than was healthy. He thought about the way it would feel, the sound you would make. The way he imagined your body to look naked was some sort of fictional image burned into his mind like some old TV screen. Would he like to tie you up? Would that hurt your wrists? 

He had thought about it so much that the idea of it actually happening made him feel like his entire body would shut down.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

He was scared that you were so special to him, and that he could never be special enough to you. Because you’d done it all before. Even your friends knew that. To the point where they expected it from you—that your sexual endeavors were common enough that they became a casual topic of conversation. Spencer believed that Morgan might faint if he told him that he’d been thinking of having sex with you, like obsessively thinking. If it did happen, you’d always be special to him. Hell, even if it never happened, you were special enough to probably linger in his mind for decades. To you, it was possible for him to just be another number. A notch in your bedpost. Not that you’d ever describe it like that. He knew that. But still, the premise remained. 

“See?” you said, nudging him lightly, snapping him out of his spiraling thoughts. “We should’ve started walking when I said it because now you’re all embarrassed.”

“I’m not—” he started, but faltered, because clearly, he was. “Could they really guess all that from just looking at me?” 

“I don’t know, you’re the profiler,” you pointed out, trying to drag him closer to the car again, but Spencer stayed rooted. “They’re mostly doing it to mess with me because I refused to share any gossip with them tonight.” 

“Is that what girls’ night means? You just sit around and gossip?” he wondered out loud. 

You snorted, shaking your head. “Oh, like you don’t know the ins and outs of Morgan’s love life?” 

“That’s different,” he argued immediately. “I never ask to know anything, but he tells me anyway.” 

You shot him a pointed look. “And you listen.”

He opened his mouth to counter, but quickly shut it again because, well… you had a point. Instead, he huffed, looking down at the sidewalk as he let you make your way to the car. 

After a beat of silence, he glanced over at you, still holding your hand in his. “But really, do I look like I would… act like that?” 

The hesitation in his tone made you pause, turning your head to take him in properly. He wasn’t just flustered anymore—he was genuinely unsure because he had never even considered how people perceived him in a… sexual manner. 

You exhaled, tilting your head at him. “I don’t know what you want me to say—that you practically have a sign on your forehead saying virgin? Would that be better?” 

“No, no,” he said quickly. “I just…” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know how to talk about this.”

Your expression softened. “I know that, which is why I wanted us to go immediately.” 

He opened his mouth, grasping for something to say that would make him feel like he had some semblance of control over the situation. “You didn’t have to read that text out loud.” 

“It’s impossible to lie to you. You know that.” 

By the time you both reached the car, Spencer rushed ahead, opening the passenger door for you. It was instinct, something he did without thinking. But when he turned back to see you watching him, something flickered in your expression. 

“I should learn how to talk about it, though.” He cleared his throat. “That’d be useful for when it eventually happens.” 

He watched you smile as he said it. He hinted at it actually happening. That it was something he wanted. 

“We don’t have to hurry,” you assured as you slid into your seat. 

Spencer swallowed hard, moving around to the driver’s side. He slipped into his seat, hands gripping the wheel, eyes stubbornly focused straight ahead as he started driving. He could feel your gaze on him, patient but knowing. 

You knew him. Even after quite a short time. He couldn’t exactly remember the date on which he first saw you at the library. But it had been 36 days since your first kiss on New Year’s Eve. And you knew him.

He didn’t have to hide a single part of himself from you. Because you seemed to like them all. Or, at least, understand them all. From the shy little boy who was too smart for his own good, seeing his mother get sick and his father turn absent—to the messy adult version of him who had struggled with addiction and closeness in any sort of relationship. You understood them all, though the layers. And you liked some of them to the point where it made you visibly affected. And you protected him in ways that he protected himself too. 

Spencer could only hope to get to know you well enough to understand all versions of you. That you’d let him in, even to your darkest corners. Because he liked you so much it hurt, and felt protective over you in a way that wasn’t even comparable to the most helpless of victims he’d encountered. 

“Don’t do that thing with your tongue.” 

That startled him enough to glance at you. “What thing?” 

“Poking the inside of your cheek with it and looking all smug.” 

Spencer blinked, confused. He hadn’t even realized that he was doing anything, completely lost in his own head. “Is it disturbing for you?” 

“No, it’s distracting. You look hot.” 

“Oh.” He blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. “S-should I drive to your place or mine?” 

Smooth segue, Spencer. Really smooth. 

“You’re assuming we’re spending the night together? Awfully presumptuous, Spence,” you said, placing a hand on your chest to mimic being offended. 

Spencer tried to keep his face straight, forcing a serious answer from you. 

“Drive to your place, it’s bigger.” 

“But I’ve never even seen your apartment,” he argued. 

“For good reason,” you muttered. “It’s messy.” 

“I do not care.” 

“Fine, my place it is,” you sighed, telling him where to drive. “But if you’re mean about it, I’m kicking you out.” 

Spencer only nodded. 

He saw you relax into your seat after that, turning the heat down in the car, humming along quietly to whatever was playing the radio. Spencer thought about how he could easily get used to having you next to him, especially in simple moments like this. Picking you up, or coming home from work and seeing you in his space. Or maybe him being in your space. It almost clouded his brain, the easy domesticity. He had to remind himself that he was driving a couple of times. 

And then he thought of it. A joke, really. He could do that sometimes—think of something to say in conversations long after they had ended. Usually it was to save himself from remembering something embarrassing or unfitting that he’d actually said, but this time, he just wanted to make you laugh. 

“It’s more like 5 inches soft, by the way.” 

“Excuse me?” 

You squealed, leaning forward while also staring at him with eyes wide open. Your hand gripped the car door, and Spencer was momentarily scared your nails would scratch the interior. 

He grinned, acting unbothered. “Just thought I’d let you know.”

You exhaled sharply, your hand still gripping the door, trying (and failing) at holding back a giggle. “I’ll deflower you right in this car if you want to.” 

Spencer felt the color drain from his face at the sound of your words. He couldn’t beat you at your own game. That game being dropping the most sexually charged remarks in casual conversation. 

“No?” you teased. “Then stop with the dirty talk.” 

This was going to be a very long short drive. 

.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

On Valentine’s Day, Spencer found himself at the train station after coming home from a difficult case in Detroit. It had been such a long and simultaneously hurried process that he hadn’t even realized that they were coming back home on Valentine’s Day. Garcia’s homemade pink cupcakes waiting for them at the office had refreshed his mind. 

So, now he stood at the train station in D.C., unsure of whether to go home, to the library, or to your apartment. Mostly he worried about you picking up his phone call, pacing the platform with his phone pressed against his ear. Or maybe he was worried you wouldn’t pick up at all. Your shift had just ended. You should be able to answer. He really should’ve asked you to be his Valentine instead of waiting until the 14th to even think about it, or what if you found it all to be capitalist bullshit anyway—

“Hi Spence! How’s Michigan?”

Your happy voice coming through the speaker in his phone halted his spiraling thoughts. 

“Hi—Uhm, I’m actually home, or at the station. We could wrap up early and not have to spend another night.” 

“Well, that’s good, I guess. Successful case?” you wondered, breathing heavily. He could picture you walking around the library with quick steps, which was what you were doing by the sound of it. 

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Spencer answered. He’d noticed that you were often too curious for your own good. Every time he could tell you details from a case, you regretted it afterwards, not actually wanting to know such gruesome things. “Why does it sound like you’ve just run a marathon?” 

You let out a breathless laugh. “We had a bunch of arts and crafts for the kids today, and they made a whole mess. Glue, glitter, paper scraps everywhere. And I swear, once kids figure out how to use scissors, they think they’re unstoppable.”

A faint smile tugged at Spencer’s lips as he imagined it. You were so good with the kids coming to the activities organized by the library. 

“Sounds chaotic.”

“Oh, it was,” you confirmed. “Somehow, a three-year-old managed to glue his own sleeve to the table, which, honestly, is kind of impressive.”

Spencer chuckled, rubbing at his temple. “Remind me again why you do this voluntarily?”

“Because it’s cute,” you shot back. “And because somebody has to make sure kids don’t leave libraries thinking they’re just boring old book storage units.”

His smile widened, but before he could respond, you hesitated.

“So, uhm…” you started.

Spencer picked up on it immediately. “You’re running late?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

He glanced at the clock. He hadn’t even made it home yet, and he already knew you were going to exhaust yourself staying behind to clean up. “You know, we don’t have to—”

“But I’ll tell you what,” you interrupted, voice decisive. “Since you’re on my side of town, why don’t you go to my place, and then I’ll show up when I’m done cleaning up?”

Spencer hesitated. He still wasn’t entirely used to the casual intimacy of something as simple as waiting for you at your place. But then again, this—the way you made space for him so effortlessly—was exactly why it had never felt overwhelming.

You didn’t press him for an answer, just kept going, voice slightly distracted like you were already multitasking. “I’ll tell my neighbor to leave my extra set of keys under my doormat right now.”

Spencer nodded before realizing you couldn’t see him. “That’d be great,” he said instead. “I’ll see you later.”

There was a pause, just long enough for him to picture you—probably still standing in the middle of the library, hands on your hips, surveying the mess before sighing and getting back to work.

Then, softer, “Mhm. Buh-bye, Spence.”

The call ended with a quiet click, and for a long moment, Spencer just stood there, staring at his phone.

Being in your apartment alone? Yeah, no. That was weird. 

* * * 

Spencer arrived at your building just as the streetlights flickered on, the city settling into early evening. A bouquet of tulips in his hand, clenched in a tight grip as he made his way up to your level. They were a mixture of red, white, and orange tulips. 

He remembered Garcia once going on a rant about how no woman had red roses as her favorite flower and that men only gave them as gifts as custom and because they hadn’t cared enough to get to know the woman’s actual favorite flower. 

At his quick stop at a flower shop, Spencer had cursed himself for never asking about your favorite flower. But he at least knew he couldn’t buy roses. If not for you, then for the sake of Garcia not being disappointed in him. 

So tulips it was. They were a symbol of affection, after all. He’d read about their symbolism stemming from the Persian tale of Farhad and Shirin. A tragic love story not too far from mirroring Romeo and Juliet. And the colors—red was for love, white was for honesty, and orange was for understanding. Spencer wasn’t sure if he’d tell you all of that. Maybe if you asked. But it was still a nice thought for him to know that his gift had a meaning as is, beyond his intention. 

He rounded the corner to your door, only to pause when he spotted an older woman standing by it, hands clasped in front of her as if she had been waiting for him. Her hair was a soft gray, pulled back into a bun, and she wore a thick cardigan. Kind eyes appraised him from behind gold-rimmed glasses, and when her gaze dropped to the flowers, her lips twitched in approval.

“Tulips?” she mused. “Good choice.” 

Spencer blinked, caught slightly off guard. “Oh—uh, thank you?”

Her smile deepened knowingly. “You must be Spencer.”

“I am, yes.”

She gave a small nod, then reached into her cardigan pocket, pulling out a keyring. “I’m Edith, the neighbor with her keys,” she explained simply. “She asked me to leave them under the doormat, but I figured I’d wait and hand them off in person.”

“Oh, right! Thank you,” Spencer said, taking them carefully from her outstretched hand.

The woman didn’t step away immediately. Instead, she studied him for a long moment, eyes twinkling with something he couldn’t quite place. And then, in a softer voice, she added, “I know it’s not my place to pry, but be kind to her.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed slightly. “Of course,” he said quickly. 

The neighbor hummed, satisfied but not entirely done.

“You’re very welcome to take care of that girl,” she said gently. “Because I don’t think anyone else does.”

It wasn’t pity in her voice. It wasn’t sadness, either. It was just an observation, simple and steady, spoken by someone who had been watching quietly from the sidelines, possibly for a long time. 

He swallowed, fingers curling slightly around the keys in his palm, not having the time to overthink what she’d said. 

“I will.” 

The woman nodded once before turning to walk up the stairs, heading back to her own apartment. 

Spencer watched her go, then turned back to your door.

He let himself inside, stepping into your space. Spencer had adored your apartment ever since the first time you had him over, that time he’d picked you up from girls’ night. 

It was a small space, crowded with your things. You’d moved in fresh out of high school. It was something about not being able to wait any longer to get out of your mother’s house. Then you’d stayed in the same apartment all through college and when you started working at the library. 

And yes, it was messy. But you were a bit of a mess yourself, so it only made sense. It wasn’t unclean in any way, but you placed things around you without any rhyme or reason. You were still able to find everything, though. Spencer had noticed that quite quickly, observing you in your own space. While he’d lounged in the bed after one of your now very casual sleepovers, he’d seen you find your sweater hung on the kitchen door and your favorite tea mug on the bathroom sink. 

There wasn’t a pattern. He had a pattern for most things in his own apartment. But this made sense to you. 

Spencer dropped your keys in a bowl on a table in your entryway. He didn’t want to feel any responsibility over them. It was weird enough to be alone in your space. 

The apartment was eerily quiet as he kicked off his shoes and took a seat on your couch, the tulips placed on your coffee table. He’d wait for you to put them in water, not wanting to go through your kitchen cabinets looking for a vase. 

He thought he could read for a while or maybe turn on the TV. But he didn’t end up doing anything. He mostly looked around the room, twiddling with his fingers as his eyes lingered on your bookshelf and on the artwork you had decided to hang on the wall. 

The blanket draped over the couch, was it handmade? The coasters on your coffee table, were they souvenirs? The Polaroid pictures blu-tacked to your bedroom door, who were they off? 

Spencer could spend hours asking you questions, he thought. He’d find your reasonings interesting even if they weren’t. 

If it had gone ten minutes or an hour when you barged in through the door with the loudest sigh he’d ever heard, Spencer couldn’t answer. You didn’t even say hi when you saw him sitting on your couch, you just dropped your coat to the floor and smiled, taking in the sight. 

“Tulips?” you exclaimed, dropping your bag on the floor too the second you noticed the bouquet lying on the coffee table. Toeing off your Converse on the way over, you looked at him, eyes wide with excitement. “I freaking love tulips!”

Spencer shifted where he sat, lips curving into a small smile. “I hoped so.” 

“But why? For Valentine’s day?” 

His face warmed, and he hummed in acknowledgment as you picked up the flowers, inhaling their scent. 

Spencer watched as you busied yourself placing them in a vase of water, moving around the kitchen like it was second nature. He was about to tell you to leave them in their wrapping to soak for an hour before cutting the stems, but you seemed to already know that. It was supposed to make them last longer. You loved tulips enough to know that. Spencer saw that as a positive indication. 

“I totally didn’t plan anything special for today,” you admitted, walking back into the living room and placing the flowers back on the table. “Did you want us to do something?” 

“Not really,” he answered. “I just got home from a case, and you have acrylic paint on your shirt. Safe to assume we’re both too tired to go out?” 

You glanced down at your stained crewneck and groaned. “Ugh. Yeah. That tracks.”

Your next move shouldn’t have surprised Spencer as much as it did. 

Standing in front of him, you lifted the sweater over your head, the shirt you had on underneath rising with it slightly. The skin of your stomach exposed to him, but what he focused on was how your belt cinched at your waist and how your slacks basically fitted like a second skin before they flared out at the legs. 

“How do you get them to fit so well?” he asked before thinking. 

With your head peeking out from the sweater as you tugged it off, hair getting messy in the process, you raised your eyebrows in amusement. “Spencer, are you staring at my ass?” 

His mouth opened, then closed again. He had definitely been looking.

You only laughed, shaking your head. “I tailor them myself.”

Spencer exhaled, grateful for the shift in conversation. “That makes sense,” he mumbled. “They look nice.”

You walked off to your bedroom, throwing the stained sweatshirt into your hamper of dirty laundry like you were the next big thing in the NBA. 

By the sound of it, you were changing out of your clothes completely. If Spencer had stretched his neck, he might’ve been able to see it through the door. But he didn’t. It didn’t feel appropriate even though he suspected that you left the door wide open on purpose. 

You tiptoed back into the living room wearing shorts and a big t-shirt, your bare feet barely making a sound across the old wooden floors. Spencer should be used to seeing you look so casual, but he was unsure if he ever would be. 

“I got you that book you were looking for, by the way. Someone returned it today,” you started to say as you bent over to rummage through your bag. “And uh… this,” you hesitated, handing him not only the book but also a bright pink slip of paper. “A very insistent little girl told me I had to make my own.” 

You’d made a Valentine’s card. For him. You’d made it for him. Holding the pink paper in his hands, Spencer’s heart squeezed at the sight—messy crayon doodles, slightly uneven letters spelling out Happy Valentine’s Day. It was simple, kind of ridiculous, and absolutely perfect. 

He couldn’t get a word out, simply staring at it. 

You plopped down on the couch beside him, sprawling out with ease, moving pillows and blankets around. At first, you bent your knees to not touch him, but then on instinct you moved them to be in Spencer’s lap as he got the book and card out of the way. 

Your toes matched the red nail polish on your fingers. He hadn’t noticed that before. 

“Why did you want it, anyway? Didn’t think it was your kind of poetry,” you asked, not bothered by his lack of reaction to the card. 

Although, maybe his silence was enough for you to see through him like glass. He’d never gotten a Valentine’s Day gift before. Garcia got everyone cupcakes, sure, but he’d never received one with romantic intentions. 

“It isn’t. But you read it and seemed to enjoy it.” Spencer straightened, finally finding something to say. Answering questions was something he could manage. “Also, the poem about being a vacuum cleaner seemed too odd to ignore.” 

You’d mentioned it once at the library. The second time you talked to each other. He’d been reading a book on Nobel Prize winners, and you’d approached him, offering him tea and questioning him about his job. A John Cooper Clarke poetry collection in your lap. There was something about a poem and a vacuum cleaner. He remembered thinking that he had to read it, no matter how stupid it sounded. 

You snorted. “Yeah, it’s… weirdly moving.”

Spencer placed the card on the coffee table, patting it with his palm like it meant something. He’d have to save it. Put it on his fridge or make a shoebox of memories with you. 

He then started going through the book. It was muscle memory for him. If he had a book in his hands, he would read it immediately. 

The poetry was so simple, it only would’ve taken him minutes to finish the entire thing. But once he read a line out loud to you, seeing a happy and content smile, he knew he couldn’t hurry through it. So, he read it to you instead. 

The couch was just big enough for the two of you—him sitting upright against the armrest, and you sprawled across the cushions with your feet in his lap, half-buried under a blanket. With nervous fingers, he’d started to trace absentminded patterns on your shin.  

The air smelled faintly of old books and lavender, your signature candle flickering softly on the coffee table next to the tulips. Every now and then, Spencer would pause between stanzas, glancing over at you like he was gauging your reaction. Most of the time you interrupted him yourself, feeling the need to question something. 

“I wanna be your vacuum cleaner, breathing in your dust.” 

You blinked at the ceiling. “What does that even mean?”

“I think it’s a metaphor.”

“For what? Codependency?”

“Or devotion,” Spencer theorized. 

“I wanna be your Ford Cortina, I will never rust.” 

You squinted. “Is that a reliable car?”

“Pretty sure they’re not. Must be irony,” he answered. 

The next interruption wasn’t your doing. You felt the shift before you saw it—his gaze lingering, the gentle press of his fingers against your shin turning more intentional.

“What?” you asked out of curiosity. “Did I miss a spot when I shaved or something?” 

“No, uhm…” He ran his thumb lightly over a faint line near your knee. “Is this a scar or a birthmark?” 

“Scar, I think.” You twisted slightly to glance down. “Might be from when I tried to pick up skateboarding.” 

Spencer’s lips quirked. Yeah, that sounded about right.

“Does it look gross?” you asked. 

He couldn’t fathom a scar looking gross. Not when it was healed. Because if he thought that about someone else’s scars, what would they think about his? 

“I’m not one to speak when it comes to scars,” he mumbled, hesitant.

“I think yours are kinda badass, from stuff you’ve lived through,” you reassured him, a light sparking in your eyes. 

“Skateboarding is cool,” Spencer tried to argue.  

“I never even managed to stand on the board,” you muttered, a smile shining through. “I have another scar on my ribs from scratching my entire side on the sidewalk.” 

He had momentarily forgotten about the book. His focus was only on the skin his fingertips traced and how the scar made a little indent from where it had been scratched open. 

“Can I see it?” Spencer asked without thinking. 

“Not without, like, flashing you my boobs,” you answered plainly. 

Spencer’s fingers abruptly stopped moving as he first thought he hadn’t heard you right. Then he realized that he had asked to see a scar on your ribs. And your ribs were close to your breasts. That was how the human body was shaped.  

“Oh—” His brain seemed to stutter, like a skipping record. “Would that…?”

“You don’t think it’d be a bad idea?” You sat up from your lying position, taking the book in your hands as you bent your legs over his lap. “I could do it. It’s not crossing any boundaries for me. I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

“You don’t make me uncomfortable,” he murmured.

You smiled back, shifting so you could press a soft kiss to the side of his jaw. He tensed slightly beneath you—not in rejection, but in that way he always did when he wasn’t sure what to do.

“Good,” you whispered.

For a second, you just looked at him. He could sense that you were trying to read his reaction. He wasn’t sure he had a reaction. Or at least one that was reasonable.

Tucking your lower lip between your teeth, a small sigh escaped you. Spencer only briefly had time to wonder if you were disappointed, but your attention turned back to the book, a finger tracing the page to find the next line of the poem. 

“If you like your coffee hot, let me be your coffee pot.” 

You snorted. “Okay, now he’s just saying words.”

Spencer cleared his throat, trying to concentrate on something other than the fact that you basically wanted to be shirtless in front of him. 

“Isn’t that the point of writing? Putting words together?” 

“Smartass.” You scrunched your nose at him.  

He let his eyes linger on the page for a while before he read the next words. He didn’t realize their meaning until they left his mouth. 

“You call the shots, I wanna be yours.” 

You were so close to him. He could hear your breaths, feel them if he focused. The bare skin of your legs touching his covered ones, a burning sensation through the fabric. It was like his ears started ringing by how quickly his heart was beating. He could only wonder if yours was beating even half as fast. 

Spencer wasn’t avoiding eye contact—not exactly—but he was looking at you like he was working through a puzzle, like he was waiting for the right words to magically fall into place before saying them.  

“I have to start thinking rationally about this,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You furrowed your brows. “This meaning sex?” 

“I guess…” He hesitated, his lips pressing together. “It’s about you, in general.” 

“And by that, you mean?”

“It’s biology,” he stated, the beginning of a ramble. “Attraction is a chemical process driven by neurotransmitters. It releases dopamine and oxytocin that are associated with the feelings of reward and attachment. The limbic system is highly active in people experiencing romantic attraction. Essentially, the brain treats attraction like an addiction, reinforcing behavior that leads to emotional and physical closeness.” 

You tilted your head. “So… that’s what’s happening here? Biology?” 

Spencer let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “It is. That’s why you make me incapable of thinking straight and why I get so nervous. I have to realize that it’s biology even though it feels like fiction to me. Does that even make sense?” 

“Nope.” 

“Great. Well—” 

“Spencer.” You sat up fully this time, your legs folding beneath you as you shifted to face him, placing the book on the table with a thud. “There is nothing rational about love.” 

Love. You’d used the word love.

He wanted to continue explaining, but he wasn’t sure he wanted it to make sense. Maybe you were right. Even though there was a scientific explanation for everything he was feeling, there was also a reason as to why people turned to fictional stories when they searched the matters of love. The feelings were allowed to be so irrational that they felt impossible. 

“And that’s not me confessing my love for you, by the way. That’s kind of early, but we’re en route to love, right? Neither of us is in this only for sex?” you continued talking, your hand reaching out to hold his. 

Spencer heard himself laugh. It would be the shittiest sex-only relationship ever, because, well, you weren’t having sex. But then he nodded, agreeing with you—you were in too deep to call it casual. 

“Morgan called you my girlfriend today, and I didn’t even try to correct him. I used to always do that,” he said, something hesitant in the way he admitted it because he was still trying to make sense of it himself.

With an assertive move, you grabbed his hand. “Good. We’re on the same page.” 

Spencer looked down at your joined hands before glancing back up at you. He swallowed. “I’m your…” 

“You’re my boyfriend,” you confirmed, and the way his lips parted slightly, like he was tasting the word, made you squeeze his hand again.

“I’m your boyfriend.”

You nodded, smiling. “Yeah. And don’t overthink it, okay? We can just… be.”

You said it so simply. Easiest thing in the world. Spencer wanted to believe it was. His mind couldn’t accept it so easily, though. It worked overtime in general, but he wasn’t sure he had ever thought so much about the same thing. Being in a relationship, having a girlfriend, sex. He almost wished he could preoccupy his mind with other things, some difficult chess strategy or some foreign literature. But no. It was all you up there. 

And what did you think about it? He didn’t know. 

Spencer cleared his throat, saying, “I’m not sure I’ve asked you how you feel about all of this.” 

“How do I feel about sex?” 

You made a little confused face, and Spencer nodded as an answer, letting the room go quiet as you thought of what to say. You fiddled with the fringe of a blanket with your free hand, the other still holding Spencer’s. 

“I think…” you exhaled. “I think you respect me more than I respect myself.” 

Spencer found it miraculous that you were able to keep eye contact with him even though the smallest of tears formed on your waterline. 

“What’s it been? Over a month? And you haven’t seen me naked,” you continued, almost a surprised tone in your voice. 

45 days. It had been 45 days. He had to force himself to not say it out loud. 

“You haven’t asked, or just… done. Nothing. I’m not sure I know how to react to that. I feel like I should have to throw myself at you to make you like me, but you’re not like that.” 

“I like you just as you are,” Spencer whispered, unsure if it was the right moment for him to speak. 

“I know that, but it’s new for me. I haven’t done all this with someone who actually cares before,” you said, voice sounding like you were constricting the words. 

Your grip around his fingers tightened, and Spencer found himself rubbing circles on the back of your hand with the pad of his thumb. He didn’t dare to reach up and touch your face, but he wanted to. 

Your lip noticeably quivered as you continued, “I haven’t always… valued intimacy the way I should have. And I haven’t exactly been with men who saw beauty in being with me instead of just lust.

It was strange, the way those words made his chest ache. 

You’d mentioned it before—when he admitted he was a virgin, you’d said something about finding it a little amusing that someone could go so long without sex, especially when it had been a coping mechanism for you. He assumed that meant earlier in your life, but truth be told, he didn’t really know. 

Spencer thought back to what Edith had said in the hallway. She’d said that no one had been taking care of you. That didn’t necessarily mean you’d been alone, just that you hadn’t always surrounded yourself with the best people.

And yet, looking at you now, he couldn’t see it. You made it look effortless—being warm, being kind, holding him close like it was second nature. How you were so well put together that no one would ever even notice things you’d been through unless you told them. And you didn’t tell anyone. 

He struggled to picture it—the same girl who had made him a handmade Valentine’s card, who curled up against him on the couch like she belonged there, had also been the girl who once used to stumble home drunk or high, clinging to some guy whose name would be forgotten in the morning. The thought alone made his stomach twist. Someone having their way with you and your mind having convinced you that you didn’t have a choice—thinking that you were so desperate to be liked that you didn’t even mind if it was only for a moment. 

It didn’t fit. You didn’t fit with that image.

Or maybe you did, and he just didn’t know it yet. There was still so much to learn about you, so much you hadn’t yet shared.

Spencer watched as you almost turned on yourself, his silence becoming too much for you to deal with. It hadn’t been his intention to make you uncomfortable, or to make your words seem even heavier than they were because of his lack of reaction. 

“You’re not too good at talking about this either, are you? About what you want?” he wondered, keeping his eyes on you, trying to convey that his silence wasn’t judgment. It was attention. 

A soft huff of laughter escaped you. “No, I guess I’m not.” You paused for a moment before adding, “But I like taking it slow. It makes it feel… different. Special, like it never has before.”

His chest tightened. Like it never has before.

He didn’t know what to say to that, didn’t know how to put into words the way it made him feel—some odd mixture of relief and sadness. He wished he didn’t, but it was relief he felt when he realized that while everything of this was new to him, some aspects were also new to you. The blind leading the blind in a way. 

“I’m sort of scared of being too much for you,” you murmured. “Or for everyone, really.”

Spencer inhaled sharply, shaking his head almost instantly. “But you’re not—”

“And you don’t think you’re ever going to be enough, do you?” you interrupted, watching as the words hit him like a direct shot to the chest.

His lips parted, but no sound came out. He blinked at you, caught off guard, his fingers tightening around yours like he needed something to hold onto. It wasn’t a question. Not really. It was an observation. A fact. One he couldn’t even bring himself to deny. He felt inadequate in every sense when it came to intimacy. 

You reached up, brushing your fingers against his cheek. “We make an interesting pair, huh?” you mused.

Spencer exhaled a quiet laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Interesting was definitely a synonym for dysfunctional in this case. 

“Yeah,” he murmured. “We really do.”

You smiled, leaning in until your forehead pressed against his. You were curled in his arms now, your chest touching his, hand resting on his shoulders as you searched his face. His breath hitched slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers came up to rest gently against your jaw, his touch featherlight, reverent.

“Tell me what you’d like for us to do together.” 

“I—” He swallowed. “I think I’d like to kiss you for a while. If that’s okay.”

You nodded gently. “Can I sit in your lap?”

Spencer couldn’t form a sentence to answer, but he lifted his hands, inviting you to move closer. Not closer than you ever had been before, but it was by far the most intimate position you’d found yourself in. 

You straddled him, knees on either side of his hips and your ass pressed against his lap. Your exposed thighs painted before Spencer like a landscape of skin. Before he could look at your face, his eyes were glued to the slight pattern of your skin, with scattered scars and birthmarks. 

Close enough, Spencer snuck in a light peck on your lips. The first of many, he hoped. 

Your hands lingered by your side before you lifted them to slowly rest around his shoulders, tickling the skin of his neck, diving your fingers in his hair to stroke his scalp with gentle tugs. He liked it so much that a little noise left his mouth as he couldn’t help but feel his body melt against yours. 

Spencer’s arms were stiff, palms pressed against the couch cushion. He didn’t know if or where to touch you. 

You started to litter his face with little kisses—on his cheeks, jaw, and mouth. He canted forward to meet you halfway, overwhelmed by the feeling of your chest pressed against his. 

Pulling back, you cupped his face, simply looking at him for a moment. “Your face should come with a warning sign. You’ve got bone structure like you were carved out of marble by Da Vinci or something,” you said, leaning back in to kiss him.  

“You’re thinking of Michelangelo,” he mumbled, although the words got lost against your mouth. 

“Huh?” You didn’t stop kissing him.

“Nothing.”

Yeah, it was nothing to bring up compared to what was going on.

He always felt like he had gotten the hang of kissing someone, but with you it was a new sensation every time. And with your tongue slipping inside his mouth, your teeth grazing his lips—an open-mouthed and messy make-out session—he might as well have been fifteen all over again.  

You teased him, and he knew it. Panting in his mouth, gnawing his lips raw. And your hands, god your hands that never stopped wandering. It was innocent, fingers through his hair or running along his arms, but still enough for Spencer’s brain to go haywire. 

He wasn’t sure it was intentional the first time you did it, but he felt your hips move against him. A slow brush forward that could’ve just been you adjusting your position. Spencer’s response was instant, a sharp breath leaving his mouth, entering yours. He was convinced it wasn’t intentional when you simply continued kissing him. But then you did it again. Not once, but repeatedly. 

Spencer was getting harder with every instant your hips ground against his, and surely you noticed it too, because he could feel you smiling through the kisses. 

“You’re allowed to touch me, y’know?” 

His head snapped up at your words, stopping the kissing. 

“But—uhm, where?” 

You gave him a look—one of those knowing, amused looks. “Anywhere. Did you want to see the scar?” 

His throat went dry. He managed a nod.

“So, touch my waist and take my shirt off.” 

He didn’t expect you to be so direct. Maybe he should always expect that from you. 

Spencer took his time, gazing at you sat on his lap. Your lips were wet from kissing, and you had mascara smudged under your eyes. He found you breathtaking, sitting there in a frumpy old t-shirt, smiling at him like he was the dumbest thing ever. 

Carefully, he let his hand settle on your thigh, fingers barely touching your skin. He saw how your eyes followed the way his hands moved, slowly upward, sinking his fingers into the skin in a way that made it spill out between them. 

When he finally reached the fabric of your shirt, he pushed it up, letting his eyes find yours as a way to reassure that it was indeed okay. You did nothing but nod, helping him slowly peel it over your head. Spencer was too busy looking at how cute your face scrunched up when the collar got caught around your head to see that you weren’t wearing a bra. When you carelessly tossed the shirt onto the floor and then let yourself just sit still in his lap, that was when Spencer took in the sight of you, bare aside from your shorts. 

Spencer was pretty sure his eyes went as wide as dinner plates. 

Taking him out of his trance, you started talking, doing a little shift with your hips and crossing your arms over your chest. “This might be the first time I’m nervous about being naked in front of someone.” 

Spencer tilted his head, talking too fast for his own good. “You didn’t mind getting undressed when you had to help me shower after my injury.”

“Wearing a bra and shorts is not the same as being naked,” you stated. 

He dared to move his hands again, finding your arms, absently tracing the skin. You relaxed, uncovering your chest again, letting him see your breasts again. Admittedly, he had a hard time focusing on your face, but he tried his best. 

“What are you nervous about?”

He watched you hesitate, your lips pressing together before you shrugged. The movement was small, but Spencer saw through it. You were trying to sound casual, but the slight tightness in your voice betrayed you.

“What if you think I’ve got weird nipples or something?” 

“T-they’re not weird,” he blurted, far too quickly, and immediately cringed at himself. He scrambled to recover. “Perfectly normal, in fact.”

“Perfectly normal?” 

“Well…” He cleared his throat, cheeks still rosy. “They’re kind of pretty.” 

You giggled in disbelief. “You think my nipples are pretty, Spence?” 

“I think you’re pretty,” he corrected. “And they’re attached to you, so yeah. Pretty.” 

“Well, why don’t you touch them, then?” 

He couldn’t argue with that. As his hands traveled up the sides of your body, he began to stroke the underside of your breasts, taking in the way you reacted to his touch. 

That was when he saw it. The entire reason you were in this position. A puny little scar on the right side of your ribs. Scratched your entire side on the sidewalk. No, it wasn’t longer than an inch. 

Spencer could feel the faint ridge of the scar beneath his touch, but he wasn’t thinking about that anymore. He was thinking about how warm you were, how soft. He was thinking about how insanely close you were to him, how his breaths hit your skin as soon as they left his mouth. 

He cupped your breasts fully, admiring the way they fit in his palms and how the ample skin felt malleable to the touch. Your nipples pebbled under his touch, and your breathing turned quicker as he twiddled them slightly between his fingers. 

“You can kiss them too, y’know.” 

Spencer took in the feeling of having some sort of control over his emotions and over the situation. Fuck yeah, could he kiss them. He started at your sternum with a soft peck, then traced down the valley between your breasts. He looked up at you through heavy eyelashes, his warm brown eyes staring you down as his lips explored. Your jaw slackened, nodding at him reassuringly.

When he took your nipple between them, he heard you hiss at how he purposely teased you. He sucked on the tender skin, mouth on one as he cupped the other. Spencer felt so lost in what was happening that he didn’t even realize he was almost biting down on your skin, grazing your nipple with his teeth until a high moan escaped you.

Your hips rutted forward again, his boner now something that couldn’t be ignored. And by the look of it, the friction was enough to cause you pleasure as well. Spencer wasn’t even sure he’d seen that as a possibility before. But your shorts were thin, and the material of his pants was rough enough to rub your heat every time you moved. 

Spencer only pulled away when his lungs burned for air, releasing your nipple with a soft, wet pop. For a moment, he stared, mesmerized by the way it glistened with his saliva, a fleeting mark of what he’d done. 

You looked at him, grinning. 

His hands found a comfortable space in the divots on either side of your waist as he watched your hands fall from his shoulders down between you. You didn’t touch, or take things any further. They just simply rested on him—on the prominent tent in his slacks. 

“Was, uhm… was this all that you wanted for us to try?” Spencer whispered. 

The air in the room had somehow turned harder to inhale. Humid.   

“I thought I’d start with something less explicit before I tell you that I want your dick inside of me.” 

Spencer now forgot how to breathe. Completely. 

A little giggle escaped you as you took his face in your hands, your palms cold against his skin. Or maybe he was just impossibly warm. He didn’t want to think about how he must have looked—hair a tousled mess, skin pinking, probably blushing all the way down to his toes.

You pushed his hair off his forehead, tilting your head as you asked, “I’ve made you all flustered, haven’t I?” 

Spencer groaned, pressing his head back against the couch like he was seeking divine intervention. His boner, the elephant in the room, lodged in the space between your bodies, wasn’t enough for you to notice? 

“Do you enjoy torturing me?”

You laughed, hands placed aimlessly on his chest. “I don’t. I just think it’s cute.”

He opened his eyes, peering at you warily. “What’s cute?”

“You.”

Spencer let out a long breath, shaking his head. “You can’t just call me cute after—” He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Never mind.”

You bit back a smile, leaning in again, your nose brushing his. “I mean it, though.”

His hands, which had remained mostly still against your waist, flexed slightly. “Me being cute?”

“No.” You kissed the corner of his mouth. “That I want you.”

Spencer’s breath caught, and for a moment, he just looked at you—like he was trying to memorize this moment, like he wanted to capture exactly how it felt to have you in his lap, saying things that he never thought he’d hear from you. Or anyone for that matter. 

“We don’t have to be nervous,” you murmured. “I think we’re both allowed to want each other.”

“I do want you,” he admitted. “I just… I want to do this right.”

“You will. Let me take care of you, Spence.” 

He didn’t have much else to say when your lips were back on his, tongue slipping into his mouth. Your hips, god your hips, began to move with more intent, practically squeezing his bulge between your crotch and himself. And your tits, moving with every bounce you made. 

Every inch of his skin turned to goosebumps as your fingers sneaked under his shirt, ripping it from where it had been tucked in to his pants. You scratched his skin, and he could imagine the contrast between the red polish and his pale complexion.

Spencer no longer hesitated to explore you. His hands were in tight grips on your hips, wandering to the curve of your ass as he helped you move in rhythm. Glancing down between you, he swore he could see a damp spot blooming on the fabric of your shorts—but that wasn’t what captivated him most.

The best part was when you broke the kiss, gasping for air, your lips parted in a breathless moan. He could shamelessly watch how your face twisted in pleasure. You had an innocent delicacy to your facial features despite the raw need in your body’s movements.

Oh, was he really watching an angel… 

The both of you quickly got lost in the hazy feeling of not knowing where his hands on you started and where your hands on him ended. Spencer heard how he whined with each of your movements, but he couldn’t have cared less, hips bucking uncontrollably, canting forward to meet your thrusts. 

“Does it feel good?” you murmured, grazing your teeth against his lips. 

A strangled breath was all he could reply with, his hands roaming endlessly for something to grab, something to ground him. 

“Don’t stop, p-please.” 

So he could form words, only that they were pathetic. 

It didn’t take long between when Spencer realized that the friction alone would be enough for him to orgasm and it actually happening. He’d been too pent up for too long of a time to even think about holding it back. The feeling so rushed that he couldn’t warn you, or even say something to you. All that left his mouth were stuttered moans and curse words. He normally wasn’t one to use rude words, but this was uncontrollable. 

“Oh god, oh fuck—” 

He felt a warm liquid spreading from where his cock was tucked in pants, soaking through to stain the fabric. His body froze, and he tried his best to stop his panting breaths as ropes of cum continued to leak out. Out of instinct, his hands left your body, flying up to his achingly blushing cheeks. 

You abruptly stopped moving at his reaction, taking in the sight for a second before your hands clutched around his wrists, moving his hands from covering his face. 

“No, no. I’m not even giving you the right to be embarrassed right now, Spence,” you said sternly, your eyes flickering between him and evidence of his release. “That was like the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

He kissed you to shut you up. Soft, gentle kisses that calmed him down and made you rest your weight back down onto his thighs. Lost in the fact that he’d just had his first orgasm in front of someone else, his mind wandered to you, and if you’d enjoyed it as much as he had. But… you hadn’t finished, had you? 

Spencer pulled away, distraught at the thought of taking but not giving. “You didn’t—” 

“No, but that wasn’t the point of this,” you cut him off, further explaining, “Sex isn’t always about making the other person cum. This time, for instance, I think it was mostly about us getting more comfortable with each other.” 

“But we still didn’t have sex.” 

“Sex is whatever you want it to be.” You let out a little sigh, not out of annoyance but out of amusement. “If this is all that you’re comfortable with, then this is sex to you.” 

That made sense, even to him. But now that he had gotten a little taste, he couldn’t wait to be comfortable for more.

“B-but I do want more,” he argued. “More of you.” 

“We’ll get there.” 

“You don’t want me to help you out now?” 

He wasn’t sure where his sudden confidence came from, and by the look of it, neither did you. Your eyes went a little wide as you struggled to answer. Spencer felt a sense of pride at the fact he could make you nervous. 

You shyly looked away, mumbling, “Only if you’re comfortable.” 

“I am. I promise you that I am,” he assured you, turning your face by a light grip on your chin. 

You could move your hips against him with all intent to make him feel good, but you got visibly flustered at the thought of him doing the same to you. Adorable. 

“How—I mean, I could continue getting off on your thigh,” you said quickly, tucking your hair behind your ears in a practiced, nervous manner. “Or you could use your fingers.” 

“Fingers. Can I use my fingers?” 

You hummed while nodding, agreeing immediately, kissing him quickly. 

Making room on the couch, you both tossed some of the decorative pillows on the floor before Spencer laid you down on your back, him halfway spooning your side so that you both would fit.

The kissing continued as Spencer thought of what to do. He’d read a lot about it. He should be able to figure it out. His hands found home, massaging the plush skin of your thighs, thinking that was a simple way to start. Your chest rose as his fingers trailed over your body. You were desperate. 

But maybe so would anyone be if they’d essentially been very close to climaxing and then having it all ripped away. 

Spencer felt so unconvincing as his fingers fumbled with the elastic waistband of your shorts. You were about to be so naked, and he was still fully dressed. You didn’t seem to mind, though. Actually, you were very quick to untie the shorts yourself, pushing them down your legs and then onto the floor. 

Your panties were a simple white with little floral lace details. And he’d been right; you’d soaked right through them. He looked at you carefully, his brown eyes studying yours as his hand played with the lacy upper hem. 

“Keep them on, just—fuck, touch me.” 

He looked at you, twisting and turning under his touch, words falling out of your mouth carelessly. 

Then his hand made contact with your warm, sticky skin. 

First over your pubic bone and then over a slight thatch of hair. 

Spencer brushed what he thought was your clit with featherlight touch, taking in your reaction before delving his fingers between your folds, a surprising feeling with how velvety smooth the pooling wetness he found was. His digits circled down over your entrance before retreating. 

You bit your lip to the point where it looked painful, keeping everything on the inside, turning your head into his chest. 

Spencer stopped moving his hand, using his free one to tilt your head right back, forcing eye contact. “I wanna hear you. Tell me what to do.”

“Move a little higher,” you said, a whine coming from your throat as soon as he followed suit. With a little calculating, Spencer concluded the little bud he was touching was your clit. “Oh, fuck—right there, Spence.” 

He used his pointer and middle finger to slowly explore, moving in gentle circles, touching a place that made your stomach tense and breathing sharpen and separate. Spencer could look at you all day as you enjoyed yourself, letting out a little floating laugh between moans, crinkling your nose as he touched the spot again and again. 

“Kiss me,” you asked between breaths, your eyelids getting heavy the faster his fingers moved. 

His free hand stroked against your jawbone before he leaned down to kiss you, not knowing if he was doing it right. But apparently he was, by the way you whined under his mouth, eyes rolling back. 

“Should I—” He swallowed. “Should I do something more? I read that many women can’t climax from penetration and that clitoral or oral stimulation is easier—”  

Your eyes went wide as he spoke, interrupted by his continued movements. “Fuck, Spence—You wanna use your mouth on me?” You shook your head, hiding into his chest again. “No, this is enough. You’re enough.” 

His fingers slipped between your folds with more ease, hearing the wet sounds he could bring from your pussy. The more he moved, the more he wanted to turn you into a sweet mess at the touch of his fingertips.

“God, you’re gonna make me—” 

You tensed up, and Spencer felt it. And then you let it all go. 

It was like you lost all stability in your bones, turning into a fluid source of warmth in Spencer’s embrace, as his fingers slid messily over your clit, losing momentum, your underwear soaked and stretched out over the back of his hand. 

Spencer had been unsure of if he could notice if you faked an orgasm or not. He now knew that there was nothing fake about you. You let out a last, long breath, and Spencer slowly circled your clit before he pulled his hand away, letting it linger on your naked stomach. 

“Was that okay?” he felt the need to ask. 

You looked up at him, breathing still uneven and your eyes slightly dopey, practically collapsing in his arms. “Okay? Spencer, you were fucking amazing.” 

As Spencer held you, right there on your couch, and you slid your palm over his his chest, resting it tight above the place where his heart was still erratically beating, he felt himself lose control over basically everything. The world narrowed down to you—your skin, your scent, your breathing. Not that much else mattered to him. He wasn’t sure it ever would again. 

“I wish I met you earlier in life.” 

The words left him before he could stop them, and maybe it was a little ridiculous—like meeting you earlier would have suddenly made life easier, like it would have changed anything at all. But still. He truly wished that.

You kissed his neck, murmuring, “We’ve got all the time in the world, Spencer.” 

His fingers skimmed along your arm before settling at your waist, holding you close. You felt so softagainst him, so warm, but after a moment, he felt the residual stickiness of sweat and everything else clinging to both of you. His nose wrinkled slightly, and he knew you caught it before he even spoke.

“Do you wanna go change? Wash your hands? Can’t imagine it’s comfortable being sticky.” 

You probably felt just as sticky as he did, but Spencer could tell—he knew—your suggestion had less to do with yourself and more to do with him, his germaphobia, and his sensory issues. Because you were always thinking about him, about the things that made him uncomfortable, about the ways you could make things easier for him without making a big deal out of it. And wasn’t that just the sweetest thing? Spencer thought so. 

“Mhm,” he hummed, helping you stand from the couch, legs looking a bit wobbly. “And you should go pee. Prevents UTIs.” 

“I know that,” you muttered. 

He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his lips twitched. Sitting up himself, he let you slip away, watching as you padded across the wooded floors. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to seeing your body being so casually naked. But he would love the future time he’d spend trying to get used to it at least. 

“You wanna watch a movie?” you asked, voice sounding almost drowsy, as you picked up your shorts and t-shirt that had been thrown on the floor. “I got The Princess Bride on Blu-ray, and we could order Indian food.” 

Spencer could do nothing but smile, his mind echoing empty of thoughts. “Sure thing.” 

Thank you for reading! Please tell me what you think ♡ And yes, for those of you who didn't know, the Arctic Monkeys song is originally a JCC poem.

[nikovraskol]

so with the crack baby, what if the og timeline finds their phone?? Like they're going through it and seeing their whole life and achievements, maybe even the notes app with all their thoughts and feelings..

Ohhhh and then the 2nd timeline sneaking into their room and finding all those trophies?? Damian being forced to recognize that maybe his sibling does have some sort of brain..

masterlist

keep the requests coming gang i'm trying to procrasinate the next chapter

i imagine like dick just sat in your room, literally over anylysing everything just to get a peek at the kind of person you were outside of the nervous, starry-eyed youthling who'd trail behind him and then he stumbles upon your phone.

literal jackpot, he guesses your password on the third try because he put in your birthday (how careless), and he goes through EVERY app. he goes through your social media, your games, he even goes through your ubereats app to see what kind of food you like!

he goes through your notes app and it's just essays upon essays how you feel a suffocating cavity in your chest or how you want to get closer to them, how you want them to look back and then as the notes progress and you get older, hitting the eighteen mark, how you loath them.

he sighs, sighs again before sending some notes about how cool you think your family is and how you want to spend time with them to himself, and then he finally shows the others.

each of them respectively crying throwing up, analysing every single thing you've said, oh you misspelled something? noted. you accidentally forgot to you the correct tense? noted. you put in a shopping list in between your rants? noted.

i imagine them literally ANNOTATING your emotions (LMAO), they just want to understand you, they have nothing to remember you by, no face, no memories, nothing of the real you.

so sure, while it hurts to read about how you wish you could scrub yourself clean of bruce's dna, it's nice to read about you.

and they will, obviously, print out every selfie you've ever took. any group photos will be cropped, they'll hang up your pictures everywhere, like a guest comes over and there's just a massive, framed picture of you smiling at the camera with a bunch of cropped heads around you. OR you in school, like a massive grin on your face as you do something mischevious but it's kind of blurry and also there's a massive red X on the person besides you.

as for the second timeline, i think this is really interesting -- especially because you're trying to mind your business, live your life, maybe you went out for a walk and you're tired, eager to get to bed.

so you walk in your room and, well, your whole family's just sprawled around your box room, your medals and trophies scattered about as they each take it in deeply.

"i wasn't aware you were so profficient at science." damian adresses you, staring at an obnoxiously bright 'first place!' certificate in his hands, your name sprawled across it. how unexpected, perhaps you're not as useless as you seem. no, this is high-school level so sure, he's impressed, but he doubts bioenergetics will help you in the real world, aka, the vigilante occupation, aka, something you will NEVER try.

tim is assessing all the dates, "you did these both at the same time? ..impressive." he nods towards you, and you have to physically stop yourself from cringing. like, sure, 10 years ago you'd be running up the walls at this attention. but you're tired! and completely uninterested now that you've grown up.

"can you guys fu--" you're cut off by bruce putting a hand on your shoulder and nodding, subtly trying to hide the fact that he's having alfred lug all the pictures of you on podiums or on stage into his room. you just look so cute :( if he ignores the way your eyes are gleaming with tears or how you're the only one without a parent standing behind you.

jason lurking around, an unnaturally soft expression as he watches videos of you singing as a youthling -- you have to stop yourself from viscerally reacting AGAIN. why is he even here? he doesn't live here! speaking of people who don't live here--

"wow! why didn't you tell me you like gymnastics? i would've loved to support you! dick smiles, tracing the lines on your medal with the utmost care.

"i did tell you, you didn't care -- in fact, one time you promised me you'd come to my tournament but obviously didn't show up, i cried so hard i was disqualified."

"... i don't like this game anymore."

[fanaticalthings]

Most children, once they've grown up and moved out, sometimes come back to visit their parents to use their house as a sort of personal grocery store

And with Bruce being a literal billionaire whose house is always stocked with food and supplies, the batkids (that aren't living in the manor) definitely visit just for the purpose of taking shit for themselves.

---

For Dick, it's just small things, food and maybe some utensils. Bruce is barely in the kitchen so he never notices dishes go missing, and there are like 10 other children in his house so literally any one of the younger kids could've stolen food in the middle of the night, so he doesn't bat an eye at all.

Babs probably steals Bruce's hardware or his tools from the batcave. Sometimes, if she's nice, she'll leave a note.

Steph probably takes shit that no one will notice at the time but will absolutely be annoyed about when they need said thing. Stapler, soap bars, the microwave plate, etc...(Taking after Jason, she steals the hub caps off the batmobile's tires)

However, for Jason, once his relationship with Bruce is somewhat decent, of course he's gonna be petty and start stealing the more expensive shit in the manor for his apartment. Jason's microwave is broken? The next day, the cave's self-made and enhanced microwave made by Bruce for convenience is just gone.

Jason's feeling a coffee maker for his place? The one in Bruce's study disappears, too.

---

At first, Bruce thinks he's just sleep deprived, but then much bigger things start to go missing, like the whole TV and couch set in the living room. He assumes the younger kids are just playing pranks on him (sounds like something Stephanie would do) but then Bruce notices that the thief deliberately avoids stealing things from the kitchen, which is where Alfred is most of the time, and suddenly Bruce has an irritated clue on who the culprit is.

At first, he doesn't say anything, until one day he comes back, tired from a patrol, and is about to log in all the info on the computer only to realize his batchair is gone. That's when he texts Jason a blunt "If you really need things for your place, you can just ask me. I'll buy them for you." (As if Jason himself isn't loaded from his totally legal activities)

---

So now Jason's pettiness levels increase tenfold, and oh, wouldn't you look at it, his bike needs some new tires, and he knows a great place to get some more.

One night, Bruce is just blearily getting up for a late night snack, only to see Damian scamper away with a...lamp? So Bruce immediately follows him into the foyer only to see ALL of his kids (sans the ones not living in the manor), trying to haul two arm chairs out the window, and they just stop dead silent to stare at him until someone whispers a nervous "Crap"

Bruce doesn't even have any energy to fight, he just pinches his nose and is all "What is the meaning of this" in his tired dad voice. And Duke meekly responds with "we wanted more chairs at Jason's place"

And suddenly it all makes sense. Not once did Bruce wonder how the HELL Jason managed to lug a whole 60in TV and a full couch set on his own in one night. Of course, he had accomplices. Bruce just turns right around and goes right the hell back to his room to sleep. He'll deal with this in the morning.

[lilacgaby]

title: awaken.

pairing: barbarian!bakugo x goddess!reader,

synopsisꨄ. you've been asleep all this time, who knew a barbarian would be the one to awaken you?

(extended ver of this)

as katsuki wandered through the never ending forest, he let the words of the elders ring through his head. "you'll never be anything more than a placeholder for the next king."

he set off, destined to prove himself, show that he was worth more than any of them could predict. his father was worried and heartbroken at his sudden departure, but his mother understood that he'd need to do this now, or he'd never forgive himself.

the first thing he did as he set off was to secure food for the night. he eyed a group of hogs, all large and heavy, perfect for feeding him throughout the night. he grabbed the bow out of his satchel and aimed it at the largest one, which landed perfectly in his target's head. he couldn't help but to let out a celebratory laugh as it fell to the ground, making the hogs around it scurry off into the forest.

that seemed to be the last of his luck for the day. he now wished he chose a different day to set off, as the rains and winds were heavy, it was impossible to set up camp in the forest as it was. suddenly, through the curtains of heavy greenery, he saw an abandoned structure. he'd prefer anything to the harsh conditions mother nature set out on him now, so he cut through the vines as he made his way into the structure.

it was grand inside, he thought. he couldn't see very well thanks to the darkness brought on by the rains, but from what he could see it must have been a place of high regard in its peak.

he lit a torch, carrying it as he continued on into the structure. he determined it had been a church in its old days, long forgotten due to.. well he didn't figure that part out yet.

he bumped into a object that resembled a bench, besides the old candle wax, fresh leaves, and golden statutes he saw littering it. he made a mental note to take those with him as he organized his things onto the bench.

he laid his wine down first, a treat he'd enjoy on the way back to his kingdom. next, he laid down his clothes he planned to change into. though he was a barbarian, and by nature they did not wear many clothes, katsuki knew the trip would require such clothing, so he brought the best.

his next item was the huge hog he'd caught earlier. he lugged it on to the bench-like object, thinking of how it was a perfect spot to gut and prepare it for his meal later on. speaking of his cooking, he made sure to bring only the finest oils to cook in. he set it down next to the hog, satisfied with his array of items, he'd slumped against the bench, closed his eyes and sighed.

when he opened it again, he saw the shadow of a person moving behind him. alarmed, he readied his other weapon he always kept on his side, his blade welded by his mother.

though, his blade was dropped out of his hand at the sight. his jaw went slack, eyes wide, and the sudden urge to worship overcame him as he finally saw who was behind him.

a gorgeous.. deity? who glowed with an luminous essence, who adorned pointed ears, heavy amounts of gold, a silk dress that encapsulated your body, and an unreadable expression as you sifted through his items.

the ability to speak was taken from him, he felt as if he was at your mercy, and he was. he was on his knees before he could process it.

your hands glided through the items he had placed on the bench, after you finished looking through the group, you finally spared him a glance.

"your gifts are of high value," you spoke, your voice royal, with an unimaginable presence. "i'm not as powerful as i used to be, my temple and followers were lost to time, my memory faded from the minds of the new." you sauntered over to him now, becoming eye-level with him.

he'd never felt so unworthy.

"i have not much i can give you or do for you, so what would you like from me?"

his ability to speak finalky returned, his mind though, remained blank, so he answered with the only thing on his blank mind:

"your hand."

he immediately rescinded back, never feeling so unnerved and unknowing as he did in this moment. "i- it was an unreasonable request! you-- it's beneath y-"

"that's acceptable. i will go with you, barbarian."

he was shocked as you accepted, though he wouldn't dare question your judgement. "katsuki." he blurted out. "please call me katsuki."

"i will marry you, if it's what you desire katsuki."

his eyes shot open. "yes. i-- it's what i'd like."

"you may call me [name] then." he clutched his heart, he wasn't sure if he was dreaming, but if he was he'd never want it to end.

"alright.. [name]." you smiled at the hesitance in his voice, and waved his worries off with a smile.

"shall we head out then?"

"we can't, the weather is horrible."

"what weather? it's sunny as normal." surely enough, as he turned around the weather had returned to a calm, warm day. the harsh winds and rains no longer present, replaced by the mundane weather.

"i-- i suppose you're correct." he gathered his supplies, even getting your permission to take the things he had on your alter, as he learned it was, back with you two. he slung his satchel behind his back and turned to you.

you held out your hand, and after he placed a chaste kiss on it, he carried you in his arms. the journey back was a blur to him, the burning in his feet nonexistent as he focused on the feeling of his skin on yours, the feeling of his hands on your body.

you arrived sooner then expected. internally, katsuki was excited. not only did he manage to revitalize a goddess, but he'd marry her. he was ecstatic not only at the prospect of beating this into the elders' faces, but to be yours for his eternity.

as he burst back into the conference room, the elders were shocked to see him back so soon. the smug expressions they would've gotten were wiped off the second they noticed you in his arms.

even they, from their distance at their cabinets, could sense the raw presence you had.

"prince bakugo, what is the meaning of this?"

"i've brought to you undeserving folks my wife."

the table of elders all collectively choked at the revelation. "wife? but we've yet to go through the proper trails and period of compatibility. that woman isn't even a barbarian."

"you're right, she's above all of you. she's a deity, and i've earned her hand in marriage. i want my wedding planned for next week, make it fit for a god."

"a deity you say?" the elder's felt like their eyes were about to burst out their sockets. "but--"

they heard nothing as he walked away from the room, you still in his arms. as you eyed the new, strange innovations and buildings around you, katsuki clutched you closer to his chest.

he set you onto a bed, the feeling of silk under your hands one that was foreign, as you hadn't been awakened for over a century.

he knelt in front of you, taking off one of his necklaces, and wordlessly asking for permission to set it on you.

you didn't know this, but this was sacred to the barbarians, presenting one's necklace to another was like talking a piece of your soul and entrusting them with it.

he looked at the sight of you, his ruby necklace with the teeth of the beasts he slayed contrasting severely to the gold you adorned, and he smiled.

you felt your heart go into a knot at the sight of him, he held your hand as he suddenly made a vow to you.

"i vow to be your greatest worshipper. even if i am not the last, i will set a standard that will long exceed my lifespan.

for you are my wife now, and i'll cherish you as long as i may live."

you smiled softly, reaching out to him to hold his other hand. "you've already become my most interesting worshipper, that i'm certain of."

as the two of you basked in each others presence, other gods were smiling upon you two as well.

unbeknownst to you, zeus, a god who had favored you since your birth, had set off the storm on bakugo, leading him to your alter.

not like it was what you were pondering at the moment anyway, as you caressed and embraced your soon to be husband, who you were already planning to turn into a god alongside you.

[notlongtolove]

to be an accountant of the heart

because it’s utterly, bone-deep terrifying. to look into the eyes of the person you love most in the world and feel the weight of a possibility that you might love them more than they love you.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: angst-ish, fight and makeup

content: established relationship fight and makeup woof woof rookie bau reader feels insecure about how much she loves spencer, worries she's too clingy, spencer reid best bf ever

word count: 5k

note: this was haunting me in my drafts for the longest time... please be nice my heart can't take it (psa guys don't ever tell ur partners that they love you more than you love them bc 5 years down the road they'll cope by writing deranged spencer reid fics like this)

a line: You’ve always been this way—more flame than moth, more lightning than thunder. It’s one of the things he loves most about you.

and then it is hundreds of hours later, and you are still hunched over your flowcharts and abacus, trying to decide if you have gotten enough. This is the loneliest job in the world: to be an accountant of the heart. - tony hoagland

The English language draws a neat line between many and much. It divides the countable from the uncountable.

The word many is meant for things you can count. How many cups of coffee have you had? How many days will you be gone for? 

The word much belongs to what cannot be counted, what cannot be numbered. How much longer do we have in bed? How much did you miss me? How much do you love me? 

How much?

It’s an innately impossible question. Love, after all, is supposed to be infinite, unbound, unquantifiable. Any attempt to measure it—to reduce something so sacred to a number, a unit—is to taint it. And why would you want to do that? Why would anyone? There shouldn't be any need to measure something so inherently immeasurable. 

Deep down, you know there's no actual way to count love. You suppose this instinct to measure has always been there, to wonder if the love you received can be tallied like time. It’s buried deep, old as the child you once were. 

Still, the question begs itself. How much? How much more? How much less? If comparison is the thief of joy it’s only because it leaves you with the revelations nobody asked for, the truths nobody ever wants to see. 

Put love on a scale, wait and see—Will it balance or won’t it? 

“Glaring at the clock isn’t going to make time pass any faster,” Elle teases from two desks away, her eyes locked on the report she’s skimming.

You don’t bother hiding your sigh as you glance up from where your chin rests heavily in your palm, elbow propped against the desk. The pencil in your other hand twirls idly, betraying your impatience. “He said they landed an hour ago,” you grumble. Only the faintest trace of a pout slips through.

“Working hard or hardly working, ladies?” 

Your head perks up at that. Trust Derek Morgan to know how to make an entrance, arriving right on cue, grin wide and swagger intact. 

JJ, seated beside you and noticeably more amused by your restlessness than concerned, spins her chair around as she asks, “How was the convention boys?”

“It was great—more than great actually,” Spencer says, appearing from behind Morgan. He’s lugging a bag that seems twice as heavy as when you’d helped him pack it five days ago. “All the speakers were incredible. I got to talk with Lonnie Athens himself. He gave me a signed copy of his latest book.” His grin widens tenfold. “It’s not even out in stores yet.”

You’re halfway out of your seat, ready to pounce on Spencer the moment he sets his bag down. But instead, he offers a halfhug and a light squeeze to your shoulder. It’s understated, but it’s Spencer. Public displays of affection aren’t his thing, and you know better than to expect more. Still, five days without him makes you ache for just a little more.

“It was alright,” Morgan interjects with a casual shrug as he takes a seat at the edge of your table, narrowly missing your nth mug of coffee. “Great sandwiches though.”

“Yeah, you sure seemed interested in the sandwiches,” Spencer says dryly, the kind of tone that suggests sandwiches were not the main attraction.

Morgan smirks, unbothered. “New York, man,” he says with a grin. “New York.”

You turn your attention back to Spencer. “How’d you sleep?” you ask, your question aimed entirely at him.

“Surprisingly well, actually,” Spencer replies, “Despite the snoring.”

Morgan’s response is immediate—a light thwack to the back of Spencer’s head. “How’d he sleep? More like, how’d I sleep. Lover girl over here had him on the phone half the night.”

“I wasn’t that bad,” you shoot back, narrowing your eyes at him. But then your gaze drifts to Spencer, searching for confirmation. “Was I?”

Spencer hesitates, his lips pressing into a faintly sheepish line. “I did wake up late for one of the panels,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck.

“Oh, you think you had it bad? I’ve never seen someone go through so much coffee in a week,” JJ says, nodding in your direction, “She wiped out the entire stock.”

“Almost bashed her over the head with a cup of coffee myself when I had to settle for the instant stuff,” Elle chimes in. A collective shudder goes through the group. “No offence, Reid,” she adds.

“None taken,” Spencer replies smoothly, just in time to earn another smack on his arm, this time from you.

You’ve endured more than your fair share of teasing—it comes with the territory when you’re part of a team like this. You, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, three years his junior. Him, more comfortable rambling about the number of kernels on an average cob of corn than talking to any girl, let alone one with a smile like yours that could make his knees buckle. What had been an odd match to some, made perfect sense to others—Though Spencer would argue that Garcia just liked seeing him with any girl who could make him laugh the way you could, especially within three days of meeting him. It’s a feat nobody else has yet to achieve in the year you’ve been on the team. 

“Missed you,” you murmur, just loud enough for him to hear.

Spencer flushes as his lips part, maybe to respond, but Elle cuts in before he gets the chance. “Save it for later, lover girl. Some of us want to hear about those sandwiches.” 

“Oh, they really were better than last year’s,” Spencer begins, now distracted, completely oblivious to Elle’s sarcasm, “Probably because the annual reports showed an increased budget for the global initiatives.”

JJ raises an eyebrow in amused disbelief. “You read the FBI’s annual budget breakdown?”

Spencer looks genuinely surprised by the question. “You don’t?”

Chuckles echo throughout the group and though you smile faintly, it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You just can’t help it as the tally marks start to stack up in your mind. One for the way his attention is just a little too distant, his excitement seemingly aimed at everyone but you. Another for every time you wait for his gaze and it doesn’t come. He’s too absorbed in recounting a discussion about deterministic causality he’d had with a keynote speaker. 

Compared to Spencer, who was often so reserved, it was easy to feel like your emotions were too big, too eager. Dragging him, wide-eyed and stammering, up the stairs to Hotch’s office six months ago had been nothing short of a test of strength and sheer determination. You’d been the one to silence him with a gentle kiss to his knuckles, promising him that everything would be okay. You were a live wire compared to him, everyone knew that. Lover girl, they teased, though never cruelly. In the field and out of it—Clingy to a fault, always wearing your heart on your sleeve. 

Lover girl through and through, you wait patiently for Spencer to look your way. 

He doesn’t. 

“Yours or mine?” Spencer asks as you stand side by side on the curb, bags in tow. 

“Think I’ll go to mine,” you reply curtly. You don’t trust yourself to say anything else right now.

“That’s fine. I’ve got an extra day’s worth of clothes with me.”

“You can go home,” you say, cutting him off. It comes off sharper than you intended. Then, softer, as if trying to backtrack, you add, “If you want.”

He looks at you, baffled. “Why would I do that?” 

It’s not a rhetorical question, he genuinely doesn’t understand. Weekends apart have never really been your thing. 

“Because—” You cut yourself off mid-sentence. What could you even say? Because you seem so perfectly fine after 120 hours apart. Because the tally marks said so. Because the scale said so. Instead, you huff an exhale and settle for, “No reason. You look tired. Thought you’d want to go home or something.”

“Again sweetheart. Why would I do that?” he repeats, incredulous. 

You fight off a resigned sigh, though you’re sure he catches it, and pull out your phone. “I’m calling a cab,” you mumble, thumbing at the screen. “Are you coming or not?”

“Yeah, I’ll come with you,” he says, still calm but clearly confused.

“Fine.”

The ride home is quiet, save for the driver’s rambling complaints about freeway traffic at this hour. Normally, you’d be the one to humour any conversations with strangers, chiming in with polite nods and oh, reallys while Spencer watched, bemused by your ability to make small talk with anyone. But today, you’re just not in the mood, leaving poor Spencer to fend for himself.  

Which to his credit, he does—By turning the conversation into a tangent about how traffic patterns correlate with certain hours and commuter behaviour, and delving into a detailed explanation of the queueing theory. He does this till eventually, even the driver goes silent, though whether it’s out of confusion or exhaustion, you’re not quite sure. 

You can feel Spencer’s eyes on you in the silence, flicking toward you every now and then. The concern in his attention does nothing to soothe you. If anything, it only fans the flames of your irritation. When the car finally rolls to a stop outside your building, you hand the driver a $20 bill, wave off the change, and stride toward your door without another word. You’re out before Spencer can even pull his door open.

Inside, you drop your things on the couch resignedly and kick off your shoes without so much as a care. They land in a scattered heap that you don’t bother to fix. Spencer lingers behind you, ever patient.

“What do you want for dinner?” His voice is soft, tentative, as he bends down to pick up your discarded shoes, lining them neatly by the door. “We could order something. Chinese, maybe?”

Spencer knows you well—knows how your mood sours when you’re running on fumes. Particularly on days like this, when your only sustenance has been cups of crappy coffee and a few stale crackers he’d coaxed you into eating earlier just before you left, bribing you with a quick kiss on the cheek—After checking that nobody else was in the break room, of course. 

Sullen as you are, you can recognise the offer for what it is. It’s sweet. A thoughtful acknowledgement of how well he knows you, how much he cares. He’s offering you a lifeline, a quiet invitation to let the storm pass without forcing you to name it, something you’re evidently trying not to do. 

But tonight, it feels almost patronising. It’s a spotlight on the hurt you can’t quite temper, like he’s trying to fix something you’re not yet ready to admit needs fixing.

“I can run down to the—”

“I’m not hungry.” 

You walk straight into your bedroom without another word, leaving him standing there in the doorway. You hear him exhale quietly, not quite a sigh but close. Probably one of resignation. Another tally mark falls on the scale. 

“Sweetheart,” he starts. You know he’s testing the waters, trying to find an opening. But you don’t look at him, don’t give him anything to work with. “Can we talk?” he asks, his fingers brushing yours as he takes a seat at the edge of your bed.

“Talk about what?” You’ve always been good at feigning ignorance, but the way you pull your hand away from his is anything but subtle. Spencer sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes briefly. He’s clearly exhausted. This is exhausting. You’re clearly exhausting. You can’t help but wonder why you always do this. 

“Was it Elle? Morgan?” he ventures cautiously. “The teasing?”

“They always tease me,” you say with a shrug, your voice dismissive. “I don’t care.”

It’s a half-truth, and you both know it.

Spencer nods slowly as he tries to piece this together. He knows you’re not usually one to let things fester. You’re never angry for long, and even when you are, you laugh it off, always quick to join in on the joke. He knows better than to profile you—it's an unspoken rule within the team and, more importantly, within your relationship. But Spencer’s anything if not desperate to understand.

He watches you slip into the bathroom with a sigh, shoulders dipping. The light flickers on, but you don’t meet your own gaze in the mirror. You’re not angry. That would be easier. There’s something quieter in your eyes. Defeat, maybe. 

“I missed you,” he offers, stepping into the doorway. His tone is softer now, pleading.

“Did you?” It’s almost sarcastic, but not quite. Irritable but undercut by something raw, as though you don’t really believe he did.

Spencer swallows. “You don’t think I missed you?”

“A little hard to tell between the fawning over Lonnie Athens,” you say, wiping mascara from under your lashes. “Or was it the in-depth analysis of sandwich platters?”

It’s a snap, all sharp edges and fire, and for a second, he forgets the minefield he’s meant to be tiptoeing through. Has to bite back a smile. You’ve always been this way—more flame than moth, more lightning than thunder. It’s one of the things he loves most about you.

“Is that what this is about?” The words slip out before he can stop them, and the second they do, he knows. Rookie mistake. Your spine straightens, your jaw sets, and he wants to take it back, rewind, try again.

“This,” you echo, turning to face him. “What exactly do you mean by this?”

Spencer reminds himself that fire is never snuffed out with ice. You douse a flame gently, carefully. So, he steps forward, quieter now, fingers grazing yours before he takes your hand in his, guiding you toward the bed. He doesn’t pull, doesn’t rush, just leads you toward the bed with the same patience he knows you need when you’re fragile and burning.

Regardless, you try to resist, to hold yourself upright. You’re fighting the urge to sink into it—His touch, the bed, all of it. 

“Sweetheart,” Spencer murmurs, taking a seat beside you. “I know you’re not angry. You’re sad. And I’d really like to know why. Tell me, please?”

Deep inside, you know you’re just clinging on to the last embers of your frustration. But it’s hard—impossible, really, when you’re a fire with no kindle left to burn, and Spencer is all soft whispers and gentle hands, featherlight and soothing. 

You hesitate, twisting the fabric of the duvet between your fingers. “I just—I—You were being mean.”

Spencer lets out a slow, quiet breath. Relief, almost. Not because he agrees—He knows himself well enough to be sure that ‘mean’ isn’t the right word. But he knows you well enough to understand what it means when you say it.

Mean is what you say when you’ve been hurt and don’t know how else to put it. 

So he follows your lead. Doesn’t fight it.

“M’sorry, sweetheart,” he mumbles stroking your hand with his thumb. His touch is warm as it is gentle. 

Because it’s not about whether he was mean or not. Spencer knows that. Knows you. Knows that kindness has never been a given for you, knows that you wouldn’t recognise patience if it came knocking. And he knows you well enough to know that you think in some twisted way, that you’ve brought this hurt upon yourself, that you deserve it. 

What matters is that you were hurt. And that’s the one thing he never, ever wants to do.

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Can you tell me how I did?”

“You just kept going on and on about the stupid conference. You didn’t even hug me or—And then you—” 

You don’t continue. You can’t. You feel ridiculous. Stupid, even. Mopey and small over something that shouldn’t matter this much. Over the realisation that he doesn’t need you. And why should he? It’s not Spencer’s fault. Not at all. 

His indifference is what it is and what it was. Indifference. It sits like a weight on your bones—Cold, sharp-edged, piercing. He can go 5 days without you. You can’t. The tally marks accumulate, unbidden.

“And then I…?” Spencer prompts gently, prying your fingers from the duvet and replacing the tension with his thumb, tracing slow, soothing circles into your palm instead.

“You ignored me, and I just—” Your voice wavers, frustration bubbling over. "I just felt so—so ignored!"

Wonderful vocabulary. Of course, your words would fail you now.

“And the teasing—I know, I know, I can be impossible sometimes, but I just—I just really missed you! And I get it okay? I’m clingy and you’re not and god forbid anybody else is but it’s because I love you!” You inhale sharply, your hands slipping from his to curl into fists in your lap. “And you didn’t react at all, you didn’t even care! You made me feel like—I thought that you—” 

You cut yourself off before the flurry of tears take over and drown you out. 

Spencer waits a beat, choosing his next words carefully. 

“You thought… that I don’t love you?” His voice isn’t laced with sarcasm, nor does it carry incredulity. It’s a genuine question, as though he’s retracing the moments between you, trying to understand how you could possibly come to such a conclusion.

“No, it’s not that—” you’re quick to say, desperate to correct him. You know Spencer loves you. Of course, you know that. How could you not? It’s Spencer. He loves you like it’s his life mission to show you just how much he loves you. “I know you love—I know that. I just—” 

You bury your face in your hands, fingers pressing into the hollows beneath your eyes—A feeble attempt at hiding.

Because it’s utterly, bone-deep terrifying. To look into the eyes of the person you love most in the world and feel the weight of a possibility that you might love them more than they love you.

To want to shout: Love me. Please love me, and please feel it with every fibre of your being as I do with mine. The kind of love that makes you want to scream from rooftops, to etch it into the sky, to burn the world down just to prove its enormity. 

Because then the question comes: Which would be worse?

To shout into the vast, open air and hear nothing in response? No echo of the same intensity. Or to stand amidst the smouldering ashes only to look into their eyes and find they don’t recognise you anymore? To see confusion or pity where love used to live.

You blink your watery eyes open, but you can’t bring yourself to look at him. Instead, you settle on the knobs of your knees, tracing their shape with your gaze. 

Anything but Spencer. Not right now. 

You take a sharp breath, steadying yourself before continuing.

“Sometimes, I feel like you don’t need me as much as I need you and that scares me. And I know it’s stupid, even I feel stupid thinking about it. I don’t even want to be codependent or whatever but I—I just can’t help but think that sometimes—” 

Your breath shudders out of you, long and uneven, “I love you more than you love me.”

To say Spencer feels his heart break would be an understatement. It’s not a clean break, not a single, shattering moment—it’s a slow, relentless unraveling. It’s a gut punch, pain and duress packed tight, failure laced in every syllable. His heart shatters, splintering into pieces so sharp they lodge in his throat, in his lungs, in every part of him that has ever loved you. 

Silently, he’s always known the teasing would hit a breaking point. You’ve worn that insecurity for as long as he’s known you—too young, too green, too desperate to prove yourself. He just didn’t think it would carve its way between you the two of you like this. He’s watched you lean into it, let the jokes land, let them chip away at you. Newbie. Rookie. Lover girl. As if laughing along might soften the edges of it all. 

You flop onto your back on the bed, boneless, the confession stealing the last of your fight. There’s a splotch of blue paint on the ceiling from last month, when you both tried to repaint the room and got distracted halfway through. It doesn’t make you smile, not even  a little.

“That’s not true.” The mattress dips under Spencer’s weight as he settles beside you, thumb tracing your hairline. His arm moves, coaxing you to toward him, gentle in the way only he knows how to be with you.

“You’re not impossible, sweetheart, you never are. And I know they tease,” he murmurs, fingers of his other hand grazing over your knuckles, “but I also know for a fact that you don’t fall apart without me when I’m gone. That would be co-dependency. And I know that’s not you. You passed your requalifications with flying colors while I was away,” he says. “Garcia sent me the records. You know you even beat Morgan’s old score?” 

You sniffle, startled. That had been your surprise. You’d wanted to tell him yourself. 

“She told you?” 

He shakes his head. “I asked. I always ask for updates on you when I can’t be there.”

A small “Oh,” is all you can get out. 

With every other guy you dated, you’d attempted to play it cool, dialling down your enthusiasm, biting back your texts, and pretending to care less than you did. But every relationship seemed to end the same way: you were “a lot” and they weren’t equipped to handle it. It never quite stuck though, and thank god for that. 

Because then you met Spencer.

Sweet, steady Spencer, who didn’t just tolerate your spark but cherished it. Spencer, who had let you cling to his hand during every takeoff and landing on the jet the first week on the job. He never flinched, never teased—Even when everyone else casted him sympathetic looks, the kind that silently acknowledged how your grip was probably cutting off his circulation. Spencer who has kept every scrawled doodle and note you’ve ever given for him, even the ones scribbled haphazardly on napkins or receipts. He knows carbon prints fade within months so he stores them in a shoebox tucked away in his cupboard—Just so they can last that much longer. 

Spencer didn’t just accept the parts of you others found overwhelming. He singlehandedly brought them back to life. Every bit of your spark that had been dimmed or snuffed out by someone else had found new light in his presence.

Spencer’s fingers tighten around yours, a quiet kind of reassurance that draws you back to the present. 

“Being clingy is not the same as being codependent. I know you know that. There’s a clear psychological difference in brain chemistry.” His lips twitch, the smallest hint of a smile slipping through. “You’re clingy, yes. But I love that about you. I love coming home with you. I love coming home to you. I love how hard you love me, how proudly you love me. I know I haven’t been the best at reciprocating that around the team, and I’m sorry. I hate that I made you feel like I didn’t love you, or miss you.”

He shifts closer, eyes searching yours, open and earnest. “Because I did miss you. So much. I nearly blew a month’s paycheck in the gift shop. Spent half of it stocking up on those jelly crackers you told me about.” He shakes his head, like he can’t believe himself. “Morgan said I was whipped when I paid thirty bucks for a pair of souvenir socks.”

With a raise of your eyebrow you ask tearily, “and exactly how many pairs did you buy?” 

“Got you three pairs.” A sheepish little laugh escapes him as he ducks his head. 

And just like that, you’re smiling too. Albeit a small one, but that’s progress nonetheless. “And I don’t think you quite understand how much I love you when you say you love me more.” He leans in, his voice dropping, teasing. “I don’t know if you know this about me, but I’m very competitive.”

“Oh, so I’ve heard Doctor Reid,” you quip, eyes rolling. Spencer’s lips curve, just slightly. You don’t even notice the way you press closer to him, but Spencer does. He takes the opportunity to go on.

“In a way, you’re right. I don’t need you,” Spencer says. Whiplash doesn’t even begin to describe the way your head snaps toward him. Flame and lighting, no doubt. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says quickly, his expression already twisting in regret. “I shouldn’t have phrased it like that.”

“I don’t see what other way you could possibly phrase something like that,” you snap pettily, already pushing yourself up to stand. 

“Hey, hey.” His hand reaches out, not quite grabbing yours but close enough to make you pause. “Lie back down, honey. Please.” 

Against your better judgment, you relent, sinking back into the bed. “What I meant to say was, I don’t need you,” he repeats, slower this time, deliberate.

You scoff, a bitter laugh slipping through your lips as you swipe harshly at your damp lashes. “I get it, Spencer. Clearly you don’t.”

“No, I don’t think you do,” he says, his voice unwavering. “Biologically speaking, I wouldn’t cease to exist without you. My heart would continue to beat, my lungs would continue to expand and contract, my brain would maintain its synaptic functions. I would survive.” He pauses then, eyes searching yours, “And can I tell you something?”

You don’t answer, but you don’t pull away either. He takes that as permission to go on. “You don’t need me either.” 

Your lips part, the beginnings of a protest forming, but he cuts you off gently.

“I know you said you do, but your autonomic nervous system would still regulate your breathing, your neurons would still fire, your body would persist.” He swallows, voice dipping lower. “But that’s not the point, is it? Love isn’t about biological necessity. It’s not about survival. It’s about choice.” 

The word “choice” feels almost ironic when it comes from Spencer Reid. You knew that the moment you met him. It was never really a choice, not for you. It was him, or nothing. Desperately, you'd like to think it was the same for him, too.

Your answer comes in the form of his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. He’s patient, always, even when you aren’t. Kind in a way that sinks deep—Like you deserve it. You’re all sharp edges, brittle and worn, and he’s five days off a lumpy hotel mattress, yet the only thing he cares about is brushing away the tears from your skin. 

“Sweetheart, I don’t love you because I need you. I don’t think that would be love at all. That’s survival. I love you because I choose to,” he continues. “Because you are the strongest person I know. Because you are kind, even when the world hasn’t been kind to you. Because you give so much of yourself without hesitation, without ever expecting anything in return.” 

Spencer smiles, shaking his head. “Because you’re the only person I know who will spend thirty minutes on a call recounting every little thing everyone did in the office that you think I’d like to hear about—before you even think to tell me about your own day.”

“It was funny! Since when has Hotch ever tripped on the stairs?”

It’s unfair really, how easily his laugh breathes life back into you. Your heart stumbles over itself as his hand brushes tenderly along your jaw. 

“I’ve spent every day in awe of you since the moment I met you. And I fall more and more in love with you with each one. Even on the days I’m not with you. Even on the days I’m miles away. Even then.” Spencer presses his lips against the back of your hand as he adds, “Especially then.” 

“Really?”

You can’t help it, the quiet little thing in you that wants to hear it again. 

Your tears have dried, but their traces still shimmer faintly on your skin. Spencer presses a kiss to your forehead, his fingers tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. He’d say it again. A hundred times. He’d make that speech a thousand times over, if you needed him to. If it meant you’d never doubt it again.

“Really, my love.”

And just like that, a million tally marks fall at your feet.

A million for the way he presses another kiss to your lips, unrushed. A million more for the way his nose bumps against yours, lingering, breathing you in. Another million for the spark that creeps back into your eyes. 

It’s infinite, unbound, unquantifiable—The way he loves you, the sheer depth of it. You feel foolish for ever having questioned it. You thank your lucky stars—all of them—for Spencer Reid. For the way he’s looking at you like you strung the constellations together yourself. For the way he chooses you, again and again, even when you don’t choose him, when you shut down, when you go quiet. 

Because love to Spencer isn’t desperation, isn’t need—it’s choice. The deliberate, unwavering act of reaching out, of staying, and of saying over and over: I choose you. 

Not because he has to, but because he wants to. To be the one to put you back together again when you’re all embers and ash, to cradle you back onto earth when stare past him into the ceiling, to remind you that there’s still warmth in you left to hold.

To breathe the spark back into your eyes—It’s a choice he made the very moment he met you. It’s a spark Spencer swears he’d spend his whole life keeping alight.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you so much for reading! likes, comments or reblogs are very much appreciated!

ᯓ★ song recs if you feel like it: daylight by taylor swift intrapersonal by turnover

[ameliathornromance]

A part of you was unsure how your Orc Boyfriend would react. As you pruned the bouquet of flowers in your hands, you were starting to regret your idea. It was only a few paces from the camp now, surely you could just turn back around and throw it away, right?

Flowers were something that women received typically. Maybe he would think you were insinuating something about him, or that maybe he was weaker than you thought he was-

“Love! You’re back!”

Too late for take backs now. Hiding the bouquet behind your back, you watched as your Orc Boyfriend dropped a wood chopping axe and rushed over to you. “How was your walk? Did you get what you needed?”

You weren’t sure why you thought you could hide the flowers from him. He was at least two or three feet taller than you.

He peered over your shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “What’re those for? You’ve never brought flowers back before.”

Well, now or never, you thought. Meekly, you pulled them out from behind your back and held them out to him.

Your Orc stared at you for a minute, looking you up and down in confusion. “I… Um…” Where did you even begin with this? You must look insane.

Sighing, you lowered the bouquet and looked down at the different blooms. “When humans really like each other, sometimes they give flowers. So, I picked some flowers for you.”

There was silence for a moment and you felt your face burning. You knew it, this was a stupid idea.

“You picked these… for me?” His green hand came into view, wrapping around your interlocked fingers.

You nodded, still not looking at him.

Before you could stop him, he had snatched up the bouquet and held it high above his head. He bellowed to his others in the camp: “Look here! My lovely lady brought me flowers! What have you suckers got?!”

Orcs from their various work stations looked up, growled, snarled and swatted their hands at your Orc, “get stuffed you lug!”

Your jaw hung open at your Orc's audacity, before he looked back down at you and gave you the widest grin. “I didn’t know humans did such a thing,” he admired the flowers in his hand, seemingly as big as daisies in his huge hand. “You picked these yourself?”

“Wait, you like them?”

“Why wouldn’t I like them love?” Your Orc kissed you on the forehead. “You went out of your way to get them for me.”

“It’s just… I thought… Human men don’t normally get flowers, so I thought that…”

Your Orc let out a bark of laughter, “but I’m not human, am I love?” He pulled you into his arms and squeezed you tightly. His arms were the most reassuring and calming thing at that moment.

Hugging him back, you realised that there had been nothing to be afraid of. How could you have assumed that he would have been insulted by your gift?

“Anything from you is something to be treasured.” He mumbled to you, giving you another kiss on your lips.

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[pretentious-blonde]

built to last

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: steve harrington was just supposed to help you build a bookshelf. he definitely wasn’t supposed to have this much fun doing it.

warnings: none! sweet steve!!! PINING STEVE!!!

a/n: part two as promised, but can be read as a standalone.

series masterlist

Steve Harrington sat on the floor of your living room, cross-legged on the floor. A heap of wooden panels and screws spread out around him, still in their plastic bags, scattered like a mini battlefield. He couldn’t understand how many parts a simple shelving unit would contain, but that wasn’t going to stop him from building the damn thing. 

In one hand, he clutched an instruction booklet that he’d already peeked at three times, and in the other, a trusty screwdriver from the tool kit he’d lugged in from his trunk, shoved in there that morning. He really didn’t want to be caught unprepared, especially when you accepted his offer to help. And what help would he be without a screwdriver? None. It was basically furniture building 101. 

His adrenaline was finally dying down from that morning, because honestly? It had been a whirlwind day—and it wasn’t even noon yet.

He’d arrived outside Family Video nearly a half-hour early because punctuality suddenly felt like a life-or-death situation. He’d never admit that to you though, he’d probably just tell you he was an early riser, or traffic was lighter than he expected if you asked. A white lie to avoid seeming pathetic.

Truth was, he’d spent most of that time staring at his reflection in the car window, smoothing out his hair, worrying if he looked too eager—or maybe not eager enough. Telling himself not to look so desperate, then proceeding to check one more time anyway. He was just glad you could see him without the stupid company vest, that he did have some semblance of a fashion sense. Further proven when he caught you looking him up and down a few times over the course of the day. 

You didn’t know him in high school, which was both a blessing and a slight curse. He couldn’t sail by being “King Steve” and all the popularity that came with it, but maybe that was a positive thing. You were meeting just him, just Steve. You said yes to just Steve, and that was a good start. 

When you finally appeared—warm smile, eyes full of anticipation tied with that slight nervousness—Steve immediately forgot all the conversation starters he’d practised. He forgot how lovely you were up close, it threw him slightly off balance as you approached.

He couldn’t quite believe his luck: you’d actually let him help you pick out a bookshelf. Yes, it was a mundane task, but it was a chance nonetheless. He just hoped you didn’t accept because of the heavy lifting—or worse, pity.

He was hopeful that whatever this was, would put a stop to his terrible track record of recent romance. 

So, no pressure. 

He asked if you were comfortable with his car—not wanting to force you—and a wave of relief swept over him when you agreed that his trunk was indeed larger. When you both reached the passenger side, Steve—being every bit the gentleman he was trying to be—opened the door for you.

He had fully stocked the glove box with a selection of cassettes, some rock, some pop, and even some old jazz records from his dad’s study—just in case you were into that. He wanted to cover all the bases. 

You thumbed through the tapes, taking a jab at him for his eclectic tastes, which he welcomed with a faint chuckle. You chatted with him the entire drive, and it was fully welcomed, with him asking question after question, wanting to get to know you better. 

He’d tried so hard not to stare at you, but every time you laughed at one of his stupid jokes, he couldn’t help but glance your way—just to soak up the way your eyes lit up at something he said.

When you got to the store, it turned out to be bigger—and more confusing—than either of you expected, but that only made the whole thing funnier. You cracked jokes about all the weird items on display—like the life-size ceramic dog statue that looked bizarrely regal in the middle of the aisle—and Steve laughed, genuinely, relieved that he didn’t have to come up with any forced banter. It flowed out easily, like water.

When you finally found the bookshelf section, you spent time comparing finishes and sizes, your head tilted thoughtfully while you tapped your fingers against your chin. 

Steve tried to appear useful—pointing out this shelf or that one—but mostly, he just liked watching the way you beamed whenever you found something close to what you wanted. Eventually, you settled on the biggest option of all. Typical.

“I don’t want to have to buy another shelf anytime soon,” you’d explained, eyeing the tall, dark wood frame.

“Right, because buying a bigger shelf isn’t just an excuse to buy more books or anything.” Steve joked.

You’d looked at him, eyes dancing. “Obviously,” you said, in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

He’d grinned. Your energy matched his and his anxiety from earlier was almost entirely gone. You had a sense of humour. You were quick. He liked that.

The real task was moving the damn thing. Getting the unopened box of parts up to your place felt like an Olympic event. He nearly died hauling the massive bookshelf up the flight of stairs to your apartment—he was pretty sure one of his arms was going to give out—but there was no way he’d admit that to you. You’d offered to take one end, but he’d waved you off immediately. No way was he letting you do that. 

“I got it,” he’d insisted, heart pounding. If he were being honest, part of it was pride, sure—but the bigger part was that look of concern you kept giving him, and how nice it felt to be needed again. It had been a while since he felt that way, and it felt good. It felt really good. 

By the time the two of you managed to wrangle it up the final steps and into your living room, his arms were shaking. He pressed his lips tight, ignoring the slight burn in his shoulders, giving you a triumphant nod as if he did this sort of thing every day.

“You okay?” you’d asked, eyes flicking to the flushed look on his face.

“Yeah, totally fine,” he’d lied, trying to catch his breath. “All good.”

You’d nodded and stepped away to make coffee, leaving Steve alone with the dreaded instruction booklet. With you gone, he allowed himself a second to let out a small, nervous huff. 

He’s totally got this. It’s just like any other puzzle, right? Except it’s bigger. And 3D. And a little more complicated. But still, he’s got this... Mostly.

He spread the pieces out on the floor, still in their plastic casing, scanning for anything that looked like the logical first step. If he were honest, he’d never built anything this big before. But you didn’t know that and he’d prefer to keep it that way. 

He was so absorbed in mentally prepping for the ordeal that he almost didn’t hear you come back. But the soft clink of cups drew his attention, and he glanced up to see you standing there, holding two mismatched mugs. One was white with a blue rim; the other had some faded floral pattern along the side. 

Mismatched cups. He wouldn’t have guessed he’d find that detail adorable, but it just seemed so you—practical, unpretentious, sweet. He’d built you up in his head the days leading up to this, and now you seemed a little more human. Still nerve-wracking, but human. 

Your hair was slightly tousled from the breeze outside, or from hauling that box inside—he wasn’t sure which—but either way, you looked at home. It was a nice image. 

“Figured you might need a boost after your workout on the stairs.” You said softly, offering him the faded mug.

“You read my mind.” He picked up the coffee and cradled it for a moment, letting the warmth seep into his aching hands. “Thanks… It was honestly nothing.” he shrugged, trying to downplay how out of breath he’d been.

You lowered yourself onto the floor across from him, tucking your legs underneath you. The scene felt strangely intimate, the two of you crouched on the floor like kids at a sleepover. 

“Sure,” you said, taking a sip from your own mug, seeing through the sweet lie. “I’m kinda the one putting you to work here, so it’s the least I can do.”

Steve glanced at the scattered wood and screws, a determined look on his face. He could not screw this up. It took a lot of willpower not to glare at the instructions for a fourth time. 

“I’m happy to help,” he said aloud, his voice a touch too casual. He didn’t want you to know how sincere he was, how good it felt just to be around you—and how it had been a long time since he’d felt this comfortable with someone new. Someone who he began to click with so quickly. He could not ruin it by building this thing incorrectly.

You offered him a small smile. “Well, let me know if you need anything. I can help screw things in, or hold up the pieces, or—”

Steve waved you off, trying for a confident smirk. “Nah, don’t worry. I’ve got this covered,” he assured you, tapping the screwdriver against his palm. “You can just…supervise. Maybe read me the instructions if I accidentally, uh, if my hands are full or something”

“Sure,” you said, laughter dancing in your eyes. “I’m great at reading, by the way. Got loads of practice.”

“See? Perfect team already,” Steve replied, flashing a grin in your direction. 

He tried to stop himself from smiling too hard, not wanting to look like an idiot as he chastised himself. You're gonna scare her off.

But inside, you were fighting your own battle: trying not to show just how pleased you were that this considerate, unexpectedly funny boy had agreed—offered, actually—to spend his Saturday morning with you, building a bookshelf you could’ve probably pieced together on your own eventually. You almost felt bad for taking up his weekend. 

But you couldn’t help but think how nice it was, feeling looked after for a change, seeing him all earnest and determined to do a good job.

“If you get stuck, just say." You wrapped your hands around your mug. "Or if you want me to hold something in place.”

“Will do,” Steve promised, flipping open the manual. His brow furrowed as he scanned the step-by-step images. “I think Step One is just laying out all the pieces and checking if we have them.”

You looked around at the piles of wood. “So…do we have them all?”

“Uh…” Steve quickly counted, mind flashing back to that moment when he’d lugged the box up the stairs. He was pretty sure he hadn’t left anything behind. “I think so?”

A quiet laugh escaped you, and he couldn’t help but beam—he liked that sound. He wanted to be the one to draw it out of you again. 

Your eyes flicked down to the mug in his hands, noticing how big they looked against the delicate porcelain. Something about Steve, all broad shoulders and careful hands, handling that little cup was…endearing.

“Okay,” he declares as he puts down his drink, attention fully on the folded paper. “We got this.” he insisted, though his smile gave him away.

“You sure about that?” you teased, nudging him with your elbow. “Because it looks like you’re holding the manual upside down.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Listen, I’m just—this diagram is confusing, okay?”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” You rolled your eyes.

Still, the two of you were grinning like dorks, giggling over the supposed simplicity of what the box had promised was a “quick assembly.” The sound of your laughter mingling with his reminded Steve of an old married couple—it was playful bickering, not the tension-filled kind. And for the first time in forever, he didn’t feel that usual weight of having to be perfect.

He’d spent so much of his life chasing approval: from his parents, his ex-girlfriend, the kids—not wanting to let anyone down. But right now, with you kneeling next to him on the carpet, trying to figure out which side of a wooden plank was the top, that pressure completely melted away. He found himself bursting into warm laughter every time you caught him doing something wrong, or whenever you made a joke at his expense. He didn't mind. Not in the slightest.

You were just relieved you didn’t have to go through this furniture fiasco by yourself. Watching him wrestle with a piece of wood while claiming he totally had everything under control was surprisingly entertaining. His confidence, that slight puff of his chest whenever you teased him, was too endearing to ignore.

Eventually—somehow—the two of you got the shelf together, the last screw twisting into place. You both sat down in front of it, looking up to admire your joint handiwork.

“All right,” Steve declared, brushing imaginary dust off his hands. “Mission accomplished.” He turned to you with a wide grin. “You wanna put your books on it now? I could hang around—maybe help alphabetize?”

 “Yeah, no.” You snorted, crossing your arms as you eyed the imposing shelf. “That’s enough manual labour for the day. My arms will fall off if I even think about lifting anything else.”

“Fair.” He laughed, secretly glad you declined, honestly—his muscles were already feeling the burn from lugging the thing upstairs, and he had no idea how he’d look if he had to repeat that process again. Probably not cool. Definitely not cool.

Silence stretched for a second as you both looked at each other. You looked comfortable. Comfortable with him being there still. He took it as an invitation to talk to you more, not wanting this to be over just yet.

“So,” he ventured, propping up one leg, “why’d you move here, anyway? Don’t get me wrong, it’s, uh, full of character—” He shot you a grin. “But it’s not exactly high on anyone’s must-see list.”

“No one’s asked me that quite so bluntly yet.” Your voice was warm, though, and Steve saw a smile tug at your lips. “I got a job at the local newspaper. It’s not glamorous—I’ll probably be making coffees for everyone for the next few weeks—but it’s a stepping stone, right?”

He blinked. Newspaper. He was immediately impressed. Your eyes were shining with something like hope. And if there was one thing Steve Harrington admired, it was someone with hope. 

“Seriously? That’s impressive,” he said, meaning every word. “Congrats. That’s, uh, kinda a big deal.”

“Thank you.” You paused, a shy expression forming. “I’m excited to do real reporting eventually, you know?” You lifted a shoulder in a faint shrug, trying to act casual, but he could tell you were proud. He admired that.

There was a small part of him that felt a flicker of insecurity creep up the back of his neck. You’re clearly smart, and driven, but what was he? A guy who shelved videos and had questionable carpentry skills? 

The thought gnawed at him for a moment, but he forced it aside. Telling himself not to spiral in your living room, there would be time to do that after he left. 

“Couldn’t be worse than my first job,” he offered, hoping to lighten his own mood—and maybe make you laugh.

“Yeah?” You perked up. “What was your first job?”

He grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh… wore a sailor’s uniform. For an ice cream shop. For a whole summer.”

For a second, you just blinked, then your eyes widened. “Wait—what? Like a full-on costume situation, or…?”

“Oh God, don’t even— Look, it was a legit uniform, okay?”Steve groaned, face heating.  “Hat, kerchief, everything. It was humiliating.”

“That’s amazing,” you said, stifling laughter behind your hand. “Do you still have it?”

“Fuck no,” he burst out, shaking his head so adamantly his hair bounced, eyes narrowing in playfully. “Why? You interested in seeing that or something?”

“Maybe.” A mischievous gleam flickered across your face. 

“Wow, okay. Didn’t think you were into that sort of thing.” He gave you a gentle, teasing shove with his shoulder, trying to hide his darkening cheeks. You giggled, falling back a little, and for a moment, he thought about just closing the distance right there. 

A comfortable silence settled over the room again, your playful banter trailing into quiet. The shelf stood assembled, your coffee cups had gone cold, and the clock was ticking further into the day. He couldn’t escape the sudden awareness that this was probably where he headed home. He felt the weight of it in his stomach. You must’ve noticed his demeanour shift. 

“You okay?” you asked, voice laced with concern.

He cleared his throat, forcing his gaze away from the door—he didn’t want to see it, not yet. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” Then, softer, “I just… had a really good time today.”

“Me too.” You nodded, relief softening your features. 

“Yeah? Good,” he exhaled, fiddling with the hem of his polo. He was so close to saying something else, but the words were stuck in his throat, so he blurted them out quickly before he could lose his nerve. “’Cause, uh, I don’t want this to be the last time we hang out.”

You looked at him curiously, a small smile growing on your face. His heart hammered. Keep going, Harrington. Don’t freak out.

“I, uh—” he scratched the back of his neck. “I liked this. I like… you. And if you’d be cool with it, I’d really love to see you again. Maybe under different circumstances?”

He half-expected you to burst out laughing at him. He felt so vulnerable he could practically see his own heart beating. Instead, you just stared at him for a moment, expression unreadable, until he panicked.

“I mean, I could always come back if you need something else built,” he joked. “Like, if a table breaks or you need a chair assembled or—” He shook his head. “Sorry, that’s weird. No pressure. I—um—”

“You don’t have to make up excuses, Steve.” You rolled your eyes good-naturedly, shifting closer. “I’d love to see you again.”

He froze, eyes darting to yours. 

“Really?”

“Really,” you confirmed with a nod, and the certainty in your voice settled him.

A grin spread across his face, wide and unfiltered, and he laughed breathlessly. “Okay. Well, I’m working Monday, so…” His eyes flicked around for a second as he gathered courage. “Bring that tape back? The one you borrowed? Then I can tell you where we’re going for dinner.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you tried to look nonchalant, but that pink tint gave you away. 

“Yeah, sure. I can, uh… definitely do that.”

“Sweet,” Steve said softly, practically glowing. He’s still got it. 

A few minutes later, he was slipping on his shoes by the door, shrugging on his jacket. You stood there, arms crossed lightly, eyes flicking between him and the bookshelf like you couldn’t decide which one was more impressive. 

He paused, realising this was it—time to go.

But you were looking at him with such a sweet, hopeful expression that every nerve in his body was screaming.

Kiss her.

He swallowed hard as you looked at his mouth, then back up at his eyes. A silent invitation you were too scared to initiate.

Fuck it.

In a surge of courage, he leaned in—maybe not quite as smooth as he hoped, but good enough to press his lips to yours. 

He cupped your cheek, and the second his lips met yours, a delicious, dizzy warmth rushed through his veins. It was like every nerve in his body had lit up at once—your warmth, your scent, the softness of your mouth pushing away all the lingering insecurities in his head.

You made a tiny sound of surprise, then melted against him, one of your hands curling gently into the collar of his jacket. The feeling sent a heat through his entire body, making the tips of his ears burn.

When he finally pulled back, your eyes were half-lidded, and you looked stunned. Which, for some reason, made his heart squeeze even tighter.

“Wear something nice on Monday, all right?” He told you gently, unable to help the little smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m driving.”

“I will.” You nodded, lips curving into a grin. A beat of silence before you spoke again. “See you, Steve.”

He gave a quick nod, fighting the dopey grin stretching across his face. 

“Yeah, see you,” he said as you gently shut the door. He practically bounded down the steps and into the cool air outside. Resisting the urge to shout out loud to everyone within hearing distance about what just transpired moments ago.

He made it to the car and slid into the driver’s seat, adrenaline buzzing in his veins like he’d just done something incredible—because, honestly, it felt like he had.

First thing he was gonna do? Call Robin. Obviously. Because he needed to tell someone about how he, Steve Harrington, who thought he might’ve lost his edge, just built a freaking bookshelf and scored a date in the process. Both of which he was equally proud of.

Turning the key, he let out a slow, happy exhale. Then, with a smile that refused to quit, he pulled away, your building disappearing in his rearview mirror—though the thought of you remained right at the centre of his chest.

God, he couldn’t wait ’til Monday. 

[livwritesstuff]

Eddie is aware that Steve is watching him.

It’s 2008, and Eddie is holding a baby, and Steve is watching him.

The baby, for the record, isn’t theirs.

No, Dustin and Erica finally decided to have one of their own after years, and so the whole rest of the Party had journeyed back to Indiana to meet the baby.

Eddie does like babies, to be clear. He’s discovered recently that it sometimes comes as a surprise that he likes babies, loves fatherhood.

He got some shit for it a while back at his high school reunion – “You just had to be the one to knock up Steve Harrington, huh?” Jeff had jokingly said – all well-intentioned, obviously, and sure, Eddie counts his lucky stars for a number of reasons, one of them definitely being that he gets to watch Steve in his final Dad form, but all-in-all people generally seem to be under the impression that Eddie had been dragged by Steve into the world of parenting. They never seem to consider that he might have wanted it just as much as Steve did.

Eddie gets it though. For people who don’t know him – people who only know him from his books, people who only know him from high school, people who don’t know the totality of who he is – it’s probably hard to imagine him being, like, all-in with the baby thing: cleaning spit-up, lugging a diaper-bag around everywhere, coordinating his life around interweaving nap schedules, the works. Again, he gets it. Even Eddie himself can acknowledge that his eighteen, nineteen, twenty-year-old self would be completely fucking baffled to see how comfortable he is holding a brand new baby (and he’d better be, considering he’s had three).

Steve and Eddie’s babies aren’t babies anymore. Their youngest, Hazel, is nearly three, and the older two are both in elementary school, and Eddie is pretty sure that their baby days are a thing of the past, hence why he’s trying to get his fix while there’s one available.

Steve is doing the same, or so it seems by the way he’s ogling Eddie from across Claudia Henderson’s kitchen. Eddie gives Steve a small smile even as he rolls his eyes because he knows that baby fever type of look, and he adjusts the way he’s holding the baby so he can free a hand to flip Steve the bird.

(Steve’s eyes flick to the arm still holding the baby, and Eddie gets the sense that he didn’t actually help his case at all).

A bit later, when Lucas came to reclaim his nephew, Eddie found Steve and sidled up behind him to wrap an arm around his waist.

“Hey,” he said, kissing the side of Steve’s neck, “Stop trying to impregnate me with your eyes, Harrington. You’ll offend the delicate sensitivities of Claudia’s dinnerware.”

“Shut up,” Steve shook his head, and then he said, “We should have another.”

“Another?” Eddie repeated, “Remind me again which one of us had a freakout when Hazel was born?”

“Uh, it was a minor freakout and purely situational,” Steve argued, “I said thirty years ago I’d be down for six and I stand by that.”

“Alright, we’ll see, big guy.”

[tojipie]

needdd crybaby!reader taking care of toji when he comes back super injured from a job or something and she’s losing her mind and needdd that hurt/comfort thing that u write SOO GOOD with ur other crybaby!reader works i love u so much tojipie u r truly a gift

this is so incredibly validating and sweet omg i love YOU :((( when i saw this ask i literally jumped, i love the concepts you guys come up with

content: toji x crybaby reader, hurt/comfort, angst, injuries

˚ ✧ ──────────

You don’t know how you manage to move him off the porch and inside. If the circumstances were different you might actually be proud of your ability to lug 300 pounds of dead weight across the house.

You try your best to ignore the slick trail of crimson trailing behind the both of you as you pull him down the hallway, grunting, huffing, and trying not to sob as you force down the lump in your throat.

You wrap his arms around your shoulders for the last stretch, hauling his cold body forward as your legs scream in protest. You can barely make out the blue tinge of his fingertips in your peripherals, sniffling as you imagine his heart struggling to keep his body warm after lying face down in the snow for who knows how long.

Five agonizing minutes later you’re on the floor watching the living room carpet soak up the blood pouring from his lower abdomen. Toji is unresponsive, head lolling side to side as you try to shake him awake.

“Toji? Baby?” Your voice cracks, eyes flitting over each and every millimeter of his body as you take in the jagged wound creeping up his hip all the way to his ribs. He’s breathing like he doesn’t need air, one shallow, agonizingly slow breath for every 3 of yours.

Right, fuck. He’s bleeding.

Situations like these weren’t too rare when you’d first met your boyfriend. But nothing like this. Injuries were common but never in a million years did you think it would get to this point.

You’d learned a thing or two about first aid from years of seeing Toji stitch himself up night after night, job after job. Spending hours blubbering on the toilet seat watching him stand in front of the bathroom mirror, tongs in hand as he tried to pry whatever foreign object had lodged itself in his shoulder this time.

The only time he’d let you patch him up were nights when you were inconsolable, threatening to leave him if he didn’t get it together and leave his job behind for something normal. Something that wouldn’t take him away from you one day.

You thought he’d finally turned a new leaf a few months ago when you noticed he’d stop coming home battered up. You didn’t want to ask directly, wanting to hold onto that mix of hope and relief you felt at the prospect of him finally settling down. You shouldn’t have been so hopeful.

You waste no time ripping his already tattered shirt down the middle, pulling the fabric down, and knotting it tight around his abdomen.

Good, okay. The blood soaks into the fabric before ebbing and eventually slowing down. At least, you think it slows down. Everything is the same shade of red, staining your clothes and skin just like it stains his.

“Toji, can you hear me?” You don’t wait for an answer, already searching for a pulse along the side of his neck.

It’s weak, but it’s there. Hammering away under his skin as his body clings onto its last shreds of consciousness. You rock back and forth, cradling his head in your lap as you try to brush his sweaty hair out of his eyes.

He’s cold. So undeniably cold even with the heater blasting, and it takes everything in you not to break down when you notice he’s so limp that the scar across his mouth has lost its dimension, no longer twisting with the little smirk his mouth somehow always finds itself in.

You curl in on yourself, still rocking the two of you back and forth as you wait for a miracle.

“—real good.”

A voice, low and gravelly. One you’d know anywhere.

“Mm.. got me real good,” Toji mumbles sleepily, nuzzling into you as a sob of relief rips through your throat.

“Who?” You sob, cradling his hands in your face. “Who did?”

Toji finally opens his eyes, bloodshot and sensitive from his time in the cold. You feel his chest expand with air, letting a much-needed breath fill his lungs before exhaling his quiet answer.

“Bounty.” His words come much too slowly, almost like he’s trying to figure out how to speak again. “Guy.. owed a client some m-money. Didn’t… expect ‘m to be so good with a blade.”

“I thought you quit.” You whimper, lip quivering. You can’t believe he’d gone back to taking hits for quick cash, nearly killing himself over some quick pocket change.

“You know... I can’t do that, baby.” That’s all you get in return, his overwhelming guilt evident. There was no other path for Toji, no feasible way you’d ever get him to settle down.

You feel the tears start up again, leaving searing trails of salt down your cheeks and neck. Toji’s expression softens at your distress,

“I’m okay... I’m okay baby, I promise.” He whispers again and again, nuzzling into your neck as you sob into his chest for what feels like forever. Soft kisses flit over your nose and forehead, the warmth in his body returning with every pump of his still-beating heart.

A shaky, blood-stained hand wipes the tears from each side of your face, quickly returning to his side as the muscles in his arm give out.

You feel calmed down enough to breathe, pulling back from the raven-haired man to gather your bearings.

Toji takes a minute to look over his injury, peeling back the sticky fabric to assess the damage. Emerald eyes soften in relief.

“I’ll be fine.” He says firmly, letting you run your hand through his sweaty, blood-crusted hair. “Didn’t.. hit anything important. Fuck, need sleep.”

You don’t respond, watching his eyes drift closed and his head droop to the side. You’d call Shiu in the morning, ask him to bring antibiotics and an IV over.

You don’t know how long it is before you speak, cringing at how hoarse your voice has become.

“Tell me you’ll quit one day.” You don’t even know if he can still hear you.

A much larger hand engulfs yours, squeezing softly.

“One day.” He mumbles, you know he's lying to you.

[wonsroyalty]

predictable, 박종성

pairing/warnings - 2.3k,, spider-man!jay x f!reader, college/uni students, switch!jay x switch!f reader,, smut, blood, wounding 🔥

a/n: no fancy theme because i’m writing this on a whim: inspired by this tiktok i saw earlier, no doubt mv has actually changed me and i loveeeeee jay so enjoy🤗

masterlist

You sat in your bedroom tapping your pen unconsciously at your desk.

“I need the report in for tomorrow, Yn. You’ve already had a week.”… You remembered the head of the school newsletter scolding you earlier.

How on earth did she think that you could gain access to the football team in order to ask them about their frat lifestyle AND write up everything from your seven-hour interview as a small section in such a short amount of time.

You thought back to your best friend Jay.

He’d always had a way with words and you knew that if he were with you he’d say something like, “Sunghoon said he’s ditching his playboy rep to focus on himself, weirdo because he literally threw himself at you during this interview, you can simplify it to ‘I’m a lame loser who doesn’t get any hoes because I fucked around and found out’, done!”

A giggle slipped from your lips at the thought of imaginary Jay but you quickly gained composure because the thought of having to pull an all nighter, in order to finish, didn’t seem appealing.

And the fact that Jay had turned down your plan of him helping you because he claimed he had “important business” whipped you into shape.

Ding!

7 messages from mother🐻

hey pumpkin!

i may be later than usual tonight

just been told to prep for emergency surgery

left your dinner in the oven to heat up

first aid kit above the front cabinet

don’t hurt yourself pls!!!

love you bye 🥰

You reacted with a heart and wished her luck then threw your phone onto your bed.

The upper half of your body slumped onto the desk.

“I’m so screwed.” you whispered in defeat.

Your phone then began to ring causing a loud groan to leave your throat as your body lugged itself to the source.

“Hey Jay, what’s up?” you sighed. “What do you want?”

“Open your window.” he panted out.

You could hear sirens in the background and Jay didn’t sound too good.

“Whats happening right now? Are you okay?”

“Open the window, please.” he begged. “Trust me, just open it!”

“I don’t trust you.” You joked. “Besides which one would I open, there’s three.”

Jay started shouting at someone on the other end of the line.

“Fuck!” he groaned in agony. “The- the one facing central park.”

“Uh.. okay. I just did it.”

“Step back! Like backkkk.” he warned.

“Moving back as I speak.” you sighed. “Is this the super important thing you had to do?”

You had spoken too soon.

A man precisely shot his body through the gap of your window then slammed it shut behind him and slumped onto the ground.

“Spider-man?! What the..” you stepped towards him tentatively. “Are you- wait Jay! Oh my, I think he’s hurt.”

You began to type out a message to the boy when Spider-man ripped his mask off.

“Jay Park?! You have got to be shitting me!” you gaped. “What the fuck?!”

Jay winced in pain as he shot a web at your jumper to pull you down towards him.

He’d pulled you off balance and while your legs straddled his hips, your hands fell onto the gaping wound in his abdomen.

“Stay down.” he whined. “Can’t let them see.”

“Them..?” you mouthed.

“I was in the middle of a fight.” he rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

“We’re gonna talk about this later, I need to close that up.” you glared at him.

His head hit the wall behind him as he began to register the state he was in.

You crawled out of the room and ran over to the cabinet that your mother left the first aid in. Nimble fingers turning the oven and a timer on your way out so that Jay would have something to eat before he left.

If any other friend of yours were in this situation, you would’ve patched them up, scolded them and sent them on their way.

But with Jay, you always wanted to keep him around because you… liked him.

You had to stop yourself from checking him out when you got back to your room, he’d pulled his suit down to his hips, toned stomach on display.

“You sure you know what you’re doing..?” he frowned.

Instead of responding you shoved a piece of cloth into his mouth.

“Bite on it.”

Jay used his free hands to pull the cloth out. His hands reached into the box to grab a painkiller and swallow it dry.

“Ew.” you sneered. “I have water..”

He ignored you. “There’s nothing in the wound, I already checked.”

Taking alcohol, you cleaned the outside of the wound and prepped your synthetic polymer fibres.

As soon as the cool metal pierced Jay’s skin he began to squirm around.

His jaw flexed as he groaned out in pain.

“Please stop moving, Jay,” you begged. “It’s gonna hurt more if you keep moving.”

Despite your plea, he continued to twist and turn.

You groaned in frustration.

“Stop moving!”

The cloth was placed in his mouth again and you got up onto your knees to snatch the scarf that dangled off your bed frame.

Your hands grabbed his wrists and tied them behind his back, double knotting the scarf so that he wouldn’t move.

Jay thrashed around trying to rip out of the restraints.

“Okay, calm down, I’m starting again,”

You slowly but surely sutured the wound and wrapped his waist in a bandage.

Jay whimpered.

“Huh?” your head snapped up as you took the cloth out of his mouth.

Without missing a beat, he leaned forward and kissed you.

Your fingers automatically made their way into his hair as you licked along his bottom lip.

He opened his mouth and pressed his tongue flat against yours before fighting for dominance in your mouth.

You couldn’t get enough. Your lungs gasped for air as you continued to practically eat his face off.

Subconsciously you lowered your hips onto his, rolling to get friction from his semi hard on against your pulsing core.

“Fuck.” he whimpered. Again.

“Always whining,” you teased him. “Never thought you’d be such a bottom, Jongie.”

He ripped the scarf as he broke free from the restraints.

Now you were the one whining.

“All I did was rip the scarf and you’re already dripping into my lap, who’s the real bottom here?” he mocked you with a fake look of shock all over his face. “Always wanted to have you under me..”

His words had your hips rutting against his, pathetic moans leaving your throat.

“Do I even have to do anything or will you get off just like this?” he grinned, marking up your neck.

A faint beeping broke you out of your trance.

“AHHHH! THE OVEN!”

You got up immediately, ignoring the way your fuzzy cat pyjamas clung to your lower body, and ran to the kitchen.

Thankfully the food wasn’t burnt but you clutched your heart as Jay launched himself onto your waist.

“I meant to say thank you.” he whispered.

His fingers made their way to where you needed him most, circling your clit through the fabric.

“Yeah- right. You.. You’re welcome.” you moaned at the end of your sentence, the pressure building up.

“Is this okay..?” he asked.

“Yes.” you nodded.

Jay pulled away laughing at your protest.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

You kept your lips shut. There was no way in hell that you were gonna submit to him so easily.

“Come on, baby.” he stared down at you through half lidded eyes. “Tell me where you want me..”

You shook your head, stubbornness radiating off your body.

“Is it here?” Jay asked.

His fingers unbuttoned your shirt, gasping at your uncovered chest as he tugged at your nipples.

A loud whine left your lips.

“Sensitive.. I see.” he looked determined.

“I’m not.” you grumbled.

He grazed your left nipple with his teeth, fondling the other with his warm hand.

“Fuck.” you moaned as his wet tongue circled the sensitive spot.

“You’re not huh?” he shook his head at your lie.

“Jay please.” you whined, hips chasing his.

“Please what?” he leaned away.

You swallowed your pride for the sake of your pleasure.

“I need you.” you moaned. “Need your fingers inside me.”

Jay lowered his head as an overwhelming wave of pleasure hit his body. He always knew that he’d liked you, but those words sent him over the edge.

He needed to have you immediately.

“Say it again.” he growled.

Once his lust filled eyes made eye contact with yours, you clenched your legs together.

“I need you so bad, Jay.” you whined.

He manhandled your body onto the kitchen counter, ripping off your pyjama bottoms and underwear in one go.

His tongue licked a stripe up your dripping hole, collecting the slick that leaked out.

Jay closed his eyes, taking in the taste.

“You taste so fucking good.” he whined.

Without missing the chance to take advantage of his submissive state, you tugged at his hair.

“Fuck..” he moaned loudly.

“You’re so hot.” you whimpered.

Seeing him like this made you feel a certain way.

He eagerly embraced your clit with his tongue and shoved his fingers into your cunt. They scissored you open before curling into you at a rapid pace.

Your hips thrashed up, chasing your high, not even caring about the loud sounds leaving your mouth and lewd sounds coming from Jay.

“You close?” he asked between moans.

You nodded, unable to form proper sentences.

“You have to ask.” Jay firmly stood his ground.

“Jay, please. Please let me cum!” you pathetically begged.

“Okay, princess.” he nodded. “Come for me..”

The orgasm hit you like five trucks, it truly felt never ending as Jay helped you through it.

Once your body recovered, you jumped down onto shaky legs attacking Jay’s lips as you pushed him backwards.

He absentmindedly followed the direction, tripping backwards as his legs made contact with your bed.

“Close your eyes.”

Jay made himself comfortable, lying down with his eyes closed.

“Wait- what!” his eyes shot open.

You’d handcuffed him to the headboard.

“Now why do you have these..” he questioned.

“Was saving them for when you’d come around.” you whispered into his ear, sending shivers down his spine. “Now i’m gonna help you, with your little problem.”

You gestured to the way his cock painfully throbbed in the tight material of his suit.

“It’s not a little problem- Shit.”

He closed his eyes as you grabbed at his crotch.

You left kisses down his body, licking his abs before pulling the rest of his suit off.

His cock slapped up against his stomach causing him to moan loudly.

“How are you so wet..?” you questioned in awe, staring at him in disbelief.

“Stop staring at me..” he blushed.

“You weren’t lying about this not being a little problem.” you praised, licking a stripe along the underside. “You’re so big, so thick.”

Jay’s hips thrusted up, more precum leaking out.

“Please.. help me.” he cried.

“Don’t cry, baby,” you wiped away the tear that left his eye, babying him. “I’ll help you.”

Instead of sucking him off, you lowered your hips onto his dick.

Jay felt like he was going to explode.

“Fuck! You’re so tight,” he moaned.

The stretch had your eyes rolling back.

Hands falling onto his chest for support, you slowly found your own pace to bounce at.

“Please let me touch you..” he begged.

“No.” you scolded. “I’m going to go at my pace and you’re gonna get off this way.”

Tears were fully streaking down his face at this point.

His balls were heavy and tip throbbing, the sensation being too much for him to handle.

You continued to bounce on him, eyes closing at the pleasure of his thickness rubbing against your walls.

The moans leaving your throat increased in volume as slick gushed out of your pussy. The thought of using Jay had you excited.

Seeing you on top of him, using him for your own pleasure had Jay going insane.

He broke out of the handcuffs and flipped you onto your stomach.

“Fuck! Jay, right there!” you cried out in surprise.

His palms smacked at your ass, rapidly pushing you back onto his dick.

“Wait.. wait I wanna see your face when I cum.” he whined, flipping your body over.

Your legs rested on his shoulders as you cried at the newer, deeper angle.

His balls smacked against your ass as he slammed his hips against yours.

“Jay, I can’t,” you moaned.

“Yes you can.” he growled. “I’m so close.”

His hips began to falter before they stilled, shooting cum deep inside you.

You came right after him, his whines and moans setting you off.

Jay slumped onto your body, cradling your face with his hands.

“I like you so so much.” he confessed, kissing you sweetly.

“Well I think I’ve liked you for longer.” you laughed.

“If you say so.” he giggled, hugging your chest. “That was so good, I don’t think I’ll ever let you have anyone other than myself.”

“Same here.” you played with his hair. “WAIT FUCK MY PAPER!”

THE END.

~

bonus scene:

After getting cleaned up and eating (Jay forced you to) you sat on his lap at your desk, typing onto your desktop computer.

He read out the transcript and helped you summarise it into text.

“Sunghoon says that he’s ditching his playboy rep to focus on himself, weirdo because I remember him throwing himself at you during this interview hoping that you’d give him attention, you can simplify it to ‘I’m a lame ass bitch who doesn’t get any hoes’ he truly did fuck around and find out!”

You laughed at his words.

“I knew you’d say something like that.”

He snuggled up to your back.

“So I’m getting predictable now, huh…”

You shook your head. “Never..”

“Guess our date will have to be something you wouldn’t expect.”

He was right, you really didn’t expect lunch on top of Brooklyn Bridge.

[rottencherrypie]

R-18+; Harder, Better, Faster...

Summary - Comparing three dwarves to your exes...

Warnings - Smut, language, male genitalia, mention of bodily fluids, creampie, rough sex, lowkey breeding kink (maybe?), slight dom themes (Thorin and Fili)

Pronouns & POVs - None, third-person.

Pairings - Thorin x Reader, Fili x Reader, Kili x Reader

Word Count - 2,500+

A/N - I am once again stumped on the full smut I am writing and was listening to music when "Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger" by Daft Punk came on which for some reason sparked this idea. (I have had this sitting in my drafts for far too long.) Pure smut under the cut!

Read on AO3 Read on Wattpad

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

- thorin

Harder. When it came to your past lovers, there always seemed to be something lacking when it came to more intimate activities. It was not that your past lovers were awful, but they never seemed to get you to the finish line, so you began handing out fake trophies.

It was hard to explain your desires. It was not that your previous lovers treated you poorly in or out of the bedroom; they treated you as if you were a fragile flower in and out of the bedroom, and that was the issue.

It was not an issue outside the bedroom: you loved being doted upon, having your every wish and command acted upon without question. Yet, when it came to inside the sheets -- you preferred it hard. It was simple, the easiest thing to grasp in your mind, but your previous lovers seemed to absorb the information as well as glass absorbs water; it doesn't.

It appeared hopeless until you had met Thorin.

The journey to the Misty Mountains had been treacherous. One that had left all members littered with new bumps and bruises, as well as new scars that littered their bodies alongside bruised, potentially even fractured, bones.

Throughout the journey, the company of dwarves experienced several hard struggles. Ones that took them many hours, if not days, to resolve; their nights often spent pondering as they gazed upon the stars. Yet, the stars held no answers regarding the hardest hassle they had dealt with: convincing you to accept aid.

It was not if you were neglecting yourself; you accepted food and medical aid when needed, yet you refused items the company of dwarves attempted to gift you -- such as new clothes and boots. You had been perfectly fine repairing your clothes when you had a moment. After all, the cloak you journeyed with had covered any tears within your outfit, so it was not as if the world could see the flesh the cloth once shielded.

You reminded yourself that you had to travel light: extra luggage meant extra weight, which meant extra aches and pains from lugging around said weight all day. Yet, there had been the odd occasion upon your travels where an item had caught your eye.

You had managed to stay strong until you passed it. The most beautiful pair of boots you had yet to see, in a color you adored and a style you knew was comfortable for travel: they looked perfect. You could not help but approach the stall, making small talk with the woman who ran it as you examined the boots from afar; they even appeared to be your size!

It appeared to be too good to be true, and that it was. You had been a few coins short of purchasing them, and attempting to barter the boots down to what you had was out of the question -- you needed the coins to pay for your next meal.

"How much?" The dwarven king asked from beside you, his sharp sapphire gaze glued upon the same boots. The suddenness of his deep voice startled you as you were quick to look at him, as he stood there with his arms crossed at his chest, leaning back slightly, a stance he often did while in thought.

"How much for the boots?" The dwarf repeated the question in a low and serious tone as his gaze rose from the boots to the seller. The seller calmly restated the price for the item in question, earning an amused "That's all?" from the dwarven king as he handed over the payment without hesitation.

Yet, the boots did not remain in the dwarven king's hands for long, as they quickly fell into your grasp as he thrust them into your arms.

"Hurry up." The command left his thin lips in a low tone as the heat of his gaze examined your body from head to toe. "We need to find a tailor; you're practically in rags." The words became distant, accompanied by the tap of his boots against the creaking wooden dock. A creaking almost as hard as when the frame of your bed shakes as he pleasures you.

The sharp thump of the bedframe bouncing against the wall danced throughout the air, accompanied by the melody of your moans as the dwarven king continued to drive his hips into yours. Each inch of his hardness pounded into you, the squelching click of skin slapping against one another growing as loud in the air as the bedframe against the wall.

His hands would tightly grasp upon your legs, your legs spread upon his shoulders, new boots upon your feet as they bounced slightly against his back with every hard thrust of the king's hips. His gaze upon you would be lustful as a smirk spread upon his thin lips.

"That's it." He'd breathe, his breath caressing your face as he leaned down, pushing you further into the bed and pushing further into you, allowing every inch of his cock to have a chance inside of you before sliding out. "Give me every inch of you. Show me why I spoil you." He'd purr, lips hovering a breath above yours as his eyes remained locked onto yours. 

His harsh gaze would urge you further into submission, to give into the hardness of his thrusts and the hardness of his cock.

A hardness that left you utterly entranced: how it stretched your inner walls perfectly, carving itself deep into your center as the rhythmic pulsations of his lust lulled you closer to the brink of release. 

The dwarven king was far harder in many ways compared to your past lovers, yet it was a hardness you craved. 

──────

- fili

Better. The terms of your love life had always been lackluster. The lovers of your past rarely managed to wow you, and upon the rare occasion that they managed to, it always appeared to come with terms and conditions.

It never felt as if you were the priority, yet you sat idly by for many years as you patiently awaited with the hope that a lover would make you feel special, wanted, and better than any had before. And, as if an answer to your nights of blandness, Fili came into your life.

And he was better.

The moment you had met, the golden-haired prince had whisked you off your feet. It was not through his title, nor was it through lavish gifts or promises that would be broken, no. He listened.

You had been enthusiastically speaking of a weapon you had found upon your travels, going into depths about the elaborate carvings upon it and what origins you had suspected it to be. You had been raving about this weapon for many paths now, excitedly showing whoever would listen.

"And, best of all, I haven't needed to--" The words had stalled in your mouth as you noticed how the dwarven company rolled their eyes at your rambling. A heat began to spread beneath the flesh of your face as your lips shut suddenly, and the warmth of embarrassment began to spread from the center of your chest as your gaze fell.

"Haven't needed to what?" A familiar voice had spoken, one deep and full of warmth. "I am listening. And I would like to see this magnificent weapon." The golden-haired prince spoke, a smile upon his thin lips as your gaze lifted from the ground and onto him.

The warmth within your chest had quickly eased from the uncomfortable sensation it felt moments prior, as the speed at which your heart raced now turned to various fluttering as your gemstone-colored eyes locked with his ocean-colored pair.

You had felt the harshness of his calloused palm upon the back of your hand, gently rotating your hand to fit into his before he applied a soft pressure upon it, a reassuring squeeze as the smile upon his thin lips softened.

"Go on." A phrase the golden-haired prince had used for various events. The most frequent was not in comfort, though it always made you feel better when he spoke it while he was deep inside you.

The thickness of his manhood would stretch out your inner walls, expanding them to mold perfectly around his throbbing cock, feeling the pulsation of his heartbeat, his arousal, within one of the most sensitive parts of him.

His thrusts would be deep and slow, allowing you to feel every inch of his throbbing length as his eyes scanned your face. It was as if you were a novel, and he was reading you, jotting down mental notes of what made you gasp in pleasure and what made you hiss in pain.

The bed would creak rhythmically, the headboard hitting against the wall, creating a beat that danced alongside the melody of your moans.

"That's it." His tone would be full of praise as he stroked your cheek; the sensation of his calloused thumb brushing against the flesh of your cheek would send a wave of pleasure down your body. "Let me hear how good it feels." The heat of his breath caresses your face as he leans closer to you, causing his thrusts to deepen as he does so: ensuring his cock reaches the most sensitive and pleasurable spots within your core.

That was what you adored about Fili; it wasn't only his pleasure he did this for, but your pleasure as well.

Your lips would entwine with his, your moans muffled against his thin lips as he continued the same pleasurable pace. The faint taste of ale lingered upon his lips, becoming more apparent as you parted your lips, giving his tongue access to yours.

Tongues entwined in a sloppy dance, breaths becoming uneven and deepened until you both parted. Lungs expanded vastly as the pair of you gasped for air, a string of saliva connecting your lips as your gazes met.

"I love every sound you make, every noise that escapes your beautiful lips." Fili would breathe, his lips curved into a lopsided grin as his hips continued to jut against yours, ensuring that the familiar tingle of pleasure would roam throughout your body before he would even recognize the knot within his abdomen. That your hands would grasp at the sheets of the bed, or your nails would claw down his toned back before he would allow his grip to tighten upon the flesh of your hips. 

That your lips would be stuck open as a slew of moans fell from them before he uttered a single curse of pleasure. That the sweet nectar of your being would cascade upon your skin before he allowed his seed to paint your sensitive inner walls, or allow it to coat the flesh of your abdomen.

He cared for your pleasure as much as he cared for you. He was simply better.

──────

- kili

Faster. The speed at which your love life progressed had always been slow. The lovers of your past seemed to enjoy silly games instead of commitment, and for the rare few who desired something more -- they seemed to move even slower.

It felt drawn out. It felt as if your previous lovers had held a meeting on how to waste your time, yet you held onto faith that you would find a lover who wanted to belong to you as much as you wished to belong to them.

And though your heart had yearned for a faster pace in terms of romance, you were not prepared for the fast dwarven prince.

The night air nipped at the flesh of your skin, and the soft crackling of the campfire danced alongside the sounds of the woods and your dwarven companions. Some of your companions were off eating their stew, a mix of mushrooms and other things they had managed to forage within the woods, though you'd never question where they found the meat or spices that went into it.

The low chatter of their voices nearly muffled the gentle sounds of the fire; the soft sway of its light and warmth reminded you of its presence as your gaze remained glued to the stars above. It was a brief moment of peace within the sea of chaos that had become your life, and though you had lost the comforts of home, the dwarven prince who sat beside you had found those comforts within you.

The sound of your voice, the scent of your skin, the light that shimmered within your eyes; you became his home on the road. Yet, he had been too nervous to say anything until that night.

Either overcome with confidence or immense stupidity, the dwarven prince could not help but blurt out the three words that had been swirling around his mind since the moment he laid eyes upon you.

"I love you." His voice echoed throughout the makeshift campsite, his amber gaze glued upon your face, and a sea of laughter erupted from his fellow companions. The heat of his cheeks burned as bright as the fire before him, yet he did not back down as your sparkling gaze met his. "Y/N, I love you." He repeated, his confident voice wavering as the words left his lips. A wavering you would hear in far more intimate events.

The rapid thumps of the bedframe bouncing against the wooden wall echoed throughout the not-so-silent room. The sounds of the bed were so close together in pace that a thump barely had enough time to become an audible sound before another came in its place, masking the previous one as fast as it was made.

His cock raced within you, desperately stretching out the inner walls of your core, as his face was buried within the crook of your neck. The heat of his short, quick breaths tickled the side of your neck as he inhaled your scent.

"So good." The words wavered in pleasure upon his lips, hanging upon the tip of his tongue before escaping in more of a whimper than a moan. "You feel so good." His words would become a full whine of pleasure as he held onto you.

His hands would be tightly clenching at your arms, grasping so tightly that his nails would begin to dig into your skin. A delicious twinge of pain and pleasure flooded your sensations as his cock would continue to rapidly carve itself deep inside you.

His breaths would come out as quickly as his movements, each harsh thrust a silent devotion of his love, his neediness for you. His head would remain buried in the crook of your neck, allowing his whimpers to vibrate against the exposed skin as the burn within his hips grew hotter.

His body moved like a well-oiled machine, never ceasing in action as it brought you closer and closer to the brink of release. And as fast as you were thrown overboard, drowning in the sea of pleasure, the dwarven prince dived in after you.

He was far faster than your exes, yet he always ensured you came first in all scenarios.

──────

Want to read one part at a time? Read separately on AO3

Thorin, Fili, Kili

Want to read it as a book? Read separately on Wattpad

Thorin, Fili, Kili

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────»

[fivestaralien]

showering affection

-> hyunjin x gn!reader

warnings"+: a little suggestive, a brief ass squeeze, hyunjin being so adorable when drunk and I think that's it word count: 1.4k a.n.// the ama performance?!?!?!?!? I'm so proud of them(╥﹏╥) I wrote this today bc I couldn't not after that... I hope you guys enjoy!! reblogs and comments are always welcome it would mean the world!! lmk if I missed anything as always and stay safe everyone<3

//

All of the air is knocked from your lungs as you catch the weight of Hyunjin in your arms. He cuddles your head into his chest, mumbling nonsense and sporadically kissing the top of your head.

 “Missed you so much, pretty.” He rocks the two of you back and forth. 

 Drunk Hyunjin has always been so precious to you. He was like a clingy baby who couldn’t handle being away from you for longer than two seconds without making it everyone else's problem. Hence why you were picking him up earlier than planned. Seungmin was the one to text you,

 seungmin: please come get your giant man baby he’s getting annoying  you: oh god what did he do now? where are you?  seungmin: the usual whining and crying that you aren’t here. but worse.  seungmin: <shared location>  you: i'm leaving now, just tell him i'll be there asap  seungmin: fucking speed

  Back to the present, Hyunjin begrudgingly lets you go so you can walk over to the front area where Seungmin and Felix were waiting to talk. He’s quick to wrap his hand around yours so he would still have some form of physical connection with you. 

 “How much did he drink? He’s clingier than usual.” You ask as said man hugs you from behind and nuzzles his nose into your neck. He mumbles, “ ‘m not clingy.” You could feel his pout against your shoulder so you comfort him with a squeeze to his hip.

 “Only a few but they always pour heavy here, so he got drunk pretty quickly.” Felix informs you then hands over Hyunjins bag.

 You smile as a thank you and chat with them for a few minutes about funny things Hyunjin was saying and doing while waiting for you. Hyunjin doesn’t last long before he is whining to go home and trying to pull you away from them. The boys tell you to drive safe and then make their way back into the restaurant while you throw Hyunjins arm over your shoulders, walking him to your car. 

 He leans against the car as you fish out your keys from your jacket pocket. Right as you were about to unlock the car, pointer fingers thread through your belt loops and you were pulled into Hyunjins chest. He crashes his lips to yours in a hot and heavy kiss, knocking your breath away for the second time in a span of twenty minutes. 

 His hands come up to cup your face, tilting your head up more so he could kiss you harder. You open your mouth slightly when his tongue swipes across your bottom lip, wanting more from you. A distant tire screech breaks you apart but Hyunjins hold on your face keeps you barely an inch apart.

 “Come on let's get you home.” You press your mouth against his a few more times. 

 Your arms move to open his door after unlocking it and then lug him into the seat. It doesn’t surprise you when Hyunjin places his hand, palm up, on your thigh as soon as you sit down. Silently asking to hold his hand and when you accept, you can see him visibly relax at the touch. 

 Hyunjin starts mumbling to himself again, bringing your conjoined hands to his lap then presses multiple kisses to the back of yours. Goosebumps raise all across your body when he continues to travel his lips up your arm, over your shoulder and up your neck. His affection is making you giggle and his breath tickles your neck. Hyunjin plants a loud kiss on your cheek and you remind him that you are driving and to not get too crazy. 

 “Fuck, sorry. Can we still hold hands?” He looks at you with the biggest pout. 

 “Of course we can Jinnie.” You reply with a soft voice. 

 Hyunjin smiles so wide as he brings your hands together again and back onto his lap. When you finally get home he is taking his shoes off and then stripping all of his clothes off, throwing them carelessly on the floor. You knew he was going to the shower, as he always does when he gets home from drinking. 

  “Love, hurry up before I get in without you!” He shouts from the bathroom. 

 “Coming!” 

 You pick up his discarded clothes along the way and eventually put them in the hamper right next to the cabinet when you walk in. Hyunjin is leaning against the glass door of the shower, eyes closed, and you can’t help but just take him all in. 

 Hyunjin opens his eyes from the heat of your stare. He realizes you don’t know he's caught you, so he decides to return the favor. Your eyes widen when you see him checking you out and clear your throat. Your clothes also make their way into the hamper as you try to calm your racing heart. 

 “Why do you get so shy? As if I haven’t eye-fucked you a million times.” He smirks. 

 His boldness, even after all this time, will always make your brain go blank. No thoughts, head empty. 

 “Be quiet and get in.” You motion with your hand. 

 Hyunjin follows the instructions only after you take his outstretched hand. Thankfully he had turned on the water himself so it was the perfect warm temperature when stepping in. You both relax under the stream, helping shampoo and condition each other's hair and then gently washing your bodies. Once you are fully washed off you make the water cooler to help bring down Hyunjins overly warm skin. 

 “Ah! Why would you do that?” He yelps. 

 “Your body temp is too warm honey. I’m just cooling you down a little, stop being a baby.” You tease with a pinch to his side. 

 Hyunjin yelps again, but nods his head after, moving you to where he was standing so he could be under the water instead. He hums at the cold feeling and smiles down at you. 

 “This does actually feel really nice. Thank you.” Hyunjin leans down to capture your lips with his. 

 His hands find their way into your hair as he licks into your mouth, trying to get every last drop of you. Your hands grab onto his sides causing him to shudder a little, so you reach behind him to turn the water off. Hyunjin takes his time when sucking and biting on your bottom lip, hands moving to explore your body. He kisses down your neck and shamelessly squeezes your ass. 

 You pull away at that and he is instantly whining to kiss you more. Complaining even more when you try to move the two of you out. 

 “You’re getting too handsy Hyun, you know the rule. No drunk sex unless we both are.” You remind him with a gentle smile. 

 “No, sorry, you’re right.” He kisses you on the forehead. 

 The towels hanging off the hooks are now wrapped around your bodies. You walk to your closet, Hyunjin not far behind, to grab some clothes. He puts on the shirt and sweatpants then walks back into the bathroom, grabbing the hair dryer. He holds it out to you once you’re finished getting dressed then sits down on the floor right in front of the bed. You easily situate yourself behind him and begin.

 One of Hyunjins favorite things, drunk or not, is when you dry his hair after a shower. The feeling of your fingers running through it and occasionally massaging his head just made him feel so at peace. Almost like nothing in the world mattered anymore other than you. 

 He may be drunk but he also is feeling hazy as the warm air hits him and you continue to lull him to sleep. You turn it off once his hair is decently dry and go back to combing through it. He lays his head all the way back against your shoulder, eyes closed. 

 “Sleepy?” You whisper.

 He just nods his head. Kissing his cheek a few times, you then gently push him to get up which he thankfully doesn’t fight you on. Probably too exhausted to really argue about anything right now. 

 The second his head hits the pillow Hyunjin is out like a light. You can’t help but laugh, sliding in right next to him. He immediately snuggles up against your back and wraps his arm around your stomach. You fall asleep not long after him.

// skz masterlist , all masterlists

[whorekneecentral]

Winter Wonderland

Toto Wolff x Fem!Reader

Warnings: toto would do anything for reader, some friendly teasing, alcohol and the consumption of, a bit of an age gap (reader's late 20s/early 30s), handsy toto, the two of you are kinda drunk, daddy kink, oral (f!receiving), fingering, slight edging, penetrative sex (p in v), creampie.

Word Count: 1,772

Author's Note: this one goes out to all the dilf lovers.

merry smutmas series

--

Your husband skips out on Christmas every year due to work but this year, he ends up in London. You make it your mission to introduce him to some holiday fun.

Toto had one last work engagement to do this week before he's officially off for the holidays and it took him to London. So by extension, you made it to London as well.

Your husband had left you in the hotel, promising you that he'll be back in a few hours after doing his final work meeting before he was on holiday break.

When he returns, he finds you in the same spot he left you, on the couch. "Babe, have you not gotten up all day?"He asks, shrugging his coat off.

"I did, I ordered room service so I had to get it from the door," you tell him, eyes glued to the TV.

Toto laughs, making his way over to sit next to you. You lean into the man, his arms wrapped around you and you can still feel the chill on his skin despite him wearing a coat when he was outside. It takes him a second to realize that you weren't in your pyjamas, but you were dressed as if you were going out.

The man looks at you with raised eyebrows, there's a hint of a smile on your face. "I know that look, what are you up to?" He asked.

"Okay I know you're probably tired but we leave for home tomorrow and I really wanna go!"

"Go where?"

"Hyde park," you tell him, showing him the pictures of their winter wonderland on your phone. "I saw the ad already for their winter wonderland today and then I looked it up and I fell into a loophole, so now we have tickets." You smiled sweetly at him - if there was one thing more important to Toto than work, it was you and your happiness.

"Are you serious, y/n?"

"Yes, now come on," you get up, trying to pull him up. Toto huffs, "I have emails to answer." He reluctantly follows you to the door.

"The emails will still be here when you get back," you handed him his coat before putting your own on. "Let's go."

Toto drives, of course - not like he ever lets you drive anyways. The first half hour was just the two of you trying to find your way around, it was a lot more packed than you were expecting but to be fair it was a week until Christmas, so it was to be expected you suppose.

You grab his hand and pull him towards what seems to be a circus tent. Toto looks at you a bit unsure for a moment, "is this.. an actual circus?" He followed you in and his question was answered; it was.

He sits next to you in the back row, the two of you waiting for the show to start. "Are you 5? Why are we at the circus ?"

"I mean, in comparison to you, I basically am." You smiled and he chuckled, his hand in yours as you two watched the show.

He would never admit it to you but he enjoyed doing things like this with you, it was nice to see that you kept a bit of your childishness alive.

After the circus, you made your way around the park once more, taking a million photos and trying out all the games until Toto was lugging around a big bag with stuffed animals.

"Do you think that's enough?" He asks, walking towards the car. You shrugged, "I guess but I'm hungry now."

"Dinner then?" He suggests, nodding to the busy street. You're not, fingers interlocking with your husband as you walk down the street towards no actual destination in mind. You were just hoping to stumble upon a place that wasn't too busy.

And eventually you did, a little restaurant tucked away between all the madness. You and Toto sat at a table by the window, the table covered in junk food and a bottle of cheap wine.

"Did you have fun tonight ?" You asked your husband, popping a fry into your mouth. He shrugs, taking a sip of wine. You can't help but roll your eyes, "you totally did! Don't lie."

Toto laughs, a grin on his face. "Yeah, okay. I did have a little fun, but maybe next time find an indoor activity?"

"Nope," you popped the P, "as your wife, it's my job to make your life unnecessarily complicated, just for fun."

He rolls his eyes, taking some fries off your plate. "You'll be the death of me."

You two ended up topping off the bottle of wine, Toto pays the bill and his fingers interlock with yours as you walk back to the car. The streets have calmed by now, but there's a few people walking around on their way to wherever.

Your husband pulls you into his side, your arm wrapped around his torso as you make it back to the car. The man has you leaning on the hood, his cold hands cupping your cheeks before he kisses you. His hands wander and you blush, stopping him.

"Not here."

"Don't tell me you're getting shy on me." He kisses along your cheek, the tip of his nose cold as it rubs against your skin.

You giggled, giving him a slight shove off of you. "We're in the middle of the street, it's more like stopping you from getting arrested for public indecency."

He laughs, opening the car door for you and letting you get in. Toto's hand rests on your thigh the entire drive back to the hotel and he can barely keep his hands off of you to make it up to the room.

His lips on your neck, arms wrapped around you from behind, the two of you giggling as you attempt to open the door.

"It's not opening," you grumbled, trying to unlock the door.

Toto pulls on the handle a bit, pressing the key to it. "Finally," he says when the lock clicks, "let me unwrap my gift."

You giggled, rolling your eyes at your husband's cheesy use of the words, but you let him drag you into the room and drop you on the bed.

He's careful, even though he's drunk - his movements are exact as he undoes the buttons on your shirt, tossing it into the pile of clothes that's developing on the floor.

"Move your legs, baby." He whispers, moving them up to rest on the edge of the bed as he drops himself down onto his knees. You’ve propped yourself up on your elbows to look at him and Toto drags his fingers up your thigh, moving to your clothed pussy. 

“I like this,” he tells you, fingers rubbing over the red lace that covered your cunt.

You smile, “I know. Wore it just for you, daddy." The name makes the man smile.

Toto can feel your eyes on him, he reaches for the red lace you’re wrapped up in and tugs it down your legs, letting it fall to the floor with the rest of your clothes. He shifts to lay on his stomach between your legs, leaving a trail of kisses as he works his way up to your cunt. 

Your eyes meet his, he knows you’re looking. He wants you to look at him. 

Your hips buck when you feel his tongue against your clit, your hand gripping on his hair. He knew you like the back of his hand, gripping your thighs to keep them in place as his tongue lapped your clit. Your hips buck, your way of saying you want more.

Two fingers pushing into you, he glances up to see your head tossed back onto the pillows, eyes fluttering shut and your free hand groping your tit. 

Between his fingers and his tongue, your orgasm was teetering on the edge; he knew that much. 

He's sick and twisted and pulls his hands away, the sticky fingers wiped on your inner thighs. A whimper leaves your lips at the loss of fullness. 

"I hate you," you grumbled, your husband smiles as he kisses you, letting you taste yourself on his lips. "You love me."

"Sometimes."

He smiles, standing up to undo his pants. Toto pulls you back to the edge of the bed, one of your legs hitch on his hip as his hand wanders.

Your eyes fixed on his hand that was moving down your chest at the moment. Toto's lips follow his fingers, kissing and leaving little marks as he goes along his way. His tongue brushes over your nipple, your back arches involuntarily; your body betrays you. 

Your eyes find his and his hand rubbing along your thigh before pulling you toward the edge of the bed a little more before he pushes into you. The other ankle is over his shoulder now.

He fucks you the way he knows you like it; rough.

You were a sight to see; back arched off the bed, hair sprawled out in perfect curls, eyes closed and your head tilted back, his name tumbling from your lips for what felt like the millionth time.

He’s never seen a prettiest sight.

He feels you clench around him, the hand on his shoulder digs in, your nails leaving behind their own set of marks. His hand reaches between the two of you, his fingers finding your clit once again.

“Oh my god,” your hips bucked, his fingers matching the pace of his hips, your body rocking back and forth to get the most out of him.  

“C’mon pretty girl, want you to cum for me.” he says, knowing it won't be long more, especially not after him leaving you on the edge earlier.

He watches as your eyes flutter shut and he reaches you with his other hand, holding your jaw and pulling you up a little, your elbows holding up the weight of your body.

"Open your eyes, baby, look at me." He whispers, kissing you softly.

A few more sloppy thrusts and between that and his fingers, you’re over the edge.  He kisses you, muffling the noise you were making. The wetness wrapping around his cock, and with a few sloppy thrusts, he follows behind you. 

It takes you a second to gather yourself and register that your husband has collapsed on top of you. Your hands rubbing over his back.

"You okay?" you asked him quietly and the man nodded, moving so you two could lay comfortably.

Your leg draped over his, his arm wrapped over your shoulder. You catch him staring at you and you smile, nodding. "What?"

"We should come to London every year."

"Yeah," you nod, resting your head on his chest. "I'd like that."

---

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[bellsbookshop]

i owe you a black eye and two kisses

frank castle x reader

warnings: fluff, a sprinkling of angst, will they won’t they finally becoming something real, a hint of suggestiveness throughout, canon typical injuries

authors note: my first fic on this blog !! i’ve seen a whopping two edits of frank with ethel cain’s crush, and obviously i had to do something about that. enjoy, and any feedback [likes, comments, reblogs] are always appreciated ! reader isn’t explicitly gendered in this

wc: 1023

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

i owe you a black eye and two kisses

tell me when you wanna come and get ‘em

it’s a warm night, the barest of breezes ruffling the curtains from your open apartment windows. frank would huff at that, jaw set in that pissy little way you like as he bitches about you being safe. you’d snort, swatting at him lazily as you remind him you’re on the sixth floor. his grumbled complaints would go ignored, your eyes rolling every time you catch a word here and there through the mumbling. but frank’s not here, hasn’t been around in two weeks, and you’ve left the windows open nearly every night in a silent act of protest.

he never tells you what he does but you’re not an idiot — the split knuckles and blood tinged treads of his boots make it clear enough, and you’re sure that if you ever got the opportunity to peek under his layered shirts and jackets, you’d see an array of scars, begging to tell you a story. the pair of you have been dancing around each other for months now, neighbors in the sense that frank sometimes sleeps in the apartment down the hall from yours. you’re not sure where he rests his head the rest of the time, but a few days a week you can usually find him there, fixing something.

your first meeting was funny in the odd way, trying to lug a heavy furniture box up to your apartment. the elevator hardly ever works, so you’d chosen to tough it out, sweat dotting your brow as you dragged it up the stairs. between one second and the next the weight has all been lifted from your hands, and he was resting it easily on one broad shoulder with only a quiet “gonna break your back like that. which door ?” he wouldn’t hear a word of thanks either, just set it down where you’d told him and disappeared down the hall to his own apartment. it had taken a lot of work — frank was like a half feral stray, all teeth when you tried to befriend him — but over time you could comfortably call him a friend, always willing to help you with whatever issues your run down apartment was having.

i only want him if he says it first to me

i wanna ugh him in the back of his mom’s mercury

the attraction was immediate, a white hot flame curling in your stomach just at the sight of him; strong jaw and stronger arms, features rough in the handsomest way, and the low rasp of his voice was enough to bring you to your knees the first time you heard it. the feelings came later, little pinpricks of affection at the hidden softness that lurked behind every harsh face he made. you’d caught him feeding the strays out in the alley more than once, big hands impossibly gentle when he pet them, and you never really stood a chance, not when he’d fixed the loose lock on the lobby door because you’d admitted it made you feel unsafe.

but you’re careful, wary like you’re treading through a minefield; you can’t tell him everything running through your head, not if you wanted to keep him. he was a runner, obvious in every little thing he did, and you couldn’t scare him off for fear you’d never forgive yourself. you let him come to you, set the pace as slow or as fast as he wants — you’d only tell him how bad you wanted him if he wanted you just as badly first.

he looks like he works with his hands and smells like marlboro reds

it makes me so ugh and i can’t get enough of it

you’ve been missing him though, a soft ache in your chest that only grows larger every day he’s gone. you’ve kept your fingers crossed that whatever business he’s tending to hasn’t killed home before you’ve gotten the chance to care for him the way you want to, and that he’ll stain your doorway with his bloody boots soon. it’s a little ridiculous, pining for a man you know next to nothing about, but there’s something in his eyes that tells you he’ll be worth it, even if he doesn’t believe it himself.

as if he could sense your thoughts, there’s an all too familiar knock on your door, and despite the late hour you can’t help the smile that spreads over your face. it feels like every step takes forever, moving in slow motion till you’ve unlocked the door and there he is, a fresh black eye and a cut above his brow. he still manages to look unfairly handsome, especially when he pins you with that half smirk, lips curled around your name.

“doorframe still stickin’ ? i gotta take a look at that in the morning,” he says in lieu of a greeting, eyeing the rusting hinges with the sort of intensity he does everything else. it’s almost endearing, and you raise your brows at him with a quiet laugh. “is that what you came over for ? i don’t see you for two weeks and it’s the door that draws you in ?”

his resounding laugh is quiet but genuine, leaning against the doorframe to take you in. “nah sweetheart, not the door. was wondering … i could fix that for you. and that window frame that keeps rattling. install some better blinds, for privacy.”

you cross your arms, mimicking the way he’s leaning against the doorframe; like this you can really admire him, one hand coming up to gently trace the scrape above his brow. “kind of sounds like you’re staying this time,” you hum, and the smile you get out of him shines brighter than anything you’ve ever seen.

“was considering it. you offering to keep me ?” he asks, a cheeky streak to his tone, and all you can do is laugh, tugging him down by the collar of his jacket.

blood and scrapes and split knuckles be damned, you were keeping him. for as long as he’d let you, frank castle was all yours. ⋆˚࿔