#fully threaded bar

[fixdex-fastening-technology]

👍 Wedge anchor All production processes are inside our factory

[savingthrcw]

honestly my happy ending for Lucy (said as someone who only finished fallout 3 and her lone wanderer died) is that they get to reclaim their 3 vaults and use their resources while leaving the doors open, and she keeps going on quests until she retires and has a bunch of animals, the marriage she wanted, and friends who keep visiting her, after they truly started unraveling what is left of Vault Tec, and you can pry that from my cold dead hands

[unopenablebox]

i was so brave and i went to sewing time today and i made two terrible bags

[jeanboulet]

Not feeling great.

[abstractgart]

"knockout!", Thursday, ‎14 ‎July ‎2022, ‏‎11:29PM

now you might look at this and think "this is just a bunch of shapes made using the Ms Paint shapes tool!" and you would be correct. that is what this is. however i dunno i still like it, i mean sure it's just shapes in black and white but there's something about it. like wow. those Sure Are shapes Huh. it's titled knockout! because it reminded me of the way cartoon characters see stars flying around their heads when they get dizzy, except if that cartoon character had just been put in the femur breaker or something. also had the cuphead voice clip stuck in my head i think.

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ playing dangerous ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ hwang in-ho x player!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header!

˚ ༘♡ player 177. your assigned number. the three digits stitched in stark white thread on the coarse forest-green tracksuit now clinging to your body. you didn’t remember putting it on. you didn’t remember anything between falling asleep in your cramped apartment and waking up in this sterile, alabaster void. the tracksuit was loose in some places, tight in others, the fabric rough against your skin, a similar sensation for the discomfort that had settled deep into your bones.

˚ ༘♡ the air here was heavy, oppressive. tension hung over the room like a storm cloud, pressing down on everyone in its path. you sat on the thin mattress of your cot, the iron bars of the bedframe biting into your back as you leaned against them. your throat was dry, your lips chapped, and a faint crust of dried blood clung to the edge of your mouth, an unpleasant reminder of the chaos you’d barely survived. in your lap rested a cold metal bento box, unopened. the thought of eating its contents of rubbery eggs and starchy rice, made your stomach churn. it wasn’t hunger gnawing at you but dread. eating felt like acknowledging the possibility of another day here, in this place where death lingered so close you could almost taste it.

˚ ༘♡ death. it wasn’t something you’d ever had to think about seriously before. you were young, healthy enough, aside from the occasional winter flu. life’s struggles had been mundane, bills, work, nothing quite noteworthy. you’d thought financial trouble was the worst of your problems. how naive that seemed now. the sharp crack of gunfire still rang in your ears, and the memory of bodies crumpling mid-run played in an endless loop in your mind. every scream, every desperate gasp for air as life left someone’s body, was etched into your mind.

˚ ༘♡ this wasn’t life. it was survival, twisted into something grotesque. children’s games weaponized against desperate people for the amusement of others, with the promise of money as bait. one hundred million won for every life taken. your own life, reduced to a figure on a balance sheet. you’d survived the first game, the horrifying version of red light, green light, but at what cost? surely, after witnessing such carnage, the others would have voted to leave. you’d been certain of it. but the desperation was stronger. greed was stronger. most players had chosen to stay, ignoring the horrors of what lay ahead.

˚ ༘♡ “the next game,” player 456 had said, “will be cutting shapes out of dalgona candy. pick the triangle. it’s the easiest.” his voice had carried a strange conviction, and he claimed to know these games intimately, even to have won before. but how could you trust him? maybe he was lying, or maybe it didn’t matter. maybe none of you were meant to leave this place alive.

˚ ༘♡ “hey, 177!” the crude voice shattered your thoughts, dragging you back to the present.

˚ ༘♡ you glanced up to see player 230, “thanos,” as he called himself, sauntering toward you. his garish purple hair stood out like a bruise against the sterile backdrop, and his brightly colored nails flashed as he gestured. he’d painted them to match the infinity stones, leaning fully into the nickname he’d given himself. behind him, player 124 followed, all sharp angles and slicked-back hair, his grin as eager and sly as ever.

˚ ༘♡ “why didn’t you vote for one more game, huh?” thanos sneered, his voice laced with mockery. “you had no problem playing foul last round.”

˚ ༘♡ you frowned, rising slowly to your feet. “you and i both know it was an accident,” you replied steadily. “everyone was running for their lives. i didn’t block your way on purpose. we both finished in time, didn’t we? no harm done.”

˚ ༘♡ he rolled his eyes, his expression exaggerated and spontaneous. “yeah, sure, whatever. typical cold-hearted bitch behavior.”

˚ ༘♡ player 124 cackled at the insult, his laughter harsh and grating. “that’s right. cold, stuck-up bitch,” he echoed, his voice dripping with scorn.

˚ ༘♡ their taunts were designed to provoke you, but you refused to give them the satisfaction. your hands curled into fists, but you forced yourself to relax them, forced yourself to breathe. these two thrived on conflict, and the best thing you could do was walk away. you turned on your heel, ignoring their shouts, and started to move toward the far corner of the room.

˚ ༘♡ “hey! i’m talking to you!” thanos barked, stumbling after you with heavy, uncoordinated steps. he didn’t get far. player 001 stepped into his path, his expression stoic and unyielding.

˚ ༘♡ “don’t you boys have any respect?” player 001 asked, his voice quiet but firm. there was something about him, an emanation of authority that made everyone within earshot pause.

˚ ༘♡ thanos bristled, his arrogance faltering for just a moment. “mind your own damn business, old man,” he snapped, jerking forward.

˚ ༘♡ player 001 didn’t flinch. when thanos lunged at him, the older man moved with startling precision, sidestepping the punch with ease. he grabbed thanos by the wrist mid-swing and twisted sharply, forcing a guttural yelp from the younger man as his knees buckled. with a swift motion, player 001 yanked him forward and drove an elbow into his chest, the dull, cracking impact echoing in the room. thanos collapsed onto the floor, clutching his ribs and coughing violently.

˚ ༘♡ player 124 scrambled forward, his face twisted in fury. “bastard!” he yelled, charging with reckless abandon. player 001 turned just in time, catching the younger man by the collar and using his momentum against him. a sharp twist and a well-placed shove sent player 124 sprawling into the edge of a nearby cot, the metal frame rattling as he hit it with a thud.

˚ ༘♡ the fight wasn’t over. thanos struggled to his feet, his face contorted in pain and rage. “you’re gonna regret that, old man,” he spat, lunging again. this time, player 001’s response was more deliberate. he ducked under thanos’s wild swing, stepped inside his reach, and delivered a devastating blow to his lower torso. the younger man doubled over, gasping, before player 001 swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor once more.

˚ ༘♡ not finished, player 124 staggered up again, charging at player 001 with fists raised. the older man sidestepped and grabbed player 124 by the arm, wrenching it behind his back and forcing him to the ground with a hoarse cry of pain. he planted a knee firmly against player 124’s spine, holding him there as the younger man squirmed and cursed.

˚ ༘♡ thanos, blood now trickling from his nose, crawled toward his friend, wheezing apologies and swearing obscenities all at once. player 001 released player 124 with a shove, stepping back as the two younger men lay crumpled together on the floor.

˚ ༘♡ the room was silent, every player watching in stunned awe. then, slowly, the silence broke into cheers and clapping. player 001 straightened his posture, his expression as calm and inscrutable as ever. without a word, he turned and walked back to where player 456 and a few others were gathered, leaving the two troublemakers to nurse their wounds.

˚ ༘♡ you hesitated, then followed him. when you reached his side, you spoke softly. “i wanted to thank you, sir. if you hadn’t stepped in, they wouldn’t have stopped harassing me and disturbing the peace. you’ve done us all a favor.”

˚ ༘♡ player 001 turned to look at you, his dark eyes meeting yours briefly before he nodded. he said nothing, his expression unreadable. there was something deeply weary about him, a weight that seemed to press down on his shoulders. his posture was rigid, his face lined with exhaustion, and though he was relatively handsome, it was the kind of masculine appeal eroded by time and hardship.

˚ ༘♡ you wondered what had brought him here, what had led him to the point where he’d chosen, or been pushed into, to enter this place. you didn’t ask. prying into his past would be an impolite gesture and an indignity for what he had done for you.

a/n: my first squid game fanfiction! i definitely want to write more for hwang in-ho in the future so let me know if you have any requests! 🤍

[nochepsicodelica]

You and Toji are sitting at a table at a bar, talking about different things that went on throughout your days over some drinks. Toji tells you about how Shiu's been a real asshole lately, because his marriage is hanging on by a thread and he hasn't gotten laid in almost a month. He gives you a look that you interpret as him saying 'thank fuck that's not us' to which you respond with a little smirk.

When it's your turn, you tell him about how the new hire broke the copy machine, knocked over and broke the water gallon for the water dispenser, and crashed into someone, spilling hot coffee all over their shirt, all in the course of one day.

"That poor fucker's cursed," Toji says, amusement riddling his expression as he brings his glass of whiskey to his lips.

"He looked like he really needed a hug by the end of the day," you add, biting back a smile, before you take a sip of your own drink.

"Tell me you didn't," Toji says, taking in the seemingly telling look on your face. "Ma."

"I'm kidding. It's jokes, baby. I have no interest in hugging someone I haven't spoken a single word to."

Toji flicks your forehead, watching with a grin as you bring a hand up to rub the sting away. "Gotta piss, be right back, doll. Want another drink before I come back?"

"I'll wait for you to finish yours," you say, to which he nods before standing up from his seat.

"Be right back," Toji repeats, affectionately setting a heavy hand on your head, before he heads off in the direction of the restrooms.

You pull your phone out of your pocket and scroll through your socials while you wait. Altogether, Toji was gone for no longer than four minutes, and yet somehow, that was enough time for a rando to pull a chair up to your little table and start a conversation with you.

"Hey," he starts. "Why are you sitting here looking all lonely?"

You turn your head to face the person with the unfamiliar voice, slightly widening your eyes as if to question if he's talking to you. He looks at you with raised eyebrows, awaiting your response. "Oh, i'm not here alone. My boyfriend is in the bathroom," you respond, with a polite smile, before returning your attention to your phone.

"Ah. What kind of man leaves a pretty thing like you by herself in a place like this?" The stranger says, in a tone that almost seems pitiful towards you.

You look at him again and attempt to keep your expression neutral. "He'll be back any second now. He's just taking a piss, i'll be fine. Unless you're here to make things troubling for me."

The man chuckles, entertained by your quick shift in tone. "With a feisty attitude like that and a pretty mouth to keep up, it seems like you want me to get you in trouble."

You furrow your eyebrows, blatantly offended by his inappropriate insinuation. It's disturbing to see how he turned your warning into something sexual.

"I already told you, I have a boyfriend. Try someone else," you respond, no longer hiding your irritation.

Toji scans the room for the table you're sitting at, locating you and who-the-fuck in three seconds. This man looks awfully cozy with you, leaning in close every time he speaks to you, so he doesn't stand around any longer and quickly makes his way back to you and this new "friend".

"You sure you don't want another drink, doll?" Toji asks, sitting down in front of you, again, his gaze darting between you and this pocket square looking man. There's a difference between your demeanor from before he left and now. You clearly aren't comfortable, anymore.

"That's it? That is your supposed boyfriend?" The man asks, attempting to minimize Toji by referring to him as if he's nothing in comparison to himself. "Oh, princess. You see this watch?" He asks, raising the cuff of his sleeve to fully reveal his golden watch. "Four thousand dollars, and that's chump change."

You look at Toji and pull his hand into your shaky one, giving him a forced smile. Toji keeps his eyes on yours as the stranger continues spewing arrogant sludge about how much money he makes a year and how even the luxury car he has parked outside didn't put the smallest dent in his wallet.

"You would have it so good with me, baby," he continues blabbering. His hand goes to your wrist, a gesture that Toji quickly puts an end to by aggressively shoving the man's hand away, your empty glass clattering on the table from the force. Toji would have snapped the man's wrist and twisted his hand off, but he didn't want to scare you with the bloodshed. He feels like he's buzzing from the anger bubbling inside, and surely it won't be long before he acts out.

"Don't fucking touch her," Toji spits, glaring at the man with an expression that would have put him six feet under, if looks could kill.

Your heartbeat is in your ears and your blood is boiling. This man is disgusting for being persistent towards someone who doesn't want him. It's masochism, at this point, with the amount of times that you've made it clear that you're not interested.

The man snorts, snobbishly. "He brought you here, of all places. Even just glancing at him, you can tell this cheap ass place is all he can afford. He'll never be able to give you everything you want, so just come with me, doll face."

You rip your hand out of Toji's grasp and stand from your chair, delivering a resounding blow to the man's already hideous face. Tables and chairs wobble as he tries to keep his balance, but when you quickly strike him again, hard enough to increase the pain you felt in your knuckles with that first hit, you manage to knock him onto the ground.

"Fuck you, you fucking asshole. You don't know shit!" You grit out, dropping down to try and land another hit to the man's bleeding face. By now, Toji is behind you, restraining your arms and pulling you back as a small crowd begins to form to observe the commotion.

"Ma, come on. Let's just go."

"Let me dent his fucking face in, Toji," you mutter, writhing in his grip.

The vile man manages to sit up, dabbing his fingertips against his busted lip. Though there is red blossoming on his face, his lips still form an amused, twisted smile. He laughs as he watches you get reeled back by Toji, seething as you are dragged away like a child having a meltdown in the middle of a store.

"Hey-- Hey, I said let's go," Toji says, his tone sharper when you continue to try to break out of his hold to fight the idiotic sociopath.

You take a deep breath and stop, willingly letting Toji take you away from this chaos you created in his defense. His hand rests on the nape of your neck, as he guides you through the stuffy bar and leads you outside to the car.

"Stop pacing," Toji says, watching as you threaten to make the asphalt beneath your feet waste away with every step you take in your heated state.

"Fucking asshole, dickhead, motherfucker." You groan, loudly, furiously, before covering your face with your hands. "It's fine, it's fine," you mumble to yourself.

"Then, stop pacing," he repeats, watching on as you walk the same steps, over and over, as if you're on autopilot. "Ma, eyes. Eyes." His hands go to your shoulders, manually forcing you to halt your movement. "Listen to me. I said eyes."

"I'm so... I can't stand still," you say, weakly.

"Stop looking around. Right here," Toji instructs, lifting one hand from your shoulder and pointing two fingers at his eyes. You release a shaky puff of air and hold his gaze as best as you can.

"Talk when you're ready," he says, following your eyes whenever they derail from his.

You aren't ready soon enough. You feel like your heart is trying to burst out of your chest and the adrenaline coursing through you isn't helping at all. Your hand hurts. Your knuckles feel bruised and they're bloody. The night might be ruined, but you felt your reaction was the only way to release the pain you felt when that nothing started talking the way he did about Toji. All you can think to do is hug Toji to prevent yourself from crying about your cause for attacking the gross man. It's all so much. You've never felt so strongly for someone, to the point where you hit a stranger for insulting them. It's scary how Toji brings that defensive, yet, offensive side out of you.

Strong, heavy arms reciprocate your embrace, keeping your tense body close. You feel warm and safe, his scent and the pressure of his hold managing to slowly calm your unsteady heartbeat. After a few seconds of quietness, you turn your head and rest the side of your face on him, finally prepared to speak.

"I didn't like how he was talking about you, Toji. He was talking shit even before you came back, and I hated it. I hated it so much, that I felt nauseous and if I hadn't done something, I would have been sick."

Toji sighs, not out of disappointment or feelings of that sort, but because you seeking out danger for his sake, was not something he ever wanted to see.

"Doll, you know how much I love you."

This sounds like a layer of sugar preceding a talking to. You're trying not to be nervous before the scolding even begins, but you feel the need to brace yourself, as well.

"I love you, too," you mumble.

Toji knows it. He's known it all along, and the events that transpired tonight were just another way of you proving your love and showing how much he matters to you.

"Want you to look at me," he says, lowering his arms on your back, allowing you to make the space necessary to give him your attention. He offers you a soft smile. "Don't get all fidgety on me after you just ripped a stranger's face open."

"I feel like you're about to yell at me," you say, lowly.

That makes him want to laugh, but he keeps his amusement to a minimum, since you're clearly anticipating something terrible.

"Nah. When have I ever raised my voice at you?"

"Never."

"Exactly. Never, and I won't start now, but I want you to get this through your pretty head... It's not your job to beat people up for me."

"I know, but-"

Toji shakes his head. "Hold on, mama. Let me finish talking, then it'll be your turn."

Your heart feels like it's in the depths of your stomach, but you nod, and allow him to continue talking.

"I'm not mad at you, i'm not gonna yell at you. Just wanna keep you safe, is all. That guy was already a fuckin' weirdo, harassing you like that and trying to get you to go with him while I was right there. I wouldn't be surprised if he was into hitting women, too, if he's so comfortable with making them uncomfortable."

It's quiet while you think of what to say. You don't want this to escalate into something that turns you against each other, when it started out as an act of love. You could argue about how you did this to defend him, but in the end, you know his own need to protect you, will stomp all over your arguments.

"I'm sorry we had to leave, but i'm not sorry for the reason behind it. I don't regret what I did."

"Ma..."

"No, Toji. He didn't even know you and yet he still said things that aren't fair." Your voice quiets down, the beginnings of stronger emotions threatening to outwardly reveal themselves. "He insulted you. He questioned your abilities as my boyfriend when he saw me alone— even after I told him you just went to the bathroom. He judged you superficially, he said you can't give me everything I want and--" you pause, interrupted by a shaky inhale and the painful lump in your throat. "Sorry," you mumble, when the first set of tears roll down your cheeks.

"No, you're alright," Toji says, in response, his warm hands coming up to cup your cheeks, thumbs wiping away your fleeing tears. There's a small pinch in his brows. Why are you crying? It's something he can't ask you, because he knows that if he makes a big spectacle out of it, you'll end up drowning in your tears and shutting down everything you have to say. He resorts to keeping your cheeks dry and encouraging you to keep talking.

"Go on, mama."

You sniff, before picking up where you left off. "I don't care about all that, Toji. I don't care where we go to spend time together, because we're together. I need you, not for you to buy me things or take me to fancy places. That's not what I'm with you for."

Your heart is beating fast, again, its rhythm no longer controlled by fear or nerves, but instead the focus that Toji has on you. He's good at holding eye contact with you, something that occasionally gets distracting if you become too aware of it. You notice that his expression is softer. Maybe it's your brief flash of tears or the way you are always subconsciously finding a way to indirectly recite some of the reasons for why you love him.

"I love you, Toji. That means I won't just sit around and let someone talk about you like you're worthless. And I know, I know you can handle things like this on your own and you don't need me, but it was hard to listen to that."

You pause, as if to give him a break from your bulldozing heart. Silence takes over the moment, both of you just looking at each other. Toji's speechlessness has you wondering if you spilled too much of your heart out to him. You know some things are better left to be figured out, such as the range of a person's love, and yet you just poured without measure. "You can call me crazy if you want to."

Toji's shit-eating grin is unexpected, but it's definitely a sight that lifts some of the heaviness you feel in your chest.

"You love me," Toji says, still smiling like a doofus. He knows your serious facade will crack if he looks at you like this for long enough. He can already see a shift in the expression of your eyes and the way your lips are pressing together just a little more. He tilts his head slightly, a gesture that pushes you even further towards that pretty smile he wants to see. When you finally crack and give into his charm, you do so with a mutter of 'you're so dumb.'

"I'm glad that's what you got out of my rambling," you say, wholeheartedly and in better spirits. Toji pulls you in, this time, his soothing warmth and familiar scent tangling around you, again. His chin rests on top of your head and his arms secure themselves around you, tightly.

"I'm not gonna call you crazy, ma. It's not what I think. Also, don't go saying things that aren't true. I do need you," Toji says, his voice level kept at an intimate volume, as if there are other people there in the parking lot with you. His words are solely meant for you to hear anyway and getting them to you in this manner ensures that you won't go home with your heart feeling heavy, after a talk that was meant to comfort you.

"You know, I don't care what other people think— and that's not to say I don't appreciate you throwing a few punches for my sake. You're a sweetheart and you care so much, but if it's a stranger saying some unimportant, dumb shit, it takes a lot for it to actually get to me. If it really bothered me, they'd be gone."

"Yeah... I know," you mumble, into his shirt, knowing you would do it again and again— countless times. You loosen your arms around Toji and he does the same, his hands dragging towards your waist after you separate.

"How's that hand?" Toji asks, picking your wrist up before you can even respond. He whistles at the sight of the slight swelling and the dry specks of crimson spotted over your knuckles.

"A little tender," you say, feeling a tinge of fear when his other hand lifts off your waist to feel the damage.

"Looks real good on your pretty hand," he says, dragging his index finger over the protruding bones of your hand.

"Does it?" You ask, your barely there smile falling when you wince at the little bit of pressure Toji applies.

"No," he responds, bringing it up to his lips and pressing a kiss to the sore area. You wince again when his thumb drags over your skin with slightly more pressure than before. "It doesn't. We'll ice it when we get home, alright?" He lets up on the torturous touching, but keeps your hand in his. The words aren't meant to hurt you. He doesn't mean them and he hopes he communicates that with the way he still opts to hold your hand. Your hands will always be pretty to him, he just can't say that to you, right now. Not if it serves as the smallest bit of encouragement for you to repeat what happened earlier, in the future.

"Okay." You nod.

"Gimme a kiss and we can go home or wherever, if you wanna stay out."

You tilt your head up and wait for his lips to meet yours. It's a gentle brush of lips, but the second Toji's hands start slipping under the back of your sweater and your shirt, you know it's going to be more than a single kiss. You can feel the night's cold wind nipping at your skin, as his hands go higher up, his fingertips reaching just below the hooks of your bra. To your surprise, he unhooks the garment, causing you to quickly press your hands to your chest when the cups loosen, to prevent them from fully sliding down.

"Toji," you manage to utter out during the wave of kisses. You turn your head, receiving a kiss that was meant for your lips, on your cheek.

"Yeah... I think we should go home," he murmurs, against your skin. "Maybe we can rock the car a little bit before we go, hm?" Toji smirks when you let out that flustered giggle he's so familiar with. He presses another kiss to your cheek before you turn to face him, again.

"Okay, but let's not blow it all here. We have a nice and comfortable bed at home. Let's add another good night to it."

You don't miss the way Toji's lustfully lidded, green eyes, keep glancing down at your hands on your chest, or how he's mindlessly caressing your bare waist, under your shirt.

"Alright, ma." He pulls out his car keys and with the press of a button, the car unlocks with a beep and the brief, dull sound of flipping locks. "Get inside."

[readwritealldayallnight]

There are less than ten minutes left until midnight when you realize you can’t find Ghost anywhere

The local bar you and the rest of the 141 are visiting tonight is packed tight, on account of it being only a few minutes before the new year

The Lieutenant had mentioned stepping out for a smoke a while back, but had yet to return to the table you were all occupying

It was silly, but a small part of you had been harbouring some hope that you might get a kiss at midnight this year

It wouldn’t be so silly, if you were hoping to have that kiss with anyone other than Ghost

And yet, that was exactly the man you’d had your eye on all night and all year if we’re being honest-

“I’m going to run to the ladies room really quick.” You murmur quickly, hopping out of your bar stool before anyone can realize you’re slipping away, their attention focused on some story Soap is recounting enthusiastically

You work your way through the densely packed crowd until you make it to the back entrance, finding the door propped open with a brick

Carefully pushing it open and poking your head out, you scan your gaze around the back alley until your eyes land on none other than the tall, dark figure of your Lieutenant, leaning against the brick wall a ways down further away from the light, the smoke from his cigarette wafting from his hand

Wordlessly, you make your way towards him, his attention never straying from the hole he’s currently staring into the wall ahead of him, even as you step up next to him and lean your own shoulders against the bricks

Only when you let out a small sigh does his head instinctually turn towards you, even just the slightest fraction, and he slightly raises his cigarette towards you in offering, bringing it up to his own lips to inhale when you shake your head

You can’t help the way your eyes naturally follow the movement, zeroing in on the pair of lips you’ve spent so much time thinking about and such little time ever seeing with your own two eyes

You’re certain it must be the liquid courage still running through you that prompts you to speak up, otherwise you don’t think you’d ever be brave or foolish enough to look him in the eyes and say, “Hey Ghost, when was the last time you had a midnight kiss?”

You only know he’s heard you because he cuts off his inhale abruptly, eyes snapping towards you, exposing his genuine surprise for only a split second before he’s recovering already, pulling the cigarette from his mouth and letting the smoke out, taking those precious seconds to absorb your words, before carefully choosing to say:

“What are you fuckin’ goin’ on about now?”

“You know,” you quickly reply before you can feel too embarrassed to back down. “A kiss. On New Years Eve. At midnight. People do it all the time. When was the last time you-”

“Never.�� He replies bluntly, throwing his cigarette butt onto the ground next to him, stomping it out with his boot before turning to face you fully

“Oh. Really? Because I-”

“Is tha’ what you came all the way out here abou’? A bloody kiss at midnight?” A chill runs down your spine at the sound of Ghost’s rough, Manchester accent just uttering the word kiss. Your eyes are locked on his lips as they form around the word, failing to notice how his own eyes are now glancing down at your own mouth

“Fuckin’ hell- come here then.” He playfully rolls his eyes before pushing off the wall, taking the small step it takes to close the distance between you, his one hand coming to pull his mask up just a little further until it’s resting over the bridge of his nose, while his other hand is slipping behind the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you towards him without hesitation

Your hands land on his shoulders, reaching up on your tip toes when he slots his lips over yours, just as you hear the crowd inside the bar chanting, “…three, two one, happy new year!”

You’re not sure which are louder, the fireworks erupting outside on the streets or the ones going off in your head as you kiss Ghost back

Before you know it, he’s pulling away from you, leaving you breathless where you stand

He allows himself one last glance down at your lips before he’s pulling his balaclava back into place, reaching an arm around your waist to turn you back around towards the propped door

“Come on, pretty. You’ll catch a cold. Ya didn’t take my jacket I left for ya.” He says, paired with a sneaky smack to your ass as he leads you back inside, where there are three men waiting, and though they’d been occasionally entertaining other women throughout the night, they each had realized they couldn’t find you as midnight approached

[tefibetancourt]

tefi couldn’t believe it. after ten years of living in los angeles and a childhood in a bustling exurb, she had come to blue harbor and become a small town barfly. the sort of person she used to make fun of: the washed up, dried up, undesirable woman at the bar that didn’t know when it was time to go home and had no one to love her. all she needed was an ill-fitting crop top and dirty cowboy hat to complete the look, then sit at the pour house or o’shea’s all night, perched on the stool like a sad little thrown, and cry about all her lost loves. what a terrifying fucking thought! to avoid fully becoming a horrid barfly, tefi made sure her hair was silky straight and donned her best vintage denim halter jumpsuit before she took the bus to weaver ridge.

it was early in the evening, so she wasn’t surprised to see the bar was practically empty, save for the bartender at the ready. he looked bored. tefi smiled, tossing her hair over her shoulder. sauntering over, she easily slid onto the stool and folded her arms on top of the bar. “a brandy alexander, please.” her order was based less on actually liking the drink, more of emulating an erotic thriller she had once seen called tattoo. she batted her eyelashes sweetly at the bartender. “calahan said i’m not banned, so you’ve gotta serve me.” tefi had paid for the bar stool she broke a few weeks ago, so she figured she had a clean slate now.

WHERE: the pour house. WHO: alec & OPEN. [ @bluestarters ]

Alec didn't love these early evening shifts when the sunlight still filtered in and a tumbleweed was more likely to roll by than a group of people ready to lavish him in tips, but here he was. Alone. He didn't even care so much about the money— he was bored. Alec flourished in social settings and could get downright destructive when left to his own devices. So after the third time he ran the beat up rag over the counter top and still no one came through those doors, his eyes began to rove over the shabby little dive for something to get into.

And then, sweet deliverance. The door swung open on a creaky hinge and Alec spread his arms like a model on The Price is Right. "Ay, welcome. Grab a seat before they're all gone." Every empty stool seemed to wait in anticipation, echoing his desire for company. He leaned against the counter, braced by his elbows, and smiled. "What can I get ya?"

[oflgtfol]

like it sucks so badly genuinely i think ive only had two upper level astronomy professors who i actually enjoyed because all my other professors both suck at teaching AND are so fucking MEAN i just. i cannot understate how condescending and rude they are. like sir i think if the class average is a fucking TWENTY THREE PERCENT (23%!!!!) then something is WRONG !!! but oh no we just suck ass. i mean the questions were so simple maybe we're just stupid. or if you ask a question clarifying something they'll make fun of you for it and then even continue bringing up your stupid question in later classes to keep adding insult to injury. and then on top of all this the university registrar just hates our asses and refuses to schedule these upper level classes at any other time than at 8 in the fucking morning every single semester every single year. just genuinely sucks the soul out of astronomy for me i cant enjoy it the same way anymore

[euphoriaslux]

two’s a party.

summary: you recently transferred to stanford, and decide to tutor a tennis player in your class. he has a friend. severe indecency ensues.

word count: 3.3k

warnings : smut, threesomes, f!oral receiving, swearing, smoking, drinking. slight cuck energy if you squint (i’m sorry ((no i’m not))). no challengers spoilers!

a/n: this fic got away from me big time but this movie has rotted my brain and as a result i have written utter debauchery that i will not apologize for. just had to get this out of my head, enjoy!

-

stanford science hall. monday , march 3.

You swear the last thing you’ll hear before your body is lowered into your grave is the process of lactic acid breakdown.

It’s 2:30 PM. Kinesiology 189 with Professor Wilson, a lanky middle-aged man with a PhD in exercise science and a half-grown beard that you don’t think will ever fully grow in, is almost over. He’s teaching Extended Studies of the Human Body in a humid classroom filled with student-athletes, most of whom are trying to stay awake, trying to hide that they’re taking a nap, or making no attempt to hide that they’re on their phones. You don’t really blame any of them, because the professor’s voice is so soft and monotone that it feels like he’s begging everyone to pay attention to anything but him. You’ve managed to stay somewhat on course with the thread of today’s lecture, the notebook in front of you filled with scribbles of incomplete molecular structures and somewhat legible drawings of the muscular anatomy of a hamstring.

This class is required for your biology major since you’re on a pre-medicine track. You don’t know why you’re doing it, the whole doctor thing, but you’ve developed a weird fixation for this class. The functionality of the body, how muscles stretch and tear with each movement, and how amino acids work to build them back even bigger.

And, possibly because of the tennis player who sits four rows ahead of you every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

His last name is Donaldson. You know because of the faded label on the massive bag he throws on the floor every time he walks into class, at least ten minutes late with a backward Stanford Tennis cap on his head. His first name remains a mystery, partly because he never talks in class, and mainly because you’ve made no attempt to speak to him. You like to think it’s because you’re so focused on the curriculum.

Professor Wilson knows your name, though, since you’re in his office hours every Thursday at 11 A.M. In part because he gives out most of the answers to his homework, and because you just transferred to Stanford your last year and very desperately need a letter of recommendation for medical school. Hence why you agreed to tutor a student with lower than 60% in the class during one of your meetings. And why everyone in the class was staring at you right now.

“... first come first serve, so reach out to her sooner rather than later.”

You give a tight-lipped smile, glancing around the room. Most people have looked away, back to their distraction of choice, but you meet eyes with the fluffy blonde-haired tennis player.

stanford library. wednesday, march fifth.

It’s 11 A.M., and you feel like your brain is about to explode if you look at another practice set.

“Hey”.

Your head whips around to the harsh whisper, only to be met with the blue-eyed mystery from your class. He has that large bag slung over his shoulder, with the end of a tennis racket peeking out of it. His hair is slightly stuck to his face, and his compression tee is slick to his chest like a second skin.

“Hi,” you whisper back. He smiles before tossing his bag on the floor and sitting in the chair across from you, either unaware of or completely ignoring the glares he’s receiving from the other students studying.

“You know,” he pulls out some kind of nutrition bar from his bag, unwrapping it and taking an aggressive bite, “for someone advertising their services, you’re pretty hard to find.”

“You’re in Mr. Wilson’s class, right?” you ask, hoping your subdued voice will remind him that he’s in a notoriously quiet place. He hums, pointing at you with his half-eaten snack.

“And I’m trying not to fail, but you didn’t leave your number anywhere in the classroom, and you bolt after every class. So how am I supposed to patronize your tutoring services…” he trails off, his volume the same level as when he walked in. You furrow your brows as he leans back into the chair.

“That’s when you say who you are.”

You feel a burn on the back of your neck as you tell him your name. He glances down towards the problem set you’ve nearly finished.

“How do you turn in any of those, I can’t get halfway through one of them.”

You pause for a moment before leaning slightly across the table to whisper:

“This new weird thing called studying. I think it just got approved by the CDC.”

“Very funny,” he shakes his head as reaches for your binder with your class schedule printed out on the front of it.

“Why are you taking so many bio classes?”

“Because I’m a biology major,” you can’t help the sarcasm dripping from your voice, and he looks at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Sorry, you’re making this too easy for me,” you raise your hands in conceit.

“I have practice every day at five so you can tutor me for like an hour beforehand,” he says before standing up, crunching up the silver wrapper and stuffing it into the front pocket of his blue jeans. You scoff at his sentence.

“Well, thank you for so generously fitting me into your schedule,” you roll your eyes, turning the page in your textbook. He grins.

“Tell the coach you’re there for Art. They’ll let you through.”

stanford tennis courts. friday, march 7th.

It’s 4 PM, and the California sun is sweltering. Your shorts feel like they’ve become a part of your legs, and your bag feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. By the time you make it to the tennis courts Art is already on the green concrete, shirtless with beads of sweat dripping down his face and chest. You hear his grunts as he sprints across the court, hitting the ball toward a slightly taller brunette with dangerously short red shorts. You watch them at the entrance for a few minutes, slightly entranced as the two play so seamlessly, as if they know every move the other person is going to make. You force your eyes away as you walk up the bleachers, stepping over leftover water bottles and chip bags to sit down and grab your notes from your backpack. It takes a couple more minutes for Art to notice you, yelling your name after he turns around to grab a ball his partner had hit particularly hard. You wave, and he says something you can’t hear to the brunette before the two of them jog across the courts and up the stands to where you are, blocking the sun as the two stand side by side.

“Who’s your friend?” you ask as you stuff the problem set you were working on in between the pages of your notebook.

“I’m Patrick,” he says, with a toothy smile and his ears poking out from under his hair. He has a bit more of a boyish charm to him than Art does, whose eyes are glued to his brunette counterpart.

“Are you in Mr. Wilson’s class too?”

Patrick opens his mouth to answer but Art speaks first, slightly pushing his friend with his shoulder as he says “He doesn’t go to Stanford, too busy being a tennis pro.”

Patrick rolls his eyes but his smile doesn’t leave his face. You notice how different this Art feels from the one in the library, how direct his playfulness is and how close he and Patrick stand together, their sweaty torsos nearly melding together.

Interesting.

“Like, Andre Agassi level pro?” you smile as the two of them laugh. Patrick raises the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat off of his forehead, and you can’t help but take a glance at the exposed skin just above his waistband.

“Sorry, he’s like the only tennis player I know.”

“No, no I’m taking that as a compliment that you think I’m on the level of Agassi. No takebacks if you see me play,” Patrick points at you.

“Will do,” you salute, turning over to Art.

“You ready to study?” you ask him as he makes a comically loud groan, his head falling back. Patrick laughs, reaching over to ruffle his friends hair.

“You do remember that’s why I’m here, right? Midterms are in two weeks.”

“I definitely have not forgotten that.” he says. You purse your lips just as Patrick’s eyes seem to light up.

“I’m staying at the Courtyard Hotel for the weekend. You two can come over and study, I need to review my last match anyway. Kill two birds with one stone,” Patrick suggests.

“Just studying?”

“Just studying,” Art says, wrapping his arm around his friend's shoulder. You glance between the two of them, trying to decipher the unspoken communication they seem to be doing. But you can’t crack it, so you shrug.

“Sure.”

“Let us finish this set, and then you’ll have me all to yourself. Sound fair?”

“Wow, what a privilege. Don’t take too long, it’s hell on Earth out here!” you yell the last part as Art jogs down the steps and back down towards the net. You look up once you realize that the sun is still being blocked, and Patrick is still standing in front of you.

“You ever play?” he grins, flipping the tennis racket in his hand.

“Tennis? God, no, that would not be a pretty sight. I’ll stick to what I’m good at,” you gesture to the books and notes in your lap. Patrick nods.

“If you ever want to learn, I could teach you sometime, you know if-” he’s cut off by Art yelling his name, and you both glance to see him with his hands on his hips.

“Go, don’t keep your boyfriend waiting,” you wave him off, and you swear you can see him blushing. Must have been the glare.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder as he runs toward Art.

courtyard hotel. saturday, march 8.

It’s 11 pm. There’s a cold shiver in the elevator as you wait to get to the fourth floor, your tennis shoes tapping against the floor as one hand plays with the handle of the pack of beer in your hand while the other crumples and re-crumples the piece of paper with the hotel room number Patrick scribbled on it.

what are you doing?

You don’t have time to think about the consequences of your actions as the robotic voice signals that you’re on the fourth floor, the elevator doors fluttering open. It’s like your feet have a mind of their own, as you find yourself almost mindlessly wandering through the hotel halls until you’re planted in front of room 4B. You raise your hand to knock on the door but before you can make contact with the wood it’s thrust open, and Patrick is standing behind it. His dark hair is slightly tousled around his face, his striped shirt unbuttoned and his black boxer briefs low on his waist. He’s smiling, that same big smile as before, but his face is a little flushed, a gentle pink hue touching his cheeks. The two of you don’t say anything for a few seconds, as if you were both testing to see who would concede first to acknowledge the other’s presence. You raise the pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon in your right hand.

“I brought studying fuel.”

You were never good at waiting.

Patrick laughs before he moves slightly out of the way to allow you to walk into his room. It’s small, with a queen-sized bed and a tiny desk, and the A/C emits an odd rumbling sound as it smacks against the window. Clothes and scorecards are strewn across the floor, and the scent of cigarettes permeates the room. You place the alcohol on the floor before deciding to sit on the bed, kicking off your shoes as you cross your legs. Patrick seems to stall for a moment, smiling to himself before closing the door behind him. He doesn’t lock the door, but you didn’t notice.

“Art’s not here yet?” you ask, watching as Patrick walks over and tears open the cardboard case, cracking open a can. Taking a sip, he leans against the desk as he smiles.

“Art can be bad with time.”

“As I’ve noticed,” you reach your hand out to motion towards the drink and Patrick hands it to you, staring as you take a large sip.

“Well,” you wipe the side of your mouth, “I told him to bring the topics he wanted to study, so I guess we can’t do anything until he gets here.”

Patrick nods with a slight pout, his fingers playing with the pop tab of the can. “I guess we can’t.”

“How’s tennis… stuff,” you laugh as you finish the question, not sure of exactly what to say.

Patrick seems to tense a little at the mention of the sport, moving over to sit next to you on the bed. His knee grazes your leg and you feel a slight buzz at the contact as he takes the beer from your hand.

“I’m kinda fucking it up right now,” he says, and you furrow your brows.

“How? You were like, really good yesterday.”

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. He hands you the beer and you finish it off, placing the empty can at the bottom of your feet.

“I’m good with Art. It feels so fucking natural and easy with him. But in my other matches, I don’t know. I just … can’t replicate it.”

You nudge him with your leg.

“Sounds like you two were made to play tennis together.”

He makes a noise of agreement, his hands slowly moving to ghost over your thigh.

“You and Art are pretty close?” you ask as he plays with the bottom hem of your shorts, but he doesn’t say anything. You take his silence as a yes.

“Do you ever get jealous?”

“Of Art?” he asks, almost incredulously. You shrug.

“Yeah, or jealous of the girls he’s with. Either or.”

Patrick sits on that for a few moments before smirking.

“What’s mine is mine, and what’s his is mine.”

You laugh at that, a real deep laugh, and Patrick giggles next to you, the both of you tipsy from the can of beer you finished. You reach over and put your hand on his flushed face, rubbing your hand across his cheek.

“What were you doing before I came?” you feel his face warm even more against your skin as you position yourself closer to him.

“Practicing- or, sorry, rereading my scorecards from my last match.”

You tutted as you moved your hand to the back of his neck, gently running your hands through his hair.

“You can tell me the truth, Patrick.”

He turns his head to press a gentle kiss to the palm of your hand before looking up at you as if to check if that was too much. Whatever your expression is gives him the confidence to move down to your neck, his tongue licking your skin.

“I think you know.”

You feel a pull in your lower stomach at his words, muffled by his mouth nipping at the sensitive spot just below your ear, and he sucks hard enough for you to put your hand around on his face at the pressure. Pulling his face up, the two of you stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, and his eyes glance toward your lips. You wanted to wait, to make him beg and plead for it, but your body seemingly pulled you forward as your pressed your mouth onto his.

You were really quite bad at waiting.

He tastes like tobacco and faintly of the fruit medley in the dining hall, and you sigh as his lips interlock with yours and his hand grabs the back of your neck, pressing you into him. The kiss gets messy and hard, his tongue gliding over your bottom lip and into your mouth as you lift your leg to straddle Patrick, grinding into him. He whimpers into the kiss as his calloused hands drop down to the waistband of your shorts, hesitating for a moment before dropping his hand into your underwear. You grind just a little bit faster as his fingers press circles into your clit, covering your mouth with your hand as you moan.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs as he uses his other hand to guide your hips, and your move your hands down to tug firmly on his hair. You can feel your climax building, the pressure in your stomach getting closer and closer to taking you over the edge-

You both jump at the sound of the hotel room dor slamming shut. Art is standing there, in that damn backward cap and a Stanford tee shirt as he crosses his arms over his chest, saying nothing as you and Patrick sit up straight, him adjusting his crotch and you smooth down your shirt, avoiding his gaze. Finally, the silence is broken by Art laughing.

“Christ, I’m not the cops,” he slips out of his slides as he waltzes over and opens a can of beer, drinking about half of it in one go. You look at him, and at Patrick, and then back at him, not knowing what the hell you just got yourself into.

“You want to fuck him right?” Art asks, and you can’t help your small gasp at how easily he said that. You glance at Patrick, hoping he’ll know what to say, but he’s just staring at Art.

“I-um,”

“So, no one’s stopping you,” Art cuts you off, taking a final swig of his beer and moving to stand directly in front of you. You open your mouth to try and explain, but before you can talk Patrick’s mouth is on yours again, his hand roaming your body. His grip is firmer now, his fingertips digging into the side of your stomach. He tugs at the bottom of your shirt and you separate, breathless as you pull your shirt over your head and toss it on the floor. Patrick’s mouth moves down to your neck, then your collarbones, and then your chest as he reaches around to take of your bra, and you feel on fire from Art’s gaze across the room. As Patrick kisses down your stomach and yanks down your shorts, you turn over to meet Art’s eyes.

“Come here.”

Whatever resolve Art was holding onto crumbles as he quickly takes off his shirt and slips out of his Nike shorts, tossing his hat on the dresser. In a flash Art’s hands are on your neck, tilting your head around to kiss you as Patrick lifts up your hips so he can take off your underwear. Art’s lips are softer than Patrick’s but he kisses you a little bit harder, his hand cupping the base of your neck. Somehow, they both taste the same. You moan into Art’s mouth as you feel Patrick’s tongue swirl around your clit, rolling your hips into his mouth as Art’s cock presses into your back. It’s just so much so fast, and that familiar buzz starts to pool in your lower stomach.

“Look at him,” Art turns your head to Patrick and you look into his eyes as you cum, Art’s hands hold your head forward as a wave of euphoria crashes over you. Patrick’s hands are digging into your hips as he stares up at you and Art. Your chest heaves up and down as you try to catch your breath, leaning against Art as Patrick leans back up, his mouth a few inches from yours.

“Who do you want first?

[fixdex-fastening-technology]

FIXDEX November 2023 poster🔩 are there products you need Consult me quic...

[emilys-bangs]

unspoken requests | e.p

Tags: shy!reader, fluff, established relationship, use of petnames, soft soft soft emily, severely touch starved reader, YEARN <3

Summary: In which you need affection from your girlfriend and can't find the words to ask.

Word count: 2.1k

The apartment is hush quiet. There’s still warmth to it—the silent TV blinking, the fire throwing an orange glow over the living room, lining the furniture in gilded edges. There’s warmth to it, but it’s still cold. Empty. Too much void, and not enough of your girlfriend.

You hadn’t fully realized how much Emily encompasses the apartment with her physicality, even when she’s silent. She takes up space, flows with warmth.

So even when she takes a short trip to the 7-eleven down the street, you ache.

Sitting on the couch, face tilted to the frosted window and eyes searching the streets for someone who isn’t there, you feel a ridiculous urge to bear the weight of her chin on your shoulder. The softness of her hands wrapping around your middle, her fingers cupping your sides as she’d speak into your cheek.

Your skin tingles with her phantom warmth.

“It’s ridiculous,” you say out loud, so suddenly that Sergio chirps in surprise. His furry head raises up from where it was tucked beneath his paw, the sleepy blink of his eyes making you rub a consolatory path between his ears. “Sorry, buddy.” Your voice lowers. Sergio closes his eyes on the beginnings of a purr, your nails gently scratching through his fur. “It’s stupid to miss her. Right? Totally ridiculous.” You sigh, face between your sweatpant-covered knees. “Doesn’t make sense.” 

She’s only been gone—you look at the clock—12 minutes. And while you know her list of snacks is extensive, you also know the convenience store won’t hold her for long. You only wish she was here to trace herself into your skin, leave you with threads of her perfume that wind their way between the fibers of your clothes.

Sergio purrs up an engine beneath your fingers. Though his eyes are closed you scoop him up, smiling at the bemused protest he meows out.

“Cuddle me,” you demand softly, settling his slight weight on your chest, “until she’s here to do it.”

But even when Emily does come back, your ears perking at the twist of her keys in the lock, your request remains tucked firm under your tongue. Sergio is placed carefully back on the couch before you slide across the hardwood to meet her, your smile stretching as she closes the door with a low sigh.

“Hi.” You greet, hands clasped behind your back—just in case they take over without your permission and aimlessly smooth over her thick coat.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Emily intones softly. Quick as the wind that had ruffled her hair, she leans in and steals a kiss from your cheek, her lips cold. Warmth barely spreads through your skin before she’s leaning back; distance grows between the two of you too fast for your liking, the bag in her hand crinkling as she digs a hand through it. “Got you that chocolate you like.”

“Hershey’s?” Your brows raise, your question answered when Emily holds up said chocolate bar with a grin. A jittery spasm makes your breath stutter, hands unhooking from behind your back to take it. “T-Thank you. You didn’t have to,” you mumble. 

“Sure I did,” she says easily. You take the bag from her hand to let her strip off her coat, though you rather wish it was your hands peeling it off. “It would’ve been mean for me to eat my snacks in front of you if you didn’t have any. Not fun, either.” Her face scrunches in a playful wink that you smile at.

She hangs her coat and turns, the hem of her sweater rising to expose a sliver of her stomach. That, coupled with her rosy, cold-bitten cheeks, coupled with the chocolate you’re still holding, makes you set the snacks on the floor and take her cheeks in hand. Your fingers tremble a little at your boldness; you curl them into the silky threads of Emily’s hair and kiss her. Not hard, but purposeful.

It takes both of you aback for a minute, before Emily’s hand cradles your jaw. She hums—pleased? surprised?—and the feeling of her lips curling up against yours turns your knees to jelly. Her other arm hooks around your waist, slipping home between the downy softness of your sweater. The weight of it brings you flush against her chest.

A blazing fire unfurls across your cheeks, boiling the blood under your skin as you lean back to shove air into your lungs.

“Thank you.” You say again. The hushed timber of your voice is breathless, filled with entirely too much gratitude over a singular Hershey bar.

Emily beams at you, her eyes sparkling. “You’re very welcome, dolcezza,” she says warmly. Her dimple winks at you, the flushed plushness of her lips pulling over her teeth. “If I’d known I’d get this reaction I would have gotten you the whole box.” Her cold knuckle traces over your cheek.

You think the heat emanating from your face could warm it right back up. You clear your throat, your eyes dropping from hers as you take her hand. It’s so icy your brows slip into a frown as you enclose it between both sets of fingers.

“You’re freezing. It must be arctic out,” you tug her to the living room, in front of the fire. You think the bag of snacks is left abandoned at the door.

“Arctic.” Emily echoes, dutifully letting herself be dragged. She kicks off her shoes at the edge of the carpet, and then you’re tugging her down to sit in front of the fireplace. You tuck your legs beneath you; she crosses hers, and when Sergio spots her and the triangle of her legs, he situates himself between them.

It’s odd to be jealous of a cat.

Swallowing it down, you focus on the hand in yours. It’s strangely soft, in spite of the guns she handles every day. Soft with short nails, their edges smooth and her knuckles an angry red. The rest of her skin is pale snow, twice as cold. 

“You should’ve worn gloves,” you kiss her frigid knuckles.

Emily huffs out a laugh. You don’t feel the loving press of her gaze, too preoccupied with kissing warmth back into her skin. It takes a few minutes of massaging circles on her hand before you’re satisfied. When you reach for her other one she lets you, though you’re almost desperate for them to be wrapped around your body, bringing you into her chest.

She’s your girlfriend. It won’t be that hard to ask.

At least, it shouldn’t be.

You finally drag your eyes from the hand in your lap and look at its owner. The red in Emily’s cheeks is hidden beneath the orange glow of the fire. It reflects in her eyes, amber swirling through brown so dark it’s nearly black.

She smiles and the words crumble in your mouth.

But you really, really want a hug.

“Are you…is the rest of you cold?” you ask stiltedly. Emily cocks her head, a crease settling between her brows at your strange wording. “I mean are you still cold, is there anything I can help with? Been inside all day, I’m quite warm.” You shrug jerkily, words tumbling from your mouth with no rhyme or rhythm.

Emily smiles softly. Her lashes cast spidery shadows on her cheeks, the flutter of them enchanting as she leans in. You’re briefly breathless, trapped beneath her gaze as she crowds your space. You inhale and her perfume forms clouds in your lungs.

Your heart kicks.

“Arctic out, isn’t it?” You mumble, dropping your eyes. The warmth of Emily’s hand leaves yours; her finger sidles under your chin, oh so gently tipping it up to meet her eyes.

“Y/N?”

“Yes?” you squeak.

Emily grins, honey slow and Cheshire bright. “Can you warm me up?” She asks, her voice low and dulcet. Her thumb skates along your jaw, catching your uncertain pulse. 

“I guess.” You swallow. Her finger is still skimming over your pulse and god, it’s giving you away; your heart almost beats out of your chest. “Yeah, I can do that, if you’re cold.”

“I’m really cold.” She nods.

For a moment you think she’s making fun of you. Then you scan her face, taking in the firm set of her mouth and the twinkling brightness of her eyes. The way she’s looking at you is nothing short of adoring; it’s the warmth of her irises, flowing with more heat than the fire next to you, that makes you relax. She’s your girlfriend. She’s Emily—she would never make fun of you, even if it was just the two of you for miles on end.

“Well, we can’t have that,” you whisper as your arms loop around her neck, finally, finally squishing your chests together, “you’ll get sick.” The tail end of your words trail out in a sigh.

Emily’s hands find their place on your waist. She squeezes, you melt, and Sergio meows in protest and departs from her lap, leaving ample space for you. You don’t climb on top of her thighs, though; you’re more than content with slotting your head into her neck, breathing in the warmth of her.

“We definitely can’t have that.” Emily murmurs. Her voice gets muffled into your hair; she turns her head and finds your temple in a kiss. One of her hands skates up your side, finds the threads of hair at your nape. You almost purr like Sergio. “You’re right, you really are warm. Like a furnace.”

Been saving up warmth for you, you almost say. It’s not true, but sometimes you wish you could flirt with her the way she flirts with you. She constantly charms you, knocks you off your feet though you’re hers already, and from time to time you can’t help but feel the urge to do the same. Can’t help but wonder if she’d stumble over her words like you do, if her eyes would go wide and her cheeks the loveliest pink.

And when she holds you like this, you want her to stay holding on and not let go. Your brain tells you enough, let her go, but your heart yearns to get closer, burrow into her shoulder and maybe sleep there for an eternity or two. She always comes to you for affection. Maybe you could learn to do the same.

Emily’s lips find your temple again. To be fair, it’s the only place she can reach.

“Y’didnt….” You begin then trail off, embarrassment flaming your cheeks. Closing your eyes, you dig them further into Emily’s sweater and snap your mouth shut.

Her fingers comb through your hair. “Didn’t what, babe?”

A grunt-whine gets muffled into her shoulder. 

“It’s stupid.”

“I’ll bet my life it’s not,” she says soothingly, her voice a comforting rumble next to your ear. “Tell me, sweetheart, what didn’t I do?”

By the time you gather the courage to voice your thoughts, your cheeks have cooled. They start heating up again when you press your tongue to the back of your teeth.

“Didn’t kiss me before you left.” You mumble in a mortified whisper. Emily wouldn’t judge you, you know—and she would never let it show if she did—but even to your ears it sounds childish. You were in the bathroom, she was already dressed, it makes sense that she’d leave with a muffled bye through the door.

It makes sense, but you still don’t like it.

Emily’s then nudging your head up again. Coercing your eyes to meet hers, manipulating you into holding her gaze as she holds your cheeks. Your stomach twists in knots, the ones you’ve now come to associate solely with her. Your Emily butterflies.

“I’m really sorry, honey,” she whispers. Distantly, you realize her hands are warm on your cheeks. But the thought dissipates, your brain classifying it as unimportant when her lips hover above yours. “Can I make it up to you?”

“Don’t say sorry,” you manage, almost dizzy with her closeness. 

“But it’s such a terrible mistake.” Emily murmurs. Between each word, a feather-soft kiss is brushed on your lips. “I’d hate to do it again. You wouldn’t forgive me if I did, would you?”

A trapped bird flutters around your chest. You close your eyes, putting more weight behind your kiss when your mouth meets hers again. 

“I don’t think I would.”

Emily hums and takes your lips in a proper kiss. A slow one, gentle, as if she has nothing better to do than this. She takes her time, does it thoroughly and tastes the love you feel but can’t say, her lips finally warmed to the same temperature as yours. She robs you of breath, sweetly, and it’s all you’ve ever wanted.

When her forehead presses against yours, you spot the smallest blush under the glow of the fire.

“Neither would I.”

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu@ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi @temilyrights@moonlight-simp 

[bigsexxorr]

Aabria said on the burning questions fireside that Suvi’s best and worst day ever are going to happen in the same 24 hour period upcoming in this chapter. Suverin Kedberiket, -who didn’t say I love you to her parents the last time she ever saw them, surrounded by fire, alone in a carriage crying into her mother’s cloak- *hasn’t* had her worst day yet?

What’s coming up is going to be brutal, and I don’t think it’s the death of Silver. I don’t think it’s impossible, but we have just escaped the largest threat to his life and an airship is coming in hours to collect Suvi. So what do we know?

We know that Arc 4 is going to be the last chapter before a hiatus, that tells me we’re heading into a beefy cliffhanger and probably a time skip, almost certainly a shift in the story. Suvi’s parents have both garnered the ire of the citadel when they were young doing something impassioned and reckless. And Suvi is being faced with more and more reason to distrust the citadel, facing their treatment of great spirits and their parents evident distrust with her sapphire amulet.

What could make Suvi’s worst day, after all she’s been through?

What could make a strong enough cliffhanger to hang up WWWO for months?

What could be the catalyst to finally make Suvi face the wrongdoings of her home?

And what happens to Kedberikets when they do something reckless and idealistic?

Alright, I’m saying it now. I think Suvi’s gonna get extricated from the Citadel.

[thef1diary]

What if you surprised dirtbag!carlos with your own pierced 🍒? And he insists on using his mouth to help with the soreness

— I love this, nonnie! Dirtbag!carlos au is just basically both of you getting piercings loll but hey imagine his tongue piercing clashing with your nipple piercing 👀 18+ content below

The second Carlos steps through the door, you can’t keep it in anymore. It’s been over a week since you’ve seen him, and the anticipation has been eating you alive. He barely has time to drop his keys on the counter before you lift your shirt, baring your chest to him with a sly grin.

“Missed me?” you tease, pressing your tits together to make them look even fuller, the new piercings gleaming under the light.

Carlos stops in his tracks, his dark eyes locking onto you like a predator spotting prey. His tongue runs across his bottom lip, the silver ball of his tongue piercing catching the light as he does. “You’re fucking kidding me,” he mutters, stepping closer, his gaze glued to your chest.

You bite your lip, tilting your head playfully as you gauge his reaction. “Got them pierced for you,” you say, your voice coy but laced with intent. “Wanted to surprise you. They’re still a little sore, though.”

Carlos groans, low and guttural, as if the words physically hit him. “You’re gonna be the death of me, nena,” he growls, closing the distance between you in two long strides. His hands grab your hips, his grip rough as he pulls you flush against him.

He ducks his head, brushing his nose against one of the bars. “Still tender, huh?” he murmurs, his lips barely grazing your skin. “Let me help you break them in.”

The first flick of his tongue is both a shock and a relief. The cool metal of his piercing meets yours, a sharp jolt of almost-painful pleasure shooting through you. You gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders as he starts working his tongue in slow, deliberate strokes over your nipple, teasing the sensitive skin around the bar.

“Fuck, Carlos,” you whimper, the sensation so intense it leaves you trembling.

“That feel good?” he murmurs against your skin, his voice muffled but dripping with smug satisfaction. He switches to the other nipple, his teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. “Bet it does. Waited a whole week for me, hm? To take care of these for you.”

“Carlos,” you whine, your voice shaky as he sucks harder, his hand cupping your other tit, his thumb circling over the piercing there.

“Shh, nena,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice low and soothing, but the wicked smirk curling his lips betrays him. “Let me take care of you. You went through all this trouble just for me, didn’t you?”

Your answer is lost in the breathy sounds spilling from your lips as his tongue works over the piercing in slow, deliberate strokes. The press of his own piercing adds a delicious friction, the combination of pain and pleasure sending sparks through your body.

He doesn’t stop, his mouth and hands everywhere, pulling reactions from you that are completely beyond your control. Every flick of his tongue, every graze of his teeth is calculated, relentless, designed to push you closer to the edge of sanity. Your back arches, your fingers threading into his hair as if holding him there will somehow ground you.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, and his eyes are gleaming with something feral.

“Gonna need a lot more time with these,” he says, his voice rough, thick with desire as his dark eyes lock onto yours. His thumbs stroke the sides of your tits, his touch almost reverent despite the hunger written all over his face.

You nod, unable to do anything else under the weight of his gaze. His lips curve into a dangerous grin, his teeth catching the edge of his bottom lip as he studies you.

“When they’re fully healed, princesa,” he purrs, his tone equal parts promise and threat, “I’ll spoil you with all kinds of jewelry—delicate chains, maybe some clamps. Ones that attach to these pretty little bars. Think you can handle that?”

A shiver runs through you at the thought, a needy whimper escaping your lips, and his smirk deepens. “You’d look so fucking good,” he adds, his voice dropping to a growl. “All dressed up, just for me.”

want more dirtbag!carlos? send me an ask with your filthiest thoughts and it’ll get answered during one of my dirty drabble days

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 The Ghost Next Door.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

series masterlist

Summary: You were trying to move on with your life and clear your head about Spencer from a safe distance, but the whole plan goes out the window when you hear his screams.

Words: 5,8k (I went crazy).

Warnings & Tags: this is part of a series, check the masterlist to make sure you are in the correct chapter. mention of jail, gun, violence, alcohol. the reader is wearing a dress, and is slightly injured (nothing serious, just a bruise). nightmares. hurt/comfort. so bittersweet. painter!reader. post prison reid. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I'm finally back! This chapter cost me quite a bit due to lack of time (I'm now officially a college student) and my obsession with making it raw, emotional, and coherent with everything that has happened to Spencer. Really, one of my biggest fears is falling into caricature and making it all seem very out of character, so again, I hope this makes sense to you.

You weren’t the type to go out partying. Nights spent under the haze of neon lights and thumping bass didn’t appeal to you—especially in a city like this one, where shadows stretched long and secrets whispered from every corner. You had your reasons, too. Spending time with an FBI agent who was far too eager to spill the sordid details of his cases left you carrying a permanent thread of suspicion, the kind that made you eye even the janitor’s mop bucket a little too long. But, despite all that, you knew there were moments when you had to relent. When your best friend practically dragged you from your own isolation, insisting on a night out, you could dust off an old dress, slip into heels that pinched just enough to remind you you were still human, and survive the night.

Tonight had been one of those moments.

As you stepped into your apartment, you closed the door carefully behind you, mindful not to wake your cat. The faint jingle of your keys hitting the small table near the door sounded unusually loud in the early morning stillness. The clock on the wall read half past three, and a wave of exhaustion began to creep in, though your mind was too restless to fully embrace it. You glanced toward the worn armchair in the corner, where your cat lay curled in a contented ball. She stirred briefly, opened one green eye, and then decided you weren’t worth the effort of waking up in that moment.

You let out a soft breath and looked around the room. Memories of the night played back in your head as you took off your shoes and went to the kitchen for a glass of water to make you feel a little alive again.

It had all started as an attempt by your friend to pull you out of the orbit of your own misery. “You need this,” she’d said earlier that evening, tugging you out of your chair and into the kind of outfit that made you glance at yourself twice in the mirror, unsure if you still recognized the person staring back.

“Just this time,” you’d agreed.

But, surprisingly, all the dancing and drinking in the bar had been weak against the power of your emotions. Maybe that was because you barely paid attention to the songs they played or the fact that you hadn't even touched the drinks the bartender served you. You had spent most of the night with your chin in your palm, staring into your glass and telling your friend how much you missed Spencer, how the silence in the hallway felt heavier now. And she listened to you patiently, even as the music boomed around you, offering soft, soothing words that you only half heard.

Now, in the stillness of your home, it felt a little foolish and even pathetic. You leaned against the counter, the cold granite grounding you. The sudden and soft shuffle of Mittens broke the silence, and you glanced down to see your cat staring up at you, her green eyes luminous in the dim light. She yawned, then rubbed against your leg, as if to remind you that you weren’t entirely alone. A pretty nice gesture.

You leaned down to scratch her behind the ears, and your thoughts went back to your neighbor. You thought about how he used to smile at you, just barely. You thought about the low timbre of his voice when he greeted you in the hallway, as if he wasn't used to never being heard. He always seemed to carry the weight of something unsaid, something you were afraid to ask. Maybe that's why you were so fascinated by him since the first day. Or maybe it's just because he never looked at you like you were trying too hard, not even on the rare nights you went out in a dress and heels.

As you straightened and turned toward the living room, your eyes caught the faint outline of his window through your own. The blinds were down, but the light was on. It was late, much later than usual for him. It tugged at something inside you, a curiosity laced with longing.

Your cat leapt onto the couch, curling into a soft ball of fur, and you sat beside her. Pulling a blanket over your legs, you let your gaze linger on his window. Was he pacing again, restless like you? He was thinking about what happened between you two yesterday? Could he be regretting everything?

You certainly didn’t know what possessed you, but your phone was in your hand before you could stop yourself and think more than a second about it.

Maybe it was the drinks. Maybe it was the late hour. Maybe it was just the weight of wanting someone you couldn’t seem to reach, no matter how close you were. Maybe it was because he was supposed to be your nice and honest Spencer after all. But whatever it was, the message was already halfway typed before you could stop it.

“Are you awake?”

You stared at the screen for a moment, the question hanging there like a fragile thread, one tug away from unraveling everything. You could feel your pulse in your fingertips, the weight of the message sinking into your chest. With a shaky exhale, you pressed send and regretted it instantly.

But he didn’t respond. Not instantly.

You leaned back against the couch, letting your head tip against the cushion. The blanket pooled around your waist, your cat purring softly beside you, oblivious to your unease. You told yourself to stop looking, to let it go. Maybe he wasn’t near his phone. Maybe he’d seen it and didn’t know what to say. Or maybe—your stomach tightened—maybe he didn’t want to talk to you at all.

But the light in his room was still on. It has to mean something. Please let it mean something.

It felt completely ridiculous to fixate on that tiny detail, but you couldn’t help it. You kept wondering what he was doing in there. Was he working on something, hunched over a desk with his brows furrowed in concentration? Was he pacing the room, thinking of everything, just like you? Or was he simply lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, as lost in his thoughts as you were now?

The longer you stared, the more you started to imagine him there and wishing to be there like you used to do, running your fingers through his hair and just enjoying the silence. Now, you could almost see him, the faint silhouette of his figure moving behind the blinds, like a ghost that refused to stay hidden.

Your phone suddenly buzzed in your hand, and your breath caught, but it wasn’t him. Just a notification from some app you’d forgotten to turn off, and in that moment you hate it completely. You let out a shaky laugh, half at your own foolishness and half to fill the silence.

Outside, the city was starting to move and advance again. A car passed by, and its headlights cut through the darkness. In the distance, a siren wailed, high and short. It was a reminder of how small you were in the big picture, of how trivial your problems might seem compared to everyone else's. But still, your eyes drifted back to his window, making that the biggest problem in the world.

The light hadn’t flickered again, but it was steady, constant. You told yourself to stop watching, to turn off your own light, and just continue your way to your bed. But something rooted you there, some stubborn hope that he’d notice you watching, or that he’d respond to your message, even with something small.

But yet, nothing came, and all your hope started to disappear slowly.

Maybe it was time to let him go, to stop acting like a lovesick puppy following in his footsteps, and most of all, to stop trying to give him a coherent reason for being distant. Maybe you weren't welcome in his life anymore. Maybe the gun incident was just what he would do for any neighbor he thought was in danger. Maybe you weren't as important as you thought you were.

After a moment, you decided it was best to go to bed, so you pulled the blanket up to your chin, the weight of the day slowly slipping away. But then it began. At first it was so faint you might have thought it was part of your imagination, just a murmur, a low sound carried by the stillness of the night. But it didn't fade. It grew louder, sharp, jagged, and unmistakable. A choked scream broke the silence of your apartment, raw and desperate, like someone drowning in their own breath.

Your heart jolted in your chest. The sound was different this time—familiar, but more frantic. It was a chorus of broken sobs and harsh, muffled shouts, followed by a sound you couldn’t quite place but which churned something so dark in your stomach.

And then, the scream.

It wasn’t just a noise. It was a cry born of suffering, guttural and aching, twisting in ways that made your blood run cold. Your eyes snapped open, wide and alert, and your body froze in place. The world around you seemed to fade, the hum of the city outside distant, irrelevant. There was only that sound. That scream.

It came again. Another strangled, desperate cry echoed through the walls. And this time, you knew.

Spencer.

Without thinking, you grabbed your keys from the bedside table and moved quickly toward the door. You weren’t sure why you were doing it, why you were stepping into the unknown at this hour, but it felt like the only thing to do to make sure he was okay. You’d heard him through the tiny walls before—quiet murmurs, little things, but nothing like this. This felt like he was caught in something bigger, something that worried you immensely.

The hallway was dark, empty, and your footsteps echoed too loudly in the silence to wake up all the neighbors. Every sound felt amplified, like the whole apartment was holding its breath with you. You didn’t knock. You didn’t stop to think. You just shoved the key into the lock, the cold metal pressing into your palm as you twisted it, your breath caught in your throat.

You stepped inside.

The apartment was bathed in the pale glow of the streetlight filtering through the blinds, casting long, distorted shadows across the floor. Everything felt unnervingly still, too still, the silence almost suffocating in its weight, amplifying every sound that dared break it. His door was slightly ajar, the sliver of light spilling out like a silent invitation, beckoning you in. Drawn by the echoes of his suffering, you moved toward his bedroom, your body moving almost on instinct. The door opened just wide enough to allow you a glimpse.

What you saw made your heart stutter in your chest.

Spencer was tangled in his sheets, his body thrashing violently beneath them, his movements frantic and desperate as if he were trying to escape some invisible force. His face was contorted in agony, his brow furrowed so tightly it seemed the pain had etched itself into his very skin. His chest rose and fell in shallow, jagged breaths, the effort so intense it seemed to burn through him, his body quivering with every painful inhalation. He was caught in the grip of some terrible nightmare, one so vicious it stole his ability to breathe, to think, to fight.

You could see the whiteness of his knuckles, his fingers clenched tightly around the edge of the bed, the skin stretched taut and trembling with the strain. His whole body was rigid, muscles locked in a battle against the unseen terrors his mind had conjured. Tears streaked down his face, mingling with the sweat that had gathered along his brow, the rawness of his cries reverberating in the stillness, thickening the air around you.

“Spencer?” You whispered, barely recognizing your own voice as it trembled in the room. You reached toward him, your heart pounding in your chest, but he didn’t respond. He was lost—completely lost—in whatever dark place his mind had pulled him into, and you didn’t know what to do. “Spencer, wake up,” you tried again, your voice desperate, thick with the urgency of the situation.

His eyes were squeezed shut, the lines of his face tight with tension, his lips trembling with the words that came next, words broken and heavy with pain.

“Please…don’t do it…” he gasped, his voice breaking on the words, filled with so much pain that it made your chest tighten. His hands reached out, grasping at the empty air in frantic, helpless motions. Like he was trying to hold onto something—anything—that could pull him out of the darkness.

You felt the heaviness of his plea in your bones. The torment in his voice was unbearable.

“No, no, no…” he whispered, the words barely audible, but they hit you with the weight of something deep, something far beyond just a nightmare. He was begging, pleading for something that you couldn’t see, couldn’t understand. His body jerked, still trying to pull away from something that wasn’t really there. “Leave me, please, leave me.”

“Spencer!” You called again, louder this time, your hand on his shoulder, your voice trembling with urgency. You shook him, trying to pull him back from wherever his mind had taken him.

In the heat of your panic, you thought it was the right thing to do, thought you could snap him out of it. You thought you could reach him.

But then, in an instant, everything went wrong.

The second your hand touched his shoulder, his body jerked violently, more forceful than before, and without warning, his fist shot out. It connected with your left cheek with such brutal force that your head snapped back, the sting of the blow exploding across your face. For a moment, everything went dark, the pain so sudden and sharp that it left you breathless and disoriented, your body instinctively reeling from the shock. A whimper escaped your throat involuntarily, as the world around you tilted, your vision blurring as you pressed your hand to your cheek, the sting still radiating across your skin.

But he didn’t seem to notice. He continued to thrash beneath the sheets, his body trembling violently, his cries still trapped in that nightmare. You gasped for air, trying to steady yourself, trying to make sense of what had just happened. You’d been trying to help, trying to pull him from his terror—and instead, you’d been struck.

For a heartbeat, there was only the harsh rhythm of your breathing. And then, Spencer’s eyes snapped open, wide and wild, and it was as if the world around him collapsed into focus. His breath hitched in his throat, still shallow, but the frantic terror began to give way to confusion. His eyes flickered across the room, distant and unfocused, and then they landed on you.

In that instant, everything seemed to slow. He blinked, his eyes glazing over in disbelief as they locked on your face, lingering for a moment on the red mark blooming on your cheek. His lips parted, his voice catching in his throat, his expression morphing from confusion to something far worse—horror.

“Oh my God…” He whispered, his voice trembling with fear and guilt, his whole body shaking. “Oh my God—did I—?”

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t find the words to reassure him, not in that moment.

He pushed himself up from the bed, his body unsteady, shaky with the tremors of both fear and guilt. His eyes never left your face, locked onto the evidence of his panic etched across your skin. “No. No, no, no,” he stammered, his words coming faster, more frantic, as if trying to deny the reality of what had just happened. “I hit you—I—”

“Spencer,” you started, but your voice was soft, almost hesitant, the lingering sting in your cheek making it hard to speak.

He didn’t hear you. He was already out of bed, nearly tripping over himself as he scrambled toward you. His hands hovered in the air, trembling with the weight of his guilt. “I didn’t mean to! I swear! I—I didn’t know—” His voice cracked, and his hands hovered near your face, but he didn’t touch you, not yet, too afraid that his very presence would cause you more harm. His eyes were glassy, filled with unshed tears. “I’m so sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”

“Spencer, stop,” you said, your voice firmer now, despite the ache in your chest. “It’s okay. It was an accident.”

But he wasn’t listening. He backed away from you, running a shaky hand through his hair, pacing in agitation, his whole body wracked with guilt. “No, it’s not okay. I—” His voice broke, the words dying in his throat.

You stepped closer to him, ignoring the throbbing in your cheek, reaching out to take his hand, hoping that this simple touch might anchor him in the midst of his storm. At first, he flinched, his body reacting to the contact as though it burned, but then he froze, and his gaze locked with yours.

“Listen to me, please,” you said softly, gently forcing him to meet your eyes, to hold your gaze. His bloodshot eyes were filled with shame, his face a mask of regret. “Look at me. I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me.”

His brow furrowed, his gaze flicking to your cheek once more, his voice barely a whisper. “You’re not okay. I can see it—I did that.” His hands trembled as he pointed to the mark on your skin. “I shouldn’t have—”

“You were having a nightmare,” you interrupted gently, your voice tender, yet firm. “You didn’t know what you were doing. It wasn’t your fault…I shouldn’t have touched you like that when you were in that state.”

“No, it’s all in me…I’m the one who did this.” He choked on his own words, his chest rising and falling with the effort of holding back the sobs that threatened to break free. “I’m the reason you’re hurting.”

You felt the weight of his guilt like a crushing force. It felt suffocating, like the walls around him were closing in, and you couldn’t stand seeing him like this—lost in his own self-loathing. You wanted to reach him, to show him that it wasn’t his fault, that his nightmare had taken hold of him, not his own hands.

But it wasn’t just the nightmare that had gripped him; it was the way he saw himself now. A man who hurt others without meaning to, a man who couldn’t escape the damage he had caused. You had been there before, watching him battle his inner demons, and you knew how much this guilt could eat away at him if left unchecked.

You watched him struggle, his hands curling into fists at his sides, his head bowed like he couldn’t bear to look at you any longer. The weight of his guilt was tangible, suffocating, and you had to do something—anything—to stop it from consuming him.

“If it were me,” you murmured, searching his face, “if I had been the one thrashing, if I had been the one to hit you, would you be standing here telling me I was a terrible person?”

Spencer blinked. His lips parted, his breath shaky, and you could see the internal war waging behind his eyes.

“I—” He swallowed hard, his fingers twitching in yours. “That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s me,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Because I know what’s inside my head. I know what I’ve seen, and I—” He cut himself off, inhaling sharply, his entire body shuddering. “I don’t trust myself not to hurt people.”

That was the most honest thing he'd said to you in three months, and he instantly regretted it. The look in your eyes says too much, and almost all was pity.

“That’s not fair,” you told him, voice steady. “And you know it.”

He didn’t respond. He can’t because you were right.

Instead, he turned abruptly, running a shaking hand through his hair, muttering, “Wait here. Just—just stay.”

Before you could respond, he was gone, disappearing into the kitchen. You heard the faint sound of running water, the clink of something being opened, and then the hurried shuffle of his footsteps as he returned, a small hand towel in one hand and a plastic bag filled with ice in the other.

Without a word, Spencer knelt in front of you, his movements careful, deliberate, as if afraid you might flinch. He gently wrapped the ice in the towel, his hands trembling slightly, and looked up at you, his expression unreadable.

“Let me,” he murmured, his voice soft but heavy with emotion.

You nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. Slowly, he raised the makeshift ice pack to your cheek, his movements tender, almost hesitant, as though he feared he might hurt you again. The coolness of the ice was a stark contrast to the warmth of his hand, which hovered just beneath your jaw, steadying you.

“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort.

“No,” you whispered. “Not anymore.”

He exhaled shakily, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction, but his gaze remained fixed on your face. His thumb brushed against your skin absentmindedly, just below where the ice rested, and the gentleness of the touch sent a shiver down your spine.

“God,” he said, his voice breaking, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s really not that bad.” You spoke softly, trying to cut through his panic. “If I’m being honest, Mittens has scratched me more times than I can count.” You lifted your arm, showing the faint, nearly invisible white lines crisscrossing your skin. “She’s a little terror sometimes, but I love her anyway.”

His eyes flickered to the marks, but the tension in his expression didn’t ease. His brows furrowed, the crease between them deepening with uncertainty. “But that’s different,” he murmured, his voice hesitant, like he was afraid to argue but couldn’t stop himself. “A cat scratching you isn’t the same as—” He swallowed hard. “As hitting you.”

You smiled faintly, the kind of smile that carried more weight than it should—small, knowing, resigned. “It is the same,” you said, so quiet it was almost a whisper. “Because I love her no matter what she does by accident. And I…”

The words got stuck in your throat. I love you.

But you couldn’t say them. Not now. Not when he was looking at you like he was the monster under your bed, the thing you should fear, when all you could see was the boy who had once held your hand in the dark just to make sure you weren’t afraid.

You just watched him.

Watched the way his jaw was clenched so tightly it could shatter. Watched the way his hands still trembled, despite his best efforts. Watched the way his brows furrowed in that deep, pained way that made your chest ache.

And then, in the silence, you spoke.

“You do realize that when we used to sleep together, I kicked you, like…constantly, right?”

That startled him. His eyes widened, his brows pulling together in confusion. “What?”

A small, tired smile ghosted across your lips. “You don’t complain much, but I know I do. I kick in my sleep. I shift around. I always end up tangled in the blankets, stealing all the covers.” You let out a soft, almost self-conscious chuckle. “There was one night you woke up because I kneed you in the ribs. Hard.”

A flicker of recognition crossed his face, and you saw it—the moment he obviously remembered.

His lips parted, his breath hitching slightly. “You—yeah.” His voice was barely audible, but it had lost some of its sharp edges. “You kicked me so hard I nearly fell off the bed.”

You nodded. “And did you get mad at me?”

His brows furrowed. “Of course not. You were asleep.”

“Exactly.” You tilted your head, ignoring the way the ice sent another sharp pulse of cold through your skin. “I never meant to hurt you, but I still did. Just like you never meant to hurt me.”

He inhaled sharply, his eyes flicking between yours, something raw and hesitant creeping into his expression.

“It’s different,” he said, but the conviction in his voice was weaker now.

“Is it?” you challenged softly. “I know you, Spencer. I know who you are.”

Oh no, you didn’t know him. Not really. Not anymore.

His breath shuddered, and for a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Just stared at you, his eyes searching your face like he was looking for something—proof, maybe, or forgiveness. Maybe both.

Slowly, carefully, you reached for him again, this time taking his hand in both of yours. He let you. He didn’t pull away.

“You’re not a violent person,” you whispered. “You are not the things that have happened to you years ago. You are not the things you’ve had to do to see in your work. You are not the nightmares that try to tell you otherwise.”

His fingers twitched beneath yours, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly.

For the first time since he had woken up, his shoulders sagged—just slightly, but enough for you to see the weight of his guilt beginning to lift, piece by piece. Even though he knew that if you knew what had happened in the last three months, those words would not have come out of your mouth.

“I would never hurt you,” he whispered, like a prayer.

“I know,” you whispered back. “That’s why I’m still here.”

Tears welled in his eyes, spilling over before he could stop them.

Without thinking, your fingers lifted, brushing against the sharp line of his jaw. The warmth of his skin seeped into your fingertips, grounding you both. You had done this before—when the weight of the world had pressed too heavily on his shoulders, when the ghosts in his mind grew too loud to ignore. You had kissed his tears away in the past, stolen moments of comfort from the chaos.

And so, you did it again.

Leaning forward, you pressed your lips gently against the corner of his eye, where a fresh tear lingered. The warmth of his skin felt almost feverish beneath your touch, as though his entire body was caught in the grip of a storm. Your lips brushed the salty trail of his tear, and another followed almost instantly. Without thinking, you kissed it too, your lips lingering a moment longer, offering a tenderness that neither of you had allowed yourselves in so long. The sweetness of the moment almost made you forget the ache in your chest and the bruise on your cheek.

He shuddered beneath your touch, a sharp breath catching in his throat. You felt the tension ripple through him, the way he stiffened for just a second—caught between wanting to pull away and wanting to collapse into you.

And then, as if it were inevitable, your lips brushed against his, just a breath away. You could feel the heat of his skin, the pulse of his heartbeat under your fingers. You were so close, closer than you’d been in so long, closer than you’d dared to let yourself believe was possible.

Your heart pounded. His did too.

His lashes fluttered, his gaze locked onto yours, searching, hesitant.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered. The words were barely audible, spoken like they might break if said any louder. “Tell me to get away from you.”

You shook your head. “Don’t.”

And for a fleeting second, he was just a boy, and you were just the girl next door. No past, no pain, no history—just this.

Or maybe not.

The reality crashed back in, and all the things you didn’t know came back to his mind.

The ice pack in his hand had started to burn from how tightly he was gripping it, and the cold sting jolted him back to the truth he was trying so hard to ignore. His gaze darted to the bruise on your cheek, and in an instant, everything shifted.

He wasn’t just a boy.

He was an ex-convict. Someone dangerous. Someone broken. A liar.

And the only thing he could give the girl next door was more pain.

Spencer flinched as though struck, his entire body going rigid as he ripped himself away from you. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, his chest rising and falling too fast, as if he were surfacing from deep water. The ice pack slipped slightly in his grip, like it had suddenly become too heavy to hold.

“I can’t,” he whispered, his voice trembling, the words choked with anguish. His eyes darted to the mark on your cheek, his expression twisted with guilt. “I can’t do this. I shouldn’t have even—God, what am I doing?”

“Wait—” You reached for him again, but he was already retreating, shaking his head in frantic, jerky motions.

“No,” he muttered, his voice fraying at the edges. “No, I can’t—I shouldn’t even be near you.” His fingers tightened around the ice pack like it was a lifeline, like it could somehow build a wall between you. “You shouldn’t let me touch you. Not after what I just did. What I did yesterday. What I might do.”

“You were dreaming,” you tried again, your voice barely above a whisper.

“It doesn’t matter,” he snapped, but there was no anger in it. Just raw, unfiltered pain. His whole body seemed to sag under the weight of it. He turned away, as if he couldn’t bear to look at you any longer. “It doesn’t matter why it happened. What matters is that it did. I hurt you.”

He did it even when he was so afraid that someone else would do it.

“It was an accident.”

“But it was me.” His voice rose in despair, his hands clenching at his sides. “I did it. My hands. I can’t—” He gestured wildly at your cheek, his breath hitching. “I can’t undo that.”

You didn't say anything.

The room felt impossibly small, as if the walls were closing in with every passing second. The silence between you stretched taut, heavy with unspoken words and the weight of something neither of you had the strength to name. The air was thick with the faint scent of coffee—bitter, stale, clinging to the space around you. Your gaze drifted past him, landing on the nightstand beside his bed.

Coffee cups. So many of them.

You didn’t count them, but the number didn’t matter. It was the stains at the bottom that told the real story—the dark rings of dried coffee, layer upon layer, marking the passage of sleepless nights. Some of the cups were only half-empty, abandoned mid-drink, as if exhaustion had finally won for a brief moment before panic dragged him back into consciousness. Others were drained completely, the last dregs of caffeine clinging stubbornly, as if trying to hold on to something already lost.

It wasn’t just coffee, though.

Books stacked haphazardly, some opened and left facedown, pages creased from where his shaking hands had clutched them too tightly. Papers covered in his cramped, hurried handwriting, words scrawled over and over as though writing them down might keep the memories from slipping through the cracks. A pen, its tip snapped, the ink dried into a small, angry blotch on a forgotten page.

And then, at the edge of it all, the only thing untouched—the single glass of water, still full, still waiting. Like it had been set aside with the intention of being drunk but never was. Because he hadn’t stopped long enough to remember he needed it, even with his wonderful memory.

He had been trying not to sleep.

The realization struck like a blade slipping between your ribs, slow and deliberate, the pain blooming in your chest before you had time to brace for it. You inhaled sharply, the sound barely audible over the steady hum of your own heartbeat. When you looked back at him, you saw it—the exhaustion carved into his features like cracks in porcelain, the dark circles beneath his eyes deep enough to tell their own stories. His hands were trembling, his fingers curled into fists at his sides as if he were trying to hold himself together, piece by piece, before he shattered completely.

This wasn’t just sleeplessness. This was obsession. This was someone running from something, from himself.

And you hadn’t even noticed until now.

“Spencer…” You hesitated, searching for the right words, but everything felt too small, too inadequate for the storm raging inside him. “What’s going on with you?”

He flinched, like you’d struck him, but didn’t answer. His fingers curled around the ice pack again, knuckles white with tension. His jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it hurt.

You stepped closer, your heart hammering in your chest, but you didn’t move to touch him. Not yet. Not until he let you in. “This isn’t just about tonight, is it?”

Still, nothing. No answer, no hint of recognition. His eyes remained fixed somewhere just beyond you, a million miles away, a stranger in his own skin.

You tried again, your voice softer this time, as though the gentleness might coax him out of his silence. “When was the last time you actually slept?”

That got a reaction. His gaze flickered to you, but only for a second, before he tore it away, staring somewhere over your shoulder like he could pretend he wasn’t here at all. His silence spoke volumes.

Your chest ached. “Spence.”

“I can handle it,” he murmured, but there was no conviction in his voice.

“You’re not handling it,” you countered softly. “You’re barely holding yourself together.”

His lips twisted into something bitter, the words tasting like acid as they spilled out. “That’s nothing new.”

The bitterness in his tone made your stomach twist. You took another step forward, closing the distance between you. “Talk to me,” you pleaded, voice gentle but firm. “Please. Whatever it is—whatever’s been keeping you up at night, whatever’s making you pull away—I want to know.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You don’t.”

“I do.”

“No, you really don’t.” His voice cracked, and when he finally looked at you, his eyes were haunted. “Because if you knew—if you really knew—you wouldn’t be standing here.”

Your heart stopped.

“What does that mean?” Your voice was barely a whisper.

He didn't answer, he just kept looking at you like you were made of glass, as if one wrong word would break you entirely. But that wasn’t it, was it? No—there was something deeper, something raw and frayed at the edges, something desperate.

He wasn’t looking at you like you might break.

He was looking at you like he might.

Then you understand something: Spencer Reid wasn’t someone to be afraid of, because he was afraid.

Just like you had been since he left you in his bed three months ago, with a promise that felt more like a lie with every passing day.

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